The Greatest Sci-Fi Works of Malcolm Jameson – 17 Titles in One Edition. Malcolm Jameson

and this crew with me as a unit. I’m sorry to have to leave you out, but the higher-ups have already promised the new first’s job to one of their old hands. But never fear — I’ll see that you have a berth in due time.”

      Hartwell could only blink. Had Stellar’s vile reputation all this time been nothing but rumor? And Fennery’s? Why, he couldn’t have planned better himself!

      The Hyperion was going to the junkpile, where she belonged — would probably be towed to one of the Scrappo asteroids where derelicts and other tough old bulks were dumped. And he was getting put out of the company with a commendation instead of the usual kick and curse. He grinned as he thought of the letter he was going to write that portmaster on Venus.

      But the skipper hadn’t finished with his news.

      “I’ve got to keep you on the rolls for a week or so, though,” Fennery was saying. “They want me to inspect that new ship, but I’ve got too much else to do. You know ships, so I’m sending you. She’s lying at Moloch — that’s about two hundred miles from Ares, in the Western Desert. You’ll have to go by camel train, as there is a strike on among the ‘coptor pilots, but you can telegraph back what you think. By the time you get back I’ll have disposed of this ship and cargo and have a berth waiting for you.”

      “Thanks,” said Bob Hartwell, wondering if miracles would ever cease.

      The captain’s apparent personal interest and the line’s generosity were so out of keeping with the standard practice of even the well-run lines, that he could not help a twinge of suspicion as to what it was all about. It was strange that the Stellar people would buy, sight unseen, an old ship on the say-so of a one-voyage mate. It was stranger that a thug like Fennery would lift a hand to help any man.

      And what of Quorquel, always flitting about in the background with his contemptuous sneer and crooked smile?

      But try as he might, Hartwell could not dope out how they could hook him. So, once on Mars, he made the hard overland journey to Moloch and went over the Wanderer carefully. She was sound and well found. He reported so, taking great care to include her minor defects. She was far from new, but she would be a vast improvement over the sluggish Hyperion. Thus, he reported her, and recommended her purchase. Then he took the windy, sandy trail back to Ares.

      It was at the skyport that the utmost in miracles occurred. Once more he approached the Hyperion as she lay in a launching cradle, and again her tubes glowed and smoke curled idly from them. Again her cargo-ports were closed and sealed for a voyage, and again Captain Fennery stood anxiously at her entry port alongside the local portmaster with clearance papers in his hand. Obviously she was waiting for some final matter to be cleared up and then she would soar. Then he quickened his pace. All his belongings but the clothes he wore were aboard!

      “Figured you’d arrive about now,” drawled Fennery, sticking out the glad hand that Hartwell heartily distrusted, “so everything’s ready.”

      “What do you mean, ready?” Hartwell asked, puzzled. He had understood the Hyperion was to go to the junk pile.

      “Loaded, provisioned, fueled, cargo and crew on board, certified and itching to go,” answered Fennery. “She’s been sold to the Trans- Asteroid Haulage Corporation. All she’s waiting for is her skipper.”

      “So what?” demanded Hartwell. “I want my clothes! He’ll have to hold off until I get them out.”

      “Hey, don’t you understand?” laughed Fennery, with a bluff slap on the back. “She’s had an overhaul — she’s staying in service — they wanted a skipper that knew her. I recommended you. You’re the captain of the Hyperion!”

      “I’m damned,” said Bob Hartwell, softly.