Exile-and Glory

by Jerry Pournelle

  "Right, sweetheart."

  "You better come up quick. There's a message coming through. You better hurry."

  "MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY." The voice was cold and unemotional, the way they are when they really mean it. It rolled off the tape Pam had made.

  MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY. THIS IS PEGASUS LINES BOOSTSHIP AGAMEMNON OUTBOUND EARTH TO PALLAS.

  OUR MAIN ENGINES ARE DISABLED. I SAY AGAIN, MAIN ENGINES DISABLED. OUR VELOCITY RELATIVE TO SOL IS ONE FOUR ZERO KILOMETERS PER SECOND, I SAY AGAIN, ONE HUNDRED FORTY KILOMETERS PER SECOND. AUXILIARY POWER IS FAILING. MAIN ENGINES CANNOT BE REPAIRED. PRESENT SHIP MASS IS 54,000 TONS. SEVENTEEN HUNDRED PASSENGERS ABOARD. MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY.

  "Lord God." I wasn't really aware that I was talking. The kids had crowded into the control cabin, and we listened as the tape went on to give a string of numbers, the vectors to locate Agamemnon precisely. I started to punch them into the plotting tanks, but Pam stopped me.

  "I already did that, Dad." She hit the activation switch to bring the screen to life.

  It showed a picture of our side of the solar system, the inner planets and inhabited rocks, along with a block of numbers and a long thin line with a dot at the end to represent Agamemnon. Other dots winked on and off: boostships.

  We were the only one that stood a prayer of a chance of catching up with Agamemnon.

  The other screen lit, giving us what the Register knew about Agamemnon. It didn't look good. She was an enormous old cargo-passenger ship, over thirty years old—and out here that's old indeed. She'd been built for a useful life of half that, and sold off to Pegasus Lines when P&L decided she wasn't safe.

  Her auxiliary power was furnished by a plutonium pile. If something went wrong with it, there was no way to repair it in space. Without auxiliary power, the life-support systems couldn't function. I was still looking at her specs when the comm panel lit. Local call, Port Captain's frequency.

  "Yeah, Jed?" I said.

  "You've got the Mayday?"

  "Sure. I figure we've got about sixty hours max to fuel up and still let me catch her. I've got to try it, of course."

  "Certainly, Captain." The voice was Rhoda's. "I've already sent a crew to start work on the fuel pod. I suggest you work with them to be sure it's right."

  "Yeah. They'll have to work damned fast." Slingshot doesn't carry anything like the tankage a run like this would need.

  "One more thing, Captain," Rhoda said, "Remember that your ship is under exclusive charter to the Jefferson Corporation. We'll make the legal arrangements with Pegasus. You concentrate on getting your ship ready."

  "Yeah, OK. Out." I switched the comm system to Record. "Agamemnon, this is cargo tug Slingshot. I have your Mayday. Intercept is possible, but I cannot carry sufficient fuel and mass to decelerate your ship. I must vampire your dee and mass. I say again, we must transfer your fuel and reaction mass to my ship.

  "We have no facilities for taking your passengers aboard. We will attempt to take your ship in tow and decelerate using your deuterium and reaction mass. Our engines are modified General Electric Model five-niner ion-fusion. Preparations for coming to your assistance are under way. Suggest your crew begin preparations for fuel transfer. Over."

  Then I looked around the cabin. Janet and our oldest were ashore. "Pam, you're in charge. Send that, and record the reply. You can start the checklist for boost. I make it about two-hundred centimeters acceleration, but you'd better check that. Whatever it is, we'll need to secure for it. Also, get in a call to find your mother. God knows where she is."

  "Sure, Dad." She looked very serious, and I wasn't worried. Hal's the oldest, but Pam's a lot more thorough.

  The Register didn't give anywhere near enough data about Agamemnon. I could see from the recognition pix that she carried her reaction mass in strap-ons alongside the main hull, rather than in detachable pods right forward the way Slinger does. That meant we might have to transfer the whole lot before we could start deceleration.

  She had been built as a general-purpose ship, so her hull structure forward was beefy enough to take the thrust of a cargo pod—but how much thrust? If we were going to get her down, we'd have to push like hell on her bows, and there was no way to tell if they were strong enough to take it.

  I looked over to where Pam was aiming our high-gain antenna for the message to Agamemnon. She looked like she'd been doing this all her life, which I guess she had been, but mostly for drills. It gave me a funny feeling to know she'd grown up sometime in the last couple of years and Janet and I hadn't really noticed.

  "Pamela, I'm going to need more information on Agamemnon," I told her. "The kids had a TV cast out of Marsport, so you ought to be able to get through. Ask for anything they have on that ship. Structural strength, fuel-handling equipment, everything they've got."

  "Yes, sir."

  "OK. I'm going ashore to see about the fuel pods. Call me when we get some answers, but if there's nothing important from Agamemnon just hang onto it."

  "What happens if we can't catch them?" Philip asked.

  Pam and Jennifer were trying to explain it to him as I went down to the lock.

  Jed had lunch waiting in the Doghouse. "How's it going?" he asked when I came in.

  "Pretty good. Damned good, all things considered." The refinery crew had built up fuel pods for Slinger before, so they knew what I needed, but they'd never made one that had to stand up to a full fifth of a gee. A couple of centimeters is hefty acceleration when you boost big cargo, but we'd have to go out at a hundred times that.

  "Get the stuff from Marsport?"

  "Some of it." I shook my head. The whole operation would be tricky. There wasn't a lot of risk for me, but Agamemnon was in big trouble.

  "Rhoda's waiting for you. Back room."

  "You don't look happy."

  Jed shrugged. "Guess she's right, but it's kind of ghoulish."

  "What—?"

  "Go see."

  Rhoda was sitting with a trim chap who wore a clipped mustache. I'd met him before, of course: B. Elton, Esq., the Lloyd's rep in Jefferson. He hated the place and couldn't wait for a transfer.

  "I consider this reprehensible," Elton was saying when I came in. "I hate to think you are a party to this, Captain Kephart."

  "Party to what?"

  "Ms. Hendrix has asked for thirty million francs as salvage fee. Ten million in advance."

  I whistled. "That's heavy."

  "The ship is worth far more than that," Rhoda said.

  "If I can get her down. There are plenty of problems—hell, she may not be fit for more than salvage," I said.

  "Then there are the passengers. How much is Lloyd's out if you have to pay off their policies? And lawsuits?" Rhoda had the tomcat's grin again. "We're saving you money, Mr. Elton."

  I realized what she was doing. "I don't know how to say this, but it's my ship you're risking."

  "You'll be paid well," Rhoda said. "Ten percent of what we get."

  That would just about pay off the whole mortgage. It was also a hell of a lot more than the commissioners in Marsport would award for a salvage job.

  "We've got heavy expenses up front," Rhoda was saying. "That fuel pod costs like crazy. We're going to miss the launch window to Luna."

  "Certainly you deserve reasonable compensation, but—"

  "But nothing!" Rhoda's grin was triumphant. "Captain Kephart can't boost without fuel, and we have it all. That fuel goes aboard his ship when you've signed my contract, Elton, and not before."

  Elton looked sad and disgusted. "It seems a cheap—"

  "Cheap!" Rhoda got up and went to the door. "What the hell do you know about cheap? How goddam many times have we heard you people say there's no such thing as an excess profit? Well, this time we got the breaks, Elton, and we'll take the excess profits. Think about that."

  Out in the bar somebody cheered. Another began singing a tune I'd heard in Jefferson before. Pam says the music is very old, she's heard it on TV casts, but the words
fit Jefferson. The chorus goes, "There's gonna be a great day!" and everybody out there shouted it.

  "Marsport will never give you that much money," Elton said.

  "Sure they will." Rhoda's grin got even wider, if that was possible. "We'll hold onto the cargo until they do—"

  "Be damned if I will!" I said.

  "Not you at all. I'm sending Mr. Hornbinder to take charge of that. Don't worry, Captain Kephart, I've got you covered. The big boys won't bite you."

  "Hornbinder?"

  "Sure. You'll have some extra passengers this run—"

  "Not him. Not in my ship," I said.

  "Sure he's going. You can use some help—"

  Like hell. "I don't need any."

  She shrugged. "Sorry you feel that way. Just remember, you're under charter." She gave the tomcat grin again and left.

  When she was gone, Jed came in with beer for me and something else for Elton. They were still singing and cheering in the other room. "Do you think this is fair?" Elton demanded.

  Jed shrugged. "Doesn't matter what I think. Or what Rollo thinks. Determined woman, Rhoda Hendrix."

  "You'd have no trouble over ignoring that charter contract," Elton told me. "In fact, we could find a reasonable bonus for you—"

  "Forget it." I took the beer from Jed and drank it all. Welding up that fuel pod had been hot work, and I was ready for three more. "Listen to them out there," I said. "Think I want them mad at me? They see this as the end of their troubles."

  "Which it could be," Jed said. "With a few million to invest we can make Jefferson into a pretty good place."

  Elton wasn't having any. "Lloyd's is not in the business of subsidizing colonies that cannot make a living—"

  "So what?" I said. "Rhoda's got the dee and nobody else has enough. She means it, you know."

  "There's less than forty hours," Jed reminded him. "I think I'd get on the line to my bosses, was I you."

  "Yes." Elton had recovered his polish, but his eyes were narrow. "I'll just do that."

  They launched the big fuel pod with strap-on solids, just enough thrust to get it away from the rock so I could catch it and lock on. We had hours to spare, and I took my time matching velocities. Then Hal and I went outside to make sure everything was connected right.

  Hornbinder and two friends were aboard against all my protests. They wanted to come out with us, but I wasn't having any. We don't need help from ground-pounders. Janet and Pam took them to the gallery for coffee while I made my inspection.

  Slingshot is basically a strongly built hollow tube with engines at one end and clamps at the other. The cabins are rings around the outside of the tube. We also carry some deuterium and reaction mass strapped on to the main hull, but for big jobs there's not nearly enough room there. Instead, we build a special fuel pod that straps onto the bow. The reaction mass can be lowered through the central tube when we're boosting.

  Boost cargo goes on forward of the fuel pod. This time we didn't have any going out, but when we caught up to Agamemnon she'd ride there, no different from any other cargo capsule. That was the plan, anyway. Taking another ship in tow isn't precisely common out here.

  Everything matched up. Deuterium lines, and the elevator system for handling the mass and getting it into the boiling pots aft; it all fit. Hal and I took our time, even after we were sure it was working, while the Jefferson miners who'd come up with the pod fussed and worried. Eventually I was satisfied, and they got onto their bikes to head for home. I was still waiting for a call from Janet.

  Just before they were ready to start up she halted us. She used an open frequency so the miners could hear. "Rollo, I'm afraid those crewmen Rhoda loaned us will have to go home with the others."

  "Eh?" One of the miners turned around in the saddle. "What's the problem, Jan?" I asked.

  "It seems Mr. Hornbinder and his friends have very bad stomach problems. It could be quite serious. I think they'd better see Dr. Stewart as soon as possible."

  "Goddam. Rhoda's not going to like this," the foreman said. He maneuvered his little open-frame scooter over to the airlock. Pam brought his friends out and saw they were strapped in.

  "Hurry up!" Hornbinder said. "Get moving!"

  "Sure, Horny." There was a puzzled note in the foreman's voice. He started up the bike. At maximum thrust it might make a twentieth of a gee. There was no enclosed space, it was just a small chemical rocket with saddles, and you rode it in your suit.

  "Goddamit, get moving," Hornbinder was shouting. If there'd been air you might have heard him a klick away. "You can make better time than this!"

  I got inside and went up to the control cabin. Jan was grinning.

  "Amazing what calomel can do," she said.

  "Amazing." We took time off for a quick kiss before I strapped in. I didn't feel much sympathy for Horny, but the other two hadn't been so bad. The one to feel sorry for was whoever had to clean up their suits.

  Ship's engines are complicated things. First you take deuterium pellets and zap them with a big laser. The dee fuses to helium. Now you've got far too much hot gas at far too high a temperature, so it goes into an MHD system that cools it and turns the energy into electricity.

  Some of that powers the lasers to zap more dee. The rest powers the ion drive system. Take a metal, preferably something with a low boiling point like cesium, but since that's rare out here cadmium generally has to do. Boil it to a vapor. Put the vapor through ionizing screens that you keep charged with power from the fusion system.

  Squirt the charged vapor through more charged plates to accelerate it, and you've got a drive. You've also got a charge on your ship, so you need an electron gun to get rid of that.

  There are only about nine hundred things to go wrong with the system. Superconductors for the magnetic fields and charge plates: those take cryogenic systems, and those have auxiliary systems to keep them going. Nothing's simple, and nothing's small, so out of Slingshot's sixteen hundred metric tons, well over a thousand tons is engine.

  Now you know why there aren't any space yachts flitting around out here. Slinger's one of the smallest ships in commission, and she's bloody big. If Jan and I hadn't happened to hit lucky by being the only possible buyers for a couple of wrecks, and hadn't had friends at Barclay's who thought we might make a go of it, we'd never have owned our own ship.

  When I tell people about the engines, they don't ask what we do aboard Slinger when we're on long passages, but they're only partly right. You can't do anything to an engine while it's on. It either works or it doesn't, and all you have to do with it is see it gets fed.

  It's when the damned things are shut down that the work starts, and that takes so much time that you make sure you've done everything else in the ship when you can't work on the engines. There's a lot of maintenance, as you might guess when you think that we've got to make everything we need, from air to zweiback. Living in a ship makes you appreciate planets.

  Space operations go smooth, or generally they don't go at all. I looked at Jan and we gave each other a quick wink. It's a good luck charm we've developed. Then I hit the keys, and we were off.

  It wasn't a long boost to catch up with Agamemnon. I spent most of it in the contoured chair in front of the control screens. A fifth of a gee isn't much for dirtsiders, but out here it's ten times what we're used to. Even the cats hate it.

  The high gees saved us on high calcium foods and the drugs we need to keep going in low gravs, and of course we didn't have to put in so much time in the exercise harnesses, but the only one happy about it was Dalquist. He came up to the control cap about an hour out from Jefferson.

  "I thought there would be other passengers," he said.

  "Really? Barbara made it pretty clear that she wasn't interested in Pallas. Might go to Mars, but—"

  "No, I meant Mr. Hornbinder."

  "He, uh, seems to have become ill. So did his friends. Happened quite suddenly."

  Dalquist frowned. "I wish you hadn't done that."
/>   "Really? Why?"

  "It might not have been wise, Captain."

  I turned away from the screens to face him. "Look, Mr. Dalquist, I'm not sure what you're doing on this trip. I sure didn't need Rhoda's goons along."

  "Yes. Well, there's nothing to be done now in any event."

  "Just why are you aboard? I thought you were in a hurry to get back to Marsport—"

  "Butterworth interests may be affected, Captain. And I'm in no hurry."