Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One by Jack Vance Page B
Authors: Jack Vance
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toward him—bright wonderful face, onyx, pale rose, ivory, smiling hot with life…She reached past him, thrust the check valve. Four jets thrashed forward. The barge jerked. The pilot fell into the instrument panel, comical surprise written on his face.
From behind came a heavy resonant thump.
The pilot pulled himself back into his seat, knocked back the check valve. Blood oozed from his chin, forming a little red wen. Behind them the portal snapped open. Webbard’s face, black with rage, looked through.
When he had finally finished, and the portal had closed, the pilot looked at Jean, who was sitting quietly in her seat, the corners of her mouth drawn up dreamily.
He said from deep in his throat, “If I had you alone, I’d beat you half to death.”
Jean drew her knees up under her chin, clasped her arms around, looked silently ahead.
Abercrombie Station had been built to the Fitch cylinder-design: a power and service core, a series of circular decks, a transparent sheath. To the original construction a number of modifications and annexes had been added. An outside deck circled the cylinder, sheet steel to hold the magnetic grapples of small boats, cargo binds, magnetic shoes, anything which was to be fixed in place for a greater or lesser time. At each end of the cylinder, tubes connected to dependent constructions. The first, a sphere, was the private residence of the Abercrombies. The second, a cylinder, rotated at sufficient speed to press the water it contained evenly over its inner surface to a depth of ten feet; this was the station swimming pool, a feature found on only three of the resort satellites.
The supply barge inched close to the deck, bumped. Four men attached constrictor tackle to rings in the hull, heaved the barge along to the supply port. The barge settled into its socket, grapples shot home, the ports sucked open.
Chief Steward Webbard was still smouldering, but now a display of anger was beneath his dignity. Disdaining magnetic shoes, he pulled himself to the entrance, motioned to Jean. “Bring your baggage.”
Jean went to her neat little trunk, jerked it into the air, found herself floundering helpless in the middle of the cargo space. Webbard impatiently returned with magnetic clips for her shoes, and helped her float the trunk into the station.
She was breathing different, rich, air. The barge had smelled of ozone, grease, hemp sacking, but the station…Without consciously trying to identify the odor, Jean thought of waffles with butter and syrup mixed with talcum powder.
Webbard floated in front of her, an imposing spectacle. His fat no longer hung on him in folds; it ballooned out in an even perimeter. His face was smooth as a watermelon, and it seemed as if his features were incised, carved, rather than molded. He focused his eyes at a point above her dark head. “We had better come to an understanding, young lady.”
“Certainly, Mr. Webbard.”
“As a favor to my friend, Mr. Fotheringay, I have brought you here to work. Beyond this original and singular act, I am no longer responsible. I am not your sponsor. Mr. Fotheringay recommended you highly, so see that you give satisfaction. Your immediate superior will be Mrs. Blaiskell, and you must obey her implicitly. We have very strict rules here at Abercrombie—fair treatment and good pay—but you must earn it. Your work must speak for itself, and you can expect no special favors.” He coughed. “Indeed, if I may say so, you are fortunate in finding employment here; usually we hire people more of our own sort, it makes for harmonious conditions.”
Jean waited with demurely bowed head. Webbard spoke on. Jean nodded dutifully. There was no point antagonizing pompous old Webbard. And Webbard thought that here was a respectful young lady, thin and very young and with a peculiar frenetic gleam in her eye, but sufficiently impressed by his importance…Good coloring too. Pleasant features. If she only could manage
From behind came a heavy resonant thump.
The pilot pulled himself back into his seat, knocked back the check valve. Blood oozed from his chin, forming a little red wen. Behind them the portal snapped open. Webbard’s face, black with rage, looked through.
When he had finally finished, and the portal had closed, the pilot looked at Jean, who was sitting quietly in her seat, the corners of her mouth drawn up dreamily.
He said from deep in his throat, “If I had you alone, I’d beat you half to death.”
Jean drew her knees up under her chin, clasped her arms around, looked silently ahead.
Abercrombie Station had been built to the Fitch cylinder-design: a power and service core, a series of circular decks, a transparent sheath. To the original construction a number of modifications and annexes had been added. An outside deck circled the cylinder, sheet steel to hold the magnetic grapples of small boats, cargo binds, magnetic shoes, anything which was to be fixed in place for a greater or lesser time. At each end of the cylinder, tubes connected to dependent constructions. The first, a sphere, was the private residence of the Abercrombies. The second, a cylinder, rotated at sufficient speed to press the water it contained evenly over its inner surface to a depth of ten feet; this was the station swimming pool, a feature found on only three of the resort satellites.
The supply barge inched close to the deck, bumped. Four men attached constrictor tackle to rings in the hull, heaved the barge along to the supply port. The barge settled into its socket, grapples shot home, the ports sucked open.
Chief Steward Webbard was still smouldering, but now a display of anger was beneath his dignity. Disdaining magnetic shoes, he pulled himself to the entrance, motioned to Jean. “Bring your baggage.”
Jean went to her neat little trunk, jerked it into the air, found herself floundering helpless in the middle of the cargo space. Webbard impatiently returned with magnetic clips for her shoes, and helped her float the trunk into the station.
She was breathing different, rich, air. The barge had smelled of ozone, grease, hemp sacking, but the station…Without consciously trying to identify the odor, Jean thought of waffles with butter and syrup mixed with talcum powder.
Webbard floated in front of her, an imposing spectacle. His fat no longer hung on him in folds; it ballooned out in an even perimeter. His face was smooth as a watermelon, and it seemed as if his features were incised, carved, rather than molded. He focused his eyes at a point above her dark head. “We had better come to an understanding, young lady.”
“Certainly, Mr. Webbard.”
“As a favor to my friend, Mr. Fotheringay, I have brought you here to work. Beyond this original and singular act, I am no longer responsible. I am not your sponsor. Mr. Fotheringay recommended you highly, so see that you give satisfaction. Your immediate superior will be Mrs. Blaiskell, and you must obey her implicitly. We have very strict rules here at Abercrombie—fair treatment and good pay—but you must earn it. Your work must speak for itself, and you can expect no special favors.” He coughed. “Indeed, if I may say so, you are fortunate in finding employment here; usually we hire people more of our own sort, it makes for harmonious conditions.”
Jean waited with demurely bowed head. Webbard spoke on. Jean nodded dutifully. There was no point antagonizing pompous old Webbard. And Webbard thought that here was a respectful young lady, thin and very young and with a peculiar frenetic gleam in her eye, but sufficiently impressed by his importance…Good coloring too. Pleasant features. If she only could manage
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