intoned insistently, "one of mygrapples is sheared."
"You still have two more."
"Uh-uh. This wise boy ain't gonna take a chance of a line snapping andknocking a hunk outta my hull. Especially when you got cargo spillingall over space."
Brad clenched his fists. He spoke through his teeth. "Look, Altman.Regulations say...."
"... I gotta help you," the other cut him short. "I know that, pal.That's why I happen to be stopping off at this not too enticing spot.And I'm offering help.... Come aboard any time you want."
"And hang up a free salvage sign on the Fleury?"
Altman didn't answer.
Twisting the gooseneck in his hand, Brad sucked in a deep breath andblew it out in a rush. But he didn't say what had leaped into his mind.Instead he glanced over at the panel's screen.
Altman's ship showed up there--a large, greenish-yellow blip. There wereother small dots on the scope too. As he looked, the large blip coastedover to one of the dots. The two became one mark on the screen.
"You're picking up my cargo!" Brad shouted.
"The stuff not in orbit around the Fleury ain't yours any longer,Conally," Altman laughed. "You oughta bone up on your salvage laws."
"You damned scavenger!"
"Now, now, Brad," the other said smoothly. "What would you do if youwere in my position? Would you let top priority cargo slip through tonormal and get lost off the hyperlane? Or would you scoop it up andbring it in for bonus price?"
"You're not after a bonus," Brad roared into the mike. "You're after acontract.... Altman, I'll pay two thousand for a ten-minute tow up-arc.That'll almost wipe out my profit on this haul."
"No sale."
Brad gripped the mike with both hands. "So you're just going to sitaround and pick up cargo droppings!"
"The book says I gotta stick around until you come aboard, until you getunderway on hyperpower, or until there just ain't any more ship orcrew.... Might as well pick up cargo; there's nothing else to do."
"And when I come aboard you'll want to unload the Fleury too, I takeit."
"Wouldn't you?"
* * * * *
Half the spilled crates were in close orbit around the SS Fleury. Thetri-D scope showed that. Brad estimated distances of several of theobjects as he clamped the helmet to the neckring of his suit andclattered to the pilot compartment airlock.
In the lock he unsnapped the hand propulsor from its bulkhead niche andclamped it to his wrist plate while the outer hatch swung open and thelock's air exploded into a void encrusted with a crisscross of vivid,vari-colored lines. The individual streaks, he estimated, averaged atleast ten degrees in length. That indicated he was a reasonable periodof time away from spillthrough into normal space where the lines wouldcompress into the myriad normal pinpoints that were stars, undistortedby hyperspace perspective. When the streaks decreased to four or fivedegrees, he reminded himself, that was the time to start worrying aboutdropping out the bottom of the trough.
He waited until one of the square, tumbling objects rolled by, obscuringsections of the out-of-focus celestial sphere as it whirled in itsorbit. Timing it, he waited for the box to complete another revolution.Just before it arrived the third time, he pushed off.
As he closed in on the crate, he knew his timing had been correct. Heintercepted it directly above the hatch and clung clumsily to a handring as its greater mass swept him along in an altered orbit. A quickblast from his propulsor eliminated the rotation he had imparted to theobject and he reoriented himself with respect to the ship. Spotting theruptured sideplate where the cargo had burst through the hull, hesteered his catch toward the hole with short bursts of power.
The bent plate made a natural ramp down which he slid the crate onto thegravity-fluxed deck. Inside, he degravitated the chamber, floated thebox into position and double-lashed it to the deck.
Pushing away from the ship again, he checked the length of the stellargrid streaks. They were still approximately ten degrees long. It lookedhopeful. He might have time to collect all the orbiting cargo before hegot dangerously close to spillthrough. Then he'd see about pushing onup-arc until the fuzzy streaks stretched to forty or fiftydegrees--perhaps even ninety, if he could allow himself the luxury ofwishful thinking. There he'd be at quartercrest and would have time torest before worrying about being drawn down the arc again toward normalspace.
While he jockeyed the fourth crate into the hold, a huge shadow suddenlyblotched out part of the star lines off to the port side. It was theCluster Queen pursuing a crate not in orbit around the Fleury. Bradshrugged; he'd be unable to pick up the ones that far out anyway.
But his head jerked upright in the helmet suddenly. If Altman was aftera free box, he realized, the Cluster Queen _could not_ appear in sharpoutline to an observer in the Fleury system! The Fleury, sliding downthe hyperspatial arc with its orbiting crates, would be moving slowlytoward normal space in response to the interdimensional pull exerted byits warp flux rectifier, hidden inaccessibly in the bowels of the pile,as it was on most outdated ships. But the free boxes, in anothertime-space system with the Cluster Queen, would be stationary on the arcand would appear increasingly fuzzy as the planal displacement betweenthe two systems became greater.
The truth, Brad realized, was that the Cluster Queen was drawing closerboth spatially and on the descending node of the hyperspatial arc!Altman was violating the law; he was going to take the cargo in orbit.And he could well get away with it too, since it would be the word ofonly one man aboard the Fleury against the word of the entire crew ofthe Queen.
* * * * *
There were still six boxes in orbit. He pushed out again toward theclosest and saw he had not been wrong in his reasoning. The Queen'soutline was razor-edge sharp; it was close enough to stretch acrossfifty-five degrees of the celestial sphere.
He kept it in the corner of his vision as he hooked on to the crate andstarted back to the ship. The Queen was reversing attitude slowly. Whenhe had first spotted it, it was approaching at an angle, nose forward.But now it had gyroed broadside and was continuing to turn as it driftedslowly toward Brad and the box.
"Altman!" he cried into his all-wave helmet mike. "You're on collisioncourse!"
Brad kicked away from the crate and streaked back toward the Fleury.
There was a laugh in the receiver. "Did you hear something, Bronson?"
"No, captain," another voice laughed. "For a moment I thought maybe Ipicked up a small blip near that crate. But I don't guess Conally wouldbe stupid enough to suit up and try to hustle his own cargo."
Brad activated his propulsor again and gained impetus in his dash forthe Fleury's hatch.
"Still," Altman muttered, "it seems like I heard somebody say somethingabout a collision course."
The Cluster Queen was no longer turning. It had stabilized, with itstubes pointed in the general direction of the Fleury and her floatingcrates.
Perspiration formed on Brad's forehead as he glanced up and saw theother ship steady itself, settling on a predetermined, split-hairheading. Somebody, he realized grimly, was doing a good job of aimingthe vessel's stern.
He got additional speed out of his propulsor, but the tubes swung slowlyas he covered more of the distance to his hatch. It seemed he couldn'tescape his position of looking up into the mouths of the jets.
"I don't know, boss," the speaker near his ear sounded again. "Maybe he_is_ out there."
"We better not take chances, then," Altman was not hiding the heavysarcasm in his words. "Blast away!"
Brad kicked sideways, stiffened his arm and hit the wrist jet fullforce. He shot to one side on a course parallel with the Fleury.
A blinding gusher of raw energy exploded--a cone of blistering,scintillating force that streaked through space between himself and thedisabled ship. The aiming was perfect. Had he not swerved off when hedid, had he stayed on his original course, he would have been in thecenter of the lance of hell-power.
As he drifted shakily into the hatch, the Queen wasn't even a dotagainst the trellis of star traces. But, while he looked, a miniaturelance of flame burst in the general direction in which Altman's vesselhad gone--scores of miles away. He was maneuvering a standard turn toapproach again, Brad realized.
If he repeated the performance against the hull of the Fleury, he wouldshake things up considerably, but at least the alloys of the platescould stand the heat--possibly the thrust too ... but not for long.
* * * * *
Invigorating effects of hot coffee flowed through Brad as he satstrapped in the pilot's seat and allowed himself the luxury of acigarette.
But his eyes were fastened on