The Space Opera MEGAPACK ®. Jay Lake

attachments broke the smooth contours. The stubby wings to grip and ride the atmosphere were like the feathers on an arrow.

      As he worked, Durgan brooded. The ship had cost money, the conversions more. Whatever the cargo was that Creech hoped to salvage, it must be of immense value. Something to justify the essential investment of equipment. He spoke about it to the girl.

      “It’s none of your business,” said Sheila. “Believe that, Brad. Just do the job you’ve contracted to do and forget the rest.”

      “I can’t.”

      “Why not? Are you so rich you can afford to throw away five million?”

      “What five million?” They were sitting beneath a dome of transparent plastic, drinking coffee imported from the Inner Worlds, listening to music recorded a century before. The glow of Jupiter-light cast colored shadows on the pale contours of her face, touched her hair with transient gleams. “You can’t lose what you’ve never had so what the hell are you talking about?”

      “Forget it, Brad. Take what life brings and stop arguing. Look on it as just another job.”

      “Is that what you think it is?” He looked up at the glowing face of the planet. Tonight the Red Spot was unusually bright. “Look at it. All you can see is the upper limits of the atmosphere, but try to imagine what it’s like lower down. Or, if you can’t do that, go and see some of the bucket boat riders. You’ll find them in the psycho wards, scared of a shadow, unable to stand even the pressure of a sheet. That’s the way it gets you in the end.”

      “So what?”

      “So I want to know what all this is about. Where Creech comes in. What part you have in it all. And don’t tell me that you’re just a messenger. That worked once, but it won’t work again. Give, girl, or look for another pilot!”

      “He’ll kill you,” she said emotionlessly. “If you back out now Creech will have you gunned down.”

      “Maybe.” Durgan was grim. “He can try—but if he doesn’t make it the first time, he’ll never get a second chance. And you’ll still need a pilot.” The music changed, the thrumming beat of rock smoothing into the strumming melody of cadenza, achingly poignant with the thin wail of pipes, the repetitious beat of drums. On the far side of the dome, a woman began to shiver in sympathetic response.

      Sheila drank the last of her coffee. “Would you really back out, Brad?”

      “Quit playing!” He was getting angry, his own nervous responses reacting to the emotional throb of the music. “I’m not a kid to be fed on promises of candy. What is this deal, anyway? Straight salvage—or a straight steal?”

      He caught the expression in her eyes, the minute tightening of muscles, the cautious veil. Abruptly he was calm, his anger dissipating at the result of his probe.

      “I guessed,” he said, “but I want you to say it. No one offers this kind of money for a legitimate operation. Now talk!”

      “Give me a minute.” She looked at her empty cup. “I could use some more coffee.”

      And time to think up a story, he thought, but made no comment. From the automat he drew two cups, pausing on the way back as the woman across the dome began to scream. She sat, quivering, eyes glazed and a thin trickle of saliva running from her mouth. Her cries were sharp discordant, unthinking. The insidious beat of the cadenza had gripped her, jarring her nervous system, warring with the regular beat of her heart.

      Durgan crossed to her table, set down the cups of coffee, and slapped her sharply across the cheek.

      “What—” The screaming died as she sat, blinking, one hand rising to the place he had struck. “What’s the matter?”

      “It got you,” he explained. “The music. Either move or break the circle. Think of something pleasant, talk to someone, look outside.”

      Her eyes measured his height, the planes of his face, registered an unmistakable invitation.

      “Talk, you said. With you?”

      “Not me.” He picked up the cups. “I’m busy.”

      Sheila looked at him as he sat down, her eyes moving from his face to the woman. “A hell of a way to snap her out of it. Aren’t you ever gentle?”

      “When I’ve got the time, yes. Now I haven’t got the time. You were going to tell me something. Let’s get on with it.”

      She toyed with her cup, very beautiful, very alluring, her femininity enhanced by the colored shadows, the primitive impact of the music. Twice he caught the movement of her eyes, the subtle hesitation, then she made her decision.

      “I’ll give you the truth, Brad, and it is the truth no matter what else you might hear. The ship was carrying a cargo from the United Combines. It was a year’s production of shedeena crystals. I shouldn’t have to tell you what they are.”

      “I know.”

      Callisto was unique in its core-formation. The crystals, some said, were the result of divergent pressures existing way back when the solar system was first created. Others tended to think that Callisto might be a stellar wanderer caught in Jupiter’s gravity well—but none of that really mattered. Callisto was the only source of the crystals. And the crystals had a unique property.

      She continued, “The various companies holding crystal franchises are forced to work together and pool their harvest. In all other matters they work as separate units, but not in this. You can guess why.”

      “A price ring,” said Durgan thickly. “More. The only way in which they can avoid mutual warfare. A year’s production, you say?”

      “Yes.”

      He looked down at his hand. It was trembling a little, the coffee in the cup he was holding shimmering as it caught the light from above. A year’s supply! Why they had allowed it to accumulate didn’t matter. To force up the price, to ensure security, to gather a full working load—none of it mattered. All that was important was that the shedeena crystals were an anti-agathic, an anti-death drug which enabled the old, the rich, the influential to gain renewed youth and extended virility. Immortality, perhaps, if the supply could be maintained.

      A year’s supply!

      Its value was incalculable. How much is life worth to a rich and dying man? What concessions would a ruler grant to the one who could deliver the source of longevity?

      “Sometimes it happens,” said Sheila quietly. “A combination of events that opens the door to everything you’ve ever dreamed about. I saw my chance and took it. When the ship was hit, everyone seemed to go crazy. I was monitoring the flight and operating the computer. I kept track of the fall until the information ceased coming in—and then I made a couple of alterations. The information the combines have is useless. Only I have the true position of the wreck.”

      “And Creech?”

      “The money-man, the fixer, the one who figured out what to do. He’s clever, Brad. He waited just long enough to make sure that I was telling the truth, and then he acted. Then—”

      Durgan was sharp. “How?”

      “How what?”

      “How did he know that you were telling the truth?” He answered his own question. “When they didn’t find the cargo, naturally. There must have been attempts at salvage. The combines wouldn’t leave that stuff lying about without trying to get it. How many attempts?”

      “Five.”

      “And?”

      “Five failures. Three ships just disappeared. One aborted the mission when the crew lost their nerve. The other imploded two-thirds of the way down.” She hesitated, then added, “All were using Nanset’s force field.”

      “Which means it doesn’t work,” said Durgan. “Good news.”

      “It