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

But Jerry was gone with great curses on his lips. Patiently Skeane sighed. It had been six years since he had been able to finish that story; the last man to hear it complete had been a convict extradited to Venus from Jupiter. Skeane had strapped him down in the little two-man rocket and whiled away the long hours of space travel with the tale in its gruesome entirety. He thought, now, that it would be nice if he could find somebody else to strap down and tell the story to. He was even a bit afraid that he was forgetting the details himself …

A taxi was driving through the muddy streets of Marsport; Jerry snapped a bill under the hackie's nose. "This for you if you step on it,"

he said. They pulled up, brakes squealing horribly, before a battered, weatherbeaten tenement. Jerry took four stairs at a time and burst into the close, dirty room. He shook the sleeping figure. "Sven! Sven, dammit! Wake up, you loose-brained lump of soggy Norwegian caviar!

We have the biggest job we've tackled yet!"

The helmsman rolled over, and dizzily asked, "We tow, Captain?"

"Yeah, we tow—a full-armed battleship that doesn't want to be towed.

Get the men to the field in twenty minutes—fare is on Leigh Salvage, Incorporated."

As the big man struggled into his clothes Jerry was down the stairs and into a taxi. "Salvage Field," he snapped, "in a helluva rush."

He had often boasted that the engines of scow Leigh were the most powerful things in the ether. Well—he would see how powerful they could be—shifting feed lines and adjusting nozzles to move the traction power, terrific as it was, into a different channel. The scow was to haul nothing but her own weight this trip, but it was essential, to put it mildly, that she haul it fast. The men lined up before her as the job neared completion. Briefly but clearly Jerry outlined the dangers and invited men to drop out.

"Wylie," he said, "since I shipped you we've been getting complaints from your quarter about work. This is going to be work the like of which you never dreamed. You can take out that pistol of yours; sure as leather you're going to us it this trip, unless somebody gets you first.

"Anybody leaving? No? Then pile in and strap tight. In ninety seconds we take off under fifteen Mars gravities acceleration."

There was a little glow in his chest. These were men—his men!

Comrades of flight and wreck, he'd stood by them and they were making good this day. And for a crazy woman? That was the part that baffled him—why? He had had practically no respect for her father; his ethics, or lack of ethics was notorious on the field. But she couldn't fly a ship! That, he said to himself, was what had convinced him of her innocence of the highly technical charge of piracy.

"Strapped in?

"Eighty-nine

"Fire!"

With a roar they took off. Such acceleration was unheard of, even on this field, where rules of astronavigation were scrapped daily and the laws of the space-lanes broken as a matter of course.

In a moment they had vanished from the sight of observers on the field; a moment more and they were into space, beyond air and warmth.

"All hands," rang out over the Leigh Salvage annunciator. "These will be battle stations when so ordered. Sven, be ready to take the tiller if anything happens to me; Wylie, choose and arm eight men to form a boarding party. Two others stand by with repair-paste in the event that our periphery is punctured. One man stand by the manual controls in case the electric board is blown by anything they have in their bag of tricks. That is all—flight stations!"

A long silence followed, Sven's hand white on the helm. "Deflect into first for particle in third," said Jerry, at length. "Meteorite." The ship shifted. "Good God, Sven—did you see that thing?" cried Jerry.

The helmsman said, puzzled, "Yes, Captain."

"But Sven—we passed it—going in the same direction! The first time I've known that to happen. Swede, we're traveling plenty fast."

5 Contact Off Pluto

Out in space time depends most of all on the man concerned, but for all those on the speeding little scow, the days flashed past. They saw Jupiter pale behind them, and Saturn, and Neptune; then, one day—

"Helmsman," said Jerry tensely, "turn control to master's board. I think I see them." Uneasily the big man surrendered the guiding of the vessel; he was the sort who likes to know what is going to happen next. Jerry's fingers touched the panel, his eyes never leaving the glinting speck far ahead of him; the speck that grew as he overhauled it with dizzying speed. His own exhausts glared less bright; he was slowing down that there might be no mistake. A telescope brought to bear on the point screened out the rocket's dazzle and enlarged the features of the vessel.

And there was something about it—he was almost sure.

He was sure. That tube astern was a chaser, meant for him and his scow. He turned on the annunciator, his jaw clenched. "Attention all hands," he said. "To battle stations. Check on your paste, repair crew; check on your weapons, boarding party. Pirate ship—" he squinted through the telescope—"Pirate Ship King Cole in sight. That is all."

He snapped on a beam of communication to the pirate ship, closing up the distance between them, and sent a call along it.

"Scow Leigh Salvage calling unregistered King Cole. Scow Leigh Salvage calling unregistered King Cole. Answer if you hear me, unregistered Cole. Scow Leigh to unregistered Cole."

There were etheric cracklings, then a dry voice. "Answering, scow Leigh Salvage. If you know who we are, what do you want with us?"

Jerry was close enough to see their chaser turn into his quarter and extend for firing.

"Heave to, King Cole," he said. "We're commissioned as a converted warship of the Interplanetary Police." This was neither strictly true nor untrue. As a matter of fact Skeane had said, "Go on and make a fool of yourself if you plan to. You and your ship have my full permission."

"Captain," said the voice from the pirate ship, "your letter of marque won't take us. I advise you to turn your garbage can back to where it and you belong before we rake you just once."

"Second of three warnings," said Jerry, wetting his lips. "Heave to in the name of the Interplanetary Police."

There was a long chuckle from the beam-grid.

"Third and last warning: heave to!" With the words Jerry tore the ship up and over into a great, ragged loop as the pirate gun belched pellets of destruction. He had thought he would be well outside the scattering pattern, but the scow trembled as a fragment exploded against its side.

"Repair crew to larboard!" he shouted into the annunciator plate, his eye on the air-pressure gage. Its needle dipped once; then rose to normal. "Plate blown in and patched, sir," came Hiller's voice. "All clear."

"Stand by, all," said Jerry. "We're going to attack." This ship rose, under his sensitive fingers, above its foe. "Prepare to swing grapples," Jerry warned. "Check magnetic plates. OK?" "Magnetic plates OK" answered Wylie.

"Then hold on!" The ship swooped and fluttered, at times seemingly inviting the fire of the pirates, at times seeming disabled, and darting away as the killer vessel swung itself to deliver a coup de grace.

The scow's grapples swung free—ponderous curved plates at the end of long osmiridium chains. Then down she darted, the grapples clanging against the sides of the pirate and sticking like plaster, and magnetized plates in the ship herself adhering to the other.

Jerry turned to the annunciator. "Wylie, cut through take over the board, Sven. I'm going down for the fun."

"Yes, Captain," said the big man.

Again in Wylie's skilled hands the burning paste oozed from his tool and ate through the metal of the pirate's hull as the crew bolted on their space helmets. Guns clicked in readiness; the oval of weakened metal was closed. The salvagers stood back as Jerry kicked down the section.