Jerry savvied plenty. He motioned Ignatz back under the bunk and moved over to the shelf where his grub lay. Blane turned to go. And then raw Hades broke loose.
There was a sick jarring, and a demon's siren seemed to go off in their ears. The shelf jumped across the room; Jerry hit the captain with his head. For half a second, there was complete silence, followed by bedlam, while the ship jerked crazily under their feet. Acting on instinct, both the captain and Master dashed for the oxygen helmet, and a private war started before either realized what had happened.
Jerry straightened up first. "That was the control engine," he yelled in Blane's ear. The man couldn't hear, but he caught the idea. "Get out of here and find out what happened."
There was no thought of prisoners. Jerry pounded along at the captain's heels, and Ignatz had only time to make a convulsive leap and slide down Jerry's neck under his jacket. Men were swarming down the stairwell and up from the main rocket rooms. A babble of voices blended with a shrilling of alarms and a thud of feet on cuproberyl decks.
The Old Man was in the engine room before them. "Blanel Blanel Hey, somebody find that lunkhead before these fools wreck the whole ship!"
Blane saluted roughly, his mouth open, his eyes darting about the wreck of the steering engine. "Wha-what happened?"
One quick glance had told Jerry. "Which one of you oilers let the main bearings run dry?"
A wiper pointed silently to a shapeless lump of bones and assorted cold cuts. While eyes turned that way, Ignatz slipped out and pushed from sight between a post and wall that were still partly whole.
Jerry Lord's mouth was set as he swung to Blane. "Got a spare engine? No. Well, dismantle one of your gyro-stabilizer engines and hook it up. Send men to inspect what damage was done to the controls. Get the doctor up here to look over these men who are still in one piece. Wake up, man!"
Blane shut his mouth slowly, wheeled back to the men and began shouting instructions, until some order came out of the milling mass of men. In the confusion, the O.M. hadn't noticed Jerry, but he swung to him now.
"Who let you out? Never mind; you're here. It's a good thing somebody has some sense, or that yellow-belly'd still be dreaming! Captain Blane, get that wreck out of here, put this prisoner to work. We can't waste time or men now. I'm going back to the control co-ordinators to inspect the dam-age."
Now that the shock of his first major accident was over, Blane snapped briskly into it. He glared at Jerry, but postponed it for later. Ignatz knew this was to be held against the Master, as well as the other troubles were, and he mumbled uncomfortably.
With the engine in scattered parts, little dismantling was necessary. The men were cleaning the parts away, cutting such few bolts as were left in the base, and preparing the space for the new engine. The stabilizer motor came in, one part at a time, and Jerry oversaw its placement and assembly, set its governor, and hooked the controls to it as rapidly as the crew could cut away the bent rods and weld new ones in their place. In an emergency, no group of men on Earth can do the work that a space-crew can turn out in a scant half-hour, and these were all seasoned star-jumpers; to them the lack of gravity was a help rather than a hindrance in the swift completion of the work.
By the time the O.M. was back, the walls were being welded over, the new engine was tuned, the controls hitched, and the captain was sweating and swearing, but satisfied that the work had been well done. Jerry came back from the stabilizer hold to report the motors retuned and set for the added load given by the loss of one of the five engines, with the juice feeding in evenly.
The Old Man motioned silentiy, his face blank and expressionless, and Blane gulped as he turned to follow. Jerry strung along without invitation, tucking Ignatz carefully out of sight under his clothes.
Back in the nerve center of the ship, the control integrators were a hopeless mess. The main thrust rods that coupled the control turret to the engine were still intact, but the cables and complex units of gears and eveners that formed the nearly human brain of the ship were ruined beyond possibility of repair.
The O.M.'s voice was almost purring, but his eyelids twitched. "Have you repairs, Captain?"
"Some. We might be able to jury-rig part of it, but not enough to couple the major rockets to the control panel. That looks to me like a one-way ticket to hell." Under the stress of danger, the man had relapsed into a numb hopelessness.
"How many hours to Venus, and where's the danger point?"
"Sixty hours, and we either get control in ten, or we fall straight into the sun. We're in Orbit C-3 now, and we'll miss Venus entirely."
"Not a chance to get repairs sent out in time," the O.M. muttered. "Well, I guess that's that."
Jerry pushed past the captain, saluted the O.M. quietly. "Beg pardon, sir, but it might be possible to control the ship manually from here, with observations relayed from the control turret."
Momentarily their eyes brightened, but only for a split second. "Not one man in a thousand knows the layout of the cables here, and the job would be physically impossible. I don't know whether this rod should be forced back or that one forward. When the old manual controls were still in, we had them arranged logically in banks, but this is uncharted confusion."
"I know the layout," Jerry offered evenly. "It's simply a question of being able to move around fast enough to coordinate the thrust rods." Yet he looked at the mass of rods, levers, and cables with doubt large in his heart. It meant covering an eight-foot wall, and keeping the tangle of even-ers clear in his mind every second of the time, though it might be done.
There was a snort from Blane, but the O.M. silenced it. "We have to believe in miracles now. It's our only chance. Are you sure you can do it, mister?"
"Fairly sure, sir."
"How many helpers?"
Jerry grinned sourly. "None; it's easier and surer doing it than telling others how to do it, and maybe having them mess things up. Has to be a one-man job."
"Right." There was grudging approval on the scowling face. "Blane, you take orders from him; get the wrecked parts out, uncouple the remaining automatics. You and the navigators will take turns relaying the chart data to this room —and it'd better be right. Get a phone hooked up at once, and put this man to work. If we get to Venus, he's free, no questions asked, and a good job waiting for him. If we don't, he won't need the job."
When the O.M. was gone, the captain shook his fist under Jerry's nose. "Jonah! If you hadn't been along, this wouldn't have happened. You'd better be good, Mr. Lord." He stopped suddenly, a new thought hitting him. "Do you realize that means sixty hours of steady, solid work down here?"
"Naturally, since your navigators never learned more than they had to." Jerry shrugged with an entirely false optimism. "And you'll remember that hereafter every man on this ship will take orders from me, sir? I must insist on absolute cooperation."
"You'll get it, Jonah or not." Blane stuck out a hand. "I don't like your reputation, Lord, but I do like your guts. Good luckl"
In making an impressive exit, the captain forgot the oil on the floor; he executed a jerky half-twist before his back hit the deck. Ignatz backed further out of sight and prepared for the worst.
"Jonah!" said Blane, and it covered everything with no wasted syllables.
With the wreck carted out, the communication man came in, hooked up a phone, and coupled it by a spring reel of wire to sponge-covered earphones. He handed over a chart of present position and estimated orbit, then cleared out.
Jerry cut in on the phone. "All clear?"
"Waiting for orders, sir. Stern rocket seven has a point-oh-six underblast you'll have to counteract, and the stabilizers only work three-five. Venus now in position—" The navigator rattled off his co-ordinates, and Jerry set them up in his head as he reached for the main blast rods.
"Okay. Leave orders I'm not to be bothered by anyone but the mess boy." He pulled Ignatz out, patted his back, and grinned. "The room's yours, fellow. Stand to blast!"
&n
bsp; "Clear to blast, sir. AU-1-1 positions set! Trim-m-m and stow all-l-l!" The time-honored call rang down the stairwell as Jerry threw the manuals and braced himself for gravity-on.
The freighter shook like a cat coming out of a bathtub, groaned and bucked sullenly, as the controls were thrown one at a time; reluctantly she settled down to business. For a bottom-blaster, she was a sweet old bus, put out with the craftsmanship of men who longed for the stars and took out that longing in building ships to carry others. Even with the overworked stabilizers and slight underblast she answered her helm better than some of the new triangles. Jerry bit into her levers savagely at first, then gently as she became part of him, hard to reach, yet sweet and honest.
The navigator was shouting down co-ordinates, drift ratios, and unnecessary pep talk, and the O.M.'s voice came through occasionally, sounding almost pleasant. The crusty old scalawag had what it took, Jerry conceded; no hysteria or nonsense about him. Under such an example, the captain and first navigator took heart, and the second navigator was jaunty with hope when he came on. Faith was dirt cheap in the conning turret at the moment; Jerry could have used more of it himself, but was careful not to show it in his voice.
The first ten hours were no worse than steady attention and driving work could make them, and he began to get the feel of the ship. His mind tuned in on the creaking of her girders, the sway of her deck, and the strange harmony that couples flesh to well-built metal. The pattern of the controls etched itself indelibly into his brain, short cuts came, and ways of throwing his combinations in less time and with less effort, until he became a machine integral with the parts he handled.
When food was brought down, he grinned confidently at the mess boy and snatched it in mouthfuls as the co-ordinates sent down and the movement felt sent him dancing across the room. Watching him, the boy grinned back, and snapped his fingers gleefully. Hop to Venus with ruined controls? A cinchl
Ignatz waited doubtfully, but nothing more seemed likely to happen. He honked hopefully—and an answering bark came out of the vent tubes. The exhaust blower went on noisily, but the current of cool air stopped.
Jerry cut in on the phone. "What happened?"
"Dust explosion in the filter chamber, sir. I'm afraid it'll take some time to fix it."
It did. While the hours passed, heat leaked in from the engine and refused to go out. Normal perspiration gave way to rivulets of sweat that tried to get in the Master's eyes and made his hands wet and slippery.
Ice and water, brought down at hourly intervals, helped, but did not alleviate the temperature. Men were working on the air ducts, but it promised to be a long job. Ignatz had secretly crawled up the maze of vent pipes to find the obstruction, nearly got lost, and come down without success.
When the twenty-hour period was up, Jerry was rocking on his heels, cursing the heat with every labored breath. He wore ice packs on every safe place, and still couldn't keep cool. The blowers were working again, keeping a steady current of air moving, but it was hot. Under the Master's shoes were heavy pads of rubberoid, and he wore stiff space mittens on his hands, but still the heat came through from the hot floor and control rods. A few more degrees would spell the limit.
Then the temperature readied a mark and held it. The heat seeping in and the air going out balanced, and Jerry settied down to a regular routine of ice packs and heat; even the air he breathed was filtered through an ice mask.
The phone buzzed and the O.M.'s voice came over. "One of the refrigerators overheated and burned a bearing. You'll have to cut down to half rations of ice."
"Okay." The Master stared thoughtfully at Ignatz, then caught him up and draped him over his shoulders. "Not enough ice, fellow. You like heat, but you'll have to cool me off. Come on, pal, show your stuff."
Ignatz did his best. He had the finest heat-regulating system on nine planets, and he put it to work, soaking up the heat from Jerry's sweaty body, dissipating it out into the air. Jerry never understood how it was done, but he knew Ignatz could absorb heat or radiate it off at high efficiency; now the zloaht was absorbing on his flexible belly-plate and radiating from his back.
Jerry sighed with relief. "Ah, fine, fellow. You've got the ice packs beat three ways from Sunday." His eyes pulled shut and he relaxed against the control bars. Ignatz prodded him with the sharp end of his tail, waking him to his duties.
"Regular two-man crew we've got, fellow," the Master muttered. "You'll make me win this thing through yet, maybe." His beard was peeling off in the humid heat, and he pulled it away, along with the scar. The brown pigment had gone hours before.
But now things were letting up a little. The freighter had settled into the groove of her orbit, was balanced nicely, and required little more attention until they reached Venus. Jerry had an insulated chair rigged up and dropped into it when the pressure of the work would let him, while Ignatz listened for the opening buzz of the phone or watched gravely for a flash from the extension feed indicators. Fifteen minutes here, twenty there, once even a whole hour; Jerry's overworked system grabbed greedily at each minute, sucking up relief and rest like a dry sponge. If only the drugging, tiring heat would lift.
And then, miraculously, a shot of cold air whooshed out of the vent ports, and Jerry jerked up from his stupor. "They've got it, Ignatz; it's fixedl" He shivered gratefully under the draft, drew back from it while his body begged for coolness, afraid of too sudden a drop in temperature. "Now you can forget the heat, fellow; just wake me when I need it."
The air was dropping down smoothly, a degree every five minutes, and life seemed to flow back into the Master. Ignatz muttered sofdy and relaxed. The two-way heat control had been a heavy nervous strain on him, requiring hard mental discipline; he was thankful to fall back to normal.
The three-quarters mark came and went, with only fifteen hours ahead—and the hardest part of the job still to do. Under his breath, Jerry was talking to himself, ordering his muscles as he might a crew of men, trying to forget the dull ache that found every muscle of his body, the hot acid pain in his head, the feeling of an expanding balloon against his brain. Another five hours, and they'd be teetering down through the heavy gravity zone, where every tube would have to be balanced until the tugs came to take over.
Old Man Barclay came down in place of the mess boy, a serious, worried O.M., but with a smile on his lips—until he saw Ignatz and Jerry's normal face. Then something hard shot into his eyes. He whistled.
"I had a hunch," he said softly. But his voice was even, his face relaxed. "You always were a fool, Jerry, even if you happen to be the best man that ever rode a star-hopper. This, and our cursed luck, should have told me. What is it-Anne?"
Jerry nodded, patted Ignatz back into place as the zloaht moved to avoid the O.M.'s look. "Anne," he agreed. He thrust back into the machinery as the navigator sent down fresh data, backed out, and faced the other quietly. "Well?"
"Of course." The old face never moved a muscle. "What I can't understand is how your luck can reach out ten million miles and hit another ship, though. Never mind, I'll tell you later—maybe."
Jerry dropped limply back into his chair, and the other moved over with a drink. Noting the trembling hands that lifted the glass, the Old Man's face softened. "Too much work for one man, son. I used to be pretty much up on the layout here. Maybe I can spell you."
"Maybe. It's routine stuff now, Mr. Barclay. All you need are the feed controls and gyro-eveners banked together there." The Master pointed them out, one by one, while the
O.M. nodded. "I'll have to take over in four, five hours though. Sure you can do it till then?"
'That much, yes." The O.M. tossed a blanket over the younger man and then moved over by the projecting feed bars. "Ever strike you as funny I came on this trip?"
"Didn't have time to think," said the Master.
Barclay squatted down on a beam, his eyes on the controls. "I don't do things without a purpose, Lord. Venus needs radium—needs it bad. They offer double price for t
hree million dollars' worth. Earth price, when delivered at Hellas. But they want it quick, so it has to be sent in one load. You can't get insurance on that for a one-shipment cargo; too much risk. And no private company will ship it without insurance."
"So?"
"So I bought the radium on the market, had it stowed secretly with the chocolate—mutiny never happened, but it might—and came along to watch it. That represents my entire personal fortune. If it reaches Venus, I double my money; otherwise, I won't be there to worry about it."
He stopped, then went on in the same even voice. "That's why I could cheerfully kill you for putting a jinx on this voyage. But I won't. I have reasons for reaching Venus in a hurry. Put diis ship down in one piece on the surface of Venus, and one-third of the profit is yours—one million dollars, cold cash, in any bank you want it."
Ignatz honked sofdy—for him—and Jerry blinked. He swung off at a tangent. "You spoke of my luck hitting another ship across ten million miles; and now you've got reasons for reaching Hellas quickly. Anne?"
The O.M. repeated Jerry's earlier answer. "Anne. Saw it from the conning turret. The Burgundy broke a steering tube bank, had to make a forced landing. We got the start of an SOS, but it faded off—must have ruined the radio as they hit."
"Where?"
"Latitude 78° 43' 28" south, longitude 24° 18' 27" west. SOS started with something about twin mountains. Know where it is?"
"Minerva's Breasts, in the middle of Despondency. I camped near the north breast. Worst spot on Venus, that isn't too hot for life."
"Exactly. We radioed Hellas, but in that jungle it may take weeks to find them. So there's a million in it for you—and my place in New Hampshire where your darned luck won't bother anyone but yourself—but not Anne, definitely notl"
But Jerry was dead to the world, and Ignatz, curled up in his lap, was deciding to sleep while he could, now that everything was setded.
They were only eight hours out from Hellas when Ignatz stirred and looked up. The Old Man was a frenzy of action, a scowl of concentration etched across his forehead, but he was still doggedly at the controls. Again the zloaht prodded his Master awake, and Jerry sat up, some of the bleariness gone from his eyes. He reached out for a caffeine and strychnine capsule, to help him stay awake, and tapped Barclay's shoulder.
Donald A. Wollheim (ed) Page 9