the thread. Another surprise had jumped on him
wearing hobnailed boots on all four feet.
He was aboard a ship he and Mouse had studied from the surface
of Carson’s. She was a typical interstellar vessel of an
obsolete class now common only among the Rim Run Freehaulers.
A similar vessel had appeared in the hologram. It was
approaching the harvestship.
The surprise was in their relative sizes.
The starship became a needle falling into an expanding, cosmic
ocean of scrap. The service ship retained its holo dimensions.
Danion
swelled till she attained epic proportions.
Moyshe could not begin to guess her true dimensions. His most
conservative estimate staggered him. She had to be at least thirty
kilometers in cross-section, twenty thick, and sixty long. That was
impossible. There were countries on Old Earth smaller than
that.
And stretching far beyond the dense central snarl of the ship
were those spars spreading silvery sails and nets.
Did she sunjam on stellar winds?
She couldn’t. The Starfish stayed away from stars. Any
stars, be they orbited by settled worlds or not. They stayed way
out in the Big Dark where they could not be found.
The whole thing had to be a brag show. Pure propaganda. It just
had to be.
He could not accept that ship as real.
His normal, understandable operation-opening jitters cranked
themselves up a couple of notches. Till that ship had declared
itself he had thought he could handle anything new and strange.
Change was the order of the universe. Novelty was no cause for
distress.
But this mission held too much promise of the new and unknown.
He had been plunged
tabula rasa
into a completely alien
universe.
Nothing created by Man had any right being so damned big.
Light returned. It drowned the dying hologram. BenRabi looked
around. His jaw was not the only one hanging like an overripe pear
about to drop.
Despite prior warning, everyone had believed themselves aboard a
harvestship. Cultural bias left them incapable of believing the
Fishers could have anything better.
Moyshe began to realize just how poorly he had been prepared for
this mission.
He had done his homework. He had devoured everything the Bureau
had known about Starfishers. He had considered speculation as well
as confirmed fact. He knew all there was to know.
Too little had been known.
“That’s all you’ll need to know about
Danion
’s outside,” the Ship’s Commander told them.
“Of her guts you’ll see plenty, and you’ll have
to learn them well. We expect to get our money’s
worth.”
They had the right to ask it, Moyshe figured. They were paying
double the usual spacer’s rates, and those were anything but
poor.
The man talked on awhile, repeating the security officer’s
injunctions. Then he turned the landsmen over to ratings, who
showed them to their quarters. BenRabi’s nervousness
subsided. He had been through this part before, each time he had
boarded a Navy warship.
He got a cabin to himself. The Seiner assigned to him helped
settle him in. From the man’s wary replies, Moyshe presumed
he could expect to be aboard for several days. Payne’s Fleet
was harvesting far from Carson’s.
Once the man had left and benRabi had converted his barren
cubicle into a Spartan cell, he lay down to nap. After looking for
bugs and spy-eyes, of course. But sleep would not come. Not with
all the great lumpy surprises his mind still had to digest.
Someone knocked. Mouse, he guessed. The man never used a buzzer.
He made a crochet a means of identification.
Yes. It was Mouse. “Hi,” he said. “I’m
Masato Iwasaki. Oh. You’re in Liquids too? Good.” He
stuck out a hand. They shook.
“BenRabi. Moyshe. Nice to meet you.” Silly game, he
thought. But it had to be played if they wanted people to believe
that they had just met.
“You wouldn’t happen to play chess?” Mouse
asked. “I’m looking for somebody who does.”
He was addicted to the game. It would get him into trouble
someday, benRabi
wearing hobnailed boots on all four feet.
He was aboard a ship he and Mouse had studied from the surface
of Carson’s. She was a typical interstellar vessel of an
obsolete class now common only among the Rim Run Freehaulers.
A similar vessel had appeared in the hologram. It was
approaching the harvestship.
The surprise was in their relative sizes.
The starship became a needle falling into an expanding, cosmic
ocean of scrap. The service ship retained its holo dimensions.
Danion
swelled till she attained epic proportions.
Moyshe could not begin to guess her true dimensions. His most
conservative estimate staggered him. She had to be at least thirty
kilometers in cross-section, twenty thick, and sixty long. That was
impossible. There were countries on Old Earth smaller than
that.
And stretching far beyond the dense central snarl of the ship
were those spars spreading silvery sails and nets.
Did she sunjam on stellar winds?
She couldn’t. The Starfish stayed away from stars. Any
stars, be they orbited by settled worlds or not. They stayed way
out in the Big Dark where they could not be found.
The whole thing had to be a brag show. Pure propaganda. It just
had to be.
He could not accept that ship as real.
His normal, understandable operation-opening jitters cranked
themselves up a couple of notches. Till that ship had declared
itself he had thought he could handle anything new and strange.
Change was the order of the universe. Novelty was no cause for
distress.
But this mission held too much promise of the new and unknown.
He had been plunged
tabula rasa
into a completely alien
universe.
Nothing created by Man had any right being so damned big.
Light returned. It drowned the dying hologram. BenRabi looked
around. His jaw was not the only one hanging like an overripe pear
about to drop.
Despite prior warning, everyone had believed themselves aboard a
harvestship. Cultural bias left them incapable of believing the
Fishers could have anything better.
Moyshe began to realize just how poorly he had been prepared for
this mission.
He had done his homework. He had devoured everything the Bureau
had known about Starfishers. He had considered speculation as well
as confirmed fact. He knew all there was to know.
Too little had been known.
“That’s all you’ll need to know about
Danion
’s outside,” the Ship’s Commander told them.
“Of her guts you’ll see plenty, and you’ll have
to learn them well. We expect to get our money’s
worth.”
They had the right to ask it, Moyshe figured. They were paying
double the usual spacer’s rates, and those were anything but
poor.
The man talked on awhile, repeating the security officer’s
injunctions. Then he turned the landsmen over to ratings, who
showed them to their quarters. BenRabi’s nervousness
subsided. He had been through this part before, each time he had
boarded a Navy warship.
He got a cabin to himself. The Seiner assigned to him helped
settle him in. From the man’s wary replies, Moyshe presumed
he could expect to be aboard for several days. Payne’s Fleet
was harvesting far from Carson’s.
Once the man had left and benRabi had converted his barren
cubicle into a Spartan cell, he lay down to nap. After looking for
bugs and spy-eyes, of course. But sleep would not come. Not with
all the great lumpy surprises his mind still had to digest.
Someone knocked. Mouse, he guessed. The man never used a buzzer.
He made a crochet a means of identification.
Yes. It was Mouse. “Hi,” he said. “I’m
Masato Iwasaki. Oh. You’re in Liquids too? Good.” He
stuck out a hand. They shook.
“BenRabi. Moyshe. Nice to meet you.” Silly game, he
thought. But it had to be played if they wanted people to believe
that they had just met.
“You wouldn’t happen to play chess?” Mouse
asked. “I’m looking for somebody who does.”
He was addicted to the game. It would get him into trouble
someday, benRabi
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