C Kornbluth - His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

"I don't know about the rocket-juice," she said, "but I was born on the Jupiter-Earth liner." Jerry gasped for breath.

"Is there anything else?" she said. "Because if there isn't I'd like to get some work done on my father's accounts."

"No," said Jerry thickly. He was dangerously near apoplexy. "Nothing else." And he walked out of the office muttering, "Accounts …get some work done on my father's …" Dammit! A woman couldn't fly a scow, and she wouldn't believe that very obvious fact until she was smeared over half of the landing field.

Like a man in a dream he found himself at the offices of the Salvage Field Commission, paying his field dues. An official, dazed, asked if anything was wrong. Did he expect to die, or something?

"No," said Jerry thickly, "but I expect to get potted in about twenty-five minutes. Would you mind coming along?"

"Not at all," said the official. In fact he felt the need of a drink after having beheld the ungodly spectacle of the Leigh Salvage Company paying up on time.

Many hours later all that was left of the two was a very small noise in the corner of a saloon on Broadway, at the corner of Le Bourse. Half of the small—very small—noise was saying to the other half at intervals,

"Wimmin can't never fly …Wimmin can' never fly …Wimmin can' never fly …" And the second half of the very small noise was replying to the first, " Yeh …they cer'nly don't …" At length the proprietor told a hackie to please take them away, and what happened to the official nobody ever found out, but Jerry awoke next morning in his hotel room with a pair of blue eyes wavering in front of his face. They weren't real, though—vanished with the first draught of bicarb.

His phone rang, and he winced. It was the Salvage Field Commission, and they wanted to know what he had done with Sweeny. Sweeny? Oh, yeah—no; he didn't remember a thing. To hell with Sweeny. Were there any jobs to be done? He wanted to get off Mars before he got drunk again. There was a long pause while the commission looked up today's sheet. Yes—one bullion ship wrecked between Mercury and Venus.

Carrying iridium. Speed was essential; therefore the agreement was on a strictly competitive basis; any or all salvage companies registered could try for it simultaneously. The owner of the ship agreed to buy back the cargo falling to the salvager at market quotations out of hand.

First scow to get a grapple on, had her. Laufer and Burke had filed intention claims, and were starting off in a couple of hours; so had Bluebell.

"Who? What master?"

"Er …Adams. Holy smokes! Alice Adams!"

Jerry swore. "You'll have to stop that kid. She doesn't know how to fly."

"You'd better come down, then. You seem to know more about this mess than I do. Hurry up if you want a crack at the Carpathia—that's the bullion ship."

"Expect me in twenty minutes or less." Hastily he dressed, his hangover forgotten, muttering to himself things about slap-happy blondes.

Schopenhauer, he decided, had approximately the right idea.

For the second or third time in his life he was not late for an appointment; twenty minutes saw him bursting through to the office of the commissioner.

"Well?" he demanded violently. "Are you going to let her fly? In a race like this is going to be, she'll not only smash up herself and her crew but any of the rest of us who get in what she seems to think is her way."

The body wrapped around the telephone voice answered heavily,

"There's nothing to be done about it. For some obscure reason the 'sons or other issue of the deceased licensee shall retain the towage and salvage permits of the deceased, and all appurtenances thereof,'

according to regulations.

"The license for towage, etc., includes an operator's card; therefore we discovered that a crack-brained female who has never flown before inherits a flying permit without physical examination or experience.

I'm going to write my congressman; that seems to be all that anyone can do about it just now. Shall I fill out an intention for you on that Carpathia?"

"Yeah. I won't be back," he snapped, half way through the door.

He found Sven in a cheap rooming-house near the port.

"You round up the rest of the crew!" he yelled, "and be at the field by twelve noon or you're all fired and busted." He tore away and jumped into a taxi. "To the salvage field, buddy, in a helluva rush!"

He was oiling the space lock when the others arrived, led by Big Sven.

He stared at them. "Often," he said, "I have wondered what happens to space lice when they crawl off the ship. I now perceive that I should have known." Each and every man of them had at least one black eye; each had cuts and bruises about the temples. "Well—forget the good times. There's iridium drifting free between Mercury and Venus, and we're going to snag it. And if we don't sink our grapples into that hulk before any other space-tramp, you worms go hungry. Clear? Now get to stations; in ninety seconds we take off. I said ninety!'

The men filed into the stubby ship holding their heads. A hangover is nothing to take with you on a spaceflight. If they could have left their heads behind they would have done it. With creakings of abused muscles and battered bones, they strapped themselves into hammocks and pads.

The crew of Leigh Salvage, Incorporated was in a bad way.

The takeoff was uneventful as such things go; Jerry mentally noted that he had blown away a small corner of the salvage-table, just another item to subtract from the profit, if any.

Once again in space, the captain was at the look-out plate, eyes and hands and brain bent five hundred kilos out into the vacuum. "Particle sighted ahead," he droned, "in our third quadrant. Salvage scow Bluebell. Full speed ahead to pass her." His fingers played over the master's board, and the blunt ship roared ahead. They were near—

dangerously near—the Bluebell. A blast from the steering fins and the scow jolted into a new course. Jerry never took chances—hardly ever.

They slowed acceleration far in advance of the other vessel; that was another contract tied up and in the bag. The captain relaxed—That Adams girl …of course she couldn't handle a ship. Anybody could make a not too disastrous takeoff, but she'd smear hell for leather when she tried to land.

A signal light flashed on his board, and he snapped on his communication beam. There was a long pause while the power built up, then a voice from the grid

"Scow Bluebell calling scow Leigh Salvage, Incorporated. Give way.

We're going to pass you in your first quadrant. That's all."

Jerry gaped. Unheard of? "Scow Leigh to Bluebell!' he snapped. "Listen, insane female; you're not driving a French taxi. There are ethics and rules in this game we're playing. Do you want to be blackballed and become an outlaw tug?" There was another reason than need of that cargo for his anger—maybe, just maybe, she could get back onto the field without busting herself wide open if she were alone, but with a cargo as big as the Carpathia she wouldn't have a chance in a million.

He thought of what a short towing line could do, and grimaced.

"We're passing, Scow Leigh. That's all." The light on his board died.

That was all. Well for her sake …and for his own—

"Full speed ahead, and then some more, Sven. It's a race."

But it wasn't much of a race; the Bluebells port fin exploded, and her acceleration stopped. Jerry grinned. "We'll pick her up on the way back and leave her ship there. The farther apart those two are, the safer for both of them …Hey! Stations! Hulk Carpathia ahead!" And the salvage ship jockeyed for position, drew alongside of the bullion transport and clamped on with a clash of metal against metal. The crew prepared to board.