Merchanter's Luck

She bit at her lip, looked up the corridor, where Neill and Deirdre came down the horizon. “Sorry,” Neill said again; and Deirdre: “Who’s minding the ship?”

“He is.—What was it, around there?”

“Loft,” Deirdre said. She clenched her arms about her. “A mess —things ripped loose—panels askew—didn’t see all of it, just from the section door. Dark in there.—Allie…”

“I know,” she said. “I figured what was in there,” She thrust her hands into her pockets, started back.

“Where are you going?” Curran asked.

“To my cabin.” She looked back, straight at Curran, straight in the eyes. “I’m off. It’s your shift. Maybe you’d better get back to the bridge. I’ll be there—a while.”

Chapter XIII

Lucy had gotten along, ru

And if it was other Mazia

He headed for the shower, trusting the autopilot—a scandal to the Dubliners: he imagined that. They wore themselves out sitting watch and he walked off and left it. There were things that wanted doing—scrubbing and swabbing all over the ship, work less interesting to them, he was sure: but he began to think in the long term, a fleeting mode of thought that flickered through his reasonings and went out again. There was the loft—

They had never done anything about the loft, he and Ross and Mitri: no need of the space—Lucy was full of empty space; and walking there—they just avoided it. Put it on extreme powersave.

The cold kept curious crew out. When he was alone on the ship he had never gone past the galley. It was dead up there… until the Reillys started opening doors and violating seals. Opening up areas of himself in the process, like a surgery. He gathered his courage about it, the hour being morning: a man was in trouble who went to bed with panic and got up with it untransformed. He tried to look at it from other sides, think around the situation if not through it.

A little time, that was what he needed, to break the Reillys in and get himself used to them.

But the comp—

(Ross… they wouldn’t have given out that money for no reason. No one’s that rich, that they can spill half a million because a few of their people take a fancy to sign off—half a million for a parting-present…)

(People don’t throw money away like that. People aren’t like that.)

(Ross… I know what they want. I loved her, Ross, and I didn’t see; I was afraid—Pell would have taken the ship—and what could I do? But they think I’ve sold her; and maybe I have. What do I do, Ross?)

The warm water of the shower hit his body, relaxed the muscles: he turned up the cold on purpose, shocked himself awake. But when he had gotten out he had a case of the shivers, uncommonly violent… too little food, he reasoned; schedule upset. He reckoned on getting some of the concentrates: that was a way of eating without tasting it, getting some carbohydrates into his body and getting the shakes out.

They had to make jump tomorrow maindawn. He had to get himself strung back together. Mallory was not going to take excuses out there. Mallory wanted schedules and schedules she got

He dressed, shaved, dried his hair and went out into the corridor, back to the bridge.

Curran was sitting against a counter—Neill and Deirdre with him. “I’m for breakfast,” Sandor said. “I think we could leave her all right, just—”

“Want to talk to you,” Curran said. “Captain.”

He drew a deep breath, standing next to the scan console-leaned against it, too tired for this, but he nodded. “What?”

“We want to ask you for the keys. There’s a question of safety.

“We’ve all talked about it. We really have quite a bit of concern about it.”

“I’ve discussed that problem. With Allison. I think we agree on it”

“No. You don’t agree. And we’re asking you.”

“I’ll take up the matter with her.”

“Are you sure there’s no chance of our reasoning with you?”

“I told you.”

“I think you’d better think again.”

“There are laws, Mr. Reilly. And they’re on my side in this.” He started away from the counter, to break it off. The others moved, cutting off his retreat—his eye picked Deirdre, the one he could go over—but there was no ru

“Why don’t we?” Curran got off his counteredge and waved them all back, a retreat into the lounge area among the couches, but Sandor went for the corridor, toward the cabins, a slow retreat that drew all of them in that direction.

Allison was in her cabin. He was sure of that, the way he measured his own frame and Curran’s and knew who was going to win this one, especially if Curran got help. He reached for the door switch, and Curran caught him up and knocked his hand aside.

He landed one, a knee to the groin and a solid smash to the neck that knocked Curran double—a knee to the face, and Curran hit the wall as he spun about to see to Neill.

A blow at his legs staggered him and Neill and Deirdre moved all at once as Curran tackled him from behind and weighed him down.

He twisted, struck where he had a moment’s leverage, over and over again—almost flung himself up, but a wrench at his hair jerked him hard onto his back and they had him pi

A blow smashed across his jaw, for a moment absorbing all his wit, a deep black moment without organization: he knew they had his arms pi

“Look at me,” a male voice was saying. A shake at his hair, a hand slapping his face and steadying it “You want to use sense, Stevens? What about the keys?”

There was blood in his mouth. He figured they would hit him again. He heaved to get a hand loose.

A second blow.

“Stop it,” Neill’s voice. “Curran, stop it.”

Again the hand shook at his face. He was blind for the moment, everything lost in dark. “You want to think it over, Stevens?”

He tried to move. The blood was shut off from his right hand; the left had life in it. He heaved on that side, but the lighter weight on that arm was still enough. “Curran.” That was Deirdre. “Curran, he’s out—stop it.”

A silence. His eyes began to clear. He stared into Curran’s bloody face, Neill and Deirdre’s bodies in the corner of his eyes, holding onto his arms. “You shouldn’t have hit him like that,” Neill said. “Curran, stop, you hear me, or I’ll let him loose.”

Curran let go of his face. Stared down at him.

“He’s not going to give us anything,” Deirdre said. “We’ve got trouble, Curran. Neill’s right”

“He’ll give it to us.”

“Curran, no.”

“What do you want, let him up, let him back at controls where he can do what we can’t undo? No. No way. You’re right, we’ve got trouble.”

Sandor gave a heave, sensing a loosening of Deirdre’s arms. It failed; the hold enveloped his arm, yielding, but holding. “Get Allison,” he said, having difficulty talking. And then he recalled it was her door they were outside. She might have heard it; and stayed out of it. The realization muddled through him in the same tangled way as other impressions, painful and distant. “What do we do?” Neill asked. “For God’s sake what do we do?”