Merchanter's Luck

No. Out again. There was not that much time. He shut the water off, staggered out into the chill air and gathered clothes from the locker there. He half-dried, pulled the coveralls on and wiped his wet hair back from his eyes. The pulser, waterproof, had not alerted him: Lucy was still all right. He went out into the corridor with an armload of towels and disinfectant and went back to clean up the pit, smothering the queasiness in his stomach.

He disposed of all the untidiness, another trip back to storage and disposal, then came back and fell into the cushion that stank now of disinfectant… shut his eyes, wilted into the contours, fighting sleep with a careful periodic fluttering of his eyelids.

They already had his ID, lying though that was. It was automatic in Lucy’s computer squeal, never ceasing. He had the station scan image from the buoy, estimates of the positions of all the ships in Pell System, large and small—and when he brought his mind to focus on that, on the uncommon number of them, a disturbance wended its way through his consciousness, a tiny ticking alarm at the scope of what he was seeing. Ships in numbers more than expectation. Traffic patterns, lanes in great complexity, shuttle routes for approach to the world of Downbelow, to moons and mining interests. A collection of merchanters, who got together to set rates and to threaten Union with strikes; who served Union ports and disdained the combines… That was all it had been. But it had grown, expanded beyond his recollections. Sol trade—sounded half fanciful, until now.

Harder to run a scam here, if they were short and overcrowded. Or it might even be easier, if station offices were too busy to run checks, if they were getting such an influx on the strength of these rumors that a ship with questionable papers could lose itself in the dataflow… no, it was just a matter of rethinking the approach and the tactics…

“This is Pell central,” a sudden voice reached him, and the pulser stung him mercilessly, confusing him for the instant which to reach for first. He shut the pulser down, keyed in the mike, leaning forward. “You have come in at velocity above limit. Consult regulations regarding Pell operational restrictions, section 2, number 22. This is live transmission. Further instruction assumes you have brought your speed within tolerance and keep to lane. If otherwise, patrol will be moving on intercept and your time is limited to make appropriate response. Query why this approach? Identify immediately… We are now picking up your initial dump, Lucy. Please confirm ID and make all appropriate response.”

It was all ancient chatter, from the moment of station’s reception of his entry, the ru

“We don’t pick up voice, Lucy. Query why silence.”

He reached lethargically for the com and punched in, frightened in this pricklishness on station’s part. “This is Stevens’ Lucy inbound on 4579 your zenith on buoy assigned lane. I confirm your contact, Pell central. Had a little com trouble.” This was a transparent lie, standard for any ship illicitly out of contact. “Please acknowledge reception.” In his ear, Pell was still talking, constant flow now, telling him what it perceived so that he would know where he was on the timeline. “Appreciate your distress, Pell central. This is Stevens talking, of Stevens’ Lucy, merchanter of Wyatt’s Star Combine, US 48-335 Y. Had a scare on entry, minor malfunction, put me out of contact a moment. I’m all right now. Had a backup engaged, no further difficulty. Please give approach and docking instructions. I’m solo on this run and wanting a sleepover, Pell central. I appreciate your assistance. Over.”

Communication from Pell ran on, an overlapping jabber now, as the com board gave up trying to compress it and created two flows that would drive a sane man mad. He slumped in the seat which embraced him and held his aching bones, unforgiving even in its softest places. He blinked from time to time, kept his eyes open, to make sure the lines on the approach graph matched. He listened for key words out of the com flow, but Pell seemed convinced now that he was honest—still possible, another, dimmer voice insisted in his head, that some patrol ship could pop up out of nowhere, meaning business.

Station op, in the long hours, began to send him questions and instructions. He was on the verge of hallucinating. Once station queried him sharply, and he woke in a sweat, eyes sca

“You all right, Lucy?” the voice was asking him. “Lucy, what’s going on out there?”

“All right,” he murmured. “I’m here. Receiving you clear. Say again, Pell central?”

Getting in was nightmare. It was like trying to line up a jump blind drunk. He stared slackjawed at the screens and did the hairbreadth lineup maneuvers on visual alone, which no larger ship could have dared try, but he was far too fuzzed to use comp and read it out, only to take its automated warnings, which never came. He was proud of himself with a manic satisfaction as he made the final touch, like the same drunk successfully walking a straight line: only one beep out of comp in the whole process, and Lucy nestled into the lockto dead center.

He was so satisfied he just sat there. Dockside com came on and told him to open his docking ports, and his hands were shaking so violently he had trouble getting the caps off the switches.

“This is Pell customs and dock security,” another voice came through. “Have your papers ready for inspection.”

He reached for com. “Pell customs, this is Stevens of Lucy. We’ve come in without cargo due to a scheduling foulup at Viking. You’re welcome to check my holds. I’m Wyatt’s Star Combine. I’m carrying just ship-consumption goods. Papers are ready.” He tried to gather his nerves to face official questions, suddenly recalled the gold stored in a drop panel in the aftmost hold, and his stomach turned over. He reached and opened the docking access in answer to a blinking light and a repeated request from dock crews on the shielded-line cha

A pause. “Lucy, this is Pell Dock Authority. Are you all right aboard? Do you need medical assistance?”

“Negative, Pell Dock Authority.”

“Query why solo?”

He was too muddled to think. “Just limped in, Pell Dock.” The fear was back, a knot clenched in the vicinity of his stomach. “This is a hired-crew ship. My last crew met relatives on Viking and ran out on me. I had no choice but to take her out myself; and I couldn’t get cargo. I limped in all right, but I’m pretty tired.”

There was a long silence. It frightened him as all thoughtful reactions did, and sent a charge of adrenalin through him. “Congratulations, then, Lucy. Lucky you got here at all. Any special assistance needed?”

“No, ma’am. Just want a sleepover. Except—is Reilly’s Dublin at dock? Got a friend I want to find.”

“That’s affirmative on Dublin, Lucy. Been in dock two days. Any message?”

“No, I’ll find her.”

A silence. “Right, Lucy. We’ll want to talk to you about dock charges, but we can do the paperwork tomorrow if you’re willing to leave your ship under Pell Security seal.”

“Yes, ma’am. But I need to come by your exchange and arrange credit”

A pause. “That was WSC, Lucy?”

“Wyatt’s Star, yes, ma’am. A twenty, that’s all. Just a drink, a sandwich, and a place to sleep. Want to open an account for WSC at Pell. Transfer of three thousand Union scrip. I can cover it.”

Another pause. “No difficulty, Lucy. You just leave her open all the way and we’ll put our own security on it while customs checks her. What’s your Alliance ID?”