The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

Sargol once more before the allotted time had passed. The Free Traders did not like it, there was even a vaguely superstitious feeling that such a bargain would inevitably draw ill luck to them. But they were left with no choice if they wanted to retain their influence with the Salariki.
    “Cutting orbit pretty fine, aren’t we?” Ali asked Rip across the mess table. “I saw your two star man sweating it out before he came down to shoot the breeze with us rocket monkeys—”
    Rip nodded. “Steen’s double checked every computation and some he’s done four times.” He ran his hands over his close cropped head with a weary gesture. As a semi-invalid he had been herded down with his fellows to swallow the builder Mura had concocted and Tau insisted that they take, but he had been doing a half a night’s work on the plotter under his chief’s exacting eye before he came. “The latest news is that, barring accident, we can make it with about three weeks’ grace, give or take a day or two—”
    “Barring accident—” the words rang in the air. Here on the frontiers of the star lanes there were so many accidents, so many delays which could put a ship behind schedule. Only on the main star trails did the huge liners or Company ships attempt to keep on regularly timed trips. A Free Trader did not really dare to have an inelastic contract.
    “What does Stotz say?” Dane asked Ali.
    “He says he can deliver. We don’t have the headache about setting a course—you point the nose and we only give her the boost to send her along.”
    Rip sighed. “Yes—point her nose.” He inspected his nails. “Goodbye,” he added gravely. “These won’t be here by the time we planet here again. I’ll have my fingers gnawed off to the first knuckle. Well, we lift at six hours. Pleasant strap down.” He drank the last of the stuff in his mug, made a face at the flavor, and got to his feet, due back at his post in control.
    Dane, free of duty until the ship earthed, drifted back to his own cabin, sure of part of a night’s undisturbed rest before they blasted off. Sinbad was curled on his bunk. For some reason the cat had not been prowling the ship before take-off as he usually did. First he had sat on Van’s desk and now he was here, almost as if he wanted human company. Dane picked him up and Sinbad rumbled a purr, arching his head so that it rubbed against the young man’s chin in an extremely uncharacteristic show of affection. Smoothing the fur along the cat’s jaw line Dane carried him back to the Cargo-master’s cabin.
    With some hesitation he knocked at the panel and did not step in until he had Van Rycke’s muffled invitation. The Cargo-master was stretched on the bunk, two of the take off straps already fastened across his bulk as if he intended to sleep through the blast-off.
    “Sinbad, sir. Shall I stow him?”
    Van Rycke grunted an assent and Dane dropped the cat in the small hammock which was his particular station, fastening the safety cords. For once Sinbad made no protest but rolled into a ball and was promptly fast asleep. For a moment or two Dane thought about this unnatural behavior and wondered if he should call it to the Cargo-master’s attention. Perhaps on Sargol Sinbad had had his equivalent of a friendship cup and needed a check-up by Tau.
    “Stowage correct?” the question, coming from Van Rycke, was also unusual. The seal would not have been put across the hold lock had its contents not been checked and rechecked.
    “Yes, sir,” Dane replied woodenly, knowing he was still in the outer darkness. “There was just the wood—we stowed it according to chart.”
    Van Rycke grunted once more. “Feeling top-layer again?”
    “Yes, sir. Any orders, sir?”
    “No. Blast-off’s at six.”
    “Yes, sir.” Dane left the cabin, closing the panel carefully behind him. Would he—or could he—he thought drearily, get back in Van Rycke’s profit column again? Sargol had been unlucky as far as he was concerned. First he had made that stupid mistake and then he got sick and now—And now—what was the matter? Was it just the general attack of nerves over their voyage and the commitments which forced their haste, or was it something else? He could not rid himself of a vague sense that the Queen was about to take off into real trouble. And he did not like the sensation at all!
    CHAPTER VIII
    HEADACHES
    They lifted from Sargol on schedule and went into Hyper also on schedule. From that