He knew that Wiggins, the second mate, would do his best. For himself he went with the skipper in search of Christie, the Fria trader. The way led through Twilight, the roofed settlement that was shielded from the hot, diamond-bright glare of the primary. It wasn’t big. But then Fria was an outpost, with a floating population of a few hundred. They came in and out with the ships and the harvest seasons. If necessary, Hilton thought, some of the bums could be shanghaied. Still, it wasn’t too likely that any of the crew would desert. None of them would be paid off till they were back in the Solar System.
They found Christie in his plasticoid cabin, a fat, bald, sweating man puffing at a huge meerschaum pipe. He looked up, startled, and then resignedly leaned back in his chair and waved them to seats.
“Hello Chris,” Danvers said. “What’s new?”
“Hello, Skipper. Hi, Logger. Have a good trip?”
“The landing wasn’t so good,” Hilton said.
“Yeah, I heard about it. Drinks?”
“Afterward,” Danvers said, though his eyes gleamed. “Let’s clean up the business first. Got a good shipment ready?”
Christie smoothed one of his fat, glistening cheeks. “Well—you’re a couple of weeks early.”
“You keep a stockpile.”
The trader grunted. “Fact is—look, didn’t you get my message? No, I guess there wasn’t time. I sent a spacemail on the Blue Sky last week for you, Skipper.”
Hilton exchanged glances with Danvers.
“You sound like bad news, Chris,” he said. “What is it?”
Christie said uncomfortably, “I can’t help it. You can’t meet competition like Transmat You can’t afford to pay their prices. You got running expenses on La Cucaracha. Jet-fuel costs dough, and—well, Transmat sets up a transmitting station, pays for it, and the job’s done, except for the power outlay. With atomic, what does that amount to?”
Danvers was growing red.
“Is Transmat setting up a station here?” Hilton said hastily.
“Yeah. I can’t stop ’em. It’ll be ready in a couple of months.”
“But why? The fungus isn’t worth it. There isn’t enough market. You’re pulling a bluff, Chris. What do you want? A bigger cut?”
Christie regarded his meerschaum. “Nope. Remember the ore tests twelve years ago? There’s valuable ores on Fria, Logger. Only it’s got to be refined plenty. Otherwise it’s too bulky for shipment. And the equipment would cost too much to freight by spaceship. It’s big stuff—I mean big.”
Hilton glanced at Danvers. The skipper was purple now, but his mouth was clamped tightly.
“But—hold on, Chris. How can Transmat get around that? By sending the crude ores to Earth in their gadgets?”
“The way I heard it,” Christie said, “is that they’re going to send the refining machines here and set ’em up right on Fria. All they need for that is one of their transmitters. The field can be expanded to take almost anything, you know. Shucks you could move a planet that way if you had the power! They’ll do the refining here and transmit the refined ores back Earthside.”
“So they want ores,” Danvers said softly. “They don’t want the fungus, do they?”
Christie nodded. “It looks like they do. I had an offer. A big one. I can’t afford to turn it down, and you can’t afford to meet it, Skipper. You know that as well as I do. Thirteen bucks a pound.”
Danvers snorted. Hilton whistled.
“No, we can’t meet that,” he said. “But how can they afford to pay it?”
“Quantity. They channel everything through their transmitters. They set one up on a world, and there’s a door right to Earth—or any planet they name. One job won’t net them much of a profit, but a million jobs—and they take everything! So what can I do, Logger?”
Hilton shrugged. The captain stood up abruptly.
Christie stared at his pipe.
“Look, Skipper. Why not try the Orion Secondaries? I heard there was a bumper crop of bluewood gum there.”
“I heard that a month ago,” Danvers said. “So did everybody else. It’s cleaned out by now. Besides, the old lady won’t stand a trip like that. I’ve got to get an overhaul fast, and a good one, back in the System.”
There was a silence. Christie was sweating harder than ever. “What about that drink?” he suggested. “We can maybe figure a way.”
“I can still pay for my own drinks,” Danvers lashed out. He swung around and was gone.
“Jehoshaphat, Logger!” Christie said. “What could I do?”
“It’s not your fault, Chris,” Hilton said. “I’ll see you later, unless—anyhow, I’d better get after the skipper. Looks like he’s heading for Twilight.”
He followed Danvers, but already he had lost hope.
III
Danvers Lays the Course
Two days later the skipper was still drunk.
In the half-dusk of Twilight Hilton went into a huge, cool barn where immense fans kept the hot air in circulation, and found Danvers, as usual, at a back table, a glass in his hand. He was talking to a tiny-headed Canopian, one of that retrovolved race that is only a few degrees above the moron level. The Canopian looked as though he was covered with black plush, and his red eyes glowed startlingly through the fur. He, too, had a glass.
Hilton walked over to the two. “Skipper,” he said.
“Blow,” Danvers said. “I’m talking to this guy.”
Hilton looked hard at the Canopian and jerked his thumb. The red-eyed shadow picked up his glass and moved away quickly. Hilton sat down.
“We’re ready to jet off,” he said.
Danvers blinked at him blearily. “You interrupted me, mister. I’m busy.”
“Buy a case and finish your binge aboard,” Hilton said. “If we don’t jet soon, the crew will jump.”
“Let ’em.”
“Okay. Then who’ll work La Cucaracha back to Earth?”
“If we go back to Earth, the old lady will land on the junk-pile,” Danvers
