Cristopher Stasheff - Escape Velocity

Croft nodded agreeably. “An oversimplification, but accurate within its limits.”

“In fact, you could almost say it’s got the potential for becoming a balanced society.”

“The potential, perhaps,” Croft agreed.

“How do you manage to keep the House of Houses from totally destroying the citizens?”

Croft smiled, amused. “Come now, young man! You give me too much credit. Even a criminal realizes that he must take care of his geese if he wants them to grow more feathers for plucking.”

“Not from what I’ve read,” Dar said slowly. “Historically, even the organized criminals haven’t cared who they hurt or killed, as long as they made a profit on it.”

“Ah, but that is when they have an unlimited supply of geese!”

“Somehow, I don’t think the House of Houses has quite that much foresight.”

Croft nodded, amused. “I may have arranged for the odd idea to reach the House through circuitous routes. Then, too, even with a severely limited police force, there are ways of making certain activities unprofitable.”

Dar nodded, bemused. “So you’ve got two societies that pretty much balance each other—and it’s got the potential for becoming a single, cohesive society. That would take a lot of guidance and maneuvering—but it is possible.”

Croft nodded. “Of course. Anything is possible—even that; with an exterior challenge and thrown back on their own resources, both halves of the population might forgo their own forms of decadence.”

“A challenge such as being cut off from the rest of the human-inhabited universe?”

Croft nodded, a slight smile on his thin lips. “You evince a definite talent, young fellow. Given time and practice, you might prove as capable of deduction as I am.”

The spaceport was guarded by a split-log fence, like an old-time Western fort. But the gate opened at Croft’s approach, and they floated through, to stare at a square mile of plastrete, pock-marked with blast-pits. The two-story personnel and passenger building seemed like a miniscule bump on the fence. The only other break in the bald field was a silvery manta-ray shape tilted upward toward the stars, as though it strained to be free of the planet—an FTL scout, streamlined and planed for atmospheric capability. No ferry this time, but a ship that could go from surface to surface, though without the speed of the great liners. It was beautiful, but it seemed pathetically small and frail against the immense stretch of plastrete.

The hatch was open, and a silhouette appeared against its rectangle of yellow light as they drifted up. “As good as your word! You found ‘em!” Whitey jumped down to pump Croft’s arm.

“You doubted me, Whitey?”

“Not for a second! Trouble was, it was turning into hours.”

A black robe blocked the hatch, and light gleamed off a bald pate. “Welcome, wanderers!” Father Marco waved. “Come on in and tell us about your travels! We should have time; we’re going seventy-five light-years!”

But Dar’s eyes snapped to the figure beside the priest. Even as a silhouette, she looked wonderful.

“Good to see you again, Father.” Sam hopped down off Croft’s chair and strode toward the hatch. “But, why’re you coming along? It’s our misfortune, and none of your own.”

“Someone has to look after your souls,” the friar joked. At least, Dar hoped he was joking. “Nice of you to care, Father—but why should you?” He jumped up into the ship, carefully brushing against Lona in the process.

“Because,” said the priest, “I’m a brother of the Order of St. Vidicon, and you two present a case that an engineer can’t resist.”

Dar didn’t follow the logic, but it didn’t matter; Lona was giving him the long stare. He couldn’t tell whether it was admiring or accusing, but he didn’t really care—so long as he had her attention.

“Well, that’s it!” Whitey hopped aboard and sealed the hatch behind him. “Always helps to have friends in the right places.”

“Sure does,” Dar agreed, “and I’m awfully glad we’ve got you. But why? This isn’t your quarrel, Whitey.”

“It is now.” Whitey flopped down into the nearest acceleration couch and stretched his webbing across. “Things were getting dull, but you two promise to make them interesting again.”

“But you’re heading for the frontier, and we have to get to Terra!”

“So do we—now.” Whitey grinned. “As long as you promise to shake the old place up a bit. Besides, I have to see my publisher—I’ve suddenly run low on funds.”

Dar swallowed, feeling guilty, but Whitey looked around and bawled, “Who’s going to pilot this tub?”

“Who else?” Lona jumped into the pilot’s couch with relish. “I’d fly a mountain to get back to some good old-fashioned decadence!” She hit a few keys, and the spacer roared to life.

“I’ll take communications.” Sam slipped into the couch beside Lona and keyed the talker. “What’s the name of this tub?”

“I christen it Ray of Hope ,” Whitey declared.

“ Ray of Hope to Control,” Sam called, “outward-bound toward Sol.”

“Uh … come in, Ray of Hope .” Control was, to say the least, startled.

“Permission to lift off.”

“Permission to …? Uh—be right with you, Ray of Hope .” Dar could hear a squawk in the background before Control killed its mike. “Looks like we took them by surprise,” he said to Whitey.

“Not surprising enough.” Whitey frowned. “Who’s gotten to them?”

“Three guesses—which is two more than you need.” Sam keyed her mike again. “ Ray of Hope to Falstaff Control. What’s the delay?”

“Uh … Ray of Hope ,” Control stammered, “it seems you forgot to file a ballistic plan.”

“Ballistic plan?” Whitey bawled. “What does he think this is—a hop to the next planet?”

“ Ray of Hope to Control,” Sam said grimly. “I thought ballistic plans went out when FTL came in.”

“Well—we have to make sure you don’t interfere with any incoming traffic.”

“Incoming traffic! What incoming traffic? The sky’s as clear as a verdict!”

Whitey chuckled. “As owner of this ship, pilot, I order you to lift off.”

“Yes, Grandpa,” Lona murmured, entirely too demurely. Then there wasn’t much talking, because they were plastered back in their couches for a few minutes as the Ray streaked up through the atmosphere.

Then the pressure eased off, and “down” gradually stopped being the back of the ship and became the deck, as ship’s gravity took over from acceleration.

“Coasting at nine-tenths maximum.” Lona spun her chair around and loosened her webbing. “I’d advise you stay in your couches, though; should only be about twenty minutes till we’re far enough out to isomorph into H-space.”

“We barely made it,” Sam said with a sour smile. “Remember that squawk in the background? That was Destinus.”

“Destinus?” Father Marco sat up, frowning. “ Canis Destinus?”

“Why, yes, now that you mention it.” Sam turned to Father Marco. “You know him?”

“More than that; we’re related.” The priest seemed suddenly saddened. “He’s my father’s half-brother’s son.”

Dar frowned. “Wait a minute—that makes him …”

“Half a cousin of the brother.” Whitey turned to the friar. “The two of you were on the same planet, and he didn’t bother to say hello?”

Father Marco nodded. “And it would seem that he probably knew I was here. But then, under the circumstances, I suppose he wouldn’t’ve wanted to be associated with me.”