Dark Benediction

‘conscience.”

“Oh—yeah.” Her dull tone indicated a complete lack of interest.

Again Roki wondered if she would think of making a quick bit of cash by informing Solarian officials of his identity. He began a mental search for a plan to avoid such possible treachery.

They ate and slept by the ship’s clock. On the tenth day, Roki noticed a deviation in the readings of the radiation-screen instruments. The shape of the screen shell was gradually trying to drift toward minimum torsion, and assume a spherical shape. He pointed it out jo Daleth, and she quickly made the necessary readjustments. But the output of the reactors crept a notch higher as a result of the added drain. Roki wore an apprehensive frown as the flight progressed.

Two days later, the screen began creeping again. Once more the additional power was applied. And the reactor output needle hung in the yellow band of warning. The field-generators were groaning and shivering with threatening overload. Roki worked furiously to locate the trouble, and at last he found it. He returned to the control cabin in a cold fury.

“Did you have this ship pre-flighted before blast-off?” he demanded.

Her mouth fluttered with amusement as she watched his anger. “Certainly, commander.”

He flushed at the worthless title. “May I see the papers?”

For a moment she hesitated, then fumbled in her pocket and displayed a folded pink paper.

“Pink!” he roared. “You had no business taking off!”

Haughtily, she read him the first line of the pre-flight report. “‘Base personnel disclaim any responsibility for accidents resulting from flight of Daleth Ship—’ It doesn’t say I can’t take off.”

“I’ll see you banned from space!” he growled.

She gave him a look that reminded him of his current status. It was a tolerant, amused stare. “What’s wrong, commander?”

“The synchronizers are out, that’s all,” he fumed. “Screen’s getting farther and farther from resonance.”

“So?”

“So the overload’ll get worse, and the screen’ll break down. You’ll have to drop back down out of the C- component and get it repaired.”

She shook her head. “We’ll chance it like it is. I’ve always wanted to find out how much overload the reactor’ll take.”

Roki choked. There wasn’t a chance of making it. “Are you a graduate space engineer?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then you’d better take one’s advice.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.”

“No! We’re going on.”

“Suppose I refuse to let you?”

She whirled quickly, eyes flashing. “I’m in command of my ship. I’m also armed. I suggest you return to your quarters, passenger.”

Roki sized up the situation, measured the determination in the girl’s eyes, and decided that there was only one thing to do. He shrugged and looked away, as if admitting her authority. She glared at him for a moment, but did not press her demand that he leave the control room. As soon as she glanced back at the instruments, Roki padded his rough knuckles with a handkerchief, selected a target at the back of her short crop of dark hair, and removed her objections with a short chopping blow to the head. “Sorry, friend,” he murmured as he lifted her limp body out of the seat.

He carried her to her quarters and placed her on the bunk. After removing a small needle gun from her pocket, he left a box of headache tablets in easy reach, locked her inside, and went back to the controls. His fist was numb, and he felt like a heel, but there was no use arguing with a Dalethian. Clubbing her to sleep was the only way to avoid bloodier mayhem in which she might have emerged the victor—until the screen gave way.

The power-indication was threateningly high as Roki activated the C-drive and began piloting the ship downward through the fifth component. But with proper adjustments, he made the process analogous to freefall, and the power reading fell off slowly. A glance at the C-maps told him that the Idiot would emerge far beyond the limits of Sixty-Star Cluster. When it re-entered the continuum, it would be in the general volume of space controlled by another interstellar organization called The Viggern Federation. He knew little of its culture, but certainly it should have facilities for repairing a set of screen-synchronizers. He looked up its capitol planet, and began jetting toward it while the ship drifted downward in C. As he reached lower energy-levels, he cut out the screen altogether and went to look in on Daleth Incorporated who had made no sound for two hours.

He was surprised to see her awake and sitting up on the bunk. She gave him a cold and deadly stare, but displayed no rage. “I should’ve known better than to turn my back on you.”

“Sorry. You were going to—”

“Save it. Where are we?”

“Corning in on Tragor III.”

“I’ll have you jailed on Tragor III, then.”

He nodded. “You could do that, but then you might have trouble collecting my fare from Beth.”

“That’s all right.”

“Suit yourself. I’d rather be jailed on your trumped-up charges than be a wisp of gas at ninety-thousand C’s.”

“Trumped up?”

“Sure, the pink pre-flight. Any court will say that whatever happened was your own fault. You lose your authority if you fly pink, unless your crew signs a release.”

“You a lawyer?”

“I’ve had a few courses in space law. But if you don’t believe me, check with the Interfed Service on Tragor III.”

“I will. Now how about opening the door. I want out.”

“Behave?”

She paused, then: “My promise wouldn’t mean anything, Roki. I don’t share your system of ethics.”

He watched her cool green eyes for a moment, then chuckled. “In a sense you do—or you wouldn’t have said that.” He unlocked the cabin and released her, not trusting her, but realizing that the synchronizers were so bad by now that she couldn’t attempt to go on without repairs. She could have no motive for turning on him—except anger perhaps.

“My gun?” she said.

Again Roki hesitated. Then, smiling faintly, he handed it to her. She took the weapon, sniffed scornfully, and cocked it.

“Turn around, fool!” she barked.

Roki folded his arms across his chest, and remained facing her. “Go to the devil,” he said quietly.

Her fingers whitened on the trigger. Still the Cophian failed to flinch, lose his smile, or move. Daleth Incorporated arched her eyebrows, uncocked the pistol, and returned it to her belt. Then she patted his cheek and chuckled nastily. “Just watch yourself, commander. I don’t like you.”

And he noticed, as she turned away, that she had a bump on her head to prove it. He wondered how much the bump would cost him before it was over. Treachery on Sol, perhaps.

The pilot called Tragor III and received instructions to set an orbital course to await inspection. All foreign ships were boarded before being permitted to land. A few hours later, a small patrol ship winged close and grappled to the hull. Roki went to manipulate the locks.

A captain and two assistants came through. The inspector was a young man with glasses and oversized ears. His eyebrows were ridiculously bushy and extended down on each side to his cheekbones. The ears were also filled with yellow brush. Roki recognized the peculiarities as local evolutionary tendencies; for they were shared also by