Айзек Азимов - The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack - 25 Modern and Classic Science Fiction Stories

Smyth shuddered at the prospect. For ten days, now, the two had worked like robots cleaning the great hydroponic tanks of dying and odorous vegetable matter. The tank super, a contract man himself, had no time or patience to spare for any who refused to share his misery. So he piled on the work and made them sweat out the food he grudgingly gave them at the end of the day.

“You know,” said Smyth wistfully, “we could afford at least one decent meal.”

“We daren’t,” said Robeson. “Once we taste good food again we’ll be lost. We need every cent of that money to beg, buy or bribe a passage on the first ship leaving here for a Class X world. Class X,” he repeated wonderingly. “Food growing everywhere. Orchards, truck gardens, chicken coops, the works and every last bit of it fit to eat.” He sighed and scraped up the last of his yeast. “Besides, if McKief guesses that we’ve got money he’ll make us buy food until we’re broke. Then he’ll have us where he wants us.”

“Chicken,” said Smyth dreamily. “Green peas, mashed potatoes.” He licked his lips.

“Five years of sweating for the sake of your stomach,” reminded Robeson.

“At a credit a day,” pointed out Smyth.

“Man?” said Robeson sternly, “is not made for bread alone. There are other things. Could you go five years without a drink? You couldn’t, and as soon as you taste it you’ll want more and more. You’ll even start smoking again. You’ll wind up a slave to expensive vices and spend your money as fast as you get it.” He picked at his teeth. “At the end of the contract time you’ll be flat broke and have to sign up for another five years.”

“But I’ll eat,” said Smyth. “The way things are I’m no better off.”

“We’ve got money,” reminded Robeson. “I’ve got fifty-three credits and you’ve got forty-nine. While we hang onto that we’ve got economic independence. With any sort of luck at all it will pay our passage to a Class X world. Then you can eat until you burst.”

“So you keep telling me.” Smyth was hungry and irritable. “But when?”

The tank super came roaring in just then, and saved Robeson from what could have been an argument.

“Overtime,” he ordered. “A ship’s due in tomorrow and McKief wants the supplies all ready for loading. You can start humping right away.” He stormed out again, yelling to others. Robeson stared at Smyth.

You heard that? A Terrestrial ship’s due in tomorrow. Brother, this is it!”

Smyth rubbed his stomach in anticipation.

The plan was simple, masterly, logical, and contained a touch of elementary genius. The only thing wrong with it was that it didn’t work. Robeson stared sourly at McKief, then climbed, with what dignity he could muster, from the bag of flour. The white powder didn’t improve his appearance.

“I suppose,” he said bitterly, “you think you’re smart.”

“Smart enough not to let these good people load up a couple of stowaways,” snapped the factor. He stood back as Robeson dusted himself down. Smyth, looking more harassed than ever, stared wistfully at the soaring bulk of the Terrestrial Hy-Drive ship. A grinning quartermaster supervised the loading of supplies while a couple of Rigelians looked on. The Rigelians had arrived at the same time as the Terrestrials and their ship was unloading supplies for the Rigelian station.

“I suspected what was going on when I checked the sacks.” McKief believed in rubbing it in. “You knew that the quartermaster wouldn’t argue about two bags extra on the manifest.” He glowered at the unhappy pair. “Do I have to remind you of the penalties for stowing away?”

“Shut up,” said Robeson. He knew the penalties, but he also knew that a little money to the right person would have closed the right eyes. Hy-Drive ships were fast and it would have been simple to remain under cover for the few days necessary to reach another world. He walked up to an officer. “Where are you bound, sir?”

“Klargush then on to Perlon.”

“Perlon’s Class X, isn’t it?”

Robeson looked hopeful. “Could you use a couple of good men? I can cook and Smyth makes a good steward.”

“No.” The officer didn’t like would-be stowaways and didn’t bother to hide the fact.

“How much would passage cost then? For the two of us?”

“Two hundred and fifty each, basic rations provided.”

“We can raise a hundred. How about taking it, signing us on as crew and forgetting to book the passage?” Robeson winked. “We won’t complain.”

“Not a chance.” The officer glanced at McKief. “Sorry, fully-paid passage only on this ship.” He walked away to confer with the factor. Robeson glared after him.

“If there’s one thing I hate more than another,” he said feelingly, “it’s an honest man. Look at him! Turning down the chance of an easy hundred just for the sake of a principle.”

“He’s scared of McKief,” said Smyth. “Maybe we’d better sign that contract now? That officer’s telling McKief we’ve got money. If we volunteer to sign maybe he’ll let us keep it.”

“Not McKief,” said Robeson positively. “The man’s a sadist; he’ll make us spend it first. Anyway, it’s a matter of personal pride. I refuse to be beaten by a louse like McKief.”

Smyth didn’t say anything; he was too busy listening to the rumblings from his empty stomach.

“I don’t like it,” said Smyth. “I don’t like it at all.”

“So you don’t like it.” Robcson was impatient. “Now tell me what else we can do?”

It was two days later and Robeson’s prediction had proved correct. McKief had gently shaken his head when they had reported for work, pointing out that they weren’t really distressed, as they had money, and regretting that he couldn’t accommodate them under the Regs. On the other hand, if they were to sign the; five-year contract, they could live like kings. Robeson had dragged his partner away when the factor had casually started talking about the menu.

“I’ve fixed everything,” he said. “The Rigelians will sell passage to one man for one hundred credits. We’ve got that. Naturally, as it’s an alien ship, I’ll have to provide my own food. That’s where you come in.”

“I don’t like it,” repeated Smyth. “Why can’t I have the passage?”

Robeson sighed as he stared at his partner. At times Smyth appeared really dumb. The commissary problems were such that no one ship could provide food for any and all races who might want passage; So food was provided only for the members of the race operating the ship. Others were given a cubicle and water, and left to provide their own food. It was a system that worked perfectly. It would work now if Smyth would reasonable.

“I’m the biggest,” pointed out Robeson. “Also I’ve put in the most cash. But I don’t see what you’ve got to worry about. The trip is scheduled to last three days and we can last that long. All I have to do is carry you into the ship and claim that you’re my provisions. Simple.”

“Maybe.” Smyth still wasn’t happy. “But why me?”

“Could you carry me?” Robeson snorted and shook out a sack he had found at the hydroponic station. “Come on now, no more arguing. With any sort of luck at all we’ll be on our way within the hour.”

The Rigelian on duty at the airlock stared curiously at Robeson as he came puffing up the ramp, a sack slung over his shoulder.

“Paid passenger to Perlon,” he gasped, extending his ticket. The Rigelian examined it, found it in order and uttered the customary warning.

“Passage only sold liable to alteration on route.” His translator clicked and hummed. “You have provided yourself with supplies?”