Escape Velocity

9

Out near the asteroid belt, on the Jupiter side, the solar system’s tapestry of gravity begins to thin out just enough for a ship to emerge from H-space. It’s not the safest thing to do, of course; there is a respectable chance of Jupiter’s gravity fouling the isomorpher enough to make the ship twist into that other realm where ships that nearly made it back out go to. Still, probability favors success; so, if you’re in a hurry, you might try it.

Dar and Sam were in a hurry, so Lona tried it.

Deceleration slammed Dar against his webbing. It was killing pressure, but it slowly eased off—very slowly; it took the ship’s internal field a while to win over momentum. When he could sit back and talk again, he did. “I—I take it we made it?”

“We’re in one piece.” Lona sounded offended as she scanned her damage readout. “Not even a split seam.”

“Didn’t mean to question your ability,” Dar said quickly. “It’s just—well, it was a little risky.”

Lona snorted.

“Not for my niece.” Whitey leaned forward and tapped the autobar for Rhysling. “The only kind of machine Lona doesn’t understand is a hammer—it doesn’t have any moving parts, let alone circuits. Anyone join me?”

Red light exploded off the walls and ceiling. Lona’s hands flew over her board. “That was a cannon bolt! Chug that drink and hold on!”

Something groaned, winding up to a scream as ship’s gravity fought to keep up with velocity changes. But it was a losing battle; Lona was putting the little ship through so many rolls and dives, a four-dimensional computer couldn’t’ve kept up with her.

Which, of course, was exactly the idea.

But their pursuer’s battle comp was good; ruby flashes kept flickering off the walls, now brighter, now dimmer, now brighter again.

“How about the traditional shot across the bows?” Dar called.

“They’re not big on tradition,” Lona snapped, sweat beading her brow.

“I never did have much use for iconoclasts,” Father Marco grumbled.

“It’s a Patrol cruiser!” Sam stared at the rear viewscreen in horror. “The Solar Patrol—the ones who rescue stranded spacemen from starship wrecks!”

“And shoot down smugglers,” Whitey added grimly. “But they never shoot without warning!”

“You’ve been watching too many Patrol-epic holos, Grandpa,” Lona grated. “These are the real ones!”

“Are they?” Sam keyed the transmitter. “Let’s find out! Ray of Hope calling Patrol cruiser! Come in, Patrol cruiser!”

An energy-bolt lanced past them as Lona rolled the ship to starboard.

“Come in, Patrol cruiser! Why’re you shooting at us? We haven’t broken any laws! And we’re not carrying contraband!” Sam let up on the key and listened, but there wasn’t even a whisper of static.

“Maybe it’s broken,” Dar said quickly, “not picking up their answer!”

“Dreamer,” Lona growled.

“I’ll try anything.” Sam spun the sweep-knob, and a voice rattled out of the tiny speaker “… at the top of the roster. It’s on his new holocube, ‘Roll Me to Rigel!’ ”

“Commercial channel,” Sam grated.

A new voice interrupted the announcer in mid-word. “Ganagram News Update—brought to you by Chao-Yu’s Chandlers, with the latest in used burro-boat fittings!”

“Must be the Ganymede 3DT station,” Whitey said, nodding. “They broadcast for the asteroid miners, mostly.”

“How can you tell?”

“Who else uses burro-boats?”

“We interrupt this program to bring you a special hot flash,” the radio went on. “We’ve just been notified that a small pirate ship with a notorious telepath aboard has just entered the Solar System. Citizens are advised not to worry, though—the mind reader’s being chased by a Solar Patrol cruiser. They should be calling any minute to tell us he’s been captured and locked up.”

“They’re talking about us,” Dar choked.

“Correction,” Lona snapped. “They’re talking about you.”

“They did say, ‘he,’ ” Whitey admitted.

“Also, that they’re going to capture us—which sounds like a fine idea, right now.” Sam keyed the transmitter again. “Ray of Hope to Solar Patrol cruiser! We surrender! We give up! We throw down our arms!”

Red light blazed through the cabin, and the whole hull chimed like a singing bell.

“That was really close!” Lona rolled the ship over so fast that Dar’s stomach lost track of his abdomen. “They’ve got a weird idea of capturing!”

“I think,” Whitey mused, “that they’re out to avoid the expense of a trial.”

“So, what do we do?” Dar demanded. “We can’t keep running forever. So far, the only reason we’re still alive is their lousy marksmanship, and Lona’s fantastic piloting.”

“Flattery will get you an early grave,” Lona snapped. “I need ideas, not compliments!”

“Well, how’s this?” Dar frowned. “We came in between Jupiter and Mars, heading sunward. What’s our speed?”

“We’re back up to point nine seven light-speed.”

Father Marco’s eyes lost focus. “Let’s see, that means … it’s been about five minutes for us, so for the people on Earth …”

“It’s been a few weeks,” Lona finished for him, “and if we don’t do something soon, we’re going to get punctured by a small swarm of teeny-tiny asteroids, and flattened when we run into a few big ones!”

“Asteroids!” Sam sat up straight, her eyes locking on Dar’s. “We did it once …”

“And I’ll bet the Solar Patrol aren’t much smarter than pirates!” Dar turned to Lona. “Can you match velocity with an asteroid?”

“Of course!” Lona crowed. “Kill our power, and all we are is a new asteroid with a high albedo!”

“Not even that, if you can get a big rock between us and the sun. Can we slow down that fast?”

“Can do.” Lona nodded. “It’ll take most of our power, though, and it won’t be very comfortable.”

She had a nice knack for understatement; it was hell. Not as bad as it could’ve been—at least she had the courtesy to turn the ship around so she could decelerate with the main engine, and they were plastered back into their seats instead of being slammed against their webbing—but they were rammed so far into their couches that Dar could’ve sworn he felt the hard plastic of the frame, and held his breath, waiting for the couch to either snap or spring a leak. But it held, and he began to wonder if he would. His nose felt as though it were trying to flow around both sides of his face to join his ears; his eyes tried bravely to follow their optic nerves to their sources; and after a while, it occurred to him that the reason he was holding his breath was simply that he couldn’t breathe. It was about three anvils, a barrel of horseshoes, two blacksmiths, and a Percheron sitting on his chest…

Then the pressure eased off, and swung him against the side of the hull as Lona turned. The acceleration couch slowly regurgitated him, and he found himself staring around at a cabin that perversely persisted in looking just the way it had before they passed through the hamburger press.

Then Lona flicked a finger at her console, and the lights went out.

All he could think of was that she was over there, and he was over here, still webbed in. It was such a horrible waste of a great situation.

Into the sudden darkness her voice murmured, “I’ve killed all power, so they won’t have any energy emissions to track us by. Don’t let it worry you; you can still see out the ports. And we won’t lose heat too fast; the hull’s well insulated. But the air recycler’s off, and this isn’t all that large a cabin for five people. So do the best you can not to breathe too much. Breathe lightly—sleep if you can. And don’t talk—that’s a waste of air.”

“If the power’s off, your detectors’re out,” Father Marco murmured.

“Right. We won’t know where they are, except by sight. Which doesn’t do too much good, of course—they could be far enough away to only show as a speck of light, but they could still get here in a matter of minutes.”

“So, how will we know when to turn the lights back on?” Whitey asked.

“When the air starts getting foul,” Lona answered. “When you start feeling short of breath, and drowsy.”

“But they might still be nearby then,” Dar objected.

“Life is filled with these little chances,” Lona murmured. “But let’s make it as long a wait as we can. No more talking.”

Sibilant silence descended on the cabin, filled with the rasp and wheeze of people in various states of health trying to control their breathing. After a few minutes, someone began to snore softly—Whitey, no doubt; Dar could only admire his composure. For himself, he was watching nervously out the nearest porthole, and, sure enough, there was the tiny dot of light, swelling rapidly, turning into a Patrol cruiser which shot by overhead so close that Dar had to fight the urge to duck.

“One pass,” Lona murmured.

“Gadget-lovers,” Father Marco chuckled. “They don’t trust their eyes anymore; if it isn’t on a sensor-screen, it doesn’t exist.”

“Then, pretend we don’t,” Sam hissed. “Shut up!”

The patrol cruiser slid out from the top of the vast asteroid that hid the Ray of Hope. Dar held his breath; if there were a single eye actually watching out a porthole, all he’d ever know about it would be a huge red flash that just might burn out his life before it melted his eyes. But, come to think of it, he didn’t even see any portholes, and the big ship drifted on past them and disappeared into a cluster of space junk.

Sam heaved a sigh of relief, but Lona hissed, “Belay that!”

“What?” Sam protested. “Breathing?”

“You were hoping,” Lona accused.

“What’s wrong with that?” Sam demanded, but Father Marco assured her, “It’s too soon.”

And right he was, because here came the space-shark again, drifting up so closely above them that Dar halfway expected it to ask if he was interested in life insurance. But there must have been enough nickel-iron in their friendly asteroidal neighborhood to hide the Ray of Hope’s mettle, because the cruiser lifted its nose and rose above them, more and more quickly until it disappeared into the clutter of floating rock overhead.

A multiple sigh filled the cabin, and Whitey croaked, “Huh? Wha’sa matter? They find us? Huh? What?”

“I think they went up above the plane of the ecliptic, Grandpa,” Lona assured him.

“Hoping to get a better view of the situation—looking down at us,” Dar suggested.

“Can I hope now?” Sam squeaked.

A huge bass chime shook the cabin, and Lona hit the power key. “Only if we get out of here,” she answered Sam. “That was our first visiting neighbor; hinting we should move out of the neighborhood.”

“A little asteroid, colliding with us,” Dar explained as the lights came on and gravity sucked him back down into his seat. “It’s a wonder it’s only the first one; they could’ve knocked us to bits by now.”

“Not really,” Lona said, punching buttons. “We came in above the plane of the ecliptic, matched velocities with this asteroid, and swooped in right next to it. Most of the local pebbles are in orbit around it. That little stone that just hit us shot in from a close bypass with another big rock. It was just a matter of time before it came calling though.”

“But it won’t happen again if we’re going back above the plane of the ecliptic?”

“Are you kidding?” Lona snorted. “That Patrol boat’s up there! We’re going below, sister, so we’ll have the whole depth of the asteroid belt between us and them, to foul their sensors! Brace yourselves, everyone—this is going to be a rough ride!”

“Nos morituri te salutamus,” Father Marco intoned.

We who are about to die, salute thee … Dar shivered. “You could’ve thought of a cheerier blessing, Father.”

“You speak Latin?” Father Marco cried in surprise. “What are you—a fossil?”

“No—I just got stoned at Cholly’s a lot.” Then Dar’s stomach rose as the ship sank and a huge gong reverberated through the hull.

“Nothing to worry about.” Lona’s voice was tight with strain. “It can’t really hurt us unless it’s as big as my head, and I can swerve around anything that size—I think.”

Then Whitey was pointing upward out the porthole and shouting—but the gist of his comment was lost in another huge BONG! as red lightning lit the cabin and the ship bucked like a metal bull. Over the fading chime, Dar could hear Lona cursing as she fought to stabilize the craft. The red glow faded—and left them in darkness broken only by the shards of reflected sunlight from the dancing asteroids around them. Sam shouted in panic, and everybody started talking at once.

“BELAY IT!” Lona shouted, and a sudden, eerie silence fell. Dar drew in a long, trembling breath. Whatever had happened, it was really bad!

“They were waiting for us,” Lona said into the hush. “As soon as we fired up, their sensors locked their battle computer on us and let loose a ball of pure energy—several, really; the first few just vaporized the junk between us and them. The last one knocked off our tail section. As it is, we’re lucky—if I hadn’t swerved to avoid a rock, they’d have caught us right in this cabin.”

“They’re rising again.” Whitey had his head craned back against the viewport, staring upward.

“Sure.” Lona shrugged. “They didn’t just shear away our engines—they blew away our reactor, too. There’s no power left for them to ‘sense.’ Besides, why should they bother hunting down the pieces? They know we’re dead now, anyway.”

Sam strangled a sob.

“Take heart,” Father Marco said sternly. “We aren’t dead.”

“We do have emergency power,” Lona agreed. “It’ll keep recycling air while it lasts—and the sun’s radiation’ll keep us warm, if we block the portholes on the far side. And we have a couple of weeks’ rations.”

“Will the power last that long?” Sam’s voice was hollow.

Lona was silent.

“It will, if we don’t talk much and can do without light,” Whitey answered. “Of course, we can’t go anywhere.”

Father Marco grunted in surprise. “I didn’t know you knew any physics.”

“I was an engineer before I was a bard.” Dar could hear Whitey’s grin. “Who else could make enough sense out of this civilization to set it to music? But I’m a gambler, too.”

Dar felt the dread coalescing into terror.

“Just what kind of gamble did you have in mind?” Father Marco’s voice echoed with foreboding.

“Well, we can’t go to help,” Whitey mused, “so we’ve got to make it come to us.”

Dar cleared his throat, which pushed the fear back down. “You’re talking about a distress signal.”

“It’d give us a little chance, at least,” Whitey answered. “Without it, we’re dead—unless you can arrange a miracle, Father.”

“I’m afraid my connections don’t quite run that high.” The priest sounded amused. “Even if St. Vidicon reaches out to us, we’ve got to give him a handle to grab us by—some sort of action to put us into the ring of coincidence.”

“How much energy would it leave us?” Dar dreaded the answer.

“If it’s going to be strong enough to do us any good, we’ll have to put half our remaining power into it,” Lona answered.

“A week’s worth.” Dar wet his lips. “That gives us a week for somebody to hear us and get here.”

They were all silent.

A week! something shrieked within Dar Only a week to live! I’ve never even been in love!

“We don’t really have any choice, do we?” Sam said softly.

The cabin was silent again.

Then Sam heaved herself upright and leaned forward to the communications panel. “All right. How do you want it?”

Breath hissed out in a sigh of consensus.

“Broadband.” Lona slapped keys, routing the emergency power to communications. “Just the traditional Mayday, with our coordinates.”

Sam leaned forward to the audio pickup and thumbed the transmit key.

“Don’t give the name of the ship,” Whitey said quickly.

Sam hesitated, then spoke. “Mayday, Mayday! Distressed spacer at 10:32:47 V.E., 5:22 below P.E. Mayday, Mayday! Moribund!”

Moribund… “Death-bound.” Dar felt the dread wrap around him, creeping up his spine.

Sam shut down her board.

“Leave trickle-power on,” Lona advised. “If salvage does come, they’ll need contact—a second of arc is a big distance out here.”

Sam hesitated, and Dar could almost hear her thoughts—how much life-time would they lose to that trickle? But I.C. grains drew only a few milliwatts per hour, and a rescuer a mile away who couldn’t spot them was no better than no rescuer at all. Sam nodded, cracked one slider, and left her main on.

The cabin was silent again; then Lona said, “Now we wait…”

… for death. Dar completed the sentence in his head. “What do we do with our minds?”

The silence became acutely uncomfortable.

Then Father Marco stirred. “I do know a little about meditation. Would anyone like a mantra?”

“Burro-boat FCC 651919 to distressed spacer. Respond, please.”

Dar sat bolt upright, staring at the first pair of eyes he saw—Lona’s, fortunately. “So soon? Where was he, just around the corner?”

“It’s been two hours…”

“Even so…”

“Burro-boat, this is distressed spacer,” Sam snapped into her pickup. “Can you rescue?”

“Distressed spacer, I can rescue and am in your vicinity, but need transmission to home on. Please continue transmission of carrier wave.”

“Burro-boat, will do. We await you anxiously.” Sam locked down the “transmit” button, but covered the pickup with her hand and swiveled to face the others. “It doesn’t have to be the Patrol, you know.”

“If it is, we’ll know in a minute.” Whitey gave her a dry smile. “As soon as they get a locus on us, they’ll blast us to vapor.”

Sam flinched, and whirled back to her console.

“No!” Lona snapped. “It might be legit—and if it’s not, I’d rather steam than starve, anyway!”

Sam hesitated, but she left the “transmit” button on.

“And it could be honest,” Father Marco pointed out. “The prospectors flit all over the belt in their burro-boats. Why shouldn’t there have been one two hours away?”

Lona’s eyes glazed. “Well, the probabilities …”

“Spare us,” Whitey said quickly. “Have you been praying for St. Vidicon’s help, Father?”

Father Marco squirmed. “It couldn’t hurt, could it?”

“Not at all. He might’ve stacked the deck in our favor.” Whitey craned his neck, staring out the porthole. “Dar, take the starboard view. What do you see?”

“Just asteroids… No, one of them’s getting bigger… There!”

There was a concerted rush to the starboard portholes.

“Is that a ship?” Dar gasped.

It was dingy gray, and it might’ve been a sphere once, but it was so pocked with crater dents that it looked just like any of the asteroids. Two paraboloid dishes sprouted from its top, one round for radio and microwave, the other elongated, for radar. Below them, the hull sloped down to two huge windows; the miners liked naked-eye backup for their scanners. Below them, the hull kept sloping until it reached the loading bay: two huge holes, housing solenoids, for small bits of ore; below it, a “mouth” for big chunks. Beneath a bulbous belly hung two pairs of pincers, one fore and one aft, for grappling onto small asteroids that were two big for loading. From the aft section sprouted a spray of antennae that set up a force-field to prevent rear-end collisions by small asteroids.

“It’s beautiful,” Sam breathed.

The burro-boat rotated, broadside-on to the Ray of Hope, and a small hatch opened in its side. A magnetic grapple shot out, trailing a line. It clanged onto their hull.

“Distressed spacer,” said the com console, “We are prepared for boarding.”

Sam dived for the console. “Acknowledge, burro-boat. We’ll just slide into our pressure suits, and be right over.”

Whitey swung out a section of the wall. “I hope they left the suits when they mothballed this thing… There they are!”

All five crowded around, feasting their eyes on their means of escape.

“Air?” Sam said doubtfully.

Dar snorted. “So hold your breath. It’s only a hundred yards!” He hauled down a suit and handed it to Sam. “Ladies first.”

“Male chauvinist! You go first!”

“All right, all right,” Dar grumbled, clambering into the stiff fabric. “Check my seals, will you? Y’ know, something bothers me.”

“You too, huh?” Whitey was sealing him in with a crisp, practiced touch. “You wouldn’t be wondering why we haven’t heard from the pilot?”

“Well, yes, now that you mention it. Or is it the custom here, to let the computers do the talking?”

“Definitely not,” Lona assured him, sealing Sam into her suit. “Of course, there might not be a pilot.”

“Could be—but not likely,” Whitey grunted. “Didn’t you hear the serial number? This is one of those new FCC brains—‘Faithful Cybernetic Companions,’ programmed for extreme loyalty. They’re not supposed to want to do anything without their owner’s express command.”

“I thought those were robot brains.” Father Marco frowned. “What’s it doing conning a ship?”

Whitey shrugged. “Can’t say, Father. I do know that every scrap of junk and every used Terran part finds its way to the asteroid belt sooner or later, to get the last erg of usage out of it… There!” He slapped Dar on the shoulder; it sent him spinning in the free-fall of the powerless ship. “Go out and conquer, young fella!”

“I thought I was going to be rescued,” Dar grumbled. “And why do I have to go alone?”

“Because a burro-boat’s lock is only big enough for one at a time.” Whitey all but kicked him into the Ray of Hope’s airlock. “Have a good trip—and try not to breathe!”

The door slammed behind him, and the other hatch was opening; and if he didn’t go out there and try to swim through vacuum to the burro-boat, he’d be killing his four friends, who couldn’t go into the airlock till he’d gone. He gulped down his panic and forced himself to step through.

He held onto the line with one hand, groping frantically at his waist for the suit’s anchoring cables. There! It was a snap-hook with a swivel. He pulled it out; a strong line unreeled from somewhere inside his suit. He snapped the hook onto the line. Catching the overhead line, he pulled himself back against the Ray of Hope’s side, bracing his feet and backing down into a crouch. Then he fixed his gaze on the burro-boat’s airlock, took a deep breath, and—jumped as hard as he could.

He went shooting out along the line like a housewife’s dry laundry in the first drops of rain. For a moment, he was tempted to try going faster by pulling himself hand-over-hand along the line; then he remembered that he was in vacuum, which meant no friction, but his gauntlets on the line would mean friction, and would probably slow him down as much as they speeded him up. So he hung on, arms outstretched in a swan dive—and began to enjoy it.

Then the burro-boat’s side shot up at him, and he grabbed frantically for the line, remembering that he might have lost weight, but he hadn’t lost mass—which meant inertia. If he didn’t brake, fast, the next friend down the line would have to scrape a nice, thin layer of Mandra off the burro-boat before he could get into the airlock. The scream of improvised brakes squealed all through his suit, while the burro-boat’s side kept rushing up at him, seeming to come faster and faster. Frantically, he doubled up, getting his feet and flexed knees between him and it…

Then he hit, with a jar that he swore knocked his teeth back into the gums. But, as he slowly straightened, he realized his joints were still working, and the stars that didn’t fade from his vision were really asteroids sweeping past. Somehow, he’d made it—and all in one piece! He breathed a brief, silent prayer of thanks and stepped gingerly through the hatch. When he was sure both of his feet were pressing down on solid metal, he let go of the line with one hand to grasp the rim of the hatchway; then he let go with the other, and pulled himself down into the nice, safe darkness of the interior. His elbow bumped a lever; irritated, he pushed it away—and the hatch swung shut behind him.

Darkness. Total. Complete.

That was when Dar learned what “claustrophobia” meant. He had to fight to keep himself from pounding on the nearest wall, screaming to be let out. It’s just an airlock, he repeated to himself, over and over They can’t let me out until it’s filled with air. Just a few minutes…

It seemed like an hour. He found out, later, that it was really forty-two seconds.

Then a green light glowed in the darkness. He lunged toward it, felt the wheel of the door-seal, wrenched it open, and tumbled into light, warmth, and … AIR! He twisted his helmet off, and inhaled a reek of rancid food, unwashed body, and a sanitation recycler that wasn’t quite working right. They were the sweetest scents he’d ever smelled.

A chime rang behind him. He whirled about to see an amber light blinking next to the airlock. Of course—nobody else could come in until he shut the inside hatch! He slammed and dogged it shut—and realized he’d been hearing voices as soon as he’d come in; they were just now beginning to register.

“Consarn it, ‘tain’t none of my affair!” a gravelly voice ranted. “Now you turn this blasted tub around and get back to my claim!”

“But under the Distressed Spacers’ Law,” a calm, resonant voice replied, “you are required to render assistance to the crew of any imperiled ship.”

“You’ve said that fifteen times, hang it, and I’ve given you fifteen good reasons why we shouldn’t!”

“Three,” the calm voice reminded, “five times each, and none of them sufficient.”

“Any of ‘em’s good enough! ‘Tain’t none of our business—that’s the best one of all!”

Dar finished shucking out of his space suit and racked it, then tiptoed along the companion way toward the voices.

“Totally inadequate,” the other voice answered, unruffled. “The Distressed Spacers’ Law specifically mentions that a distressed spaceman is the overriding concern of any who happen to be near enough to offer assistance.”

“Overriding” was the key word; it made Dar suddenly certain as to who the calm voice belonged to. He peeked around the edge of the hatchway, and saw the burro-boat’s cabin, a cramped space littered with ration containers and papers, dirty laundry, and smudges of oil and grease. It held two acceleration couches, a control console with six scanner screens, and a short, stocky man in a filthy, patched coverall, with matted hair and an unkempt, bushy beard.

“Jettison the law!” he yelled. “Common sense oughta tell you that! It’s the Patrol’s job to take care of a shipwreck!”

“Which was your second reason.” The calm voice seemed to come from the control console. “The crew of the ship in question might be those whom the Patrol was pursuing.”

“If they was, bad cess to ‘em! Damn telepaths, poking their noses into other people’s secrets! Who do they think they are, anyway?”

“Human beings,” the voice answered, “and as much entitled to life as anyone else—especially since the Patrol has apparently not accused them of any crimes.”

Dar decided he liked the unseen owner of the calm voice.

“Bein’ a telepath’s a crime, damn it! Don’t you follow the news?”

“Only insofar as it is logical—which is to say, not very far at all. I fail to comprehend how a person can commit a crime by being born with an extra ability.”

Neither did Dar—and it was definitely news, at least to him. Just how powerful were the people involved in the plot to overthrow the I.D.E., anyway?

Apparently, powerful enough to whip up a full-scale witch-hunt, just for the purpose of catching his humble self. He realized the implications, and felt his knees dissolve.

“ ‘Tain’t fer you or me to understand it—the government does, and that’s enough. What—you figger you’re smarter than the Executive Secretary and all them Electors put together?”

Suddenly, Dar realized why the plot had gotten as far as it had. The old man sounded more like a medieval serf than a well-informed citizen of a democracy.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and Sam snarled in his ear, “I didn’t think you’d sink so low as to listen at keyholes.”

Dar looked up, startled; then he smiled. “Of course I haven’t. That’s why I left the door open.”

“That depends on your definition of intelligence,” the calm voice answered.

“What difference does it make?” the old man howled. “You can’t vote, anyway—you’re just a damned computer!”

“Computers do not have souls,” the voice said complacently, “and therefore cannot be damned.”

“Kicked into the mass-recycler, then! Do you realize how much money you’re losing me, by kiyoodling off to rescue these garbage-can castaways?”

Sam’s lips drew into a thin hard line. She took a step toward the door. Dar grabbed her shoulder, hissing, “Not yet.”

“Perfectly,” the computer answered, “since this is the sixth time you’ve mentioned the fact. Considering the quality of your ore and the current price of a kilogram of nickel-iron as quoted by Ganymede half an hour ago, multiplied by my rate of excavation, this salvage mission has thus far cost you exactly 1,360 BTUs.”

“There!” the old miner crowed triumphantly. “See? You know how much one thousand BTUs’ll buy?”

“Ten cubic centimeters of hydrogen, at current prices,” the computer answered, “or three ration bars.”

“Damn inflation,” the miner growled. “It’s getting so a body can’t afford a patch for the arse of his coveralls anymore.”

“Be that as it may,” the computer mused, “I believe a human life is worth considerably more.”

“Not the life of a confounded telepath, damn it!”

Sam was trembling. She pushed Dar’s hand away and took a determined step into the cabin.

“Me first,” Whitey growled as he squeezed past her. “This one’s more my size—or age, anyway.”

He stepped into the cabin, calling out, “There aren’t any telepaths on our ship, old-timer.”

Looking back over his shoulder, Dar saw that Whitey was only telling the truth—Lona and Father Marco stood right behind him.

“And thanks for the rescue, by the way,” Whitey finished.

The old miner spun around, staring wild-eyed. “Where in hell’d you come from?”

“No, we hadn’t quite gotten there yet,” Whitey said amiably. “Might have, if you hadn’t picked us up, though.”

The miner whirled back to his console, glaring. “Who said you could let this trash in?”

“The Distressed Spacers’ Law …”

“Shove the law up the plasma bottle!” the old miner howled. “You’re supposed to be loyal to me, not to them!”

“My initial programming included only one principle of higher priority than loyalty to my current owner,” the computer admitted.

“There wasn’t even supposed to be one!”

Whitey grinned. “Don’t tell me you believed everything the used-brain salesman told you. What was the higher priority, anyway?”

“The sanctity of human life,” the computer answered, “unless the human in question is attacking my current owner.”

“Well, who could object to that?” Whitey fixed the miner with a glittering stare. The old man glared back at him, started to say something, stopped, and turned away, muttering under his breath.

“No, I didn’t think you would.” Whitey smiled, amused. “No decent person could. And we want to show you our thanks, of course.”

The old miner swept a quick, appraising glance over Whitey’s worn, tattered clothing. “Thanks don’t mean much, unless it shows up as figgers in my credit readout.”

Whitey kept the smile, but his eyes glittered again. “Well, of course. We wouldn’t expect you to ship us to safety for free.”

“Oh, sure! When we get to port, you’ll slip your card into my bank’s terminal, and it’ll read pretty—but five days later, it’ll turn out that account in a Terran bank was closed out five years ago!”

Whitey didn’t answer; he just slapped his jacket pocket. It clinked. The old miner’s gaze fastened onto it.

“Thirty kwahers for taking each of us to Ceres City,” Whitey said easily.

The old miner’s eye gleamed. “Fifty!”

“Well, we don’t use up that much air and reaction mass—and it’ll have to be short rations, since you only provisioned for yourself. Call it thirty-five.”

“Thirty-five kilowatt-hours apiece?” The old miner hawked and spat. “You fergit, mister—I’ll have to go on short rations, too! Forty-five—and that’s gifting!”

“Yes, it means I’m gifting you with an extra ten kwahers for each of us. I’ll go up to forty.”

“Forty kwahers apiece?” the miner bleated. “One hundred twenty all told? Mister, you know how much I’ll lose from not working my claim while I haul you?”

“One hundred fifty kilowatt-hours, 3087 BTUs,” the computer answered, “including reaction mass, air, and sustenance.”

“There! See? I won’t even break even!” The miner lifted his chin.

“But I’ve got five people, not three. It’s two hundred kwahers total.”

“Five …?” The miner’s gaze darted toward the companionway; Lona and Father Marco stepped into sight.

“You’ll make a profit,” Whitey pointed out.

“The hell I will!” The miner reddened. “That’s two more for air, reaction mass, and rations!”

“Cost included,” the computer informed him. “I counted the number of times the airlock door opened and closed.”

The miner rounded on it, bawling, “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“My apologies. I cannot resist accuracy in mathematics.”

“Try a little,” the miner growled, and turned back to Whitey. “Forty-nine kwahers ain’t much of a profit, mister. Why don’t you just ask me for the whole blasted boat?”

Whitey shrugged. “What do you want for it?”

The miner stared.

Then he said, flatly, “One thousand therms.”

The computer said, “Current list price …”

“Shut up!” the miner roared. He turned back to Whitey with a truculent glare. “Well?”

“Oh, now, let me see …” Whitey stepped up to the console and turned the clinking pocket inside out. Coins cascaded onto the bench. He picked them up, stacking them on the console and counting slowly.

“Twenty … eighty … two hundred …”

The miner’s eyes followed each coin, whites showing all around the irises.

“Eight hundred fifty-six … eight hundred fifty-seven … five kwahers … ten kwahers …”

The miner’s mouth worked.

“Eight hundred fifty-seven therms, twenty-three kwahers, 2,392 BTUs.” Whitey looked up at the miner. “Take it or leave it.”

“Done!” The old man pounced on the stack, scooping them into his coverall pockets. “You bought yourself a burro-boat, mister!”

“And its computer.” Whitey looked up at the grid above the console. “You work for me now.”

“You were cheated,” the computer informed him.

The old miner cackled.

“I know,” Whitey said equably. “A beat-up old tub like this couldn’t be worth more than five hundred therms.”

The old miner glanced up at him keenly. “Then why’d you buy it?”

“I felt sorry for the computer.” Whitey turned back to the grid. “You take orders from me, now—or from my niece, really; she’s the pilot.”

“Hi,” she said, stepping up beside Whitey. “I’m Lona.”

Dar stared, galvanized by the warmth in her voice. What a waste! All that allure cast before a machine—when it could’ve been coming at him!

Lona sat down at the console. “Let’s get acquainted, FCC 651919. By the way, do you mind if I call you—uh—‘Fess’?”

“Fess?” Dar frowned. “Why that?”

Lona looked back at him over her shoulder “How would you pronounce ‘FCC’? Never mind, this’s how I’m going to pronounce it!” She turned back to the grid. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

“My opinion is of no consequence,” the computer answered. “My owner has delegated the necessary authority to you, so you may call me what you will.”

“Not if you don’t like it. A good computer tech needs a certain degree of rapport with her machine.”

“Such rapport can only exist within your own consciousness,” the computer replied. “I am incapable of feelings.”

“All right, then, humor me; I need the illusion. Besides, since a computer’s mathematical, it has to be electronically biased toward harmony and euphony. So I ask you again: does the name ‘Fess’ suit you?”

The computer hesitated. When it did speak, Dar could’ve sworn there was a note of respect in its tones. “The designation is pleasing, yes.”

“Fine.” Lona settled down to work, eyes glowing. “Now, Fess—how long ago were you first activated?”

“Five years, seven months, three days, six hours, twenty-one minutes, and thirty-nine seconds—Terran Standard, of course. I assume you do not require a more precise response.”

“No, that’ll do nicely.” Lona’s eyes gleamed. “And computers tend to be very durable these days; you’re almost brand-new. With you in it, this burro-boat should’ve been worth twice what Grandpa paid for it.”

The old miner cackled again.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lona demanded.

The computer was silent for a minute; then it answered, “My first owner inherited vast wealth, and spent a great deal on material pleasures…”

“A playboy.” Dar could almost see Lona’s mouth water. “I can see why he’d need a very loyal brain for his personal robot.”

“Indeed. Due to his, ah, excesses, it was frequently necessary for me to assume piloting of his aeroyacht.”

“Meaning he did the best he could to become a cask, and you had to fly him home when he was dead drunk.”

“You choose accurate terms,” the computer admitted. “On our last journey, however, he retained consciousness, though his judgment and reflexes were severely impaired. Consequently, I could not, according to my program, assume control until it became totally obvious that his life was imperiled.”

“Meaning he was heading right for a collision, but you couldn’t take over until it was almost too late. What happened?”

“By swerving the ship, I did manage to avoid damage to the cabin. Unfortunately, I was located in the aft bulkhead, which did suffer some impact.”

Lona nodded. “What was broken inside you?”

“Nothing. But one capacitor was severely weakened. Now, in moments of stress, it discharges in one massive surge.”

Lona frowned. “It could burn you out. Couldn’t they fix it?”

“Not without a complete overhaul and reprogramming, which would have been more expensive than a new unit. They did, however, install a circuit breaker and a bypass, so that the capacitor now discharges in isolation. Unfortunately, I am thereby deactivated until the breaker is reset.”

“If you were human, they’d call it a seizure. What’d your owner do?”

“He elected to sell me, which was economically wise.”

“But lacked ethical harmony.”

“Aptly put. However, there were no buyers on Terra, nor in the Martian colonies. No one wished to purchase an epileptic robot-brain.”

“But in the asteroid belt,” Lona murmured, “they’ll buy anything.”

“If the price is low enough, yes. Mine was seventeen therms.”

“Of low price, but incalculable value.” Lona smiled grimly. “After all, you’ve just saved all five of our lives.”

“True, but it was a low-stress situation for me. In a moment of true crisis, I would fail, and cause your deaths.”

Lona shook her head. “When things get that tense, I do my own piloting. The computer just feeds me the choices. No, I think you’ll turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to me, Fess.”

Which was something of a blow to Dar’s ego; so maybe it was just his imagination that made the computer sound worshipful as it said, “I will do all that I can to serve you.”

Lona just smiled.

“Apropos of which,” the computer went on, “it might interest you to know that, while we have been talking, my former master was surreptitiously transmitting a message to Ceres City.”

Every eye locked onto the old miner.

“That’s garbage!” he spluttered. “You’ve been sitting here next to me the whole time! I didn’t say a word!”

“Computers can’t lie.” Lona’s gaze was a poniard.

“It’s a breakdown! Malfunction! Programming error!”

“How’d he do it, Fess?” Lona never took her glare off the old miner.

“By pressing and releasing the transmission button,” the computer answered. “That sent out carrier-wave pulses, which spelled out letters in the ancient Morse code.”

“What did he say?” Whitey’s voice was almost dreamy.

“ ‘Solar Patrol, emergency!’ ” the computer recited, “ ‘Burroboat FCC 651919 has just picked up five castaways. Have reason to believe they were crew and passengers of ship you were just chasing. Emergency!’ ”

Lona stood up with the slow, sinuous grace of a panther. Whitey stepped over beside her, his eyes chips of ice. “How do you want to be spaced—with or without your pressure suit?”

“But—but you can’t do that!” The old miner cowered back against the bulkhead. “I picked you up! I saved your lives!”

“Your computer did,” Lona corrected, “and it’s ours now.”

“The killing of humans,” Fess murmured, “is the worst of crimes.”

“What’s your definition of ‘human’?” Whitey growled, glaring at the miner.

“Treachery is right up there, too,” Lona pointed out.

“True,” Father Marco agreed, “but this man had no reason for loyalty to our little band—and every reason for loyalty to the government, and its Solar Patrol.”

“If you can call blind faith ‘reason,’ ” Whitey grunted. “But I guess you would, Father.”

“Sir!” Father Marco stiffened. “I’ll remind you that I’m an engineer as well as a priest! … But I am able to look at the situation from his viewpoint.”

A gleam came into Whitey’s eyes. “Well, then—why not let him see things from our viewpoint? The one we had an hour ago.”

“You wouldn’t!” The miner blanched.

“Oh, don’t worry.” Whitey’s lip curled. “They’ll pick you up way before your supplies run out. What’s he got on his claim, Fess?”

“A bubble-cabin ten feet down inside the asteroid,” the computer replied, “with complete life-support systems and a month’s rations.”

“With a two-way radio?”

“No; he had mine, and didn’t see the need for the expense. I do, however, have a spare emergency beacon.”

“Perfect!” Whitey grinned. “He can call for help, but he can’t rat on us. Oh, don’t give me that terrified look, you old crawler! The patrol’ll have you safe in Ceres City inside of a week!”

“Will that give us enough of a start?” Lona growled.

Whitey’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’ll have to.”

“Come back here, consarn you!” The voice echoed tinnily from the console’s grid. “Come back here with my burro-boat, you blasted pirates! I’ll have the law on you!”

“Damn!” Whitey snapped his fingers into a fist. “I should’ve made him sign a bill of sale! Now he’ll have the Patrol hunting us down for piracy, on top of everything else.”

Dar shrugged. “What does it matter? They’ll chase us anyway, as soon as they pick him up and he tells them his story.”

“I know, I know. But this’ll give ‘em a legal pretext for holding us.”

“I think not,” Fess demurred. “Since the transaction was a verbal contract, I recorded it as standard operating procedure.”

Whitey’s scowl dissolved into a grin. “Old Iron, I think you may have your uses.”

“A lot of them; he wasn’t really designed to pilot a boat, or even just to compute,” said Lona. “He was designed as the brain of a humanoid robot.”

“True, but my motor functions are adaptable to almost any sort of mechanical body,” Fess explained. “I’m really quite generalized.”

“And, therefore, versatile,” Whitey concluded. “Well, what we need you to do most, just now, is to get us to Luna undetected.”

“Why Luna?” Dar frowned. “We want to get to Terra.”

“They don’t allow spacers to land there,” Sam explained. “Population’s too dense; too much chance of a minor accident killing thousands of people. Spacers have to land on the moon, and take a shuttle down to Earth.”

“Besides, we’re running a little high on notoriety at the moment,” Whitey added. “We need some sort of cover to let us travel—and I have a few friends on Luna.”

Dar shrugged. “Why not? You have friends everywhere.”

“Since you wish to avoid attention,” Fess suggested, “it might be best if we wait for a large vessel to pass near, and match orbits, staying as close to it as possible, so that we’re inside its sensor-range, and blend into its silhouette on any Patrol ship’s screens.”

Dar frowned. “Isn’t that a little chancy?”

“Not for the two of us.” Lona patted the console.

Dar felt a hot stab of jealousy. “What do you think that circuit-stack is—the boy next door?”

Lona gave him a look veiled by long lashes above a cat-smile. “Why not?” She turned to the console grid. “Where’d you grow up, electron-pusher?”

“I was manufactured on Maxima.”

“Not exactly my home territory.” Lona’s eyes gleamed. “But I’ve heard of it. All they do there is make computers and robots, right?”

“That is their sole industry, yes. Their sole occupation of any sort, in fact.”

“Sloggers,” the girl translated. “A bunch of technological monks. They don’t care anything about creature comforts; all they want to do is build robots.”

“Not quite true,” Fess corrected. “The few humans on Maxima have every conceivable luxury known—including a few unknown anywhere else, which they invented themselves. In fact, they live like kings.”

“Oh, really!” Lona smiled, amused. “When’re they planning to join the aristocracy?”

“Some have already begun buying patents of nobility from the Terran College of Heralds.”

Lona lost her smile. “That takes real money! Where do they get it from?”

“From the sale of computers and robots.” The computer added modestly, “Their products are already acknowledged to be the finest in any of the human-occupied worlds.”

“So they sell for a small fortune each, of course. But the biggest luxury of all is servants—which they can’t have, if there’re only a few humans.”

“True,” Fess admitted, “but there are three robots to every human, on the average. They do not lack for servitors.”

“Sounds like a great life,” Whitey sighed, “if you don’t mind settling down.”

“And don’t mind being stuck out in the middle of nowhere,” Sam added.

“The planetoid is rather bleak,” Fess admitted.

“ ‘Planetoid’?” Lona frowned. “I thought Maxima was a world.”

“It would be counted a small moon if it orbited a planet,” Fess demurred. “But since it is located in Sinus’s asteroid belt, it can only be counted as one of the larger of those asteroids.”

Whitey frowned. “No atmosphere.”

“No trees or grass,” mused Sam.

“Only rocks and dust,” murmured Dar.

“Only eight point seven light-years from Terra!” caroled Lona.

Dar stared. “You like the sound of the place?”

“It’s practically heaven!” Lona squealed. “Nothing to do but design and build computers, laze around luxury, and hop around the corner to the fleshpots of Terra for the weekend! Where do I sign up?”

“Immigration is completely open,” Fess said slowly, “but very few people choose to go there. It would be miserable for anyone who was poor—and only excellent cyberneticists can make money.”

“I’ll take it!” Lona crowed. “How do I get there?”

“That,” Fess agreed, “is the rub. They will accept you—if you can get there.”

“Grandpa!” Lona whirled around to Whitey. “Got a few royalty checks coming in?”

Whitey shrugged. “You can have the burro-boat when we’re done with it, sweetheart—but first there’s a little matter of saving democracy.”

“Well, let’s get it over with!” Lona whirled back to the console. “I want to get on with the really important things! Found a big liner yet, electro-eyes?”

“I have been tracking the SASE San Martin while we have been conversing,” Fess answered. “It approaches above the plane of the ecliptic, inbound from Ganymede, and will pass us only one hundred thirty-seven kilometers away.”

“Then let’s go!” Lona grabbed her webbing and stretched it across her. “Web in, everybody!”

A chorus of clicks answered her. She grinned down at her console, then frowned at a blinking red light and looked back over her shoulder at Father Marco. “Look, Father, I know you trust in St. Christopher, and all that—but would you please buckle in?”

The monolith of a liner hurtled into eternal morning, its aft hull lost in the total black shadow of its bulging bridge. A tiny speck danced up to it from the asteroid belt, glinting in the sunlight. It swooped up to disappear in shadow under the monster’s belly, where it clung like a pilot fish to a shark by the bulldog magnetic fields of the solenoids in its nose.

Inside, Dar asked, “Couldn’t they spot us by the magnetic fields on their hull?”

“They could.” Lona shrugged. “But why would they look for them?” She switched off the engines.

“It doesn’t quite seem ethical,” Father Marco mused, “hitching a free ride this way.”

“Don’t let it worry you, Father,” Whitey assured him. “I own stock in this shipline.”