Robert Silverberg: Delivery Guaranteed

There aren’t many free-lance space-ferry operators who can claim that they carried a log cabin half way from Mars to Ganymede, and then had the log cabin carry them the rest of the way. I can, though you can bet your last tarnished megabuck that I didn’t do it willingly. It was quite a trip. I left Mars not only with a log cabin on board, but a genuine muzzle-loading antique cannon, a goodly supply of cannonballs therefrom, and various other miscellaneous antiques—as well as the Curator of Historical Collections from the Ganymede Museum. There was also a stowaway on board, much to his surprise and mine—he wasn’t listed in the cargo vouchers.

Let me make one thing clear: I wasn’t keen on carrying any such cargo. But my free-lance ferry operator’s charter is quite explicit that way, unfortunately. A ferry operator is required to hire his ship to any person of law-abiding character who will meet the (government-fixed) rates, and whose cargo to be transported neither exceeds the ship’s weight allowance nor is considered contraband by any System law.

In short, I’m available to just about all comers. By the terms of my charter I’ve been compelled to ferry five hundred marmosets to Pluto, forced to haul ten tons of Venusian guano to Callisto, constrained to deliver fifty crates of fertilized frogs’ eggs from Earth to a research station orbiting Neptune. In the latter case I made the trip twice for the same fee, thanks to the delivery guaranteed clause in the contract; the first time out my radiation shields slipped up for a few seconds, not causing me any particular genetic hardships but playing merry hell with those frog’s eggs. When a bunch of four-headed tadpoles began to hatch, they served notice on me that they were not accepting delivery and would pay no fee—and, what’s more, would sue if I didn’t bring another load of potential frogs up from Earth, and be damned well careful about the shielding this time.

So I hauled another fifty crates of frogs’ eggs, this time without mishap, and collected my fee. But I’ve never been happy about carrying livestock again.

This new offer wasn’t livestock. I got the call while I was laying over on Mars after a trip up from Luna with a few colonists and their gear. I had submitted my name to the Transport Registry, informing them that I was on call and waiting for employment—but I was in no hurry. I still had a couple of hundred megabucks left from the last job, and I didn’t mind a vacation.

The call came on the third day of my Martian layover. “Collect call for Mr. Sam Diamond, from the Transport Registry. Do you accept?”

“Yes,” I muttered, and $30,000 more was chalked to my phone bill. A dollar doesn’t last hardly any time at all in these days of system-wide hyperinflation.

“Sam?” a deep voice said. It was Mike Cooper of the Transport people.

“Who else would it be at this end of your collect call?” I growled. “And why can’t you people pay for a phone call once in a while?”

“You know the law, Sam,” Cooper said cheerfully. “I’ve got a job for you.”

“That’s nice. Another load of marmosets?”

“Nothing live this time, Sam, except your passenger. She’s Miss Vanderweghe of the Ganymede Museum. Curator of Historical Collections. She wants someone to ferry her back to Ganymede with some historical relics she’s picked up along the way.”

“The Washington Monument?” I asked. “The Great Pyramid of Khufu? We could tow it alongside the ship, lashed down with twine—”

“Knock it off,” Cooper said, unamused. “What she’s got are souvenirs of the Venusian Insurrection. The log cabin that served as Macintyre’s headquarters, the cannon used to drive back the Bluecoats, and a few smaller knickknacks along those lines.”

“Hold it,” I said. “You can’t fit a log cabin into my ship. And if it’s going to be a tow job, I want the Delivery Guaranteed clause stricken out of the contract. And how much does the damn cannon weigh? I’ve got a weight ceiling, you know.”

“I know. Her entire cargo is less than eight tons, cannon and all. It’s well within your tonnage restrictions. And as for the log cabin, it doesn’t need to be towed. She’s agreed to take it apart for shipping, and reassemble it when it gets to Ganymede.”

The layover had been nice while it lasted. I said, “I was looking for some rest, Mike. Isn’t there some angle I can use to wiggle out of this cargo?”

“None.”

“But—”

“There isn’t another free ferry in town tonight. She wants to leave tonight. So you’re the boy, Sam. The job is yours.”

I opened my mouth. I closed it again. Ferries are considered public services, under the law. The only way I could get a vacation that was sure to last was to apply for one in advance, and I hadn’t done that.

“Okay,” I said wearily. “When do I sign the contract?”

“Miss Vanderweghe is at my office now,” Cooper said. “How soon can you get here?”

I was in a surly mood as I rode downtown to Cooper’s place. For the thousandth time I resented the casual way he could pluck me out of some relaxation and make me take a job. I wasn’t looking forward to catering to the whims of some dried-up old museum curator all the way out to Ganymede. And I wasn’t too pleased with the notion of carrying relics of the Venusian Insurrection.

The Insurrection had caused quite a fuss, a hundred years back. Bunch of Venusian colonists decided they didn’t like Earth’s rule—the taxation-without-representation bit, though their squawk was unjustified—and set up a wildcat independent government, improvising their equipment out of whatever they could grab. A chap name of Macintyre was in charge; the insurrectionists holed up in the jungle and held off the attacking loyalists for a couple of weeks. Then the Venusian local government appealed to Earth, a regiment of Bluecoats was shipped to Venus, and inside of a week Macintyre was a prisoner and the Insurrection ended. But some diehard Venusians still venerated the insurrectionists, and there had been a few murders and ambushes every year since the overthrow of Macintyre. I could have done without carrying Venusian cargo.

I was going to say as much to Cooper, too, in hopes that some clause of my charter would get me out of the assignment and back on vacation. But I didn’t get a chance. I went storming into Cooper’s office.

There was a girl sitting in the chair to the left of his desk. She was about twenty-five, well built in most every way possible, with glossy, short-cropped hair and an attractive face.

Cooper stood up and said, “Sam, I’d like you to meet Miss Erna Vanderweghe of Ganymede. Miss Vanderweghe, this is Sam Diamond, one of the best ferry men there is. He’ll get you to Ganymede in style.”

“I’m sure of that,” she said, smiling.

“Hello,” I said, gulping.

I didn’t bother raising a fuss about the political implications of my cargo. I didn’t grouse about weight limits, space problems aboard ship, accommodation difficulties, or anything else. I reached for the contract—it was the standard printed form, with the variables typed in by Cooper—and signed it.

“I’d like to leave tonight,” she said.

“Sure. My ship’s at the spaceport. Can you have your cargo delivered there by—oh, say, 1700 hours? That way we can blast off by 2100.”

“I’ll try. Will you be able to help me get my goods out of storage and down to the spaceport?”

I started to say that I’d be delighted to, but Cooper cut in sharply, as I knew he would. “I’m sorry, Miss Vanderweghe, but Sam’s contract and charter prohibit him from any landside cargo-handling except within the actual bounds of the spaceport. You’ll have to use a local carrier for getting your stuff to the ship, I’m afraid. If you want me to, I’ll arrange for transportation—”