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CHAPTER TWO

Cape Hatteras had been a Commonwealth Space Command launchpoint for a long time, well over a century; besides that, wartime expansion had building going on in a round-the-clock frenzy. There were launch pits for everything from heavy beam-boosted cargo lifters to the smallest personnel shuttles, repair docks, giant reaction-mass tanks to hold the distilled water, barracks, warehousing, and a sprawling civilian settlement around it. All Peter saw of it was the processing facility where they checked his ID.

There was a bittersweet relief to being back in a working Space Command facility after the hospitals and physical therapy centers. Gunmetal-gray corridors of synthetic that looked soft somehow but was harder than steel; functional extruded shapes everywhere, color-coding on pipes and equipment and branch-of-service badges on the ubiquitous overall uniforms, and an equally ubiquitous faint smell of ozone. Security had been tightened up, he noticed; there were Marine guards in battledress at the entrance to the docking bays and a retinal scan before Lieutenant Gardner boarded the little bullet-shaped shuttle in its deep synthcrete pit.

"Want to ride up front?" the shuttle pilot said.

"Sure." Twist the knife. On the other hand, that was being ridiculous. And I wish I could stop using expressions like "on the other hand." Talk about twisting the knife. 

There were still two seats, although copilots had gone the way of many other peacetime luxuries, at least on routine flights like this. Peter laid back in the recliner and let the holohelmet slide over his eyes.

Snap. The little ship's systems came alive, and vision opened out before Peter's eyes. It was as if the front of the shuttle had vanished, giving him an all-around view, crystal clear. Status bars across the top and bottom of his vision listed fuel (reaction tanks full), reactor (fusion systems nominal), and a half-dozen other essentials; the pilot could call up any other data as she wished.

Coupling hoses fell away from the matte-blue sides of the shuttle, trailing droplets into the water at the bottom of the launch pit.

" . . . one. Lift."

Beneath him the little ship quivered and tensed as water was bled into the plasma torch from the fusion reactor and flashed into an ionized gas. Coils directed it toward the rear. The trembling grew, and then there was a long moment when the ship felt a queasy, oil-on-water lightness. Light flashed upwards around him. An observer outside would see a huge belch of incandescence reaching into the sky above the pit, like a lance of fire spearing out of the ground. The shuttle rose smoothly, only the building g-force of inertial gravity to mark the ascent. The walls of the pit moved by him slowly at first, then with building speed; the shuttle broke the sound barrier before its nose was in the open air and leaped skyward. Suddenly sunlight broke around them, the Atlantic stretching like a vast plain of hammered silver to the east, land dark green to the west, rising to the rippled highlands of the Appalachians.

Peter sighed inwardly as the air above turned from deep blue to indigo and then to the hard blackness of space. Home, he thought.

Earth turned beneath them, a blue-and-white shield. Gardner drew a line across a panel before them.

"Earth-Luna Control, shuttle Ariadne XX bound for Lunabase Main, following trajectory—mark—boost at one gee."

Peter frowned. "I lost my hand, not my gee-tolerance," he said dryly. Shuttles didn't rate inertial compensators.

Gardner flushed slightly. "Correction, boost at one-point-seven-five gee. Transit forty-five minutes."

Gardner brought him down at Lunabase as neat as you please, and well inside the usual flight time. The holohelmet gave a ringside view as the shuttle slid backward on a far less dramatic lance of flame. Fire splashed around the claw-shape of the landing grapple, then died as they made contact with the pad. The metal fingers closed with enormous, delicate force on the hull of the little craft, and they felt a lurch as the pad beneath them came active and began to trundle away, bearing the Ariadne with it.

"You're good," Peter complimented her as they waited for the automatics to shunt the Ariadne into a docking bay. "I'm surprised they don't have you in a Speed."

"Thank you, sir," she said, blushing with pleasure. Things went clunk and chank in the background, and the ship quivered slightly. "But I live to fly, not to fight. Bo said he'd loan me some aggression, but he hasn't sent it along just yet."

"You give him my best," Raeder said, and shook her hand.

"I will, Commander." She snapped off a salute as he hefted his dufflebag and stepped out into the flat, filtered air of a closed-environment base.

Ships smelled like this, too. He took a deep breath and plunged into the crowd. Lunabase was even more crowded than Cape Hatteras had been; Peter supposed it was because of the naval shipyards here. The walls of the corridors were vitrified lunar regolith, sort of a blotchy cream color, like marble to the touch. He adjusted to the one-sixteenth gravity with remembered ease—it was like riding a bicycle, you never really lost the knack. There was a cart waiting in the row beside the tunnelway; it projected a hologram of his name and face, strobing at a slightly different frequency from the others in the row. He blinked at the sight, squinting and focusing on his own vehicle.

"Commander Peter Raeder," he said, and slipped his order chip into the cart's reader.

He stowed his duffle in the back compartment and hopped onto the padded front seat. Peter pressed first his right, and then, with an annoyed hiss, his left forefinger against the ID plate, which recognized the pattern of capillaries below the skin.

"Welcome aboard, Commander Raeder," the cart said as it trundled off. "I am programmed to take you to the freighter Africa in Section Four, Level Three. As departure for this freighter is scheduled in fifteen minutes, we will have a priority run through the station. Please fasten your seat belt."

The screen on the cart tempted Peter into a full readout of his movement orders. "Fast Carrier Invincible?" he read.

That must be a new one; as far as he knew, there were only Fleet and Escort categories in the Carrier class. Nothing in Jane's, which meant either the class was too new to have hit the databases, or was classified, or both. This was looking better and better.

"Ontario Base, Antares System."

His lips shaped a silent whistle. Right out near the frontier, then; the last major Commonwealth Space Command base before you hit Mollie territory.

The wind of their passage lifted the dark hair from Raeder's broad, hospital-pale forehead. Clusters of pedestrians were warned away with a highly motivating BLAAAT! from the cart's sound system. Peter felt like visiting royalty, grinning and waving at the startled and highly annoyed personnel left in his wake.

He turned forward to find himself on a collision course with a Marine colonel. The colonel looked straight ahead as if Peter's cart and Peter himself didn't exist; he had that look Marine combat officers often did, of being the sort who'd butt his way through walls rather than bother with civilian luxuries like doors. Even so, the closer they got the wider the colonel's eyes became and his hands gripped his cart's seat with noticeably white knuckles when impact seemed unavoidable.

"What the hell are you doing, playing chicken?" Peter demanded frantically of the cart. "Get out of the way!"

"Processing," the cart remarked enigmatically.

Just when it seemed that he and the colonel were about to become a four-legged individual, the colonel's cart swerved out of Raeder's path and they continued on their way.

"It took time to establish that my priority was superior," the cart explained.

Was that a trace of smugness in that mechanical voice? Peter could almost feel the heat of the officer's glare, but he didn't turn around to check. If he did, the colonel would see the pleased grin that Raeder couldn't suppress.

He did murmur, "Hey diddle diddle, straight up the middle, eh?"

A throttled roar sounded behind him. "Sir?" the cart inquired.

It was a pity humor was wasted on machinery. On the other hand, perhaps neural-net programmed machinery . . . The Marine colonel had been a beetle-browed specimen with no neck, just slabs of deltoid muscle sloping up to his ears.

"The hell with it," he said. "Do you know why Marines have sloping foreheads and no necks?"

"Sir? Is that an inquiry?"

"Well, you show them a spaceship, and ask `What's that?' and they do this—" he shrugged elaborately. "And then you tell them it's a spaceship, and they do this." He mimed slapping his forehead.

The cart was silent for a moment. Then: "I have entered this remark in my files under `Witticisms, attempted.' "

Everyone's a critic, Raeder thought, and settled back. It was still a beautiful day, he was assigned to a real fighting ship and headed to where there was real fighting to be done.

* * *

The Africa was a boxy, utilitarian metal giant shaped like an old-fashioned manual hammer, hanging in polar orbit over Luna. Its plating was pitted and scored from the friction of outsystem dust; even single hydrogen molecules could be dangerous at the speeds ships attained just before Transit. Peter eyed it carefully as the Luna-to-orbit jumper came in to dock with it. Halfway up the handle of the "hammer" were a ring of new-looking boxes mounted on pivots. Antiship missiles, he thought. Ground-defense types, from the look of it. Marginally more useful than throwing things by hand, but not much more, in deep space.

"I just hope we have a peaceful voyage," he muttered to himself. Especially if I have to trust the shooting skills of a cargo handler to protect my own precious pink personal buttocks.

The crew was busy enough that the executive officer, a tiny Oriental woman with a harried expression, was meeting passengers at the airlock.

"You're the last," she said to Peter. "Commander," she added; there were Naval Reserve patches next to her merchant-marine insignia. "Glad you could make it."

"Last-minute orders," he said, touching the clip pad she held to establish his identity. It beeped contentedly at them.

"Good. Getting into convoy order is a stone bitch without delays at dock."

Peter's brows rose as he ducked through the narrow airlock door and stood aside in the corridor within for two crew with a repair floater. "Convoy?" he asked. "From Lunabase?" If we need to convoy ships out of Sol System, we're in worse trouble than I thought. Although . . . most of the escort ships were far out on the fringes, where the routes got long and Mollie Q-ships and commerce raiders were raising Cain. Not many left for the interior runs.

The merchanter exec shrugged, as if to confirm his thought. "Lot of losses recently. Not enemy action, just scavengers. They've gotten a lot more active—or hungry. We're bunking you with two of our ratings. Sorry, but everything's a bit cramped."

"There's a war on," Peter said.

He had a couple of datachips in his duffle, too, if all else failed. It never hurt to study . . . and there certainly wasn't much else to do. The Africa was a big ship, easily a hundred and eighty thousand tons, but most of that was cargo hold, full of everything from reactor components to bags of "real Terran anthracite." The crew quarters were cramped even by Space Command standards; he squeezed through a couple where he had to walk bending over and pushing his duffel before him before he reached the tiny living space. Everything was extruded metal, cheaper than synthetics and good enough for low-stress merchanter spacing. It was also a little chilly and dim, and the pulsing vibration of the life-support system was a continual warbling throb on the edge of audibility.

Three weeks normal-space travel before they reached the Transit jump point, and then three days in Transit space to reach Antares. It could get very boring; mind you, being jumped by raiders was worse than boredom. They used "Stealths" mostly, small, slow, but very inconspicuous ships with one short-range plasma cannon, carried in piggyback on fast, converted freighters. Not much armament, but if your engine was down—the usual reason for falling victim to them—one little plasma cannon was all it took. A few shots in the right places and you wouldn't be collecting your insurance.

Then the raiders slipped in a skeleton crew and the ship disappeared—to some breaker's yard with few scruples, way out there somewhere.

Oh, your heirs would collect the insurance, but that would be cold comfort.

Peter tossed his duffle onto the lower bunk and considered the men who'd be sharing the living space with him for nearly a month. They'd lifted the curtains on their bunks to look him over, nodded and then dropped them back into place.

One was in late middle-age, heavyset, with the faint lines of a hearing implant around one ear. That explains why he's not in the service, Raeder thought. The other was a younger man who looked at Peter's commander's pips with a mixture of embarrassment and envy, a flush on his freckled redhead's skin. No doubt he had a merchant seaman's exemption, whether he wanted it or not.

Damned poor excuse for privacy, Peter thought as he looked at their curtained bunks, though the cloth shut him out almost as effectively as walls would. He gave a mental shrug. Well, close quarters, you need someplace to go that's just yours. 

"Hey," he said. "Peter Raeder here. What do you guys on Africa do for fun?"

"Fun?" the youngster answered sourly. "It's wartime and we're hauling Space Command cargo. No leave. Multiple Transits. We don't have fun."

"Aw, c'mon, Vic. Yer just mad 'cause you couldn't see that little barmaid at the Lunatic Cafe one last time."

The youngster pouted. "She'll be gone by the time we get back," he groused. "The pretty ones always are. Vic Skinner, by the way," he said to Raeder. "Communications tech on this bucket of bolts."

Peter shook their hands. "Jack Ayers," the older man said, grinning. "Drive Systems chief. How much fun you can have depends on how much disposable income you've got."

Peter smiled slowly, a definite spark of interest lightening his eyes.

"I've got some," he offered cautiously.

"Don't try it, Commander," Vic, the youngster warned, shoving the curtain on his bunk aside and cracking his fingers with a smile that belied his words. "We'll shear you smooth. We get a lot of practice."

The older man eyed Vic in silent warning.

"Sounds interesting," Peter prompted.

The Drive Systems chief swung his legs down from his bunk with the stealthy menace of the wolf in "Little Red Riding Hood."

"You come along with us," Jack said, beckoning.

"You're gonna love this," Vic assured him.

Africa had a small crew, twenty-seven people, nine on, eighteen off at any one time. The small, out-of-the-way storage locker Ayers and Skinner led Peter to was crowded with six of those off-duty personnel; they had to climb down a maintenance access tunnel to reach it. Those already there went silent, flashing to their feet as the hatch opened and the three entered, closing it behind them.

I guess gambling is as frowned upon in the Merchant Marines as it is in Space Command, Peter thought. And just as successfully repressed. 

"Fresh meat," Jack Ayers said suggestively, waggling his eyebrows. "This is Commander Raeder and he's looking for some action."

Africa's crew looked at Raeder like he was a big shiny box and it was coming on Christmas morning.

"The game is Dynamics," said a whey-faced fellow with jug ears. "Opening stake's twenty."

Peter tried not to blink. Twenty was pretty rich for a backroom Dynamics game on a tub like this. He could almost hear Vic saying, "Baaaa." Raeder pulled out a money chit and handed it over. Jug-ears snapped it into a reader and when he handed it back one of the black strips was twenty percent white.

The atmosphere turned warmer still. Someone offered him a flask, and he took a sip. Then he struggled not to wheeze; it was illicit slash if he'd ever tasted the like, and even worse than what circulated under the table on transports or at bases.

"Thanks," he husked. "I'm glad to see you can still clean the scale off transformer junctions." That brought a chuckle around the packing crate they were using as a table.

"Welcome to our little casino," Jug-ears said with a grin and a sweep of his arm. "Take your slice with the dice."

Peter accepted the dice with a grin and bounced them experimentally as he waited for the betting to subside. They weren't actually dice; they were triangular and there were six of them. The players alternated between tossing the dice and playing a hand of cards. The lowest number on the toss became the dealer, the highest won back his stake and fifty percent of whatever had been bet. Then in the card round the players usually bet a small amount, since it came only from their pockets, while the observers placed side bets. The loser got first crack at the dice, the winner took the pot on the table.

Peter's family were Space Command for generations back, or merchanters, and Dynamics was practically the official game of those services. Raeder had learned the game from his dad, who'd been a chief in Space Command and his Uncle Dennis, who was an engineer in the Merchant Marine. Both had maintained the superior skill of their services with blind stubbornness. And both had known and used every rule-shaving trick in the book.

Well, he thought as he turned the dice over in his hands, they're honest as far as I can tell. Peter felt at a slight disadvantage due to the fact that one of his hands was artificial and the other was his weak hand. Which should just about even the odds. He'd been taught by eager teachers how to control the spin on the dice so that they almost always came up the way he wanted—which, given the minute variations in synthetic gravity and Coriolis force, wasn't easy. Now he'd lost a great part of that delicate control. But not all of it. And he had a great poker face.

But judging from the wolfish grins that surrounded him, if desire had any effect on the outcome, he'd be lucky to leave this game with his shorts. It was times like these that the Merchant Marine spacer's feelings of superiority over Space Command became obvious. And damned uncomfortable. 

Peter took his position and in a deadly silence rattled the dice in his hand, trying to make friends with them. C'mon, he thought, don't let me down. Do it for the Service. He felt a heat rise in his face and he grinned. He was going to win.

He flung them hard against the bulkhead and they bounced back rattling onto the plastic surface of the crate, giving him a score of twenty-one, a "natural." Peter barely restrained an exultant "Yes!" and with an effort of will held back the wattage on his smile as he looked around at the stunned and silent faces. Hey, guys, he thought, it's a game of chance. Sorta. I'll probably lose the next one. 

Jack Ayers licked his lips slowly, and said with a forced cheerfulness, "That's what I like to see, beginner's luck. The kind that doesn't last."

Vic's thin face looked woebegone as he nodded and muttered, "Yeah."

Peter raised one dark brow.

"Boy, you guys sure know how to take the pleasure out of winning. Look," he stood up and brushed off his knees, "I'm just looking for a way to break the monotony. I don't want to push myself in where I'm not wanted. So just say the word and I'll take back my stake and we'll pretend that I've never been here." He shrugged. "It's up to you."

He'd briefly considered saying, "I'll take my winnings and go." But deemed it not worth the aggravation of dark looks and hostile mutterings for the next three weeks. Life was too short to make a battle out of everything. That's one thing I've learned anyway. 

Silence greeted his suggestion, you could almost hear the rumble of thoughts being mulled over. Finally a woman who looked like an Indian temple statue—or would have without the jowls and the bandanna knotted around her hair—muttered: "Play."

Raeder squatted and flung the dice without preamble. They came up nineteen. A gaunt-faced woman gathered them up and passed them back to him. He rattled them briefly, felt the blush rise in his face, and tossed. They came up nineteen again, making his point and winning him a cool hundred and twenty at least.

Every eye was on him; no one was smiling.

Well, I've sure taken the joy out of this gathering, Peter thought, chuckling to give the lie to the thought. I've been in accidents that were more fun. 

Aloud he said: "Wow."

For a moment the mood in the room balanced on a knife edge between hostility and the excitement of gambler's fever. Greed won as the crewmen calculated what they might win if Peter lost the next toss.

"Play!" the Indian temple statue demanded again. She was breathing heavily with excitement, which did interesting things to her coveralls, especially the worn spots.

Raeder tossed and got a five, tossed again and made his point. Five times he threw and felt the flush that told him he would win.

"Hey, that hand's prosthetic," someone said. "Use the other."

Peter grinned and complied. The dice flew out of his left . . . and he won again.

"Hey, switch back!" the voice complained.

"My pleasure, sports," Peter said, and did so.

Finally he said: "This is spooky," and handed the dice to the woman beside him. He bet on her and won. By the end of the shift he'd cleaned them out and had gained four completely filled money chits as well as his original twenty.

As they were filing out Jug-ears glowered at him and said, "You gonna give us a chance to get even?"

"Anytime," Raeder told him. "Anyplace." After all, the honor of Space Command is at stake, as my father used to say to Uncle Den. 

Jug-ears nodded. "Alec'll bring yuh."

As they climbed back to their bunks, Peter confirmed this with Alec.

"Oh, yeah," the older man said. "It'll be in a different place."

"Nobody seemed too happy with me," Raeder observed.

Alec grinned, but then he was always grinning.

"Don't worry about it," Vic told him. "That was just beginner's luck. Tomorrow we'll skin ya proper." His dour face brightened almost to melancholy at the thought.

Trouble is, Raeder thought, if I win again tomorrow, I think they'll do it literally. 

And they'd be more cautious next time, now that they knew he wasn't a novice. Consider it their just reward for all the wet-behind-the-ears Space Command lieutenants they've no doubt fleeced of everything but their eyelashes. 

And, after all, he was giving them a chance to get even. Even so, it was a good thing that Ontario Base was only a Transit jump away. . . .

Fifteen ship-days later Raeder lay contentedly on his bunk avoiding the gloomy stares of Africa's crewmen, a stack of their money chits stretching his back pocket to the ripping point. Being a cool sixteen hundred richer made their obvious misery and silent accusations quite bearable, though he was glad his Uncle Dennis couldn't see him. What can I say, Unc? Like Dad, I'm Space Command to the core. And with everyone flat broke, he could hardly offer them the chance to get square. So despite the hangdog looks, he was quite comfortable. Even the hum of the inadequately shielded life-support system wasn't bothering him much anymore, except when it warbled up into the fingernails-on-slate range.

"You know, Raeder . . ." Vic began.

You know, it doesn't seem fair, Peter filled in. Well, it wasn't . . . but he'd been using their cards and dice.

"All hands. All hands." Everyone looked up as the ship's PA system carried the captain's singsong Parsi accent, this time with an underlying crackle to it. "Duty stations."

People began moving quickly—into their pressure suits, in case of a hull breach, and to the places they could do most good if the ship came under attack. Not that the Africa had much in the way of armament, just an antimeteor laser and a few short-range missile pods hastily mounted on her exterior, more as a gesture than anything else. Peter decided to take advantage of his Space Command rank and the more informal atmosphere aboard a freighter and headed for the bridge.

It was the standard arrangement, three-quarters of a circle with a liftshaft in the center and display screens at the stations around the rim. He stepped out and noticed that there was an empty crash couch beside Vic, slid into it, and secured the restraints. Nobody seemed to notice; Captain Behtab's slim brown fingers were drumming on the side of her couch as she spoke tersely into the intership communicator.

"We're decelerating," Peter said, surprised. Bad practice; it made a raider's vector-matching job easier. "What's the story?"

"The Province of Quebec is breaking away," Vic said without looking up.

Again? Raeder thought. "Why?" he asked.

"Engine trouble," Vic said shortly.

Oohhhh, the ship. 

"The whole convoy is slowing down," the captain said. "I am not crazy about the idea, but we can not simply allow Quebec to go down the tubes."

No, that's what everybody says, Raeder thought. "Any Transit—" he stopped, embarrassed. Of course there were Transit signatures, here on one of the major jump points out of Sol System. That was the problem; there were so many and they overlapped so much that you couldn't tell anything specific from them. A raider could have slipped through a week ago and be waiting, powered-down. Space was so damned big.

"You could tow her," he suggested. "Africa has enough delta-v to get both ships to critical velocity."

The captain frowned, narrowing her eyes. She was a short slim woman, with a gray streak in her dark hair, black eyes, and skin the color of old ivory.

"I hate the thought of leaving someone out there if pirates strike," she said. "And I can almost feel them getting ready to pounce." She looked at Raeder from the corner of her eyes. "But you know the rules, our escort ship would never allow it."

"Not if we were under attack," Peter agreed. The Space Command corvette accompanying the convoy would definitely want them out of the way in that case. "But I haven't noticed that we are. We aren't, are we?"

Behtab stabbed him with a glare. "Not at the moment," she said icily. "In any case I cannot tow her into Transit."

Peter shook his head. "Different engines, Captain. No reason for their transit capacity to be down."

Behtab frowned. "Drive systems," she said. A new face appeared on the board before her. "What about a tow?"

Ayers' craggy features turned sorrowful, making him look a little like a basset hound in a spacesuit. "Not at these velocities, Captain," he said. "Any mismatch, and we'd rip the grapple field mounts right out through the hull—and I'm not joking. Too many energetic particles out there to do it with sensors, anyway; we need a precision match."

"And that would mean an EVA," Behtab said. She sighed and shook her head. "No," she said at last. "There's no one that I can spare, not in a situation like this when we might be attacked at any moment." Raeder saw her swallow hard. Doubtless she had friends on the Quebec. "I hope Space Command can send that corvette in time," she said. "A tug would be most welcome, too."

Peter took a deep breath. C'mon, he thought impatiently, this is doable, let's not make a big production out of it. Even if the Space Command corvette shepherding this convoy got back to the end of the line in time, it couldn't just hang around waiting for a damn tug. And there were thirty people back there who sure as hell didn't deserve to die so that some murdering thief could have a flashy suit and a hot night on the town. Especially when this was such an easy fix.

"I'll do it," he said. I just heard myself say that and I can't believe I said it, he thought.

He'd already won the Stellar Cross. Never volunteer, never volunteer, echoed through his mind, as if some internal censor had come belatedly online, trying to make up in frantic repetition for its tardy appearance.

On the other hand, for nearly a year he'd been the passive object of other people's poking and prodding and fixing. Fighter pilots liked to do things, to be the actor rather than the acted upon. It was part of the psychological profile that the assignment officers looked for.

That didn't make what he was doing any less insane, but it was some consolation to know that it was in accordance with his own inner nature. He supposed. Besides, dammit, it's the right thing to do. If his uncle were in that ship back there he'd sure as hell want someone to go after him.

The captain was shaking her head. "No, that is impossible. You are a priority package, Commander. I do not want to have to explain to Captain Knott why I let you leave the ship between here and Antares. You may have a death-wish, but I do not."

"What's the big deal?" Raeder pleaded. "All I have to do is steer the cable out to where the sensors aren't interfered with by the ship's realspace exhaust, aim, shoot out the grapple, and ride the cart back into Africa. A monkey could do it if you had one."

"If I had a monkey on board it would already be working at an assignment and be unavailable for this foolishness," Behtab said irritably. "Besides, you can hardly expect me to send anyone out, virtually naked, into raider-infested space. It is too dangerous!"

"Do you see anybody out there?" he challenged.

She looked at him from under her brows. "They are out there, Commander. They have always been there. And until Space Command does something about them, they always will be."

"Then this is the least that I can do, given I'm Space Command." Somehow, Behtab's resistance was making him ever more determined to do this.

The captain stuck her tongue in her cheek and studied him.

"I heard that you were a fighter jock. I see you are determined to prove it. Grapefruit and peas, as they say."

"Yes, ma'am," Raeder said with a winning grin. "Call sign Bad Boy."

"I can well believe it," Behtab murmured sardonically. "So if anything happens to you, I am supposed to tell Captain Knott that I got you killed for the honor of Space Command. That is what you are suggesting?"

"I guarantee that Captain Knott will be able to get behind that concept one hundred percent." Peter half raised himself from his couch and leaned toward her. "But I'm not going to get killed, ma'am. It's a simple mission and there's no reason why it shouldn't go down as smooth as a politician's lies."

The captain chewed her lip, then nodded once, sharply. "Well, Commander, since you are so determined to see if you can break that famous winning streak you have been enjoying—of course I knew of the Dynamics games, it is my ship, is it not?—I will give you the opportunity. Leighton, escort the commander and help him suit up." She turned to Raeder and stuck out her hand. "Good luck," she said, shaking his.

Peter was proud of the fact that he hadn't broken her fingers in the flush of his adrenaline-rush enthusiasm.

The pure gleeful exhilaration of knowing you were going to be up against it, that was something he'd missed nearly as much as his hand, pushing himself to ten-tenths of capacity. Whoa, boy, he thought with amusement. It's a repair cart, not a Speed. Okay, so maybe three-tenths capacity, it was a start.

Behind his back Behtab shot out her lips in a soundless whistle and shook her bruised hand.

The grapple cart was stored in a corner of the echoing, cavernous launch bay. The bay was huge, built to accommodate surface-to-orbit shuttles when the Africa was delivering cargo to worlds without the usual orbital facilities. The harsh floodlighting made it into a blazing cave of light, the white walls streaked by color-coded docking waldos and delivery pipes. The cart itself was a simple all-purpose affair, unenclosed, with handlebars that embraced its control board; he'd seen photographs of ancient motorcycles that resembled it. It had a tiny grapple all its own set like a belly button on the outside of the control column. Behind the column was a seat which bore on its square side a rack of tools and concealed a laser welding unit. Underneath there was a set of six wide magnetic wheels made of a soft plastic for driving across the broad surface of a freighter. A pair of small rockets underneath, aided by tiny attitude adjustment jets in six strategic locations, allowed it to move up, down, or sideways in space.

Along with its other abilities, it was designed to drag a grapple and cable out beyond the fug of energetic particles from the engines to where it could be aimed with an accuracy impossible from the bridge while the ship was still under power. The cable itself was superconductor inside a tough synthetic-matrix sheath, looking like a giant pebble-surfaced garden hose. It didn't hold the tow with its own tensile strength; it was a field guide for the invisible forces that did.

Probably was created for a situation just like this one, Peter thought, pulling his shirt up over his head. The trick now will be to match speed with the Quebec. One of those split-second operations where you wished that, like the navigators, you could plug yourself in and interact directly with the machine. Not that I'll ever be ready for that particular operation, he thought queasily. I love Speeds, but I don't want to think I am one. 

"Could you switch that for left-handed control while I get changed?" he asked Leighton.

"Sure," the crewman said. "I'll get a kit."

Peter slipped out of his pants and felt the material sag from the weight of the money chits in the back pocket. He paused and thought about that. Suddenly it seemed that leaving his winnings behind would be like leaving his luck behind as well. Pure superstition, he chided himself.

He began opening storage lockers at random. "Yeah!" he whispered, and snatched a roll of tape from one of them. He cut off two strips with his pocket knife and made a cross, hoping the stuff wouldn't be affected by the cold. Then he pried at the stack of money chits jammed into his back pocket, jigging them up and down to loosen the firmly packed plastic. C'mon, Peter begged, Leighton's gonna come back any second and I'm gonna look like a jerk. Get outta there, dammit! They gave suddenly and sprayed all over the place. "Oh, thank you," he muttered. "That's much better. Couldn't just give them to Leighton to hold, could ya?" he asked himself in exasperation as he scrambled to pick them up. Finally he got them together and taped them to the steering cart, a little above where his feet would go.

There, Peter thought as he gave the stack a few experimental tugs, that oughta do it. Hope he doesn't notice. Raeder looked dubiously at the rather obvious little package.

He's bound to misunderstand. Hmm. On the one hand, I don't want him to go away imagining that I expected him to steal them, but on the other I don't want him to think I believe in voodoo. He waffled back and forth for a few seconds. Tough. I'll feel better if they're with me. Sort of an eight hundred and fifty credit security blanket. The rest of his winnings were tucked into the locker under his bunk. So you figure one half will call to the other, is that it? he asked himself sarcastically. And a defiantly sullen, little kid part of him answered, Maybe. Wanna make something of it? 

When Leighton returned Peter had just slipped into his skinsuit and was nowhere near finished getting ready.

The crewman blinked, but didn't comment on Peter's tardiness. "Sorry it took so long," Leighton apologized. "We rarely need these left-hander kits and nobody could remember where they were stored."

Leighton started to work on adjusting the control board, and if he saw the big silver X on the control column, he didn't mention it.

Raeder suppressed a grin as he hopped into the lower half of the bulky hardsuit he'd be wearing for the EVA. He'd had a thought.

"Could I borrow your notepad?" he asked.

"Sure," the crewman said, pulling it and a stylus from a pocket.

"I'd like you to give this to the captain," Raeder said, after writing a short note, "if I don't make it back." It authorized Behtab to give his winnings back to the crew. More good luck hoodoo, Raeder? he asked himself, amused by his own actions. Could it hurt? another part of his mind responded. Besides, it was winning that was fun. Keeping all their money would spoil the fun of it.

He handed it back to Leighton, who closed it and nodded.

"You'll be okay, sir," the young crewman said. The words were intended to reassure, but his voice sounded nervous.

Peter held his arms up and Leighton lowered the massive upper half of the hardsuit over his head. Then the crewman triggered the automatic seals that joined the two halves of the suit together. Peter initiated a series of diagnostic tests and a green light flashed in the upper quadrant of his faceplate, where the multifunction display was located. He gave a thumbs-up. Leighton activated the hoist still attached to the hardsuit's upper half, and it aided Peter as he dragged himself and the weighty bulk of it over to the cart.

I hate hardsuits, Peter thought dolefully. Even in zero g they were awkward, but where he was going, right down past the engines, the energy released would eat its way through anything softer.

It was essential, but he still hated the sense of weight and confinement. Besides that, whoever had used this one last ate a lot of garlic.

The crewman helped Raeder settle his fibrosynthetic-clad butt on the cart's tiny seat and clamped him to it. Then they ran a check on the cart's systems, getting greens up and down the line.

Raeder drove it into the airlock, as outsized as the rest of the docking bay, and clamped the cart onto the cable it would tow. Leighton leaned down to check that the connection was solid, knocked on Peter's helmet to let him know it was okay, and left, sealing the hatch behind him. Peter patiently waited for the lock to cycle, watching the lights above the outer hatch change slowly to green. It was silent inside his helmet, but he knew that outside there would be hissing and pinging as the air was pumped out of the chamber. The ambient light faded from white-green to red as the pressure dropped.

His heart was beating a little faster in anticipation. No EVA was ever completely routine, and if there were raiders and they noticed Africa's attempt to aid her sister ship, things could deviate substantially from the norm.

Deviate from the norm. Peter snorted softly. My God, you're a wild man, Raeder, he told himself as the outer hatch opened. Where do you get the guts to make these crazy, baseless prognostications? 

He trundled the little cart out and over the airlock's edge, where it floated free, attached to the ship by the relatively slender but massively strong cable it towed.

When he dropped away from the freighter's synthetic gravity into space, blood flowed to his head as his blood pressure equalized throughout his body; it was a little like being upside down. At first his face felt unpleasantly tight and there was the usual momentary dizziness and fleeting nausea that accompanied the shift to weightlessness. Fortunately another green light flashed on the cart's control board, authorizing him to fire his rockets. Steering gave him something to concentrate on while he adjusted to the moderately disagreeable sensations that came with switching over to zero g.

He also felt a completely delusional sense of cold. The black kiss of space, he called it in the privacy of his own mind. He'd never mentioned it to anyone, because he felt it was appropriate to sense something when you floated free of the safety of your ship into the great void.

Besides, Raeder thought as he steered down Africa's vast, space-scoured side, it isn't smart to have too many personal . . . um, quirks, was the right term, he decided, listed on your record. The brass were known to cut fighter jocks a lot of slack in the eccentricity department, and Peter was aware that there must be an interesting list of them in his psych evaluations. But now I'm a flight engineer, he thought grimly, so I'd better keep that list as short as I can. Keep the "black kiss" stuff to himself.

He took a fractional second to admire the chilly, multicolored grandeur of the stars. Even the very best screen reproduction was not quite like seeing them directly.

It was starkly unusual to eyeball another ship in space; the distances were just too great. There were a few exceptions; taking another ship under tow was one of them. The Province of Quebec was just coming into view as Peter approached Africa's tail. She was a great, black blot against the speckled mass of stars behind her. After a moment, the eye was fooled into seeing her as a hole in the shape of a ship. Then Quebec's amber-and-red running lights slowly became visible and occasional glints of starlight reflected from her surface.

It seemed to Peter that she loomed larger as she drifted; Africa was still decelerating.

Then he was beyond Africa, moving on his own toward the distressed Quebec. The rad counters on his hardsuit's display began to chatter and hiccup as he drifted through the fog of energetic particles kicked out by the lead ship's drive. He listened through the static for the word from Captain Behtab, telling him that Africa and Quebec's speeds were matched. He already had the following ship targeted, making continual instinctive attitude adjustments to keep the grapple aimed at the spot he'd chosen.

So far, so good, he thought. But if this were a vid, someone would be muttering, "It's too quiet," about now. And Peter could feel a growing uneasiness creeping up his spine to boost his brain into hyperawareness. He looked sharply around. Nothing.

Then he saw it.

There was another rare instance when you could expect to see ships in space with the naked eye. When they were coming in for a boarding pass, to lock on to a victim and blow an access through her hull for a strike team to enter and take over. That was virtually impossible in regular warfare—even a crippled warship was too deadly, they either surrendered, or you sank a nuke into them and blew them into dust and gas. But you could punch out the crew compartments on a freighter and then grapple; that was why space hijacking was possible.

The shape he saw was too small to be anything but trouble, too far away to precisely identify. Not that he needed to; it would be as flat as possible, probably wedge-shaped and as black as space. The promised raiders.

Or raider, in this case. There seemed to be only one. Of course, there might be more up front; his POV was limited. The lead ships in the convoy weren't even points of light through his faceplate. But there sure as hell can't be just one. 

"The lone raider," he whispered, amused in spite of himself.

The captain doesn't see him yet, he knew. The ships were designed to avoid detection. That there just happened to be an Eyeball Mark I in the right place at the right time was a wild coincidence. And he didn't want to tell Africa just now, though he should, because he knew they'd be ordered to bolt and leave Quebec to her fate. Merchantmen were supposed to run at the first sign of danger, rather than risk their expensive and hard-to-replace selves. Space Command personnel were paid and tasked to be heroes; the merchanters weren't. And Space Command enforced that opinion with killer fines when they deemed it necessary.

It was a very unpopular policy, hated by both Space Command and the Merchant Marine. But draconian as it was, it was also recognized as necessary. The natural impulse to aid their fellow merchants had caused whole clusters of freighters to enter the raider's maws, never to be heard from again. That was why Space Command had started escorting the convoys, Al had told Raeder. But they could usually only send one escort.

There were two very popular places to jump a freighter. One was at the other end of a Transit point, when the crews were exhausted and edgy from Transit. The other, like now, was when the convoy was entering Transit and someone was lagging behind. Obviously this left the accompanying corvette with the impossible necessity of being in two places at once. And there weren't enough corvettes to give every convoy two, particularly not in a "safe" area like the Sol System Transit points. The problem was that every Transit point was accessible from too many other Transit points; these raiders had probably come in via an uncharted one in an unsettled system.

Even so, the law was clear: the legal duty of every freighter was to deliver its essential supplies. The duty of the Space Command ship accompanying them was to defend them from raiders. And no matter how impossible it seemed for the escort to accomplish this, or how grossly irresponsible it seemed for a freighter to leave a sister ship to the jackals, giving aid, particularly against the direct orders of the escort, could result in a prison term for the captain of the offending ship and a fine so heavy it would financially ruin the entire crew.

So the order to cut the cord, so to speak, didn't reflect the true feelings of Behtab or her crew.

Of course, by keeping quiet I'm risking Africa. And, incidentally, Mrs. Raeder's little boy, sitting out here on my tricyle, just waiting to get fried. 

It seemed to Peter in his anxiety that the Quebec was close enough to hook, and a quick glance at the readings on his console confirmed it. The other ship was within grappling range, barely. Now it was a matter of matching speeds, a finicky operation in untroubled times. But with everyone waiting to get jumped on, which should happen any minute now, it became . . . a little difficult.

"There," he muttered to himself. "I've finally achieved British understatement."

Peter could see the raider more clearly now, and was convinced that the Province of Quebec was its target. Clearly out of power as she was, and at the end of the line, she made the perfect victim. Be just like a civilian to spot that sucker and blurt it out ship to ship. Which would pretty much seal their fate.

If everybody would just keep quiet and concentrate on the rescue, everything should be all right. The captain couldn't agree with him, of course, but in his opinion the two freighters linked together would probably be too big a bite for the raiders, who were, after all, looking for loot, not trouble.

Of course, Peter realized with resignation, it's not just a matter of getting these guys linked, it's keeping them that way that's going to be the tricky part. And the grapple could be released from the bridge. He was only out here to aim it. Hmm. 

Peter hit the release on the bindings that held him to his seat and did a slow somersault over the handlebars of the cart, putting him in front of the grappling mechanism.

Right now it resembled the tightly furled fronds of a dried flowerhead of gigantic proportions. When it was launched it would spread out, extending its superconducting thread in all directions until it could encompass even the massive front end of a starfaring freighter. Just behind the "petals" was the control pod, which directed the mechanism's spread, when to grapple and, more importantly at this moment, when to release.

Peter clipped himself to a ring on the front of the cart, pulled a tool from its housing on the arm of his suit, and opened the casing protecting the pod's delicate inner workings from mishap.

"There," he muttered to himself. "I've now disobeyed orders and violated procedure and the Holy Regulations. If this doesn't work, I'm the goat they'll blame. The dead, roasted goat."

He just couldn't face the prospect of the Province of Quebec being cut loose and left for the raiders, though. We're too close to the Transit point to just sacrifice these people. Besides, it's bad policy. Leaving somebody behind every other time only encourages them. Not that it was a commander's place to buck policy. But hey, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Which, he'd noticed, was Space Command policy as often as not.

The helmet of his hardsuit throbbed slightly for a second, sucking sweat from his brow to prevent it fogging his vision. After a moment's examination he used the tiny end of the tool to scrape off a minuscule section of the larger control board—an extremely difficult maneuver, considering that he was wearing thick gloves and was using his left hand. Now, if he was right, it would deploy, it would grapple, but it wouldn't release. Peter considered the casing and wondered if he should just let it float free. Then he jammed it back on in such a way that it was slightly ajar.

This way it could have been an accident, he thought. Something we didn't notice while we were checking it out. It never hurt to cover the old butt.

More awkwardly than he'd left it, Raeder struggled back to his seat and clamped himself onto it.

He carefully realigned himself with his target, noting that the raider was quite visible by now. At least to him. It was a matte-black triangle, shaped a lot like the paper airplanes he'd made as a kid. From the smooth, almost melted look of it, it was designed to transit atmosphere like a shuttle. At a guess the raiders had a mother ship hanging out there, one that carried them to groundside targets, as well. The pirate fighter's sides had opened out to display a formidable bristle of sensor arrays and antennae, but there was only one visible offensive weapon. To him, the guide coils showing around the lattice at the enemy craft's nose looked like those for a phased plasma cannon in the seven gigawatt range—an escort destroyer's weapon, usually. More than enough to savage a resisting freighter into submission. There was a light defense battery, as well, guided canisters of steel tetrahedrons to be launched in the path of oncoming missiles, and the usual lasers.

"Captain," he said into his suit mike, his voice quite casual. "I'm in position. Shall I fire?"

"We are almost there, Commander," she answered.

Quebec's bulk nearly blotted out the stars now and completely hid the raider stealth that crept up on her. It was, no doubt, taking advantage of the energized particles left in the convoy's wake to hide itself for as long as possible.

As long as his tactics are playing into my hands, Peter thought, more power to him. 

"Fire on my mark, Commander. Mark."

Peter triggered the grapple and it shot off with enough power to shake the cart. He watched it spread impossibly wide, then drop toward Quebec's hull, sensed a jerk as the mechanism took hold, and grinned.

And then he saw the raider, a huge black arrowhead, lift over the back of the Province of Quebec and shoot forward, toward the peopled section of the ship.

Peter watched the stealth hovering above Quebec like a mailed fist. It matched the larger ship's speed with ease, but did nothing else.

By now they're making their demands, Raeder thought. He looked around; this was still the only raider he could see. Contrary to what he'd hoped, Africa's presence wasn't scaring them off at all.

The bulk of them must be up front, he figured. It made sense, cut off the last two ships in line while the front of the line was busy worrying about making the transit to hyperspace. And who knew how far the line was stretched, trying to give Quebec even the semblance of protection.

Peter tried to believe that his actions hadn't influenced this situation at all. It just kinda changed its shape. Which meant he had to do something to tilt the odds in the freighter's favor. Because, as it stands, I've just made things easier for the bastards. 

Raeder started the cart toward Quebec, running down the cable at a nice, slow, unthreatening speed. When he bumped into the cargo ship's blunt nose he killed the rockets, leaned forward, and unclamped the cart from the cable. Then, employing the broad magnetic wheels on its bottom, he guided it up the face of the ship until he was under the wings of the stealth.

Now comes the tricky part, Peter thought, looking up. The raider's broad flat belly blotted out the stars; it looked close enough to touch with his hand. An illusion, unfortunately. It was both bigger and farther away than it looked, hovering there like a carrion bird waiting for its prey to lie down and die.

Raeder aimed the cart's own grapple at it. If I can damage his sensors, then he's out of the fight, he reasoned. He tried to remember if anyone had ever attacked an interstellar warship on the wing, even one this tiny, with hand tools.

He fired and the grapple shot out, hitting its target dead center. Peter started the magwinch and took a tighter grip on the handlebars, trying not to think of what would happen if for any reason the grapple failed. And failing, he'd be thrown off on an unpredictable trajectory, a small blip on screens concerned with more important matters. Would his air give out first, or was the recycler so efficient he'd starve, instead?

Suddenly the stealth's pilot apparently decided that a little fancy flying would be so mind-breakingly intimidating that Quebec would surrender without firing a shot. The raider flung his ship into action, plucking Raeder's cart off the freighter to swing free at the end of his tether. I must look like the universe's most ambitious frog trying to subdue the Mother of All Flies. 

Unfortunately, grapple carts didn't extend to inertial compensation fields; neither did hardsuits. Savage acceleration and Coriolis force twisted at Peter's inner ear, and he concentrated fiercely on not letting the nausea overcome him. The consequences of tossing your cookies in a hardsuit helmet didn't even bear thinking about. Hard, bright stars pinwheeled in crazy arcs across his vision, and he held onto the handlebars for dear life. Hard edges gouged at his flesh.

The raider was a good pilot with an impressive array of dangerous moves. Peter was glad more than once that he was securely attached to the cart's seat. Twice he completely lost his grip on the handlebars and was

flung backwards, legs flailing, helpless to heave himself upright until the stealth did something that inadvertently aided him.

If that winch were working any slower, he thought, gritting his teeth, it'd be going backwards. And speaking of going backwards, he wished he were safely back on the surface of Quebec's nose. My whole life depends, literally, on that measly cable and a powerful, but awfully small, magnet. Sweat slicked his face and his breath came fast; the suit adjusted its internal temperature until it was damned cold and still he perspired.

At last the winch rang the cable against its stops. Peter used the attitude adjustment jets to bring the cart's magnetic wheels into contact with the stealth's black surface. He experienced a strong but fleeting desire to get down on his knees and kiss it.

Then, with a last elegant fillip, the stealth returned to its station over the Province of Quebec. 

Peter slumped forward, wheezing in relief. Time to give himself a way back home if this stunt worked. He aimed the grapple at Quebec and fired. Raeder didn't even check to see if he'd hit his target. If I can't hit something the size of New York, I'd better just go home and sell lemonade for a living. He knew that leaving the contact disk powered would drain the cart's batteries. He checked the gauge and found that he'd already expended more than half their available energy. But it was his safety line; even if everything went well, the last thing he'd want to do is go home with these pirates.

Wish I knew what was happening up front, he thought. He knew that by now, if Africa was going to try to cut Quebec loose they would have. For good or ill, that option was out. If he'd failed to eliminate that possibility, she'd already be falling behind, left like someone thrown out of a sled to satiate a pack of wolves. And the stealths up forward would be winging their way toward her.

He was tempted to call the captain, but then the raider would know he had a rider. A rider named Raeder. Better do what I came here for. 

Now, how could an unarmed utility cart harm an armed, stealthed raiding ship? Peter grinned like a wolf and yanked a hammer from the tool rack on the side of the cart. Some inventions were made only once and never needed to be improved upon: chairs in ancient Egypt, and hammers in the Stone Age. He drove toward a sensor array. It was an intimidating complex of hair-fine antennae and multiphased flat-panel sensors. Now, how to put this out of action? No doubt there was some subtle adjustment. On the other hand, subtlety bought no yams, and he was in a hurry. He whacked at the array in passing, like some mechanized polo player.

To hit something in zero gravity, you had to be securely fastened. Peter was; his first blow jerked him back against the restraints of the cart and sent delicate components pinwheeling away into space, glittering like fragments of mirror as they flew. It was soundless in the vacuum, but he could feel the vibrations through his arm and shoulder and the seat of his pants. It also nearly tore the handle from his hand. He shifted it to his right, working the left to get the stinging numbness out of it. The second try jarred up his elbow into his shoulder, but the array crunched and shattered beautifully.

Whacking the hell out of it may not be subtle, but there's a certain primitive satisfaction to it. Most of it crumbled easily, but the antenna was stubborn and merely bent. He looked to his tool rack. Ah! Metal shears. Peter reached out and snipped it off. "And how did you defeat this raider, Commander?" he muttered. "Well, sir, I pruned it," Raeder said with a wild grin.

Inside the stealth, the alarmed raider pilot watched his sensor screens go dark, one by one. Attack virus! he thought, and imagined himself out here in the middle of nowhere, blind and helpless. He ran a diagnostic check. Five of his arrays were down now. Severe external damage, the computer said. A new weapon, he thought. A sixth screen went dark and he licked his lips. Whatever it was, he wasn't sitting here like a fool while it finished its work. There were easier pickings out there somewhere. You didn't become a pirate to be a hero; fools with those inclinations were in the Space Command.

"I'm pulling out," he said to his fellow raiders, covering himself. "They've got some kinda weapon down here that's wrecking my sensors."

The raider's sudden acceleration tore the magnetic wheels loose with a wrench that battered Peter against the restraints and the padded inner surface of his hardsuit. Ouch! he thought. Bruises upon bruises. The hammer he'd been using tumbled free on a trajectory that would leave it in interstellar space for the next few billion years, joining the battered remnants of the pirate's exterior sensor systems. As the grapple slowly reeled him in to the welcoming surface of Quebec, four more stealths came arrowing toward him, close enough for visual contact. For a heart-stopping moment, Peter was sure the leader was going to catch him right in the chest. But they swept by, well overhead.

He turned to watch them go. Pinpoint flashes of light marked their departure; the Space Command corvette that was the convoy's only escort had finally caught up and was letting them have it with particle beams and . . .

Something blew up with a white flash that triggered the protective layers in his faceplate. They went dark, leaving only a ghostly image of an expanding globe of light. One of the pirate craft had had its fuel core containment vessel destabilized . . . which meant that it was now a cloud of subatomic particles expanding slightly slower than light.

Peter let out an exuberant cheer and waved a fist in triumph. "Ee equals em cee squared!" he shouted. "Take that, you murdering bastards!" You could feel an occasional stab of professional sympathy for a Mollie—hell, they were brainwashed from birth—but not for these jackals hanging around the edges of the war and snapping up defenseless scraps. This time the meal had bitten back.

He was still chuckling when the cart touched down on Africa's surface. The gentle bump sobered him, reminding him that there might very well be music to face for what he had done. And I'll have to make sure that Behtab and her people don't have to pay the piper. 

He wondered how he'd be received back on Africa. That Captain Behtab looked like a tough lady. And smart, too. He had no doubt she knew in her bones that he was responsible for the equipment failure that had kept them linked to the Province of Quebec. But I suspect, since everything turned out okay, that she'll be pleased. Not that the captain could ever say so.

He figured that, like Space Command, the Merchant Marine had two categories: if you violated orders and lost, you were an insubordinate goat and you got canned. If you violated orders and won, you were a hero who'd displayed the initiative that was expected of all personnel. He shrugged. Well, done is done; better get it over with. 

Peter started the cart wheeling over the scored hull plates of the huge freighter, swerving around surface attachments and the unfired missile pods still clamped to the hull. Perhaps he could convince everyone that it was a series of highly improbable accidents. . . .

Behtab was waiting for him, arms crossed, one hand thoughtfully stroking her chin.

"It's a little odd that we couldn't disengage the grapple," she said in a dangerously quiet voice.

"Well, ah, there must have been a malfunction," Peter said. "Wartime . . . everyone overworked . . . drop-off in maintenance standards, it's unavoidable, really—everything worked out for the best—"

The captain stood there, her eyes glittering strangely, while with one hand she seemed, literally, to be pulling down the corners of her mouth.

"We were ordered to release the grapple by Commander Hall," she said. "He was not pleased that we did not comply." She pursed her lips and slowly lowered her hand. "You know the penalties we might face, Commander?"

"But it was an equipment malfunction," Raeder insisted. "As I'm sure your investigation will show. Even Space Command at its worst would never penalize you for an acciden—"

"Not another word, Raeder," she said. "And you—" she snapped at the crew "—take that thing apart and inspect every piece of it."

You missed your calling, ma'am, Peter thought. You'd have made a brilliant actor. 

The cart was coming apart as he watched, that was when he saw that the X of tape was gone, and with it the eight hundred and fifty in money cards. Floating out there in space, he realized mournfully. Not even doing the damned raiders any good. More money than he'd ever had in his life and he hadn't gotten to buy so much as a pack of gum with it. I wonder, he thought dazedly, if the crew would be happier knowing that. Nah. They'd probably want to throw him out after them.

Oh, well. It was fun being rich, even temporarily. And what am I complaining about? I've still got half left. Glee bubbled up in him again. Dammit, that stunt was worth eight hundred. And fifty. 

The disassembly of the cart continued. Captain Behtab waited with her arms crossed and her face like something carved out of smooth, hard olive wood, but her dark eyes were dancing.

"I'll, ah, get out of your way—" Peter said, sidling away.

Damn, he thought. Behtab had been getting friendly before this happened. Now everything would have to be Extremely Official.

Nobody spoke as Raeder slipped into his bunk and closed the curtains, wincing at the touch of cloth on fresh bruises and scrapes, only now fully aware of them. Someone had left a jar of topical-anesthetic contusion ointment on the covers, though, which was a nice gesture. The hammering he'd taken was getting more and more painful, stiffening him into one giant ache. You didn't notice things like that while they were happening, only afterward. He'd been concentrating, his mind full of the job—apart from that, only a certain . . . exhilaration. Now his stomach clenched and went sour, making him glad that ulcers were a thing of the past, certain that he was about to be brought up on charges despite the way things had turned out.

It's hard to have done something heroic and not be able to point it out for fear that by doing so you'll clue everybody else that your heroism put them in danger of total financial ruin. 

The problem was that he was still a fighter pilot down deep, where it counted. Show him an opponent and the reaction was hard-wired, like a tortoise and a piece of lettuce. "Go for it," he muttered, and sighed. Well, no sense lying here tense and lonely.

"Hey," he said, knocking on the bunk above him, "wanna play cards or something?"

"I don't have any money," Vic snarled

"You don't need money to play cards," Peter said. Silence. Ah, a thought! "I don't have any money, either."

More silence. A very pregnant silence, building toward a threatening crescendo. Two pairs of feet hit the deck and Peter yanked his curtain aside.

"I taped the cards onto the cart and when I got back they were gone."

Jack Ayers' face was puzzled, as though Peter were speaking a language he barely understood. Vic's face was horrified, building to outrage.

"You took all that money outside?" he asked incredulously. "You took it with you? How could you do something that stupid?"

Jack started to chuckle, then to laugh. Pretty soon he had to stagger to the empty lower bunk and sit down. Tears ran down his red face and he couldn't seem to stop. He pointed at Peter and tried to speak, only to flop onto his back, feet kicking the air. Peter and Vic had looked at each other, completely in tune for the first time in their acquaintance.

"It's not funny," they barked in unison, and then glared at each other.

Jack had been slowing down for want of breath, but that set him off again. Finally he slowed down, with little hoots and chuckles and groans. He sat up and wiped his eyes.

Shaking his head he said, "Y'know, if I were a superstitious man, I'd say that's what saved us."

"What?" Vic demanded with a scowl.

Peter just shook his head and smiled.

"Like a sacrifice," Jack explained. "You know, propitiating the gods?"

"What gods?" Vic shouted. "You're weird, Jack! Gods! Jeez, sometimes you scare the hell out of me. Oh, Jeez, you know how much beer sixteen hundred could buy? Ahhhrg!" he began to thump his head gently against the side of the compartment wall.

Peter started to chuckle.

"Don't start me up again," Jack begged.

But Peter couldn't help himself and when he started to laugh, the Drive Systems chief held out as long as he could and then joined in. Vic looked from one to the other in disgust.

"I'm outta here," he snarled. "You guys are weird."

Peter just waved at his stiff back, too choked with laughter to speak. I guess I saved this ship one way or another, he thought. But I could've saved myself a world of trouble if I'd realized all it took was a pagan sacrifice. 

They'd entered Transit space by the time the cart had been thoroughly inspected and the report on the engineer's findings had been equally thoroughly scrutinized by the captain, and, no doubt, by Commander Hall.

"Raeder, report to the day watch cubby."

The announcement was less formal than it would have been on a Space Command ship, but just as abrupt. He wormed his way through the cramped corridors and accessways of Africa, a utilitarian maze of narrow metal passageways half-filled with cable housings and pipes. The cubby was the office used by the officer of the day; this morning, ship's time, it was the captain. She was sitting behind the battered desk that three-quarters filled the narrow room, and like just about everyone else looked green around the gills. Transit made most people nauseated, and she and the rest of the crew were involuntarily fasting. An exploded hologram of the cart was revolving slowly above the desk, and she glared at it as if it were the source of her queasy stomach.

No wonder they're all so thin, Peter thought. The captain and crew of Africa had been through Transit after Transit without a break. Probably laws were being broken and safety regulations ignored entirely to keep supplies moving. And for me, the downside of this is that I don't think she's in a good mood. Her mood would be worse, Raeder knew, if she was aware that he could settle his stomach during Transit by eating. Sometimes he even gained weight.

"The inspection proved inconclusive," Behtab said, her black eyes boring into his hazel ones. "And Commander Hall wanted to speak to you about it." She tapped a key and the holograph of the cart was replaced by one of the escort ship's commander.

Peter put on his best innocent expression and saluted gravely. He didn't quite stand at attention—they were equal in rank, after all—but he did stand at parade rest.

"Commander Raeder," Hall said gravely. "I have some questions for you. You were outside of Africa for quite some time, I understand. Would you care to tell me if anything unusual occurred?"

"Unusual, Commander?" Raeder asked, looking puzzled.

"Anything unusual about the cart, for example?"

"What exactly are you looking for, Commander? The cart performed up to spec. Even above that at times." Especially that tiny magnet when I was swinging around on the end of my tether. I'm buying stock in the company that makes those babies. 

Hall's mouth worked as if he'd bitten into a lemon.

"I was told, Commander, that Captain Behtab could not disengage the grapple once it had deployed," he said sharply.

"But why would you order them to disengage it?" Peter asked, horrified. "That would have left Quebec at the raider's mercy." Behtab covered her mouth quickly and lowered her brows, but Raeder could see a dimple on her cheek. "Surely you don't expect me to believe that you would leave those people to die?"

Peter stared him down, look for look, and the commander, biting his lip, lowered his eyes first.

"There was never a question of that," Hall said glumly. He looked up again. "We were on our way back to the Quebec, and we'd have stayed with her until her engines were up. Nobody asks us to like our orders, Commander Raeder. They only ask us to follow them."

Peter wondered. Too many people had been left behind in similar situations for him not to be suspicious. I think we've all gotten into some bad habits here, he thought. One ship lost and it's, gee, too bad, but it happens. But two ships, Commander Hall . . . Tsk, tsk. That wouldn't look too good on the old record, now would it? 

"If you freighter captains would take a little more of the responsibility for defending yourselves," Hall lashed out, "these situations wouldn't arise."

"We are barely armed," the captain said carefully. "And a freighter is not as maneuverable as a corvette." Behtab glared at Hall's image. "We were lucky this time."

Peter nodded. "Yes," he agreed. "You were."

Hall tapped his fingers on his desk, tightened his mouth and glared. But only for a moment, then he let out his breath in a rush.

"Yes," he said. "You were lucky. I'm inclined to agree that this was just a fortuitous chain of events leading to a satisfactory conclusion." He smiled, very briefly. "Would that accidents always ended so happily. Good day to you, Captain, Commander." And he was gone.

"You are dismissed," Behtab informed him. "With my thanks." The dimple in her pale cheeks was the only clue to her feelings; it looked very much as if she was trying to suppress a grin and not entirely succeeding. "Try to stay out of trouble."

Peter stood and saluted her, trying to convey the respect he felt for Behtab and her crew. The captain was tired; they were all tired, with no end to their labor in sight. One day she might be at the end of the line and her luck might run out.

"I'll write a report on this, Captain," he promised. "It may not do anything by itself, but if the brass hear about this from enough sources it might wake them up."

She smiled slightly at that and extended her left hand. He took it and was surprised by the strength of her grip and pleased that she'd remembered which hand to use.

"I'd appreciate it, Commander. I'm inclined to think that every little bit of goodwill helps."

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