For furniture, there was an old wooden kitchen table. Sitting at it in a straight-backed chair was a strongly made, sad-faced, middle-aged man with iron-gray hair.
This man looked up as they came in. He seemed startled by what he saw, yet uncaring, as if it didn't matter what the world threw at him next. There was a small black-and-white TV on the table, and he turned it off.
“Hello, Captain Hoban,” Stan said.
Hoban took his time about answering. He seemed to be reorienting himself in the real world, after a long trip to some unimaginable place, perhaps to the time of his trouble in the asteroids.
At last he said, “It is you, isn't it? Why, hello, Stan.”
“Hi,” Stan said. “I want you to meet my friend Julie.”
Hoban nodded, then looked around. He seemed aware for the first time of the apartment's appearance.
“Please, sit down, miss. You, too, Stan. I'll get you some tea…. No, I'm sorry, there isn't any left. No extra chairs, either. If I'd known you were coming, Stan …”
“I know, you would have had lunch catered,” Stan said.
“Lunch? I can fry you a kelp patty….”
“No, sorry, just kidding, Captain. We're not staying. We're getting out of here, and so are you.”
Hoban looked surprised. “But where are we going?”
“There's got to be a café near here,” Stan said.
“Someplace we can talk.”
Hoban looked around again, grinned sheepishly. “I guess this place isn't too conducive to conversation.”
“Especially not a business talk,” Stan said. “Have you got a coat? Let's go!”
14
Danziger's was a Ukrainian café on the next block. It had big glass windows, always misty with steam. There were vats of water perpetually at the boil for the pirogis in ersatz flour gravy that were the specialty of the place. Stan, Julie, and Hoban took a small booth in the rear. They drank big mugs of black coffee and talked in low voices.
Stan was concerned about Hoban's condition. It had been a while since he had last seen the captain, back when Hoban had been captain of the Dolomite and Stan had bought the ship. Stan had liked the taciturn, serious-minded captain and had kept him in charge.
Hoban was one of the old breed, a straight-shooting captain, always serious and controlled, whose interests were exclusively in intergalactic navigation and exploration, and who could be counted on to follow orders. Stan had bought the Dolomite during his flush period, when the royalties were rolling in from his various patents, before his troubles with Bio-Pharm and the government. In those golden days, it had looked like the sky was the limit. After the asteroid incident, when Hoban had lost his license, Stan had pulled some strings and managed to get him a temporary captain's ticket. They had all been quite close then, Stan and Hoban and Gill, the android, who was second-in-command. But then Stan's problems with Bio-Therm had begun, and the lawsuits had started flocking in like flies to a flayed cow.
A hostile holding company had taken over the Dolomite, and their first act had been to dismiss Hoban, who was known for his loyalty to Stan. They accused the captain of various peccadilloes. That was really a laugh, with a man of Hoban's known probity, but mud sticks when you fling enough of it hard enough, and the licensing board had lifted Hoban's temporary ticket pending an investigation.
The captain had taken it hard. He was reduced in the course of one terrible day from a man who commanded his own little empire to a penniless derelict who couldn't find any work better than washing dishes.
Now they sat together in a Ukrainian café, with the late-afternoon sun streaming in through the windows, and Stan said, “I'm going back into space, Captain, and I want you with me.”
“It's good of you to say so,” Hoban said. “But no employer would have me without a license.”
“I still want you,” Stan said. “As for your license, we'll claim it's still in force.”
“But it won't be,” Hoban said.
“You can't be sure of that,” Stan said. “Money talks. I think the courts will find for you, if it comes to an actual trial. And I'll get your case reopened after this trip.”
“Can you really do that?” Hoban asked. A ray of hope lightened his heavy features for a moment, then his expression darkened again. “But I have no ship, Dr. Myakovsky. Or do you want me to pilot something other than the Dolomite?
“No, we're going on the good old Dolomite,” Stan said.
“But, Doctor, you no longer own it! And even if you did, I am no longer allowed to pilot it.”
“Possession is nine tenths of the law,” Stan said. “Once we're aboard and under way, they'll have to argue with us in court. Their lawyers against ours.”
“I don't know,” Hoban said, slumping down and shaking his head.
“Money talks,” Stan pointed out again. “We'll win your case. After this trip, we'll all have it good.”
“Yes, sir. Back into space again … Excuse me for asking, sir, but do you have any money for this venture?”
“Enough for what we need. And a way to get a lot more.”
“Where do you want to go?” Hoban asked.
“Let's get into that later,” Stan said. “You don't mind if it's dangerous, do you?”
Hoban smiled sadly and shrugged. “Anything's better than rotting here, with nothing to hope for.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Stan said. “This is Miss Julie Lish, my partner. You'll be seeing a lot of her on this expedition.”
Hoban shook Julie's extended hand. “But wait,” he said. “I'm sorry, Stan, you had me dreaming for a moment. I'm afraid it's impossible.”
“Why do you say that?” Stan asked.
“For one thing, no crew.”
“Okay. And what else?”
“The Dolomite's in geosynchronous orbit above Earth, ready to go on a mining trip in a few days.”
“We'll have to act quickly. Who's running the Dolomite?”
“Gill, until the replacement captain comes aboard.”
“Excellent!”
“I don't think so, Stan. You know Gill. He's programmed to follow the rules. Gill always obeys orders.”
“Not to worry,” Stan said. “Are you sure the new captain's not aboard yet?”
“Yes, I'm sure.”
“Then it's simple. We'll go aboard and take off at once.”
“Yes, sir … But it won't work, sir. You and I are both proscribed from boarding the Dolomite. There are guards. They'll read our retinal prints, turn us back….”
“No,” Stan said. “They'll call Gill to make a judgment. He's in charge now.”
“But what can Gill do? Androids are very simple-minded, Dr. Myakovsky. They obey orders. Their loyalties are built-in, hardwired.”
“Like a dog,” Stan suggested.
“Yes, sir. Very much like.”
“There's still a chance. Since he was animated, Gill has only worked with you.”
“That's right. But it's been a while since we've been together. And anyhow, when they changed his orders, they will have changed his loyalties, too.”
“They will have tried,” Stan said. “Actually, it isn't quite so simple. Loyalty in an android is formed by long association with a particular human. I think Gill will lean in your favor when it comes to a showdown between following your orders or those of the new owners.”
Hoban considered it and shook his head doubtfully. “Android conditioning is not supposed to work that way, sir. And if you're wrong … It'll be instant prison for all three of us.”
“Let's worry about that when the time comes,” Stan said. “Of course it's not dead simple. What is? The thing is, it's a chance for us all. What do you say, Hoban? Are you with us or not?”
Hoban looked up and down, uncertain, frowning. Then he looked at Julie. “Do you know what kind of a chance you're taking here, miss?”
“It's better than sitting around listening to yourself breathe,” Julie said.
“This ven
ture of yours, Doctor — I suspect it's not entirely legal.”
“That's correct,” Stan said. “It's illegal and it's dangerous. But it's a chance to rehabilitate yourself. What do you say?”
Hoban's mouth quirked. His face twisted in an agony of indecision. Then he suddenly drove his fist down on the table, causing the coffee mugs to jump. “I'll do it, Dr. Myakovsky. Anything's better than this!”
The three shook hands. Stan said, “Let's get moving. There's no time to waste.”
“There's just one problem,” Hoban said. “What's that?” Stan asked. “We don't have a crew.”
Stan's shoulders slumped and he sat down again. Julie asked, “How do you usually get a crew?”
“There's no time to get them on the open market,” Hoban said, “and we'd have a hard time getting people for a dangerous mission. In circumstances like this, we requisition them from the government.”
“What does the government have to do with it?” Julie wanted to know.
“They allow convicts to put in for hazardous duty in space, in return for reduced time on their sentences.”
Stan said, “But this time it wouldn't work. The government won't release any of the cons to me now that I've been barred from my own ship.”
“Of course they will,” Julie said. “Government is slow, Stan, and one part of it never knows what some other part of itself is doing. Just go in and ask the way you usually do. You're a legitimate owner, you've hired crews before. They have to serve you.”
“But what if they do know my ship has been seized?”
“First of all, so what? People have property seized every day. It doesn't put them out of business. They have a suit against you, but you're still innocent until proven guilty. And besides, the people who actually give you prisoners, the guards and clerks, what do you think they know about that? They don't know and don't care. They do what they have to do.”
“I don't know,” Stan said. “I'll be too nervous.”
“It will work.”
“Maybe. But I don't feel confident about this.”
“Stan, if you want to succeed in what you and I are getting into, you're going to have to learn how to fake self-confidence. Have you ever acted in a play?”
“Sure, in college. I was pretty good.”
“Well, that's what you're going to do now. Act the part of Dr. Myakovsky, brilliant young scientist and upcoming entrepreneur.”
“Acting a part,” Stan mused. “What a novel idea! But I believe I could do that.”
Julie nodded. “I knew right away you had it in you to play the Big Con. Stan, if you weren't already a scientist, I think you could make a great thief.”
It was the nicest compliment Stan had ever been paid.
“And as for you, Captain Hoban …” Julie continued.
“Yes, miss?” Hoban said.
“You're going to have to get that hangdog look off of your face. You're a spaceship captain again, not a washed-up drunk who did something wrong once in his life and is making himself pay for it the rest of his life.”
“I'll try to remember that,” Hoban said.
15
Morning came early to the federal penitentiary at Goose Lake, New York. Almost two thirds of the great gray concrete structure was underground, buried under one of the Catskills. What showed above was a windowless dome, gray as a ghost in sunlight, unrelievedly ugly despite the rows of quick-growing trees that had been planted around its perimeter in an attempt to dress it up. A ten-foot-high electrified fence surrounded the facility, but it was pretty much window dressing. No convict had gotten as far as the fence yet. The prison had its ways of keeping the prisoners docile.
Within the windowless pile, artificial light shone night and day. It was part of standard policy to keep the prisoners disoriented, and therefore less aggressive.
Inside, there were the usual sections of prison cells, with catwalks outside them where the guards walked. There were workshops, food and laundry facilities, and a separate room where the inmates did state-approved work and earned a dollar or so a day for it.
It was free time now. All the men not doing solitary were walking around the grounds, exercising, talking.
A loud voice came from the prison loudspeaker. “All men whose names are on the Alpha Volunteer list, report to the auditorium on the second level.”
The Alpha Volunteer List contained the names of those prisoners with space experience who were willing to volunteer for a hazardous assignment in return for a reduction of their sentences. It had been a while since the call went out for crew. The prisoners were well aware of the good things this early release could do for them. And anyway, it was easier to escape from a spaceship than from a federal prison.
It was not easy getting on the Alpha list, because only a limited number were permitted even to apply. You had to bribe a guard to have any chance at all. And you were likely to have problems with other prisoners who wanted to take your place.
Red Badger had been waiting for this chance a long time. Now he got up, smoothed down his unruly red hair, checked his shoes, and started for the auditorium.
He was stopped by an inmate named Big Ed.
“Where do you think you're going?” Big Ed asked.
“I'm on the list,” Badger said.
“You got it wrong,” Big Ed said. “That last place is mine.”
“No,” Red insisted, “it's mine.”
“Sure. But you're going to give it to me, aren't you?”
“No way,” said Red Badger. “Now, if you'll just let me get past…”
Big Ed stood in the middle of the corridor, blocking Badger's way. “Do like I say,” he threatened, “or else.”
Red Badger knew he was being challenged, knew that Big Ed had been waiting for this moment a long time, yet he also knew that Big Ed had picked him figuring he was the easiest guy on the Alpha list to intimidate.
Badger already knew what he was going to do about it.
He was known as Red Badger because of his shock of coarse red hair. He had the light, easily sunburned skin that went with red hair, and narrow blue-green eyes that blinked at you from behind sandy eyelashes. He was a big man, heavy in the chest. He wore his leather waistcoat open to show his chest with its grizzled mass of hair. He had large square teeth and a nasty smile.
Badger was an alumnus of many prisons. He had gotten his nickname at Raiford Prison in Florida, and as an act of defiance had taken it for his own. Badger was doing time for armed robbery and assault. He had a criminal record that went back a long way. Quick with his fists, he was also quick with his tongue and was always looking for a chance to cause trouble. “Trouble is my real middle name,” he liked to say. “Let me show you how I spell it.” And then he'd punctuate his remark for you with his fists. Like the badger, his namesake, he was most dangerous when cornered.
The fight was to be held according to the accepted prison rules: just the two of them, having it out in one of the washrooms. Whoever was still standing after it was over would go to the auditorium. The two combatants went there silently.
Both men knew it did no good to be brawling in the corridors. There were stingray projectors with motion-indicator finders mounted in all the corridors, turning steadily and scanning in all directions. The stingers weren't fatal, but they hurt like hell and could be counted upon to whip recalcitrant prisoners into line. There were no projectors mounted in the washrooms.
Although it was never talked about, the prisoners figured the authorities wanted to leave them places where they could have things out for themselves, establishing who was top dog and who was underdog. Several of them, noticing where Badger and Ed were going, followed along to watch the fun. It had been known for some time that Big Ed was going to try to take Red's place on the Alpha List. Big Ed was a seven-foot freak from Opalatchee, Florida. A bodybuilder, he looked like a model for Hercules, all gleaming muscle as he stripped off his shirt. Red Badger, on the other hand, was a solid man, but his musculature was
well padded with fat. He looked slow, not formidable.
Stripping off his shirt, he stood in the middle of the shower space, looking fat and sleepy, his hands loose and open at his sides, waiting for Ed to make the first move.
“You sure you want this?” Big Ed asked, moving forward slowly, hands raised like an old-fashioned bare-knuckle fighter. “Ain't going to be much left of you when I get through.” He looked at the spectators and laughed. “I'm gonna skin me a badger today, boys.”
The men laughed dutifully. Big Ed suddenly lunged forward, and Badger responded.
People said later they'd never seen a big fat man like Badger move so fast. One moment he was standing right there, practically under Big Ed's fists. But when Big Ed attacked, Badger was already out of the way, dancing back. He easily eluded a roundhouse right, and, taking his time, delivered a blow to Big Ed's neck, catching him at a nerve junction on the right side.
Big Ed bellowed and moved back. His right arm was dangling awkwardly at his side. He strained to lift it, but could get no sensation into it. He wasn't hurt; not really. It was just that his right arm wouldn't lift.
“Where'd you learn that stunt?” he demanded.
Badger smiled but didn't answer. What good would it do to tell Big Ed that his most recent cell mate, Tommy Tashimoto, had taught him the fine art of nerve strikes — getting him to practice for hours, hitting over and over again from all angles until he could strike half a dozen targets unerringly where the nerve bundles were near the surface or rode over bone.
Red Badger hadn't been one for formal education. But when he got a chance to learn how to incapacitate a larger, stronger opponent, all the doggedness of his character came out, and he had worked until he knew what he was doing.
Now he circled around Big Ed's right, hitting him quick hard blows to the face and ribs, coming in over the dangling and useless right arm. Big Ed tried to launch himself at Badger. If he could just get his hands on him, even one-handed, he'd tear the smaller man apart. But Red had a strategy to offset that. He hit again and again at the nerve junction in Ed's neck, and soon the numbness was replaced by a galloping pain that traveled up and down Ed's shoulder, from his face to his groin, filling him with an agony so painful as to be exquisite.
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