His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

They slowed acceleration far in advance of the other vessel; that was another contract tied up and in the bag. The captain relaxed—That Adams girl …of course she couldn't handle a ship. Anybody could make a not too disastrous takeoff, but she'd smear hell for leather when she tried to land.

A signal light flashed on his board, and he snapped on his communication beam. There was a long pause while the power built up, then a voice from the grid

"Scow Bluebell calling scow Leigh Salvage, Incorporated. Give way.

We're going to pass you in your first quadrant. That's all."

Jerry gaped. Unheard of? "Scow Leigh to Bluebell!' he snapped. "Listen, insane female; you're not driving a French taxi. There are ethics and rules in this game we're playing. Do you want to be blackballed and become an outlaw tug?" There was another reason than need of that cargo for his anger—maybe, just maybe, she could get back onto the field without busting herself wide open if she were alone, but with a cargo as big as the Carpathia she wouldn't have a chance in a million.

He thought of what a short towing line could do, and grimaced.

"We're passing, Scow Leigh. That's all." The light on his board died.

That was all. Well for her sake …and for his own—

"Full speed ahead, and then some more, Sven. It's a race."

But it wasn't much of a race; the Bluebells port fin exploded, and her acceleration stopped. Jerry grinned. "We'll pick her up on the way back and leave her ship there. The farther apart those two are, the safer for both of them …Hey! Stations! Hulk Carpathia ahead!" And the salvage ship jockeyed for position, drew alongside of the bullion transport and clamped on with a clash of metal against metal. The crew prepared to board.

3 Crime in Space

Jerry reached for the phone, his brow grooved. "Broadway three thousand," he said. The voice with the smile answered, "One moment, please," giving him time to reflect on the superfluity of machinery. Less efficient than a dial-phone, maybe, but that touch of warmth and humanity— "Here's your party, sir."

"Central Office, Interplanetary Police."

"This is Captain Leigh, of Leigh Salvage, Incorporated. I wanted to see you about—"

"About the peculiar state of the Carpathia. Come on up."

"Yeah," said Jerry, baffled. "That's what I wanted to see you about."

How did they know? And maybe they had a lead on the vanished Miss Alice Adams? He hoped so.

He was received in the offices of the Interplanetary Police by a very old man who introduced himself as Major Skeane. Jerry took a seat and opened the valise he had brought. "I don't know how much you know about the business of the Carpathia," he said, "so I'll begin at the beginning. Please examine these—exhibit A."

"These" were the contents of his valise—small, heavy chunks of metal.

Skeane grunted. "Once spheres," he said, "apparently cast in a shot tower; then sandblasted to suggest natural formations. Some filed by hand, even. These, I take it, were the particles that wrecked the bullion ship?"

Jerry wet his lips. "Yes," he said. "It looks like a put-up job for sure. And Alice—that's Master Adams, of the scow Bluebell—she's disappeared.

We were racing her for the Carpathia and she broke down about half a million kilos from the hulk. I meant to pick her up on the way out to Mars and maybe tow her ship in, too, but when we got grapples on her we found her scow deserted—not a man left on her! Have you people got any dope on that business?"

Major Skeane scratched his head. "Captain," he said, "I'm sorry to inform you that while you do not jump to false conclusions, neither do you shine in the formulation of true ones. Do you see no logical relationship between the two events?"

Jerry considered, and paled. "None," he said angrily. "And instead of antilogising, you might be out hunting down the swine that would try to profit by the deaths of two score men."

"The rebuke is undeserved," smiled the old man. "We have the wrecker of the bullion ship—or a least we know who did it, and how."

"Anybody I know?" asked Jerry.

"I believe so. The saboteur is Miss Adams, of Bluebell."

The younger man stiffened in his chair. "No!" he cried. And then persuasively, "she might be crazy as a flea, but wrecking—never!"