The stranger halted, drumming his fingers on his wide, pocket-walled belt. It was plain he was annoyed at not finding the commander of the Queen on board.
“When will he be back?”
“Don’t know,” Wilcox was not cordial. Apparently he had not taken a fancy to the caller.
“You are open to charter?” was the other’s surprising inquiry.
“You’ll have to see the Captain—” Wilcox’s coolness grew.
The tattoo of fingers on the belt became faster. “All right, I’ll see your Captain! Where is he—can you tell me that?”
A second scooter was approaching the Queen and there was no mistaking the bulk of its driver. Van Rycke was returning to the ship. Wilcox had sighted him too.
“You’ll know in a minute. Here’s our Cargo-Master—”
“So—” the man swung around on the ramp, his lithe body moving with trained speed.
Dane grew intent. This stranger was an intriguing mixture. His dress was that of a pioneer-explorer, his movements those of a trained fighting man. Dane’s memory presented him with a picture—the exercise ground at the Pool on a hot summer afternoon. That under swing of the arm—the betraying hunch of the shoulder—This fellow was a force-blade man—and a practised one! But force-blades—illegal—no civilian was supposed to be familiar with their use.
Van Rycke circled the waiting scooter which had delivered the stranger and came at his usual ponderous pace up the ramp.
“Looking for someone?”
“Is your ship up for charter?” the stranger asked for the second time.
Van Rycke’s bushy brows twitched. “Any Trader is always open to a good deal,” he answered calmly. “Thorson—” his attention swept past the other’s impatience to Dane, “go in to the Green Whirly Bird and ask Captain Jellico to return—”
Dane ran down the ramp and got into Van Rycke’s scooter. He glanced back as he put the small vehicle in gear and saw that the stranger was now following the Cargo-Master into the Queen.
The Green Whirly Bird was half cafe, half restaurant and Captain Jellico was seated at a table near the door, talking to the dark man who had bid for Limbo at the auction. But as Dane came into the murky room the other Trader shook his head firmly and got to his feet. The Captain made no move to detain him, only shoved the tankard before him an inch or so to the right, concentrating upon that action as if it were some intricate process he must master.
“Sir—” Dane dared to put a hand on the table to attract attention.
The Captain looked up, and his eyes were bleak and cold. “Yes?”
“There’s a man at the Queen, sir. He’s asking about a charter. Mr. Van Rycke sent me for you—”
“Charter!” The tankard went over on its side, to bump to the floor. Captain Jellico flung a piece of the local metal money on the table and was already on his way to the door, Dane hurrying after him.
Jellico took control of the scooter, starting off at a wild pace.
But before they had gone the length of the street the Captain slowed and when they drew up before the Queen no one could have guessed they were in a hurry.
It was two hours later that the crew assembled once more to hear the news. And the stranger sat with Jellico as the Captain told the crew of their luck.
“This is Dr. Salzar Rich,” he made a brief introduction. “He is one of the Federation experts on Forerunner remains. It seems that Limbo isn’t such a flame out after all, men. The Doctor informs me that Survey located some quite sizeable ruins on the northern hemisphere. He’s chartered the Queen to transport his expedition there—”
“And,” Van Rycke smiled benignly, “this in no way interferes with our own trading rights. We shall have a chance to explore too.”
“When do we lift?” Johan Strotz wanted to know.
“When can you be ready, Dr. Rich?” Jellico turned to the archaeologist.
“As soon as you can stow my equipment and men, Captain. I can bring my supplies up right away.
Van Rycke got to his feet. “Thorson.” He brought Dane to him with that call, “we’ll make ready to load. Send in your material as soon as you wish, Doctor.”
CHAPTER FOUR:
LIMBO LANDING
During the next few hours Dane learned more in practice about the stowage of cargo than he had ever been taught in theory at the Pool. And, cramped as the crew of the Queen were, they also discovered that they must find space for not only Rich but for three assistants as well.
The supplies went into the large cargo hold, most of the work being volunteer labour on the part of Rich’s men, since the Doctor hammered home the fact that delicate instruments and perishable goods were included and he had no intention of allowing any of the boxes to be tossed about by the hustlers hired by the Field.
But inside the ship the final stowage of material was, as Van Rycke speedily let him know, solely the problem of the crew. And they could do it without any amateur advice. So Dane and Kosti sweated, swore and tugged, with the Cargo-Master himself not above lending a hand, until all the supplies were in place according to the mechanics of weight for take-off. Then they sealed the hatch for the duration of the flight.
On their way up they discovered Mura in the smaller cargo compartment rigging space hammocks for Rich’s assistants. The accommodations were crude, but the archaeologist had been warned of that before he had thumbprinted the charter contract—the Queen had no extra passenger cabins. And none of the newcomers were grumbling.
Like their leader they were a type new to Dane, giving an impression of tough endurance—a quality which, he supposed, was very necessary in any field man sent out to prospect on strange worlds for the relics of vanished races. One of them wasn’t even human—the green-tinted skin and hairless head stamped him a Rigellian. But his faintly scaled body, in spite of its odd sinuosity, was clad just like the others. Dane was trying not to stare at him when Mura came up and touched his arm.
“Dr. Rich is in your cabin. You’ve been moved into the store cubby—along here—”
A little irked by being so high-handedly assigned to new quarters, Dane followed Mura down to the domain which was the steward’s own. There was the galley, the food storage freezers, and, beyond, the hydro garden which was half Mura’s concern, half Tau’s, as air officer.
“Dr. Rich,” Mura explained as they went, “asked to be near his men. He made quite a point of it—”
Dane looked down at the small man. Just why had Mura added that last?
More than any of the crew Mura presented an enigma to Dane. The steward was of Japanese descent—and the apprentice had been familiar from his early training days with the terrifying story of what had happened to those islands which had once existed across the sea from his own native country. Volcanic action, followed by tidal waves, had overwhelmed a whole nation in two days and a night—so that Japan had utterly ceased to be—washed from the maps of Terra.
“Here,” Mura reached the end of the corridor and waved Dane through a half-open panel.
The steward had made no effort to decorate the walls of his private quarters, and the extreme neatness of the cabin tended to have a bleak effect. But on a pull-down table rested a globe of plasta-crystal and what it contained drew Dane’s attention.
A Terran butterfly, its jewelled wings spread wide, hung by some magic in the very centre of the orb, sealed so for all time, and yet giving every appearance of vibrant life.
Mura, noting Dane’s absorption, leaned forward and tapped the top of the globe lightly. In answer to that touch the wings seemed to quiver, the imprisoned beauty moved a fraction.
Dane drew a deep breath. He had seen the globe in the store room, he knew that Mura collected the insect life of a hundred worlds to fashion his balls—there were two others on board the Queen. One a tiny world, an aquatic one with fronds of weed curling to provide shelter for a school of gemmed insect-fish which were stalked by a weird creature two legged, two armed, but equipped with wing-like fins and a wicked pronged spear. That was in
