miserable state, the retreat which lives on the other side of hysteria. He was riding a habit pattern of sleep and dream, wake and stare; hear the buzzer, lurch at the screen, get the disappointment, slap the reject button, and go on. He actually rejected the other lifeboat twice before he realized it, but his craft began to circle it and the strong fix made it impossible for the buzzer to be silent. He switched it off at last and hovered, staring dully at the tiny bronze ball below, and pulling himself back to reality.
He landed. The craziest thing of all about this crazy place was that the atmosphere at ground level was Earth normal, though a bit warm for real comfort. He buttoned the canopy and climbed stiffly out.
There was no sign of Donald Rockhard.
He walked over to the other boat and stooped to look in. The canopy was closed but not locked. He opened it and leaned inside. There were only three course-coins in the rack, Earth and Bootes II and Cabrini in Beta Centauri. He fumbled behind the rack and his fingers found a flat packet. He opened it.
It contained a fortune—a real fortune in large notes. And a card. And a course-coin.
The card was of indestructible hellenite, and bore the famous symbol of the surgeons of Grebd, and in hand script, by some means penetrating all the way through the impenetrable plastic, like ink through a paper towel, the legend:
Class A. Paid in full. Accept bearer without interrogation
. It was signed by an authoritative squiggle and over-stamped with the well-known pattern of the Grebdan Surgical Society.
The coin was, of course, to Grebd.
Deeming clutched the treasure into his lap and bent over it, hugging it, and then laughed until he cried—which he did almost immediately.
To Grebd, for a new face, a new mind if he wanted it—a tail, wings, who cares? The sky’s the limit.
(The sky—your sky—has always been the limit.)
And then, new face and all, with that packet of loot, to any place in the cosmos that I think is good enough for me.
“Hey! Who are you? What do you think you’re doing? Get out of my boat! And drop those things!”
Deeming did not turn. He put up his hands and stopped his ears like a little child in the birdhouse at the zoo.
“Out, I said!”
Deeming lifted the treasure in shaking hands, rumpling and spilling it. “Out!” barked the voice, and out he came, not attempting to pick anything up. He turned tiredly with his hands raised somewhat less than shoulder height, as if they were much, much too heavy for him.
He faced a hollow-cheeked, weather-beaten young man with the wide-set frosty eyes of Richard Rockhard. At his feet a cloth sacklay where he had dropped it on seeing someone in his boat. In his hand, steady as an I-beam, rested a sonic disrupter aimed at Deeming’s midsection.
Deeming said, “Donald Rockhard.”
Rockhard said, “So?”
Deeming put down his hands, and croaked, “I’ve come to paint your belly blue.”
Rockhard was absolutely motionless for a long moment, and then as if they were operated from the same string, his gun arm slowly lowered while slowly his smile spread. “Well, damn me up and back!” he said. “Father sent you!”
“Man,” said Deeming exhaustedly, “I’m sure glad you ask questions first and shoot later.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t’ve shot you, whoever you were. I’m so glad to see another face that I … Who are you, anyway?”
Deeming told him his name. “Your father found out that when a boat like yours busts through the Angel’s death-field, it turns it inside out. Or some such. Anyway, if you’d coined out of here you never would have come down anywhere.”
Donald Rockhard looked up into the mad sky, paling. “You don’t say.” He wet his lips and laughed nervously. It was not a funny sound. “And now that you’ve come to tell me, how do you get out?”
“Don’t look at me like no hero,” said Deeming with the shade of a grin. “It’s only a matter of plugging in a new
He landed. The craziest thing of all about this crazy place was that the atmosphere at ground level was Earth normal, though a bit warm for real comfort. He buttoned the canopy and climbed stiffly out.
There was no sign of Donald Rockhard.
He walked over to the other boat and stooped to look in. The canopy was closed but not locked. He opened it and leaned inside. There were only three course-coins in the rack, Earth and Bootes II and Cabrini in Beta Centauri. He fumbled behind the rack and his fingers found a flat packet. He opened it.
It contained a fortune—a real fortune in large notes. And a card. And a course-coin.
The card was of indestructible hellenite, and bore the famous symbol of the surgeons of Grebd, and in hand script, by some means penetrating all the way through the impenetrable plastic, like ink through a paper towel, the legend:
Class A. Paid in full. Accept bearer without interrogation
. It was signed by an authoritative squiggle and over-stamped with the well-known pattern of the Grebdan Surgical Society.
The coin was, of course, to Grebd.
Deeming clutched the treasure into his lap and bent over it, hugging it, and then laughed until he cried—which he did almost immediately.
To Grebd, for a new face, a new mind if he wanted it—a tail, wings, who cares? The sky’s the limit.
(The sky—your sky—has always been the limit.)
And then, new face and all, with that packet of loot, to any place in the cosmos that I think is good enough for me.
“Hey! Who are you? What do you think you’re doing? Get out of my boat! And drop those things!”
Deeming did not turn. He put up his hands and stopped his ears like a little child in the birdhouse at the zoo.
“Out, I said!”
Deeming lifted the treasure in shaking hands, rumpling and spilling it. “Out!” barked the voice, and out he came, not attempting to pick anything up. He turned tiredly with his hands raised somewhat less than shoulder height, as if they were much, much too heavy for him.
He faced a hollow-cheeked, weather-beaten young man with the wide-set frosty eyes of Richard Rockhard. At his feet a cloth sacklay where he had dropped it on seeing someone in his boat. In his hand, steady as an I-beam, rested a sonic disrupter aimed at Deeming’s midsection.
Deeming said, “Donald Rockhard.”
Rockhard said, “So?”
Deeming put down his hands, and croaked, “I’ve come to paint your belly blue.”
Rockhard was absolutely motionless for a long moment, and then as if they were operated from the same string, his gun arm slowly lowered while slowly his smile spread. “Well, damn me up and back!” he said. “Father sent you!”
“Man,” said Deeming exhaustedly, “I’m sure glad you ask questions first and shoot later.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t’ve shot you, whoever you were. I’m so glad to see another face that I … Who are you, anyway?”
Deeming told him his name. “Your father found out that when a boat like yours busts through the Angel’s death-field, it turns it inside out. Or some such. Anyway, if you’d coined out of here you never would have come down anywhere.”
Donald Rockhard looked up into the mad sky, paling. “You don’t say.” He wet his lips and laughed nervously. It was not a funny sound. “And now that you’ve come to tell me, how do you get out?”
“Don’t look at me like no hero,” said Deeming with the shade of a grin. “It’s only a matter of plugging in a new
Similar Books
