The Fourth Science Fiction MEGAPACK ®. Айн Рэнд

more harassed than ever, stared wistfully at the soaring bulk of the Terrestrial Hy-Drive ship. A grinning quartermaster supervised the loading of supplies while a couple of Rigelians looked on. The Rigelians had arrived at the same time as the Terrestrials and their ship was unloading supplies for the Rigelian station.

      “I suspected what was going on when I checked the sacks.” McKief believed in rubbing it in. “You knew that the quartermaster wouldn’t argue about two bags extra on the manifest.” He glowered at the unhappy pair. “Do I have to remind you of the penalties for stowing away?”

      “Shut up,” said Robeson. He knew the penalties, but he also knew that a little money to the right person would have closed the right eyes. Hy-Drive ships were fast and it would have been simple to remain under cover for the few days necessary to reach another world. He walked up to an officer. “Where are you bound, sir?”

      “Klargush then on to Perlon.”

      “Perlon’s Class X, isn’t it?”

      Robeson looked hopeful. “Could you use a couple of good men? I can cook and Smyth makes a good steward.”

      “No.” The officer didn’t like would-be stowaways and didn’t bother to hide the fact.

      “How much would passage cost then? For the two of us?”

      “Two hundred and fifty each, basic rations provided.”

      “We can raise a hundred. How about taking it, signing us on as crew and forgetting to book the passage?” Robeson winked. “We won’t complain.”

      “Not a chance.” The officer glanced at McKief. “Sorry, fully-paid passage only on this ship.” He walked away to confer with the factor. Robeson glared after him.

      “If there’s one thing I hate more than another,” he said feelingly, “it’s an honest man. Look at him! Turning down the chance of an easy hundred just for the sake of a principle.”

      “He’s scared of McKief,” said Smyth. “Maybe we’d better sign that contract now? That officer’s telling McKief we’ve got money. If we volunteer to sign maybe he’ll let us keep it.”

      “Not McKief,” said Robeson positively. “The man’s a sadist; he’ll make us spend it first. Anyway, it’s a matter of personal pride. I refuse to be beaten by a louse like McKief.”

      Smyth didn’t say anything; he was too busy listening to the rumblings from his empty stomach.

      * * * *

      “I don’t like it,” said Smyth. “I don’t like it at all.”

      “So you don’t like it.” Robcson was impatient. “Now tell me what else we can do?”

      It was two days later and Robeson’s prediction had proved correct. McKief had gently shaken his head when they had reported for work, pointing out that they weren’t really distressed, as they had money, and regretting that he couldn’t accommodate them under the Regs. On the other hand, if they were to sign the five-year contract, they could live like kings. Robeson had dragged his partner away when the factor had casually started talking about the menu.

      “I’ve fixed everything,” he said. “The Rigelians will sell passage to one man for one hundred credits. We’ve got that. Naturally, as it’s an alien ship, I’ll have to provide my own food. That’s where you come in.”

      “I don’t like it,” repeated Smyth. “Why can’t I have the passage?”

      Robeson sighed as he stared at his partner. At times Smyth appeared really dumb. The commissary problems were such that no one ship could provide food for any and all races who might want passage. So food was provided only for the members of the race operating the ship. Others were given a cubicle and water, and left to provide their own food. It was a system that worked perfectly. It would work now if Smyth would be reasonable.

      “I’m the biggest,” pointed out Robeson. “Also I’ve put in the most cash. But I don’t see what you’ve got to worry about. The trip is scheduled to last three days and we can last that long. All I have to do is carry you into the ship and claim that you’re my provisions. Simple.”

      “Maybe.” Smyth still wasn’t happy. “But why me?”

      “Could you carry me?” Robeson snorted and shook out a sack he had found at the hydroponic station. “Come on now, no more arguing. With any sort of luck at all we’ll be on our way within the hour.”

      The Rigelian on duty at the airlock stared curiously at Robeson as he came puffing up the ramp, a sack slung over his shoulder.

      “Paid passenger to Perlon,” he gasped, extending his ticket. The Rigelian examined it, found it in order and uttered the customary warning.

      “Passage only sold liable to alteration on route.” His translator clicked and hummed. “You have provided yourself with supplies?”

      “I have.” Robeson opened the sack. “You want to see?”

      The Rigelian leaned forward, two of his eyes extending themselves as he peered into the sack. Smyth, his skin blackened with charcoal, his hair clipped and his hands bound, glared up at the alien. Robeson swallowed, hoping that the deception would work.

      It did. The eating habits of other races were varied and strange. The Rigelians themselves ate mineral salts, the Vegans a mass of quivering, opalescent jelly. The guard saw nothing strange in a live, animal-form being used as food. The disguise was sufficient to make Smyth, to a Rigelian, utterly different from a normal Terrestrial. Also he fell into the essential weight-restriction that no food supply could be greater than the body-weight of the passenger.

      “You may enter,” hummed the translator. “Take-off within the hour.”

      Safe inside the cubicle, Robeson released his partner and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. Talking was out; a man doesn’t hold discussions with his food, but both gave a sigh of relief as the ship lifted and the familiar twisting sensation told of the operation of the Hy-Drive.

      “Three days,” whispered Robeson. “Then we eat.”

      “Just enough time to work up a really sharp appetite,” agreed Smyth, also in a whisper. He fell silent as the door slid open. A Rigelian entered the room.

      “We regret to inform you,” clicked the translator, “of a change in schedule. We have been re-routed to Lundis, a journey of twenty days. I trust that your food supply will be sufficient.”

      THE LIFE WORK OF PROFESSOR MUNTZ, by Murray Leinster

      Nobody would ordinarily have thought of Mr. Grebb and Professor Muntz in the same breath, so to speak, yet their careers impinged upon each other remarkably. Mr. Grebb was a large, coarse person, with large coarse manners and large coarse pores on an oversized nose. He drove a beer truck for the Ajax Brewing Company, and his one dominant desire was to get something on Joe Hallix, who as head of the delivery service for Ajax, was his immediate boss.

      Professor Muntz, on the other hand, was the passionately shy and mouselike author of The Mathematics of Multiple Time-Tracks, who vanished precipitately when he found himself famous. In that abstruse work he referred worriedly to experimental evidence of parallel time-tracks, and other physicists converged upon him with hopeful gleams in their eyes, and he fled.

      Professor Muntz couldn’t talk to people. But they wanted to know about his experiments. They couldn’t make any. They didn’t know how to start, and to them the whole thing had been abstract theory. But he had made experiments and they wanted to ask about them, so he ran away in an agony of shyness.

      That was that. No one human being could seem less likely to be affected by Professor Muntz’ life-work than Mr. Grebb, and no life-work could seem more certainly immune to Mr. Grebb than Professor Muntz’. But life is full of paradoxes, and the theory of multiple time-tracks is even fuller. Therefore…

      Mr. Grebb waked when his alarm clock rang stridently beside