“You can borrow dough.”
“Ha!”
Hilton let out his breath with a sharp, angry sound. “Are you sober enough to understand me? Then listen. I’ve talked Saxon around.”
“Who’s Saxon?”
“He was shanghaied on Venus. Well—he’s a Transmat engineer.” Hilton went on quickly before the skipper could speak. “That was a mistake. The crimp’s mistake and ours. Transmat stands behind its men. Saxon looked up the Transmat crew on Fria, and their superintendent paid me a visit. We’re in for trouble. A damage suit. But there’s one way out. No hyper-ship’s due to hit Fria for months and the matter-transmitter won’t be finished within two months. And it seems Transmat has a shortage of engineers. If we can get Saxon back to Venus or Earth fast, he’ll cover. There’ll be no suit.”
“Maybe he’ll cover. But what about Transmat?”
“If Saxon won’t sign a complaint, what can they do?” Hilton shrugged. “It’s our only out now.”
Danvers’ brown-splotched fingers played with his glass.
“A Transmat man,” he muttered. “Ah‑h. So we go back Earthside. What then? We’re stuck.” He looked under his drooping lids at Hilton. “I mean I’m stuck. I forgot you’re jumping after this voyage.”
“I’m not jumping. I sign for one voyage at a time. What do you want me to do, anyhow?”
“Do what you like. Run out on the old lady. You’re no deep-space man.” Danvers spat.
“I know when I’m licked,” Hilton said. “The smart thing then is to fight in your own weight, when you’re outclassed on points, not wait for the knockout. You’ve had engineering training. You could get on with Transmat, too.”
For a second Hilton thought the skipper was going to throw the glass at him. Then Danvers dropped back in his chair, trying to force a smile.
“I shouldn’t blow my top over that,” he said, with effort. “It’s the truth.”
“Yeah. Well—are you coming?”
“The old lady’s ready to jet off?” Danvers said. “I’ll come, then. Have a drink with me first.”
“We haven’t time.”
With drunken dignity Danvers stood up. “Don’t get too big for your boots, mister. The voyage isn’t over yet. I said have a drink! That’s an order.”
“Okay, okay!” Hilton said. “One drink. Then we go?”
“Sure.”
Hilton gulped the liquor without tasting it. Rather too late, he felt the stinging ache on his tongue. But before he could spring to his feet, the great dim room folded down upon him like a collapsing umbrella, and he lost consciousness with the bitter realization that he had been Mickeyed like the rawest greenhorn. But the skipper had poured that drink. …
The dreams were confusing. He was fighting something, but he didn’t know what. Sometimes it changed its shape, and sometimes it wasn’t there at all, but it was always enormous and terribly powerful.
He wasn’t always the same, either. Sometimes he was the wide-eyed kid who had shipped on Starhopper, twenty-five years ago, to take his first jump into the Big Night. Then he was a little older, in a bos’n’s berth, his eye on a master’s ticket, studying, through the white, unchangeable days and nights of hyperspace, the intricate logarithms a skilled pilot must know.
He seemed to walk on a treadmill toward a goal that slid away, never quite within reach. But he didn’t know what that goal was. It shone like success. Maybe it was success. But the treadmill had started moving before he’d really got started. In the Big Night a disembodied voice was crying thinly:
“You’re in the wrong game, Logger. Thirty years ago you’d have a future in hyper-ships. Not any more. There’s a new wave coming up. Get out, or drown.”
A red-eyed shadow leaned over him. Hilton fought out of his dream. Awkwardly he jerked up his arm and knocked away the glass at his lips. The Canopian let out a shrill, harsh cry. The liquid that had been in the glass was coalescing in midair into a shining sphere.
The glass floated—and the Canopian floated too. They were in hyper. A few lightweight straps held Hilton to his bunk, but this was his own cabin, he saw. Dizzy, drugged weakness swept into his brain.
The Canopian struck a wall, pushed strongly, and the recoil shot him toward Hilton. The mate ripped free from the restraining straps. He reached out and gathered in a handful of furry black plush. The Canopian clawed at his eyes.
“Captain!” he screamed. “Captain Danvers!”
Pain gouged Hilton’s cheek as his opponent’s talons drew blood. Hilton roared with fury. He shot a blow at the Canopian’s jaw, but now they were floating free, and the punch did no harm. In midair they grappled, the Canopian incessantly screaming in that thin, insane shrilling.
The door-handle clicked twice. There was a voice outside—Wiggins, the second. A deep thudding came. Hilton, still weak, tried to keep the Canopian away with jolting blows. Then the door crashed open, and Wiggins pulled himself in.
“Dzann!” he said. “Stop it!” He drew a jet-pistol and leveled it at the Canopian.
On the threshold was a little group. Hilton saw Saxon, the Transmat man, gaping there, and other crew-members, hesitating, unsure. Then, suddenly, Captain Danvers’ face appeared behind the others, twisted, strained with tension.
The Canopian had retreated to a corner and was making mewing, frightened noises.
“What happened, Mr. Hilton?” Wiggins said. “Did this tomcat jump you?”
Hilton was so used to wearing deep-space armor that till now he had scarcely realized its presence. His helmet was hooded back, like that of Wiggins and the rest. He pulled a weight from his belt and threw it aside; the reaction pushed him toward a wall where he gripped a brace.
“Does he go in the brig?” Wiggins asked.
“All right, men,” Danvers said quietly. “Let me through.” He propelled himself into Hilton’s cabin. Glances of discomfort and vague distrust were leveled at him. The skipper ignored them.
“Dzann!” he said. “Why aren’t you wearing your armor? Put it on. The rest of you—get to your stations. You too, Mr. Wiggins. I’ll handle this.”
Still Wiggins hesitated. He started to say something.
“What are you waiting
