at home here. These ships can run on full automatic—the Strines use the best microcircuits that Cap City can provide. The only reason for a crew at all is probably to keep an eye on you. Take a good look round, would you? It's too long since I've seen this part of the world."
Mike dutifully took a tour of the deck, looking out now and again across the dark swells of the open sea. He did it slowly, waiting for Lester's acknowledgment at each stage before moving on. The ship was traveling at high speed. Orklan was already out of sight behind them.
"Ah! Smell that air!" The Mentor's voice was an ecstatic whisper. "Take a good sniff for me, boyo. There's nothing like that anywhere else in the world. Dust and euclypts and mulgas. That west wind comes here right out of the middle of the Strine mainland; after it passes over Orklan it won't hit land again until the Greaserland coast—seven thousand miles of open sea!"
Mike looked around and felt far from ecstatic. They were well out of sight of land, heading across endless gray water. The brisk wind in his face was blowing the surface of the sea into long, sullen swells, and the ship was plunging straight into them. The black metal deck had begun to pitch and roll in an alarming way. Spray from the bows was blowing back to wet his face.
Suddenly Mike had the feeling that they were cutting through dark hills of thick oil, the rendered fat of some primitive and gigantic beast. He could taste it on his lips. He held tight to a deck derrick, and wondered why the Medlab had bothered to give him a seasickness shot that didn't work.
"Three days before we reach BigSyd. Is it going to be like this all the way?"
"Like this? Nah." Lester giggled in his ear. "This is a flat calm. We're in the Roaring Forties, where the winds blow right around the world and hardly see land. When we're farther out, we might get a real blow. Cheer up, boyo, you'll be all right once you get your sea legs. You'll be up and looking for trouble. Your problem is, you don't have enough to do, so you stand around and think about your innards. Why don't you go forward and look for the skipper? I've been wondering if I might know him from other trips."
Mike stared around him, belched queasily, and shook his head. Lover-boy Lester might be right, and his conditioning would no doubt eventually take over. But there was no sign of it yet. He clutched his midriff, lurched down a dimly lit companionway to his quarters, and felt his way to a bunk.
"Here, what are you doing? You're not supposed to goof off before you even start."
Mike lay down and tongued the control that cut Lester out of contact. He had been told to do that only when he slept, but the hell with it. The Mentor was more than he could take at the moment. Mike closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his mission. He had been briefed often enough about what he ought to do when he reached the Strine mainland, but no one had thought it worthwhile to mention how sick he was going to feel before he even got there. What else had they not bothered to tell him? And how many little surprises did the Traders deliberately put in their final test for admission? And whose idea was it to inflict Lover-boy Lester on him as his Mentor? And as for that damned clumsy recording disk . . .
Mike allowed himself five minutes of silent general misery— Rule 39: Don't be ashamed of self-pity; it is the only sort you are likely to get —then he forced his mind back to the present situation.
The mission. If he kept his mind on the mission, he wouldn't have time to think about being sick. He would lay out the bare facts and see if anything new came to mind. Think positive, he told himself. We've passed Orklan and are on our way.
Mission profile. It had sounded simple enough; but then, almost everything did, when Lyle Connery explained it. Three months ago, a Strine bigmomma had died of a sex-drug overdose in Ree-o-dee. All the expensive hotel rooms in the Unified Empire
Mike dutifully took a tour of the deck, looking out now and again across the dark swells of the open sea. He did it slowly, waiting for Lester's acknowledgment at each stage before moving on. The ship was traveling at high speed. Orklan was already out of sight behind them.
"Ah! Smell that air!" The Mentor's voice was an ecstatic whisper. "Take a good sniff for me, boyo. There's nothing like that anywhere else in the world. Dust and euclypts and mulgas. That west wind comes here right out of the middle of the Strine mainland; after it passes over Orklan it won't hit land again until the Greaserland coast—seven thousand miles of open sea!"
Mike looked around and felt far from ecstatic. They were well out of sight of land, heading across endless gray water. The brisk wind in his face was blowing the surface of the sea into long, sullen swells, and the ship was plunging straight into them. The black metal deck had begun to pitch and roll in an alarming way. Spray from the bows was blowing back to wet his face.
Suddenly Mike had the feeling that they were cutting through dark hills of thick oil, the rendered fat of some primitive and gigantic beast. He could taste it on his lips. He held tight to a deck derrick, and wondered why the Medlab had bothered to give him a seasickness shot that didn't work.
"Three days before we reach BigSyd. Is it going to be like this all the way?"
"Like this? Nah." Lester giggled in his ear. "This is a flat calm. We're in the Roaring Forties, where the winds blow right around the world and hardly see land. When we're farther out, we might get a real blow. Cheer up, boyo, you'll be all right once you get your sea legs. You'll be up and looking for trouble. Your problem is, you don't have enough to do, so you stand around and think about your innards. Why don't you go forward and look for the skipper? I've been wondering if I might know him from other trips."
Mike stared around him, belched queasily, and shook his head. Lover-boy Lester might be right, and his conditioning would no doubt eventually take over. But there was no sign of it yet. He clutched his midriff, lurched down a dimly lit companionway to his quarters, and felt his way to a bunk.
"Here, what are you doing? You're not supposed to goof off before you even start."
Mike lay down and tongued the control that cut Lester out of contact. He had been told to do that only when he slept, but the hell with it. The Mentor was more than he could take at the moment. Mike closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his mission. He had been briefed often enough about what he ought to do when he reached the Strine mainland, but no one had thought it worthwhile to mention how sick he was going to feel before he even got there. What else had they not bothered to tell him? And how many little surprises did the Traders deliberately put in their final test for admission? And whose idea was it to inflict Lover-boy Lester on him as his Mentor? And as for that damned clumsy recording disk . . .
Mike allowed himself five minutes of silent general misery— Rule 39: Don't be ashamed of self-pity; it is the only sort you are likely to get —then he forced his mind back to the present situation.
The mission. If he kept his mind on the mission, he wouldn't have time to think about being sick. He would lay out the bare facts and see if anything new came to mind. Think positive, he told himself. We've passed Orklan and are on our way.
Mission profile. It had sounded simple enough; but then, almost everything did, when Lyle Connery explained it. Three months ago, a Strine bigmomma had died of a sex-drug overdose in Ree-o-dee. All the expensive hotel rooms in the Unified Empire
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