Spillthrough Page 4

cunning setting--one that would trap and concentrateenough residual di-ions at normal power output to cut loose somewherebetween the fifth and tenth jump.

  He thought, too, of his transmitter that hadn't been powerful enough toreach farther than a couple of jumps since he had left spaceport. When,he asked himself, had Altman's radioman worked on it?

  * * * * *

  After he slammed the hatch and dogged it, he leaned against the thickmetal for a long while. The _clack-clack_ overhead was somewhatpacified. But it wouldn't remain that way long. He quelled the fearsensations that were racing through him and tried to think.

  How long? How long had it been since Jim left? He was three jumps away afew hours ago--or was it longer than that?--and he still had seven to goor was it six? Had it been just a few hours ago, or was it days? He hadslept some--twice, he believed--since then. But for how long? And if thetow ships did make it back in time, would they have spare rods?

  He gave it up as a hopeless speculation and started back up thepassageway, shoulders drooping.

  _Karoom!_

  The new sound reverberated through the agonized vessel and the bulkheadsof the passageway shuddered in fanatic sympathy with it.

  The deck shifted crazily beneath his feet and a port beam--the bulkheadand the rest of the ship following it--swung over to crash into hisshoulder.

  A stabbing pain shot up his arm as he slid down the tilting wall andlanded in the right angle between the deck and the bulkhead.

  Massaging the torn ligament in his arm, he sat up and swayed dizzily inresonance with the pendulum-like motion of the vessel. Then he struggledto his feet and stood upright--one foot planted at an angle against thedeck and the other against the port bulkhead. Overhead was thecorresponding juncture made by the ceiling plate and the starboardbulkhead.

  Nausea welled as he tried to adjust to the new, perverted up and downreferences. He didn't have to wonder what had happened. The starboardgray coil that ran under the overheated converter, he knew, had finallyshorted out. The port coil was still operating normally. He consideredturning it off, but conceded it was better to struggle around in anapparently listing ship than to be wracked by the nausea ofweightlessness.

  Straddling the deck and port bulkhead, he waddled back to the hatchway,threw a leg over its edge and lifted himself into the controlcompartment, sliding down the floor to the port side. He worked his wayto the control seat, readjusted its tilt and crawled in it.

  Then he tore a strip out of his jacket and wrapped it around hisshoulder as tightly as he could. The pressure eased the pain in hisaching muscle.

  The air gauge showed an almost normal Two-Nine-point-Three-Two pounds,sufficient oxygen content, and a satisfactory circulatory rate. Heeagerly fished a cigarette from his jacket. He had earned it, he assuredhimself.

  While he smoked he counted on the screen the amount of cargo that hadspilled out when the loose crates had lurched with the vessel. Almost asfast as he counted it, the Cluster Queen swooped down on it and scoopedit into her hatch.

  Numbed, he found he could no longer react to the total disregard of hisrights with any degree of excited resentment. He closed his eyesindifferently. Shuddering, he squeezed the cylinder of tobacco betweenhis fingers without being aware of the action. The glowing end bent backand burned his knuckle.

  Tossing the cigarette away, he realized suddenly his fight was futile.He couldn't possibly hold out until Jim returned, or in the hope thatsome other vessel would happen along. The pile, his arm, spillthrough,the Fleury threatening to break in two ... he enumerated all thefactors.

  If he went aboard the Cluster Queen now, Altman would at least give himpassage to port. Any charges Brad would make would never hold up withoutsubstantiation. And Altman would see that he brought nothing with himthat could back up the accusations. It would be just as easy for thecrew of the Queen to prove that Brad Conally had conceived the wholeweird account of assault and piracy as a means of winning back the cargohe was faced with losing.

  He knew, however, that no matter what happened, he could kiss the Fleurygoodbye. Altman would never allow it to reach port. There might beevidence aboard--perhaps evidence as simple as finger prints--to provethat Altman or one of his crew had tampered with the machinery.

  Brad reached out to extend the gooseneck of the mike toward him.

  * * * * *

  But the stellar grid showing through the direct-view port was blottedout suddenly. He jerked his gaze to the scope. The Queen wasoverhead--almost within grappling distance!

  He started to shout out, but at the same time brilliant hell explodedoutside.

  The Cluster Queen's jetwash raked across the upper bow of the Fleury,throwing its nose down and its tail up and over in a hateful, wrenchingspin.

  The spin continued, losing none of its neck-snapping vehemence, as theQueen burst off into space. The harness cut across Brad's aching arm andset up a new, rending torture. But his good arm shot out and found theforward belly jet lever.

  With what mushily reacted like the last erg of energy in the normaldrive converter tanks, the jet responded feebly. He nursed the powercarefully, determined not to waste juice through overcorrection. Finallythe Fleury steadied and resumed immobility of attitude.

  "Sorry, Conally," Altman apologized with exaggerated concern. "But hermajesty's acting up frisky-like. Can't seem to do much with her....Maybe if you came aboard we might find some way to quiet her down. Howabout it?"

  Brad bit his lips and tightened his good fist until fingernails knifedinto the palm. "No, damn you!" he shouted with all the volume his lungscould muster.

  He summoned all the spacewise epithets any stevedore or crewman had everused, added a few he imagined no one had thought of before, and heldthem in abeyance until Altman would answer.

  But no sound came out of the speaker.

  The reason was apparent on the scope. A half dozen of the massive crateshad crashed through the hull--this time out of hold number One, themassometer showed--and the Cluster Queen was on her way to take themaboard.

  But he was more concerned with another complication. The red powerutilization indicator of the good hypertube was in motion, swinging backto zero on its dial. He saw the flicker of the needle in the corner ofhis vision.

  He checked the suspicion against the blips on the scope and obtainedverification ... the outlines of the Queen and the crates were fuzzy,despite the fact they were still nearby spatially. The fuzziness couldonly result from the Fleury's being removed hyperspatially from thatvicinity.

  He had accidentally touched the hyperjet lever while applying normalpower to correct the three-dimensional spin. Which way had he moved it?Had he gone further into hyperspace? Or had he fallen further down thedescending node toward spillthrough?

  Studying sensations in his body for an indication of abnormal pain, hestared abruptly out the view port. The twisting pain was there--insidehis chest. The star lines were short.

  He swore and scowled at his luck.

  Then, as the pain intensified, he grasped the lever of the hyperjetagain and thrust it forward. The tube sputtered feebly, came on fullforce for a second, sputtered again and was silent.

  He jerked the lever back and forth on the forward side of neutral andrammed it desperately all the way forward. The tube coughed, grabbedonce more for a moment, and sputtered out. He goosed it four more times,but only got two boosts as a result. Then he twisted it past the stop tothe first emergency position. It wheezed, fired for two seconds anddied.

  Sweat forming in beads on his face, he ignored the pain in his shoulderand reached to the control column with his injured arm. He swung backthe second safety stop bar out of the way and rammed the lever all theway forward.

  The tube fired for another second, but that was all. He had used thelast erg.

  But how much time had he bought with his final means of retreat from thespillthrough trough? He checked the celestial crisscrosses.... Notmuch....


  * * * * *

  Altman? he wondered suddenly. Where was the Cluster Queen? It wasn'tshowing up on the scope any longer. Neither were the crates. Had heretrieved them and shoved off? Brad jiggled the scope's brilliancecontrol, wondering whether it was faulty and was simply not registeringthe Queen.

  An abrupt _thud_, coincident with a sharp jar throughout the ship and asudden shifting of the pseudogravitational field almost to normal,brought him upright in his seat. He realized immediately what washappening.

  He hadn't been able to pick up the Queen on the scope because it was tooclose to register as a blip separate from the central luminescence onthe screen which was representative of the Fleury itself. Altman hadmaneuvered alongside, aligned the hatch flanges of the two ships andactivated his magnetic grapples. The nearness of his grav coils hadrestored some of the Fleury's internal stability. He was preparing toboard the Fleury. He would be aboard within ten minutes.... It took thatlong to make minute adjustments in order to insure perfectsuperimposition of the