He fumbled his hands self-consciously. “Awkward of me,” he said.
“It happens to the best of them,” the mechanic consoled. “Saturn sweeps in clouds of the stuff. Thicker than hell when you reach the Rings. Lots of ships pull in with punctures. Won’t take no time.”
Meek cleared his throat uneasily. “I’m afraid it’s more than a puncture. A pebble got into the instruments. Washed out some of them.”
The mechanic clucked sympathetically. “You’re lucky. Tough job to bring in a ship without all the instruments. Must have a honey of a navigator.”
“I haven’t got a navigator,” Meek said, quietly.
The mechanic stared at him, eyes popping. “You mean you brought it in alone? No one with you?”
Meek gulped and nodded. “Dead reckoning,” he said.
The mechanic glowed with sudden admiration. “I don’t know who you are, mister,” he declared, “but whoever you are, you’re the best damn pilot that ever took to space.”
“Really I’m not,” said Meek. “I haven’t done much piloting, you see. Up until just a while ago, I never had left Earth. Bookkeeper for Lunar Exports.”
“Bookkeeper!” yelped the mechanic. “How come a bookkeeper can handle a ship like that?”
“I learned it,” said Meek.
“You learned it?”
“Sure, from a book. I saved my money and I studied. I always wanted to see the Solar System and here I am.”
Dazedly, the mechanic took off his greasy cap, laid it carefully on the desk, reached out for a spacesuit that hung from a wall hook.
“Afraid this job might take a while,” he said. “Especially if we have to wait for parts. Have to get them in from Titan City. Why don’t you go over to the Inn. Tell Moe I sent you. They’ll treat you right.”
“Thank you,” said Meek, “but there’s something else I’m wondering about. There was another sign out there. Something about educated bugs.”
“Oh, them,” said the mechanic. “They belong to Gus Hamilton. Maybe belong ain’t the right word because they were on the rock before Gus took over. Anyhow, Gus is mighty proud of them, although at times they sure run him ragged. First year they almost drove him loopy trying to figure out what kind of game they were playing.”
“Game?” asked Meek, wondering if he was being hoaxed.
“Sure, game. Like checkers. Only it ain’t. Not chess, neither. Even worse than that. Bugs dig themselves a batch of holes, then choose up sides and play for hours. About the time Gus would think he had it figured out, they’d change the rules and throw him off again.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” protested Meek.
“Stranger,” declared the mechanic, solemnly, “there ain’t nothing about them bugs that make sense. Gus’ rock is the only one they’re on. Gus thinks maybe the rock don’t even belong to the Solar system. Thinks maybe it’s a hunk of stone from some other solar system. Figures maybe it crossed space somehow and was captured by Saturn, sucked into the Ring. That would explain why it’s the only one that has the bugs. They come along with it, see.”
“This Gus Hamilton,” said Meek. “I’d like to see him. Where could I find him?”
“Go over to the Inn and wait around,” advised the mechanic. “He’ll come in sooner or later. Drops around regular, except when his rheumatism bothers him, to pick up a bundle of papers. Subscribes to a daily paper, he does. Only man out here that does any reading. But all he reads is the sports section. Nuts about sports, Gus is.”
II
Moe, bartender at Saturn Inn, leaned his elbow on the bar and braced his chin in an outspread palm. His face wore a melancholy, hangdog look. Moe liked things fairly peaceable, but now he saw trouble coming in big batches.
“Lady,” he declared mournfully, “you sure picked yourself a job. The boys around here don’t take to being uplifted and improved. They ain’t worth it, either. Just ring-rats, that’s all they are.”
Henrietta Perkins, representative for the public health and welfare department of the Solar government, shuddered at his suggestion of anything so low it didn’t yearn for betterment.
“But those terrible feuds,” she protested. “Fighting just because they live in different parts of the Ring. It’s natural they might feel some rivalry, but all this killing! Surely they don’t enjoy getting killed.”
“Sure they enjoy it,” declared Moe. “Not being killed, maybe … although they’re willing to take a chance on that. Not many of them get killed, in fact. Just a few that get sort of careless. But even if some of them are killed, you can’t go messing around with that feud of theirs. If them boys out in sectors Twenty-Three and Thirty-Seven didn’t have their feud they’d plain die of boredom. They just got to have somebody to fight with. They been fighting, off and on, for years.”
“But they could fight with something besides guns,” said the welfare lady, a-smirk with righteousness. “That’s why I’m here. To try to get them to turn their natural feelings of rivalry into less deadly and disturbing channels. Direct their energies into other activities.”
“Like what?” asked Moe, fearing the worst.
“Athletic events,” said Miss Perkins.
“Tin shinny, maybe,” suggested Moe, trying to be sarcastic.
She missed the sarcasm. “Or spelling contests,” she said.
“Them fellow can’t spell,” insisted Moe.
“Games of some sort, then. Competitive games.”
“Now you’re talking,” Moe enthused. “They take to games. Seven-toed Pete with the deuces wild.”
The inner door of the entrance lock grated open and a spacesuited figure limped into the room. The spacesuit visor snapped up and a brush of grey whiskers spouted into view.
It was Gus Hamilton.
He glared at Moe. “What in tarnation is all this foolishness?” he demanded. “Got your message, I did, and here I am. But it better be important.”
He hobbled to the bar. Moe reached for a bottle and shoved it toward him, keeping out of reach.
“Have some trouble?” he asked, trying to be casual.
“Trouble! Hell, yes!” blustered Gus. “But I ain’t the only one that’s going to have trouble. Somebody sneaked over and stole
