A Question Of Salvage E-Book

Malcolm Jameson

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

SAM TRUMAN, mate and acting captain of the Kwasind, leaned back against the guard rail of the two-hundred-foot stage of the firing rack which cradled the ugly sphere of his powerful salvage tug. He was staring moodily at two of his black gang, clinging like flies to a pair of bulbous towing bitts sticking out of the hull above him. They had finished burnishing the rugged knobs and were now testing the connections of their heater units. Lower down, two monstrous electric cables led into the tug, through which the squat storm craft was sucking the huge stores of reserve energy she would be needing any moment. From beneath, far down where the nadirward nozzle of the main rocket tube threatened the seared and pitted slag of the dockyard, wisps of acrid smoke trailed. The tube was hot, white-hot. On ten seconds’ notice the Kwasind could soar into the void.

Leseprobe

A QUESTION OF SALVAGE

Malcolm Jameson

1939

© 2023 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782385740528

I.

SAM TRUMAN, mate and acting captain of the Kwasind, leaned back against the guard rail of the two-hundred-foot stage of the firing rack which cradled the ugly sphere of his powerful salvage tug. He was staring moodily at two of his black gang, clinging like flies to a pair of bulbous towing bitts sticking out of the hull above him. They had finished burnishing the rugged knobs and were now testing the connections of their heater units. Lower down, two monstrous electric cables led into the tug, through which the squat storm craft was sucking the huge stores of reserve energy she would be needing any moment. From beneath, far down where the nadirward nozzle of the main rocket tube threatened the seared and pitted slag of the dockyard, wisps of acrid smoke trailed. The tube was hot, white-hot. On ten seconds’ notice the Kwasind could soar into the void.

The shoosh of nearby spacecraft caused him to wheel. Ah, a hygiocopter. And another, and another—three of the red-banded ambulances of the ether taking off. There must be trouble in the space lanes already. Then, out of the clear Martian sky he saw the halting descent of a shiny superliner, saw the raw flare of its check rockets mushrooming, watched it settle unevenly onto the public skyport a mile away. The outward bound hygiocopters checked their swift rise, wheeled like circling gulls, and came back to follow the crippled liner to the plain.

“Sizzlin’ Syzygies!” came a voice from behind. “She’s all stove in. Must be dusty out to crinkle a packet like the Kop.”

Dumpy little Ben Tiggleman, engineer of the Kwasind, had come out of the bowels of the salvage tug and was gazing open-mouthed at the newly landed Copernicus. A de luxe job like that, with a dozen of the top-hattedest bigwigs of the System and no knowing how valuable a cargo, did not turn back after ten hours out of port for small reasons.

But the two salvage men could guess the reason. Last night the stars had trembled and danced. Refraction bad, the “seeing” not good, they would have said centuries before, but nowadays men knew better. That was why the Kwasind and her five husky sisters were being warmed up, standing by. Sam Truman raised his binoculars and studied the grounded liner.

Her crumpled nose and those sagging plates between each pair of frames spelled but one thing—terrific pressure. She must have banged into an etheric typhoon and hit close to the eye of it. Nothing else could have flattened down her screens and dished her in like that. And if the powerfully compensated “Pride of the Skies” had suffered so, it would he but a matter of hours until the ether would be flooded with S O S’s. Inter-Planetary Salvage’s tugs would all be out, combing the cosmic flotsam for prizes. The first vessel to slam a glimmering green hawser-beam on wreck or derelict walked away with half her value.

“Wonder why she didn’t squawk?” queried Ben. “We coulda gone—hours ago.”

“And have it go out over the Omnivox?” replied Sam with a hard laugh. “That would be bad for the passenger trade, scare off the cash customers. As far as landsmen go, this is still a hush hush business. Weather in the void? Silly! You have to have an atmosphere for that. Remember what they taught you in school?”

A couple of IPS yard hands, loitering nearby, overheard and laughed.

“Well,” said Ben Tiggleman, his gaze wistfully lingering on fifty millions of potential salvage, “I hope we snag a good one before it’s over.”

Sam Truman knew what was in his mind. Four hours earlier Mrs. Ben had been rushed to the maternity ward of Herapolis General Hospital, leaving a flock of little Bens behind her in the hovel they called home. Like most salvage men in minor jobs, Ben was always broke. Worse, he was in the clutches of a loan shark. But he shook his head and grinned and started to duck back into the whirring recesses of his engine compartment.

“How are my sky hooks coming along?” Truman called after him.

“Oh! Four are loaded and on ice; and one is on the fire, soaking up the ergs. Boy! You’re sure, packing power into those babies. I hope they work like you think, because it ain’t going to be any fun if one of ’em backfires.”

SAM TRUMAN watched his engineer go, then returned to his moody contemplation of the Kwasind’s hull. She was ready to rise, all right, but he couldn’t take any joy in the thought. It was too much like the soaring of a buzzard in search of fresh carrion. He remembered the last big storm too well—crushed and helpless ships swirling in the maelstrom of turbulent ether, while these tugs cruised comfortably among them, picking and choosing only those that promised fat salvage fees. “We are not in business for charity,” was one of the mottoes of IPS. “Leave sentiment to the Space Guards—they get paid for it.”

Another man in his job would have been a-tingle with what was before him. The work was exciting, and on occasion could be very, very profitable. Yet to his mind, there was something ghoulish about it. Now that he was familiar with the policies of the company, he hated the salvage business with all his soul. For the dozenth time he was on the verge of stalking into the manager’s office and hurling his resignation into his fat, greedy face. Only, he reminded himself, today was not the day for it. He simply could not—it would look yellow. Moreover, it was futile. His quitting would not save a single one of the white-faced, praying passengers going to their doom because parsimonious ship owners refused to guarantee the minimum fee. A cargo of uranium ore was as good as cash in the salvager’s hand, but what could you get out of two score rescued humans, with any assurance, but gratitude?

After this blow, perhaps, he would quit. Then—But that “then” was the tough part of it. That was the real deterrent. What could a man—a kick-out from the Space Guard and blacklisted by the Ecliptic Line—what could he do next if he did?

If he chucked the job, there was nothing left—nothing. For, to a young man steeped in the traditions of skycraft, a planet-bound job was no job at all. It wasn’t even living. He just couldn’t think of life without the joy and lift that comes of plunging into space with the controls of a thousand thunders under the fingertips. What surface job offered the thrill of hand-jetting across ten miles of bucking emptiness to make fast a line to an inert wreck? What about the grim satisfaction of licking a “low” with a cumbersome tow behind, surging and tearing at the hawser beam? No, he told himself dismally, he would have to hang on. And like it. At least until he could make a killing and buy a ship of his own.