Part 2

I lit a cigarette and pretended to think it over. Actually, of course, I was going to take the job. I would have, anyway, but there were two additional reasons why I wouldn't turn it down. There was Pat, of course, and her orders. Most important though, had been the fact that the message to report to Weidmann that I'd found in my mailbox at the Spacemen's Hiring Hall had borne a slightly different Post Office cancellation on the stamp than the usual. The "T" in United wasn't quite formed the way it was on the regular stamp. It wasn't apparent unless you looked for it--but it was as good as a big red sign that spelled out "Official United Terrestrial Government Business--Act as Directed Within," because that was what it meant.

"Sounds better than I expected," I admitted. "All right. When do I go?"

Weidmann didn't show any expression to indicate disappointment or satisfaction. He simply said, "Tonight, after we check over the details. The ship's equipped with standard TSN controls, and you'll have lots of time to test her flight characteristics once you get out in space."

"What happens if she explodes? Don't I get to test her first?"

"No--there isn't time, and it would be a dead giveaway." For the first time, I saw something like satisfaction on Weidmann's face. "And if she explodes ... well, frankly, Holcomb, that's your problem."

* * * * *

I spent the afternoon being briefed. One thing was off my mind--if I had official orders to take this job, then the SBI would be keeping a tab on me. It made a difference, knowing that no matter what kind of a mess I got into, somebody would at least know what had happened to me, and, most important, why.

I was given a Company flight suit, and a hip rig for my Sturmey. I put those on, and was taken to within a block of the port in a shuttered car.

Not going all the way to the spaceport was my idea. The reason I gave Weidmann was good enough--there was no sense putting up neon markers to indicate that I was up to something special--but I had a better one than that. I had to give Pat a chance to get in touch with me.

It didn't work out that way.

I began walking down toward the Transolar revetment, using a shortcut street, looking around for Pat. It was a cinch she'd had some kind of a tail on me, and I was expecting to see her step out of almost any of the doorways I passed.

Instead, I heard something.

Back up the street, the way I had come, boot soles whispered on concrete. I turned around and looked, buried in shadow.

I couldn't see anything. I turned back around, and kept on walking, and I heard a holster being unsnapped. I stopped to listen, and there was only silence. I moved, and somebody slipped a safety catch.

I leaped suddenly to my right. My shoulders touched the wall of a house. My hands blurred forward, one locking on my holster and holding it down, the other scooping the Sturmey out and clear of the leather, then blurring again as I shot my hand as far away from me as I could, fired down the street, and spun myself away from the building. I fired again, and the street lamp above my head smashed into bits. Then I was in a deep doorway, crouched, waiting, while ribbons of light cut creases in the wall where I'd been.

That was how it began. There were endless minutes of silence, and then someone would drag a heel or kick a step. There'd be the kick of my gun against my palm, and once, the count on their side dropped from five to four.

A dot of light flickered from behind a high gutter, and rock chipped off a wall near my head. I ducked, kissed the sidewalk with my belly, slithered down a flight of steps to a basement alcove, rolled over, and slid behind the stone. On the way down, I fired back, and I heard a rasp of metal on stone. Not the momentary rake of a belt buckle or button, but a gun, dragging its muzzle against curbing while the man who'd fired it kicked his life away in the gutter. I heard it drop the last inch to the street.

* * * * *

I knew they'd be flanking me pretty soon. I heard cloth whisper as two of them slipped off to each side. The fellow they'd left behind began firing from all angles, weaving back and forth to cover them. He put too much pattern in his weave, though, and that was his mistake. The pattern broke, and became random as the guns spun out of his hands before he could even realize there was a shot coming.

Two! I rolled away from behind the steps, crouched, and padded away on the balls of my feet. My boots had special sponge soles on them, but even so, a lance of blue slashed from down the street against my calf. I plowed into the sidewalk, furrowing my face and tearing meat off the knuckles wrapped around my gun. I tried not to catch my breath too loudly as I dragged myself behind the ornamental outcrop of the bannister on the next flight of steps.

My leg felt like there was a railroad spike driven into it, and my knuckles were numb and stiff. I worked my fingers to keep them from freezing up on me, even though jolts of pain came up and hammered at the backs of my eyes. My face felt wet and itchy. I lay there, waiting.

I got one more of them. He decided I was dead, and poked his pale face out against a black wall. The face vanished in a burst of red, and he sprawled back. I chuckled.

There wasn't much I could do but chuckle. The one guy left had me cold. I had no idea where he was, but he'd seen the flash of my gun. I couldn't shift position fast enough or quietly enough to get away. All I could do was lie there.

He took a chance and jumped me. I never heard him coming.

A gun bounced off my head, and I went under--But not before I looked up and saw that it was Pat herself.

III

I remember lying on my back for quite awhile before I wanted to open my eyes. I knew I wasn't on the street. The air was warm, and heated, and I was on a bed, or something like it. My leg was giving me hell where it had been burned, but I could feel the pressure of a bandage. I couldn't tell about my hand and face--they felt as if something had been done about them, too, but I couldn't find out for sure without looking or touching them, and I didn't want to do that yet.

_Why the hell had Pat jumped me?_ I couldn't figure it.

I opened my eyes, and she was standing over me, a gun dangling from one hand. I threw a look at my watch, and saw I'd been out a half hour, at most.

"What the hell--" I began.

She cut me off with a gesture of the gun. "Shut up," she said wearily. "You'll have plenty of time to start lying later." She grimaced with tired disgust.

I shook my head, but I knew better than to go on talking. There was anger working its way into the hurt look in her eyes.

I got up, ignoring the feeling in my calf, and noticed several other things. I'd been lying on a low couch. My flying boots were unzipped, so that I couldn't move faster than a shuffle. The coveralls were loose around my waist where my harness had been.

I pressed my left upper arm against my ribs. As far as I could tell, they hadn't found my insurance policy--a little singleshot burner hidden between two of my ribs under a strip of what looked like skin. There was collodion on my face, and tape on my knuckles.

"Happy?" she asked.

"Uh-huh. I'm Prince Charming, you're Snow White, and, as far as I can add up, somebody's fresh out of dwarves. What's going on around here, anyway?"

"You double-crossed me, that's what happened. We made a deal, and you sold out on it!" She was working herself to boiling mad, clear through--and that explained why she'd looked at me the way she had.

I shook my head again, trying to clear it. I was getting mad myself.

"Look, Pat, I can take just so much mysterious crap, and no more," I said, feeling the blood starting to work itself into my face. "I got in from Venus, after winding up one of the prettiest insurrections you ever saw. I got my belly full of the sound of guns and the smell of death, and all I wanted to do was relax and spend the dough I made. No sooner do I take my first drink of decent liquor in six months than you walk up to me and start the goddamdest mess I've ever been in!

"All right--we made a deal. As far as I know, I've carried out the orders you gave me. I got the job for Transolar, and I started it. Nobody but you and I know there's something funny going on, though I suppose the cops are starting to suspect--seeing as I've killed five men in two days, and helped you knock off two more. Now let's get a few things straight around here! I've been shot at, slugged, and generally treated like a supporting star in a cloak and dagger movie. Either I get some fast answers, or I start slugging!"

I'd been moving forward as I talked, getting madder and madder, and closer to being ready to dive for that gun and rip it out of her hand.

She was starting to lose some of her determination. The gun muzzle was dipping. I reached out my hand.

The gun was centered on me again in an instant, but the fire was gone out of her eyes.

"Hold it, Ash!" she said. "You sound too mad to be lying, but you haven't convinced me yet. Just stay put a minute. You want to know what's going on? You should have a pretty fair idea by now," she went on, still keeping the gun on me. "I'm after that power pile you're supposed to fly out to Titan. Harry needs it."

* * * * *

I should have known, I suppose. Well, maybe she was still space-struck. Thorsten played rough, and he had some strange friends, but so far he hadn't earned a full-scale visit from the TSN. It didn't mean as much in this case, though. He would have been a tough nut to crack, sitting out there in the Asteroids with a good-sized fleet behind him. Still--

But that was for another time. I let her see by my face that the subject wasn't closed, and then I went on.

"Yeah--keep talking. Who jumped you on Rocket Row last night? Why were you trying to pot me a while ago?"

"Because--goddam it, I don't know _what_ to think!" she said. "Those were SBI men last night. I knew they were trailing me, but I thought I'd gotten rid of them before I contacted you. Maybe I did--maybe they picked me up again when I went back out on the street. Anyway, we killed them, but the SBI knows damn well who did it. We did enough yelling back and forth to let all of New York City know who it was."

That had been a dumb play, all right. I didn't have time to curse my stupidity, though. I didn't care one bit for the idea of me having shot an SBI man. It was his own fault, but it wouldn't help my record any.

"All right," I said, "so they were SBI men. That's tough--for them."

"Why haven't we been picked up? I've been hiding out all day--but how did you get away with walking in Transolar in broad daylight and coming out again, if you didn't make some kind of deal?" She was gnawing on her lip. "Damn it, give me a reasonable explanation, and I'll forget the whole thing."

That sent me off. I knew why I hadn't been picked up, all right--they were waiting for me to blow this deal open for them. Maybe, if I did that, they'd forget I'd killed one of them. I'd have to do a really good job, though.

But I wasn't doing too much reasoning, right then. I'd been mad all night, but that was nothing to what I felt right then.

I could feel a big red ball of pure rage building up inside me. My fingers started to tremble, and my vision got hazy.

I swung out my hand and slapped the muzzle of the gun as hard as I could, and to hell with what it did to my bum hand. The gun went spinning away, taking skin off her fingers as it went, and crashed into a wall. I swung my hand back and slapped her across the face. She fell back and hit the floor. She lay huddled in a corner, looking up at me, her eyes wide and her mouth open with surprise.

"You'll forget the whole thing, huh? All I have to do is explain away some half-baked idea that came into your head, and you'll forgive me, is that it?" I reached down, grabbed her shoulder, pulled her to her feet, and held her there. Her mouth was still open, and she couldn't get any words out of her throat.

"You're going to _forgive_ me for getting me into a deal that involves killing SBI men. You're going to forgive me for having a guy that used to be a buddy of mine hate my guts, I suppose. You're going to forgive me for slapping my face, and I'm going to get your gracious pardon for having to fight it out for my life tonight against five guns. That's just fine! Is that supposed to cover getting shot and knocked around and slugged?"

I hauled back and slapped her again. "And that's for pointing a gun at me! Twice. I live by a gun, and I expect to die by one, someday. But not at the hands of a woman who can't fight a man on his own terms, and has to keep him off with a gun after she gets herself into a mess. All right--you know how to use one. But, so help me, you wave one of those things at me again, and I'll ram it down your throat catty-cornered!"

I pushed her away, and she slammed back against the wall. "One more thing," I said. "Have you ever heard of the SBI fooling around making deals with a guy that's killed one of their men? Not on your life! They're a tough crew, and a smart one. If they thought I had anything to do with that fracas last night, I'd be on my way to a Federal gas chamber right now, if I was lucky enough to live through the working-over they'd give me! Use your brains!"

She stood against the wall, staring at me, making sounds in her throat. One of her cheeks was starting to puff.

I started for her again. Her eyes got even wider.

"Ash!"

Her voice was high and frightened. Somehow, it cut through the deadly anger in my chest, and made me stop.

"Ash! Please--Ash--I...." She put her hands up to her face and stood there, sobbing into them.

My nails were digging into my palms. I opened my hands, and saw blood running over my knuckles where the tape had torn away. There was some of my blood on her dress, where I'd grabbed her shoulder.

"Ash! Please--I'm sorry--It--it's just that I didn't know what to think."

I don't know how I got over to her, but then I had my arms around her, and she was digging her teeth into the cloth of my shoulder, and sobbing.

"Pat, why do you have to be this way? Why can't you--" I was saying, and stroking that red-brown hair. She wasn't a tough, self-assured woman who could gun a man down without blinking. She was a soft, hurt, crying girl, mumbling through tears, her body shaking.

I wasn't a guy who'd fought his way through a war and countless battles since, either.

She pulled her face away from me, and looked up. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't scared any more.

I looked down at her. I started to say something, but she stopped me.

"I had it coming, Ash," she said softly. "I didn't trust you. I should have known better."

She half-smiled. "I haven't met too many people who could get worked up over not being trusted."

I couldn't look at her. I was going to have to turn her over to the SBI some day, and I couldn't look at her.

"Ash, remember the night you spanked me? Remember what you did first?"

I felt her hand on my face, turning it. Then she was kissing me, her lips soft and fresh, her wet face under my glance, her long lashes down over closed eyes. Her arms moved on my back, and her body was as light as a dream in my arms.

My own eyes closed.

IV

Flight coveralls are designed to be airtight when fully zipped. Hoods with transparent face-plates and oxygen leads can be hermetically sealed to the collars, and every ship has emergency plug-ins for the oxygen tubes. In combat, all spacemen keep their hoods thrown back, like mackinaw hoods, so that if a hole is blown in the hull, they can slip the hoods on and plug into the emergency oxygen supply. Struggling into a full-dress spacesuit is too complicated a job to entrust to the few frantic minutes that spell the difference between life and death, and meanwhile, the coveralls are far more comfortable in flight.

Besides, anyone who'd seen what a spacesuit does to a figure like Pat's will agree that it's a dirty shame.

While Pat was climbing into her outfit, I was outlining the plan we'd have to follow. As long as I was going to go along with this offer of hers, temporarily, at least, I might as well do it right.

"I got into a cab accident, or something," I said. "That accounts for the shape I'm in. You're an old friend of mine, and since I'm in no condition to fly and fight at the same time, I'm taking you along as co-pilot.

"Weidmann'll stick me for your pay, of course. I'll make sure he does--that way there won't be much kick about you coming along, especially if I make it a 'both or neither' proposition.

"When we get out in space, you show me how to get to Thorsten's bubble in the Asteroids, and that's it. We deliver the pile charge, shoot back out into space, fake the signs of a big battle, and yell for help over the radio. There'll be a squawk about you being a woman then, of course, but hell, us spacebums are supposed to be devil-may-care, aren't we?"

It was a great little plan, all right. It would give SBI the location of Thorsten's base, and it wouldn't hold up delivery of the pile charge any longer than it would take to salvage it. Meanwhile, space would be rid of Harry.

"Sounds like it'll work, all right," she said. "I wish I was surer the SBI didn't have anything big on me. It'll be a bad enough stink as it is." She grinned. "But we'll make out."

* * * * *

Weidmann was out at the field, fuming over the fact that I was an hour and a half late.

He surprised me, though. He didn't boggle over taking Pat along, once I gave him a story about being lightly hit by a car and having to take my friend along.

Pat had had a tight cloth strapped across her breasts, her hood over her face, and I'd gotten her into the ship fast.

"Okay, okay, who gives a damn what happens to you, as long as the job's done," Weidmann said, but I couldn't believe him, somehow, when he added, "I don't even care who does it, personally."

He slipped an envelope into my pocket. "Something for you," he said. "Don't open it until you're past Mars, and don't let your friend see it--for awhile, anyway." He chuckled, and surprised me by doing it. He looked secretly happy over something, as if he knew about something awful that was going to happen to me. "You'll have some sweet explaining to do to your friend, Holcomb. I'd love to see it." But there was still that note of something more than laughter, more than most feelings, in his voice.

He wouldn't say more than that. He just shoved me into the ship and slammed the hatch.

I kept watching him in the starboard screens as we checked off the instrument board. He was a little figure at the edge of the field, staring wistfully up at the ship, his mechanical arm in his pocket.

I couldn't wait until we were past Mars to open the letter, of course. We'd be too close to the Belt by then. I read it while Pat was at the controls.

_Holcomb_:

_I don't know exactly why--except that you're the best there is, I guess--but you've been picked for this job._

_As you may have guessed, Transolar Express is a blind for some pretty big Government bureaus. This isn't a ship the TSN cancelled, of course. It's a top-secret job built according to the specifications laid down by the Titan labs._

_When you hit Titan, turn the ship over to the technicians there, and they'll install the additional equipment that's part of your cargo of "pile fuels." The rest of your load really is fuel, but it's not meant for the Titan pile--it's for the engines in the ship._

_When it's ready, you'll fly the ship to God knows where. You won't refuse, I know, because I wouldn't either, if I'd been given the chance to fly the first ship into hyperspace._

_Luck,

Weidmann._

When I'd finished it, I went back to the engine room and took a look at the drive. Then I went to the cargo compartment and stood looking at the hatches. They were sealed--welded shut.

I went back up forward, and waited until Pat had to leave the controls for a few minutes.

The minute she dropped through the hatch I was over at an emergency tool kit, and a few seconds later I was ripping off bulkhead panels with a screwdriver. I got a fast look at banks of dials and instruments, and slapped the panels back up before Pat got back. Then I went down to my cabin and just sat on a bunk, staring at the wall.

That cocky little bastard! That frozen-faced terrier of a man, cursing me with all his heart because I was getting the chance he'd have had, if he hadn't given his right arm too soon!

And he had wished me luck.

I was proud, then, of being an Earthman, of being a fighting man, of having earned the right to get my name in the history books.

I stood there, a big dumb jack-ass.

All of a sudden, it had hit me. I'd been asking a lot of questions lately, and getting only partial answers. Now I had all the answers, and I hated every one of them.

The misdirection and lying on Weidmann's part was clear as a bell. It had been designed to get me off Earth and headed for Titan without anybody knowing the real reasons--even me. They knew that if the real secret ever leaked out, every renegade and pirate in the system would swarm down, battling to the death to get their hands on this ship.

So they pulled the purloined letter gag. They hid the ship and its mission in plain sight. They sent me off in her to deliver the engine parts to where the hyperspatial drive could be assembled, and from there I'd be able to fly her to whatever star they chose, ghosting along in a universe where the speed of light as we knew it was not the fastest speed a ship could hit.

They'd given me a good excuse, too. "Pile fuels!" A big enough cargo to justify using me and a special ship, but not so big that I couldn't handle the opposition I'd get from the Belt gangs, who'd fight for it, sure, but who'd try a lot less hard, and discourage a lot easier, than they would if they knew what was really up.

The only trouble with that was that they did know.

Sure--what else could it be? Earth was thick with two-bit sneaks and spies who sold information to anybody with the price. Even Earth government thought enough of them to cook up this big production. One of them must have dug deeper than anyone thought.

Thorsten knew, that was a cinch. He knew so well, that he hadn't even wanted to chance a fight out in space, where the drive might get shot up. He'd sent Pat out to decoy me into him.

* * * * *

I stood there, cursing, my big fists closed into sledges. Pat--Pat, that beautiful, wonderful actress. Pat, who was death with a gun and arson for me with her lips.

All my life, I'd been getting mad at people and things. During the war, I was crazy mad at Marties. Afterward, I was mad at anybody who wanted to push other people around. I got mad at Pat, because I thought she was playing me for a sucker.

And Pat had taught me what hatred could do. She'd given me love to replace it.

And played me for a sucker.

I stood there--Ash Holcomb, the toughest man in space, maybe. Not the smartest--no, not the smartest. The dumbest, the stupidest chump who'd ever fallen for the oldest gag in history.

And nobody knew about it. Back on Earth, they were sure they'd gotten away with it. Even Weidmann--Weidmann with the grin, Mort Weidmann who had gone helling around in a hundred dives with me, who didn't need obvious signs like long hair or breasts to spot a woman's figure--he thought everything was all right, too. He was probably shaking his head with envy, back on Earth, thinking of all the fun I'd be having in hyperspace.

Nobody knew the mess the System was in, except me. And nobody could do anything about it, now, except me.

That thought knocked me out of the raging mood I had been working myself into. I couldn't afford to lose my head.