The Currents Of Space

Genro disregarded that. He tilted his head back and looked over the yacht's lines carefully. He removed what was left of his cigarette from between his lips and flicked it high in the air. It had not yet reached the high point of its arc when, with a little flash, it vanished.

Genro said, "I wonder if you'd mind my coming in?" The other hesitated, then stepped aside. Genro entered.

He said, "What kind of motor does the craft carry, sir?"

"Why do you ask?"

Genro was tall, skin and eyes were dark, hair crisp and cut short. He topped the other by half a head, and his smile showed white, evenly spaced teeth. He said, "To be very frank, I'm in the market for a new ship."

"You mean you're interested in this one?"

"I don't know. Something like it, maybe, if the price is right. But anyway, I wonder if you'd mind my looking at the controls and engines?"

The Squire stood there silently.

Genro's voice grew a trifle colder. "As you please, of course." He turned away.

The Squire said, "I might sell." He fumbled in his pockets. "Here's the license!"

Genro looked at each side with a quick, experienced glance. He handed it back. "You're Deamone?"

The Squire nodded. "You can come in if you wish."

Genro looked briefly at the large port-chronometer, the lumi

nescent hands, sparking brightly even in the daylight illumination, indicating the beginning of the second hour after sunset.

"Thank you. Won't you lead the way?"

The Squire rummaged his pockets again and held out a booklet of key slivers. "After you, sir."

Genro took the booklet. He leafed through the slivers, looking at the small code marks for the "ship stamp." The other man made no attempt to help him.

Finally he said, "This one, I suppose?"

He walked up the short ramp to the air-lock balcony and considered the fine seam at the right of the lock carefully. "I don't see-- Oh, here it is," and he stepped to the other side of the lock.

Slowly, noiselessly, the lock yawned and Genro moved into the blackness. The red air-lock light went on automatically as the door closed behind them. The inner door opened and as they stepped into the ship proper white lights ffickered on over all the length of the ship.

Myrlyn Terens had no choice. He no longer remembered the time, long since, when such a thing as "choice" had existed. For three long, wretched hours, now, he had remained near Deamone's ship, waiting and helpless to do anything else. It had led to nothing till now. He did not see that it could lead to anything but capture.

And then this fellow had come with an eye to the ship. To deal with him at all was madness. He could not possibly maintain his imposture at such close quarters. But then he could not possibly remain where he was, either.

At least within the ship there might be food. Strange that that had not occurred to him before.

There was.

Terens said, "It's close to dinnertime. Would you like to have something?"

The other had scarcely looked over his shoulder. "Why, later, perhaps. Thank you."

Terens did not urge him. He let him roam the ship and applied himself thankfully to the potted meat and cellulitewrapped fruit. He drank thirstily. There was a shower across the

corridor from the kitchen. He locked its door and bathed. It was a pleasure to be able to remove the tight skullcap, at least temporarily. He even found a shallow closet from which he could choose a change of clothing.

He was far more master of himself when Genro returned.

Genro said, "Say, would you mind if I tried to fly this ship?"

"I have no objection. Can you handle this model?" asked Terens with an excellent imitation of nonchalance.

"I think so," said the other with a little smile. "I flatter myself I can handle any of the regular models. Anyway, I've taken the liberty of calling the control tower and there's a take-off pit available. Here's my yachtsman's license if you'd like to see it before I take over."

Terens gave it as cursory a glance as Genro had given his. "The controls are yours," he said.

The ship rolled out of the hangar like an air-borne whale, moving slowly, its diamagnetized hull clearing the smooth-packed clay of the field by three inches.

Terens watched Genro handling the controls with finger-tip precision. The ship was a live thing under his touch. The small replica of the field that was upon the visiplate shifted and changed with each tiny motion of every contact.

The ship came to a halt, pinpointed at the lip of a take-off pit. The diamagnetic field strengthened progressively towards the ship's prow and it began tipping upward. Terens was mercifully unaware of this as the pilot room turned on its universal gimbals to meet the shifting gravity. Majestically, the ship's rear flanges fitted into the appropriate grooves of the pit. It stood upright, pointing to the sky.

The duralite cover of the take-off pit slipped into its recess, revealing the neutralized lining, a hundred yards deep, that received the first energy thrusts of the hyperatornic motors.