Spillthrough Part 5

"Ain't that touching!"

"You mean you won't pick me up?"

"We'll pick you up all right--we wanna take what's left of you back to show how you died."

"It's like that then? You're going to kill me to get the cargo?"

"You're learning fast."

"Are you going to hook on to the Fleury and drag her in to port?"

"Are you nuts? The inspectors could easily find out that we worked her over before you left port.... What's the matter--got a sentimental attachment for that old crate?"

"Look, Altman...."

"Go to h.e.l.l, Conally."

The background hum died out of the Fleury's receiver abruptly. Brad called twice. But there was no answer.

The SS Fleury was vibrant with the final pounding of its weakening vital parts.

_Clank-sss, clank-sss_, the coolant's safety valve hissed.

_Boom ... boom_, the jangling piston rod pounded. The expanding metal plate added its _throom-throom_ note.

The counter in the pa.s.sageway _clackety-clacked_ louder.

Their lines snapped by persistent tremors and lurches, more crates danced in the holds. Some of them eventually found their way to the gaping holes in the hull and, receiving a final, brief kick from jagged metal, floated lightly out into s.p.a.ce.

In the scope of the Cl.u.s.ter Queen, the Fleury's outline became fuzzier.

With mounting groans, the tortured vessel wrenched violently as she slipped down the descending arc.

Then suddenly she was through--in normal s.p.a.ce where stars shown with pinpoint brilliancy and where the celestial sphere was no longer a lazy, crazy crisscross of blurred lines.

The Cl.u.s.ter Queen started a wide hyperspatial turn, remaining spatially alongside the Fleury. She gathered speed as she swung around and straightened out and, with hyperjets blasting full force, plunged through the barrier in somewhat less time than a milli-second.

Ahead, the Fleury was picked up immediately on the scope. Like a hawk, the Queen closed the distance to the other trembling, silent s.h.i.+p.

Vega IV's s.p.a.ceport was bathed in brilliant, blue-cast light from the magnificent sun.

The Cl.u.s.ter Queen was docked. A tractor kept itself busy rolling up the ramp into the s.h.i.+p and out again with huge crates that were apparently in somewhat poorer condition than when they left Arcturus II. An occasional splintered board jutted outward, held to its box only by loose nails.

Three men were next to the hold's hatch. They stood grouped about an elongated form that lay on the concrete ap.r.o.n, covered with a white square of linen. A s.p.a.cesuit clad arm jutted out under one side of the covered square.

"We'll take you over to the office," Inspector Graham was saying.

"You'll have to make out an affidavit, you know. We'll need a couple of your crewmen to verify it."

"Be glad to," Altman answered. "Any time you're ready."

"As soon as they pick up--Conally," the inspector looked down at the form.

"I don't understand it," Jim muttered, rubbing a thumb and forefinger over closed eyelids.

"_Maybe I've got a version that's easier to understand, Jim_," the voice sounded forcefully from the direction of the hatch.

Inspector Graham and Altman spun around.

Jim didn't have to. He was facing the hatch.

Altman blanched; backed away; stopped, and held his ground.

"Brad!" Jim shouted unbelievingly and rushed forward to grasp his arms as the Fleury's skipper leaped off the side of the ramp. He was haggard but smiling.

"Who's this?" the inspector asked.

"This is Conally, the skipper of the Fleury," Jim explained jubilantly.

The inspector started, looked at the form on the ap.r.o.n, back at Brad, then at Altman.

"A trick!" Altman cried hoa.r.s.ely. "I see it all, inspector. It's a d.a.m.ned trick! I've been roped in!"

He was putting on a rather good act, Brad thought. But he went along with his story anyway. As Brad unfolded the incidents of sabotage, threat, a.s.sault, refusal to a.s.sist, pirating cargo, plotting murder and disregard of s.p.a.ce Code Regulations, he watched Altman gain more control over himself.

"I realized about an hour before spillthrough," Brad was approaching the end of his account, "that the Fleury was no longer holding the spilled cargo in an orbit because its grav system wasn't working. Whatever crates broke free from the holds also broke free from the s.h.i.+p's system and were no longer being dragged down the descending node toward spillthrough. They were remaining stationary on the arc--where Altman was sure to pick them up.

"Your s.p.a.cesuit, Jim, came in handy. Without it, nothing could have been done. I just filled it up with anything I could find--extra clothing, insulation from the ruptured tube, a few utensils. It didn't make any difference. The crew members who would handle the "body" would believe it felt as torn apart as any other s.p.a.ce suited body that experienced spillthrough at a snail's pace.

"To add weight, I broke open a bin of hemat.i.te and poured about a hundred pounds or so of the stuff into the suit. I stirred it gently; got more hemat.i.te--red ocher, you know--and half-filled the helmet. We had enough control column oil left to wet it down rather thoroughly. The new mixture had a rich, dark-red color, just like I thought it would. I sloshed the goo around in the helmet so all the inner surface was coated with the mixture and with small bits of indistinguishable odds and ends; then I clamped the dome onto the suit and harnessed it in the pilot's seat.

"I put on my own helmet again, went aft and crawled into a half-busted crate. With the wrist propulsor, I jockeyed the thing out of the hold to make d.a.m.ned sure it would break free of the Fleury's system and wouldn't spill through with the s.h.i.+p. After I saw I was drifting off, I worked my way well into the bracing between the crate and the inter-calc unit so I couldn't be seen through the broken sections of the box.

"Sure enough--about three hours later, along comes grabbenheimer," he threw a thumb in Altman's direction, "with his grapples. I was able to squeeze out of the suit an hour or so after that. But I've been cramped up in that crate for two days, with only emergency rations."

Altman loosed a sarcastic laugh and turned to the inspector. "It's a d.a.m.ned clever trick, inspector!" he shouted. "I been grappled in on the scheme.... Like I said, I arrived when he was slipping through. I couldn't do anything to stop it. Naturally I wasn't going to let the cargo go to waste. Naturally I was going to bring back what I thought was his body--regulations say I gotta do that.

"But he knew for a couple of hours that I was coming in answer to his SOS. I had gotten a fix on the point where he was slipping through and he was certain I would follow the Fleury through to normal s.p.a.ce, pick up his body and the cargo that was aboard and go back into hyper to get the rest of the cargo. He had time to make all those preparations. So he dreams up the scheme of hiding in with the cargo that's free in hyper and telling this story later. You see...."

Brad laughed. "Your tongue's working a little too fast, Altman. When I picked the crate I was going to ride in, I picked a very special one.

The tractor's bringing it out now." He pointed to the ramp. Part of the s.p.a.ce suit was visible through the splintered side of the box.

"That crate," he continued, "will carry more weight as evidence than the oaths of all your crewmen on a pile of Bibles stacked from here to Arcturus."