craft; as proud as if she had been a swift, sleek racer capable of a thousand miles a second. Heowned her—every rusted bolt of her; every squeak and rattle. He was no longer a penniless young lawyer out of a job; he was a man with vested property rights; President and total Board of Directors of Space Salvage, Inc. True, he had sunk practically every cent he had in this old scow, and business so far had been exactly nil. That didn't matter. Something was bound to turn up. His nimble wits would see to that. Good Lord—the Asteroid Belt was full of opportunities. If it wouldn't be one thing, it would be another. He had drawn his charter with infinite care. There were dozens of vague, rambling clauses in it that had meant nothing to the law experts of the Ceres Filing Bureau; but which in a pinch could cover any contingency. He could conduct salvage operations, own and operate mines, take title to stray asteroids, barter, trade with and sell to any natives he might find on the various planets and satellites; and in general, as he had thoughtfully inserted, "do any and all things which a natural person might do, not contrary to law."
Which, as Jem admiringly observed, practically gave Kerry the right to commit murder—in his corporate entity, of course.
Jem was his second in command. He had a last name—it appeared on articled indentures, on certain police records scattered over space—but none of his intimates knew what it was. Everyone called him Jem and nothing else. When Kerry had quit his menial labors as cargo wrestler on the Flying Meteor, a Kenton freighter, because of a certain general release he bad cannily extracted from Old Fireball, Jem, who had been his foreman and superior, had quit with him. Even in the hold of the Flying Meteor, Jem had humbly admitted Kerry's superiority, and he had jumped at the chance to throw in his fortunes with the brilliant, resourceful young lawyer.
Right now, however, Jem was a bit doubtful of the wisdom of his course. He bad dropped a good job, with a steady, assured income and prospects of promotion, for a harebrained, crazy adventure. He wasn't accustomed to spaceships that rolled as though they were old-fashioned watercraft plunging through stormy seas. It made him space-sick. And every time the rusted plates squeaked and complained, he involuntarily looked around for the nearest safety boat.
"Besides," he told Kerry, continuing his growling monologue, "where 're we getting at? Nowhere, says I" He stared resentfully out at the wobbly heavens. "We've scooted out o' the reg'lar lanes o' the Belt. We ain't even headin' toward Jupiter. If you could hold this blamed tub steady for half a minute, you'd see Jupiter way the hell an' gone over to the right."
"Right!" Kerry agreed cheerfully. "If we're looking for salvage, we've got to keep away from the regular space lanes. The big outfits have their own patrol boats there. Kenton and Mammoth and Interworld and the rest. There 're no pickings for us on the lanes. But out here, if a ship gets into trouble, it would take weeks to raise up help, and that's where we come in."
"Yeah!" grumbled Jem, squinting at the solitudes that surrounded them outside the glassite observation port. " If there was a ship, and if she was in trouble. We ain't seen or raised another boat in these god-forsaken wastes for over a week."
The Flash shifted course and drove forward like a slightly indecisive corkscrew. The starboard rockets thundered and drew protesting cries from the very bowels of the craft.
Jem winced and a terrible thought grew on him. "Say-y-y! That there thing works both ways."
"What do you mean?"
"About this here salvage business. S'pose we bust down. And I ain't saying it ain't mighty likely. Who's gonna save us?"
Kerry grinned. "Let's not worry about that until it happens. The Flash is fundamentally sound. Underneath her rust and creaky joints she's got a heart of gold. She'll outlive a hundred fancier, shinier ships."
But as
Which, as Jem admiringly observed, practically gave Kerry the right to commit murder—in his corporate entity, of course.
Jem was his second in command. He had a last name—it appeared on articled indentures, on certain police records scattered over space—but none of his intimates knew what it was. Everyone called him Jem and nothing else. When Kerry had quit his menial labors as cargo wrestler on the Flying Meteor, a Kenton freighter, because of a certain general release he bad cannily extracted from Old Fireball, Jem, who had been his foreman and superior, had quit with him. Even in the hold of the Flying Meteor, Jem had humbly admitted Kerry's superiority, and he had jumped at the chance to throw in his fortunes with the brilliant, resourceful young lawyer.
Right now, however, Jem was a bit doubtful of the wisdom of his course. He bad dropped a good job, with a steady, assured income and prospects of promotion, for a harebrained, crazy adventure. He wasn't accustomed to spaceships that rolled as though they were old-fashioned watercraft plunging through stormy seas. It made him space-sick. And every time the rusted plates squeaked and complained, he involuntarily looked around for the nearest safety boat.
"Besides," he told Kerry, continuing his growling monologue, "where 're we getting at? Nowhere, says I" He stared resentfully out at the wobbly heavens. "We've scooted out o' the reg'lar lanes o' the Belt. We ain't even headin' toward Jupiter. If you could hold this blamed tub steady for half a minute, you'd see Jupiter way the hell an' gone over to the right."
"Right!" Kerry agreed cheerfully. "If we're looking for salvage, we've got to keep away from the regular space lanes. The big outfits have their own patrol boats there. Kenton and Mammoth and Interworld and the rest. There 're no pickings for us on the lanes. But out here, if a ship gets into trouble, it would take weeks to raise up help, and that's where we come in."
"Yeah!" grumbled Jem, squinting at the solitudes that surrounded them outside the glassite observation port. " If there was a ship, and if she was in trouble. We ain't seen or raised another boat in these god-forsaken wastes for over a week."
The Flash shifted course and drove forward like a slightly indecisive corkscrew. The starboard rockets thundered and drew protesting cries from the very bowels of the craft.
Jem winced and a terrible thought grew on him. "Say-y-y! That there thing works both ways."
"What do you mean?"
"About this here salvage business. S'pose we bust down. And I ain't saying it ain't mighty likely. Who's gonna save us?"
Kerry grinned. "Let's not worry about that until it happens. The Flash is fundamentally sound. Underneath her rust and creaky joints she's got a heart of gold. She'll outlive a hundred fancier, shinier ships."
But as
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