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Why Risk It? ~ by Bruce Cook

 
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Bud Brewster
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PostPosted: Mon Feb 17, 2020 3:53 pm    Post subject: Why Risk It? ~ by Bruce Cook Reply with quote



Mr. Lawrence Ghinda, president of Ghinda Enterprises, was not too pleased with what the telecom directory had to say about Why Rick It? Incorporated. The screen on Mr. Ghinda’s hugh desk displayed the name of the company and a contact number . . . but no address. He’d heard it was a small operation, but not that small. Mr. Ghinda drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment while he silently wrestled with indecision.

It was a short struggle; it didn’t take him long to realize he didn’t really have a choice. He was desperate.

His fingers stopped drumming and he stabbed the icon on the screen that would initiate the call. His impatience turned every tiny delay in an ordeal. After a few seconds passed, the screen displayed the words; PAGING.

My God!, thought Ghinda, the business didn’t even have a corporate office with a staff to answer phone calls! Ghinda was seconds away from hangin up!

Suddenly the screen lit up with the image of a man in a pressure suit, sitting at a control consol. The man’s face was clearly visible through the face plate, but he didn’t look at Ghinda as he continued to do frantic things at the consol. He started talking rapidly before Ghinda could even open this mouth.

“No time to explain! Can you record this conversation, starting right now!”

Ghinda’s startled expression including a gapping mouth, wide eyes, and no reply for several seconds, but then he managed a speak. “Uh . . . yes!”

“Good! Turn it on and record what I’m transmitting. It’s a matter of life and death!”

Mr. Ghinda hit a button on his keyboard, and his comm system started the recording. The man in the spacesuit pressed a button on this control panel, and the scene on Ghinda’s display switched to a smoke-filled room. Ghinda leaned closer to his display to study the room, which was about thirty feet square and partially filled with drum-shaped metal containers tied down with thick straps. The man in the pressure suit came floating into the scene like Peter Pan, maneuvering himself skillfully in the zero-gravity.

Ghinda’s eyes widened slowly as he realized what he was watching. It was the cargo hold of a spacecraft with an onboard fire!

Without realizing it, Ghinda gripped the arms of his chair while he watched the spacesuited man hastily release the straps that crisscrossed the stack of metal containers. Ghinda saw that the smoke was coming from the containers themselves, jetting out from dozens of tiny fissures. As the straps were thrown back one by one, the loose containers began to drift up from the deck.

The spacesuited man kicked himself over to the airlock door and then started winding the loose end of a tethered strap around his torso. The room was so filled with smoke that Ghinda could barely make out the dim figure.

Suddenly both of the airlock doors popped open and the smoke-filled air went screaming out into space, pulling the floating containers with it. The containers slammed against each other as they were pulled through the airlock, bouncing and tumbling, narrowly missing the man who clung to the strap. Ghinda’s view of the room cleared in seconds, and he could see the shiny containers through the open air lock, tumbling away from the ship. The man in the spacesuit closed the airlock doors and untangled himself from the strap. Then he pushed against the wall and floated out of sight.

Seconds later, Ghinda’s on-screen view changed to an exterior shot, a magnified image of the smoke-spewing containers as they drifted further away.

The man’s voice came over the audio. “Still there, buddy?”

“Yes, I’m here! Are you okay?” Ghinda was still gripping the armrests as he strained forward.

“Never better! Don’t stop the recording yet. Here comes the good part!”

A drop of nervous sweat ran down into Ghinda’s right eye as he watched the retreating containers. The exterior camera rotated to hold the dwindling objects in view, and the side of the ship appeared on screen as the spacecraft completed a maneuver that put the containers directly behind it.

The ship’s fusion drive spewed white-hot plasma towards the cluster of shrinking dots in the distance. Ghinda lost sight of the containers in the glowing glare of the drive flame.

After ten seconds there was a bright flash in the far distance that turned Ghinda’s telecom screen white for a moment. Then the light dimmed to a shrinking ball which turned red and faded out.

“We did it, pal!” said the voice from the view screen. The screen switched back to the man on the flight deck of the spaceship, seated at the control panel. “Did you get a good video of all that?”

Mr. Ghinda’s hands were trembling as he fumbled with the buttons on his keyboard. He played back the last few seconds of the shrinking fireball in space.

“Yes . . . yes, it looks okay.”

“Fantastic! I need a copy of that to use as evidence if I have to sue Pegasus Mining, Inc. They swore that stuff was well insulated and properly packed. No wonder their insurance company is suing them for fraudulent practices! What a bunch of crocked jackasses! I wouldn’t be surprised if they actually hoped the shipment to blow up my ship and save them the trouble of paying me to get rid of it at the dump on Jaranko’s moon. I’ll give them two choices; pay me the full penalty fee or face the consequences when I turn over that recording to the In-System Transport Authority so they can — “

The man stopped abruptly and gave Mr. Ghinda worried look. “Hey, wait a second. Who are you, anyway?”

“Oh . . . uh . . . I’m Lawrence Ghinda. I urgently need to charter your ship — “

“Whew! What a relief! For a second there I was afraid you were with Pegasus Mining. Brother, what dolt I would have been for blabberin’ all that stuff!”

The man still wore his helmet while the air in his spacecraft was being replaced from the ship’s reserves, and through his faceplate Mr. Ghina could see the huge grin that lit up the man’s handsome face. Apparently this guy was as crazy as Ghinda had been told he was, but there was no denying that he seemed to be a very resourceful lunatic.

And Mr Lawrence Ghinda desperately need a resourceful lunatic.

“Well,” said the man in the spacesuit, “Shall we get down to business?” He cleared his throat and then spoke in a deep, mellow voice. “Hello, and thank you for calling Why Risk It? Incorporated. I’m Randolph Henson, the owner and president of the company. How can I be of service to you?”

Ghinda stared at the view screen and blinked a few times, startled by the sudden change in tone — in fact, by the whole bizarre situation! What he'd intended to be a straightforward telecom call had turned into a hair-raising experience. Ghinda took a deep breath, sat up straight, and tried to project an air of dignified authority. He cleared his throat, made himself swallow, then started speaking.

“Mr. Henson, I have a package that absolutely must be delivered to my daughter on the G Michelangelo, which is currently orbiting the Twin Jovian Planets to let its wealthy passengers do some sight seeing. But eventually it will leave the star system for Arcturus — “

“Whoa now, hold it right there, partner. By the time I could land, pick up the package, and lift off again — “

Ghinda interrupted quickly, leaning forward and loosing his dignified manner. “But you don’t have to come here to get the package! It’s already aboard a courier ship that I hired to deliver it to the Michelangelo. But the ship is disabled and adrift in space, awaiting rescue. It’s already sixty million miles out towards the Twin Jovian Planets. Mr. Henson, my daughter — “

“Ah heck, Larry, you can call me Randy.”

Ghinda suppressed his impatience with the interruption and continued. “My daughter must have that package. It’s a special medication she's required to take regularly, and she didn’t mean to leave it behind. She discovered the oversight five hours ago. You see, my daughter has a rare genetic disorder, but as long as she’s gets her treatments periodically she’s perfectly fine. However, if she goes without it for too long . . . “ Ghinda paused and struggled to compose himself.

Randy spoke in a quite, concerned voice. “Go on, sir. How can I help?”

Ghinda drew a deep breath and continued. “At the time she first realized she’d left her medication behind, the Michelangelo could have dropped her off at Calcosevin, the university facility on the sixth planet — “

Randy nodded. “Yes, I’ve been there.”

“Well, I didn’t want my daughter’s vacation to be ruined, not to mention the expense of having the passenger liner diverted from its course. If that happens I'll have to get her back home and make new reservations on another luxery liner. So, I arranged to have the medication sent to her aboard the Michelangelo via a courier ship. I hastily enlisted the services of a firm called Priority Freight, Extremely Limited. But an hour ago the pilot of the courier ship called to inform me that his vessel was disabled while it was en route to the passenger ship!”

Randy leaned back in his big, contoured chair and threw one leg over the armrest as he shook his helmeted head slowly. Through the helmet’s faceplate, Ghinda saw an expression that mixed rye amusement with sympathy.

“I’m not surprised, Larry. Priority Freight, Extremely Limited is owned and operated by Frank Jillison, a legendary tightwad who’d rather risk his life than maintain his ship properly. I knew it would catch up with him someday. Tell me, sir — has he arranged to be rescued?”

“He’s negotiating a contract with someone called World Wreckers and In-System Towing, Inc.

Randy suddenly snorted with laughter, which left a bit of residue on the inside of his faceplate. He ignored it as he said, “That figures. They’re the cheapest outfit.” Randy pondered the situation for a few seconds, then he said, “Okay, Larry, I get the picture. You need for me to rendezvous with Jillison, pick up the package of medicine, and then catch up with the Michaelangel before it goes into hyperdrive."

Randy paused, took a deep breath, and let let it out audibly through pursed lips. Finally he said, "That’s a tall order, my friend.”

“My daughter’s life may depend on it, Mr. Henson.”

“Really? But wouldn’t the — “ Randy quickly stopped himself and then said. “Ah-ha. Let me guess. If the Michaelangel has to decelerate now and let her off . . . or worse yet, bring her back . . . you’ll be in debt for twenty years paying the bill.” The sad look on Randy’s face as he finished speaking proved to Mr. Ghinda that Randy Henson sympathized with him completely.

In a calm and quiet voice, Mr. Ghinda said, “Exactly. I’m the president and major stockholder in this company, Mr. Henson, and I’m a wealthy man, but — “

“But nobody is that wealthy. I understand, Larry.”

“I’ve been told that your ship is fast enough to overtake the passenger liner before it goes into hyperdrive and leaves this system. The fact that you’re already in space and located somewhere between this planet and the Michelangelo only increases your chances of success.”

Mr. Ghinda paused for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice sounded ragged. “If I have to pay an outrageous fee for delaying the luxury liner while your ship reaches it, I will . . . somehow. There might even be lawsuits brought against me by some of the wealthy passengers because I delayed the Michelangelo. Mr. Henson . . . my daughter will blame herself if I loose my business. I . . . I love my daughter very much . . . “

Ghinda’s voice quavered and trailed off into silence. He had a tortured look in his eyes. Now at last Randy understood the full dilemma.

“Boy, and I thought I had problems.” Randy was shaking his head slowly. He took a deep breath and huffed it out against the faceplate of the helmet, fogging it up briefly. Mr Lawrence Ghinda starred at the image of Randy Henson on his desk display and silently prayed that this flamboyant man would agree to save his beloved daughters life.

Finally, Randy answered.

“Okay, Larry, since you made that fine video for me, I’ll do this job for you. Or at least I’ll try. But I’ll require a clause in our contract which stipulates that you’ll pay for any damage done to my ship, the Risky Business, up to an including complete system failure due to thrust over-load and reactor breakdown. I’ll accept book value for a ship of her class in mint condition. Plus a fee of two-hundred thousand for making the effort, regardless of the outcome.”

Randy smiled at Ghinda through his faceplate as he leaned forward and brought his face so close to the telecomm camera it nearly filled the screen.

“Agreed?”

Mr. Ghinda was so startled by the sudden image of Randy’s face filling the large display on his desktop that he jerked backwards, a reflex action. After a moment he spoke in a meek and defeated voice.

“Agreed. I’m in no position to bargain, Mr. Jenkins.”

The grin behind the faceplate was instantly wide and bright. “Hey, it’s Randy, remember? Come on, cheer up, Larry! If my ship blows up, I won't collect a dime, right? And then you can make the Michelangelo turn back . . . putting you in debt forever!”
_________________________________________

Randy Henson pushed his engines right up to the red line, and docked with Frank Jillson’s disabled ship — Herme’s Sneakers — just four hours after talking with Ghinda. Frank Jillison gave him the small package of medicine and told Randy he still hadn’t settled on a contract with World Wreckers and In-System Towing, Inc. for the job of rescuing him and his ship. Randy wished him luck, and he advised him not to haggle much longer, because he was drifting towards deep space at roughly 200,000 miles an hour.

With his engines running full out, Randy headed for the Michelangelo, which had almost finished its tour of the twin Jovian planets — Samson and Hercules — and their slow ballet of 162 moons, while the wealthy passengers went ga-ga each time the luxury liner fired nuclear missiles down into the misty atmospheres of the two planets, sending clouds of ice crystals rolling back up into space.






Actually the company that owned the luxury liner was paid a fee to fire those missiles so that the mining ships in the outer system could do close-orbit passes and scoop up fuel from the ejected clouds of enriched atmosphere.

The Michelangelo finished its wide orbit around the twin Jovian planets and started accelerating for its conversion to hyperdrive. Randy was about four million miles behind it when he called to ask if they’d delay going into hyperdrive just long enough to him to deliver a package of life-saving medication to one of their passengers.

They answered by quoting him a rate of so-much-per-minute for the delay. Randy agreed that the price was perfectly reasonable . . . if they were willing to answer questions from the news media on the home world of their cooperate offices concerning their reluctance to allow one of their passengers to receive an emergency delivery of medication critical to her health.

Randy had done his homework. He knew name of the Michelangelo’s captain, and he calmy pointed out that if they didn’t reduce speed long enough for him to dock with the luxury liner, come aboard to deliver his high-priority package, and then depart before they went into hyperdrive, he’d end up having to remain aboard the ship while it went into hyperdrive and spent two days traveling to it’s destination.

This would give Randy plenty of chances to mingle with the wealthy passengers and explain how the captain had endangered the life of the poor young female passenger who would have died if the captain had refused the delivery of her medication.

After a wait of several minutes, the captain came on line personally to tell Randy that the outrageous fee for any delay in the ship’s schedule wasn’t his idea. The rates were set by the company.

Randy delivered a flowery apology to the captain and promised to send a message to the luxury liner’s main office and tell them they were bloodless, money-grubbing bandits who had caused the death of a sick passenger. A sick wealthy passenger— and a young lady who was prominent in high society!

The captain terminated the communication, but four minutes later Randy got another call from the passenger liner’s communications officers, who dazzled Randy with his flawless adherence to protocol. His face on the comm system’s display screen was not the portrait of a happy man.

Galactic Passenger Liner Michelangelo calling Independently Owned Insystem Freighter Risky Business.”

Randy was smiling as he answered the call, because the formality of the address meant that he’d buffaloed the captain with his last message.

“Go ahead, G.P.L. Michelangelo, I’m all ears.”






G.I.F. Risky Business, do you still intend to dock with the G.P.L. Michelangelo at the previously established time of 2107.06 Serius/mederian time?”

Randy agreed and then he slapped his hand over his mouth to muffle his sudden burst of laughter. The message from the luxury liner meant he’d scared the captian so badly he was willing to slow the gigantic passenger ship and let him dock with them without charging him company rates for the delay!

The communications officer was looking at Randy the way stern school teachers look at the class brat. Randy just grinned like a class brat and leaned back casually in the pilot’s seat. He was wearing his pressure sure again, minus the helmet, because he felt sure he would be told to “walk” the package over to the the Michangelo when they rendezvoused. The huge passenger liner would undoubtedly insist on a long, careful docking procedure that would take time — which meant he and the luxury liner would travel further and further out of the star system, making his return home take that much longer.

It would be quicker to just slide the Risky Business up close to the passenger liner (perhaps closer than they would like) and then use his suit thrusters to scoot over to one of the air locks. Knock, knock! Mail call!

Randy’s spacesuit was a marvel of hi-tech design, constructed to be both durable and comfortable. But right now the suit was becoming increasingly unpleasant to wear, because too much nervous sweat was accumulating inside it. The sweat was being caused by the console displays that were telling him that very soon he might die. The engines of the Risky Business were being pushed too hard, and the abuse was beginning to show.

Randy hated the idea of having to shut down the engines to prevent a reactor meltdown, because that would mean talking the Michealangelo into reducing their speed even more — or just leaving him behind, regardless of the consequences. If they did that, Mr. Ghinda’s daughter wouldn’t get her medication unless the passenger liner returned to port, and poor Mr. Ghina would have to sign over his business holdings to the owners of the passenger liner to pay the bill.

Ghinda and his dauther were counting on him, and Randy did not want to let them down. Besides, if Ghinda was broke, he couldn’t very well pay Randy . . .

So, Damn the dispays! Full speed ahead!

Randy was sure he wouldn’t have to make the decision to abort the mission for at least fifteen minutes, and he wasn’t helping the situation by staring at the displays and sweating into his pressure suit. So, he dimmed the cabin lights and leaned back to enjoy the blue-shifted view through the dome-port which enclosed the flight deck.

And quite a view it was, too. The Risky Business was slamming along at point zero eight of light speed, the top velocity for a fusion driven ship of its class. The stars ahead were so impressed by this achievement that they had blue-shifted themselves to a higher brightness in his honor.






And the stars behind him were distinctly red, like the tear-stained eyes of the many fair maidens who would mourn him if he died way out here in the cosmic boondocks.

If the ship’s artificial gravity and inertial dampers hadn’t been counteracting the tremendous acceleration, Randy would have already been plastered across the rear bulkhead like a thin coat of strawberry jelly.

Well my goodness, Randy thought. Space travel is sure glamorous and exciting — not to mention moderately profitable if one happens to have a good month with no malfunctions or explosive accidents. But in all fairness, just about every month recently has been pretty good. And with the loot I’ll make on this job I’ll be able to sell the Risky Business as a down payment on a ship with hyperdrive. Then . . . good old Why Risk It? Incorporated can go interstellar!

The alarm startled Randy back to reality, but when he looked at the reactor status display he almost decided to just turn off the alarms and settle back to meet his maker calmly while enjoying an eyeful of His cosmic handiwork. The reactor was well on it’s way to a total meltdown.

Too much daydreaming, Henson! Now you’ve let things go too far.

Randy cut off the engines, but the display still read doomsday.

Is there ANYTHING I can do? he thought desperately.

Randy asked the ship’s computer to give him an estimated time of detonation. The answer was not encouraging. Fifty-nine seconds. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.

Nope, I guess there isn’t.
___________________________________________

On the spacious and elegant bridge of the Michealangelo, the navigator suddenly turned and spoke to the captain. “Sir! The Risky Business appears to be in trouble!”






“Damn . . . I was afraid this would happen. That crazy fool has more guts than brains. See if you can raise him.”

The communications officer’s voice was cool and professional as he began calling Randy Henson. The captain ordered a telescopic view of the Risky Business on the main view screen. The image of the small vessel’s drive flame was red shifted by the difference in their velocities, along with the rest of the view behind the passenger liner. The captain spoke to the navigator.

“Mr. Lloyd, adjust the image to compensate for the red shift.”

The on-screen image of the stars and the planets far behind them grew brighter when the Michelangelo’s computer processed the picture to make it appear as if the passenger liner was not moving at a small fraction of the light speed.

“G.P.L. Michelangelo to the Risky Business, do you read — Ow!”

The bridge crewmen flinched and covered their eyes as the big display screen turned white and bathed the bridge area in eye-hurting light. Several hundred thousand miles away, the I.I.F. Risky Business was giving lesson on brilliance to the stars themselves. As the seconds passed, the fireball began to shrink.

“Bloody hell,” whispered the captain bitterly. “Such a high price to pay, just for being a happy fool.”

On the bridge view screen, the fireball turned orange, still shrinking. The navigator, seated near enough to overhear the captain, spoke quietly.

“Don’t be too hard on him, sir. He did us one last favor before his ship blew up.”

“What favor was that?” said the captain wearily as he lowered himself into the command chair. He was thinking about the girl, Dialona Ghinda, the one who needed the rare medication. Despite the colossal cost, some other arrangement would now have to be made to obtain the medication she desperately needed. The navigator’s words interrupted his dark thoughts.

“Henson initiated full reverse thrust during the last forty-five seconds before his ship exploded. It created a considerable amount of room between us and the explosion. And he jettisoned his force-shield generator during the reverse thrust maneuver so that the primary shield would be between us and the blast. That primary shield absorbed the first wave of radiation before the ship’s generator was destroyed.”

“Very commendable,” the captain said, nodding his head slowly in admiration of Randy Henson’s unselfish acts. “And very clever, too. I doubt I would have thought of that.”

But that didn’t do the girl any good, thought the captain. Henson should have watched his console displays more carefully. Once the reactor meltdown started, there was nothing Henson could do to stop it.

The captain wondered what Randy Henson’s last thoughts had been.

What would my thoughts have been? I’d probably have kept saying “Do something!” over and over. But what? Henson might as well have just . . .

The captain sat in his command chair for a long moment starring strait ahead, his face expressionless, his eyes unfocused. And then he suddenly lurched forward and barked an order to the navigator.

“Mr. Rinshaw! I want a full-spectrum scan of the entire area between us and the last known position of the Risky Business!”

“But, sir . . . .there won’t even be any detectable wreckage after a blast like — “

“Just do it, Mister! And fast! You can tell me I’m crazy later. Good lord, I might be crazy for thinking anybody could have — “

“Captain, I’ve found something. An object measuring roughly two meters long.”

“What heading?”

“The same as ours.”

“Mr. Answorth!” The captain turned quickly to the first officer. “Round up a pilot and take the shuttlecraft to pick up that object. Helmsman, bring the ship to a dead stop.” The captain paused and glanced around the bridge. He found himself staring at a dozen bewildered faces. “Well, come on! Don’t just sit there looking me like that. Get moving! If the damn company wants to bill somebody for the delay they can bill me!”
_____________________________________________

For Randy Hinson, it happened like this. The countdown on the display was a death sentence. Fifty-eight seconds . . . fifty-seven seconds . . .

Suddenly inspiration hit Randy like a hard left hook.

Of course! If it works for cargo, it’ll work for me!”

Frantically he punched in a set of instructions for the ship’s computer, then he grabbed his helmet and jammed it onto the suit’s collar ring. He snatched up the package containing the medication, switched off the ship’s artificial gravity, and flipped back the safety cover on the Emergency Evac key.

Randy gave the key a savage twist.

A five second alarm rang through the ship while the lights turned red and flashed on and off. Seven feet to Randy’s left, both the inner and outer doors of the airlock slid open. The air exploded outwards towards the hard, hungry vacuum of space. The howling hurricane wind yanked Randy right out of the pilot’s seat and sent him flying through the open air lock, surrounded by a cloud of ice crystals, loose papers, kitchen utensils, books, clothing, odds and ends, and everything else not nailed down inside the ship.

Randy tumbled and spun, watching his ship recede as he floated off into space.






Suddenly the Risky Business turned end over end, it’s maneuvering thrusters flaring brightly. As soon as the ship was facing backwards, the main engines roared to life. The long, blinding flame of the fusion drive lance out ahead of the reversed spacecraft, and Randy squeezed his eyes closed as he tumbled, rotating like a hot dog on a rotisserie.

As the ship reduced it’s speed, Randy flew on ahead of it, rapidly leaving the Risky Business behind. But he was still flying parallel to the long white flame, and his suit temperature read-out started climbing. He felt the inside of the suit growing warm from the hard white light that poured from the ship’s stern tubes, even though he was several hundred feet to one side and still moving away from it.

Randy fastened the package of medicine to one of his belt hooks and then covered it with his left forearm to shield it from the heat of the drive flame. He tapped the buttons on the forearm control panel to get his suit’s gyros going, which gradually stopped his head-over-heels spin. He could hear his own ragged breathing inside his helmet as he got himself aligned and activated the suit thrusters. He felt the four nozzle arms swing out diagonally just behind his shoulders and hips. He reached down to take hold of the control handles that now protruded from the lower corners of his backpack on each side of his hips.

Randy twisted the throttles all the way open. The spacesuit’s neck brace automatically stiffened, and the braces behind both his legs did the same thing.

The four protruding nozzle arms blasted out fuzzy plumes of flame behind him. Their combined thrust delivered a mule kick to Randy Henson’s body that sent it racing forward. The braces built into his suit kept his head and legs in position, as if he was lying in a recliner chair.

The fluttering end of the drive flame finally dropped behind him, well to one side as he drifted further away the ship’s original flight path. But the interior of Randy’s suit felt scalding hot in the places that had received the largest amount of radiated heat. He tried to cringe inside it, but the suit fit too snugly.

If he could just keep from being broiled alive inside his own space suit . . .

And he was also thinking; Any second now the shield generator inside the Risky Business will be jettisoned because I told the computer to do that. With the ship still decelerating, it will pull ahead of it — which means I’ll be on one side of ship’s spherical primary force shields, while the Risky Busines will be on the other side. A thousand-foot wide sphere of force to protect me from the first hard blast of released radiation!

Would it be enough?

The spacesuit itself was heavily shielded against radiation — especially the crotch. Randy hoped his grandchildren would appreciate that fact someday when they sat on Granddaddy’s knee to hear the exciting story of the time his ship blew up, and Granddaddy was forced to jump and walk home.

Many miles away, the Risky Business suddenly gave a lesson on brilliance to the stars themselves when the ship disintegrated in a spectacular explosion. Randy’s suit temperature read-out — which had begun to fall — began to rise again. An instant later the shock wave hit him hard like and angry slap from God. Microscopic bits of the Risky Business sleeted past him on their way to oblivion.



______________


But that wall of dust had either been deflected to one side or greatly diminished in speed by the huge bubble of the primary shield which surround the ejected generator, located between Randy and the exploded ship.

Even in death, the Risky Business had protected her owner. But not completely.

The shock wave ruptured Randy’s suit in a dozen places, especially in the places where the intense heat had made it brittle. Randy was knocked cold by the battering he took inside suit. The bones in his arms and legs snapping in half-a-dozen places.

As he lost consciousness he felt the “chokers” closing inside his ruin suit; membranes that automatically tightened around his ankles, knees, hips, shoulders, wrists, and chest — compartmentalizing the suit so that each section might retain some pressure and warmth, even if the air leaked out of adjoining section. But the chokers could not seal completely air-tight against the vacuum of space, and Randy felt his ears popping as he lost consciousness.

Three dreamy thoughts floated across his mind before he blacked out.

— Maybe the Michelangelo saw the deceleration maneuver and figured it out.

— Maybe they would locate him with a full spectrum scan.

— Maybe they would come back for the medicine . . . just maybe . . .
_____________________________________________

“Good Lord . . . “ whispered Captain Ryan Jacobs as he gazed down at the motionless form that had been revealed when they’d cut away the ruptured space suit. The captain kept clenching and unclenching his teeth.

The limbs had been twisted by the broken bones. Frozen blood covered the lower face, even though other parts of the body were badly burned by the inside of the flash-heated suit. Blisters had formed — and then frozen as the air leaked out.

But thankfully, very little of that was visible now, and Randy Henson lay on the bed in sickbay aboard the luxurious Galactic Passenger Liner Michelangelo.






His arms and legs were encased in CECs — controlled environment cast — which had built-in treatment devices that fed nutrients to the damaged skin, the torn muscles, and the broken bones. Displays on the outside of each CEC glowed with a bright gallery of technical data pertaining to the medical treatments.

Screens were tracking the movements of several thousand nanobots which worked diligently in their microscopic world, rebuilding the tissue and bones at a frantic rate.

Randy’s torso was sheathed in gelatin-filled bag that served the same purpose as the CEC’s, without restricting his breathing. His broken ribs had been surgically glued back together.

“How did you figure it out?” said the chief surgeon as he stood next to Captain Jacobs, studying his patient with a combination of profession concern and unabashed awe.

“I was imagining myself in his situation, with the ship about blow up and absolutely no way to stop it. Suddenly I got a mental image of a tall building on fire, with people trapped inside, no way to get out. What do people always do in a situation like that?”

“Well . . . they jump,” said the doctor.

“Exactly. It’s a big risk. The fall may kill you, but when a person is about to burn up anyway, why not risk it?”

“I get it.” The doctor nodded his head slowly. “Hey, he’s coming around. Nurse! Bring a water bottle. His lips are dry.” Several other sickbay attendants hurriedly followed the nurse when they heard that their newest patient was conscious.

Randy Henson slowly cranked his leaden eyelids up and tried to focus on the people who had suddenly crowded around his bed. He wondered why so many of them were grinning at him. He felt the tube of the water bottle slid between his lips, and he drank gratefully, even though it hurt his throat to swallow.

He desperately wanted to ask somebody how many arms and legs he had left. Or fingers. Or other organs he was equally fond of.

The elderly doctor was wise in the ways of newly awakened patients after serious accidents, and he wore a reassuring smile as he leaned down and spoke softly.

“You’re going to be just fine, Mr. Henson. Don’t try to move. You have fractures in both your arms and legs. But all your injuries are being treated, and we’re using the best methods you could get in any hospital I know of.” The doctor’s smile widened. “And that’s really saying something.”

Randy closed his eyes for a moment, satisfied with the doctor’s answer to his unspoken question. But he had one more question, and wanted to ask it while he had everybody’s attention. He licked his dry lips, made himself swallow, and then took a deep breath.

“Sorry ack — “ His hoarse voice turned the second word into raw noise, and the nurse quickly helped him take another drink from the water bottle before he tried to speak again.

“Sorry . . . I . . . was late.” His rasping whisper was barely audible. “Did my . . . luggage make it aboard?”

Captain Jacobs' grinned from ear to ear, and the surrounding crowd did likewise.

“Yes. We got the medicine. And the young lady is just fine. She’s also extremely pretty and very earger to thank you for what you did.” Captain Jacobs' smile faded away for a moment, and his face was blank as he said, “But I’m afraid that won’t do you any good.”

Randy felt a knot growing in this stomach, and his breathing quicken.

But a devilish smile appeared on Captain Jacobs' face as he finished by saying, “Well . . . at least not until your casts come off.”

_________________
____________
Is there no man on Earth who has the wisdom and innocence of a child?
~ The Space Children (1958)


Last edited by Bud Brewster on Sun Jul 19, 2020 10:15 am; edited 12 times in total
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trekriffic
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PostPosted: Mon Feb 17, 2020 5:11 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

You paint word pictures. Very Happy
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Bud Brewster
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PostPosted: Tue Feb 18, 2020 3:21 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

________________________________

Thanks! This author tries to be an artists, even when he's rendering with a mouse and keyboard. Laughing

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Is there no man on Earth who has the wisdom and innocence of a child?
~ The Space Children (1958)
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trekriffic
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PostPosted: Thu Feb 20, 2020 1:25 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

I love your description of the liner's sickbay and the medical and surgical techniques.
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Bud Brewster
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PostPosted: Thu Feb 20, 2020 4:12 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

________________________________

Thanks! Cool

This is actually a prequel to The Wishbone Express, a story about Randy Henson's life before he hooked up with Bill Jenkins.

In the sequel to The Wishbone Express, which is Sail the Sea of Stars (actually written way back in 1982 . . . before all the aforementioned stories) several of the main characters end up in sickbay with those Controlled Environment Casts on various limbs.

I also have notes for a story about how Randy and Bill first joined forces in the Arcturus system after Randy arrives aboard the Michelangelo and teams up with Bill Jenkins to battle pirates who try to cheat Bill Jenkins out his fee for delivering a valuable cargo to a destination in the outer system.

It's basically a min-version of the long running battle in The Wishbone Express. I later came up with the idea of expanding the idea, which then became the novel which now serves as a prequel to the one wrote prior to it! Cool

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Is there no man on Earth who has the wisdom and innocence of a child?
~ The Space Children (1958)
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trekriffic
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PostPosted: Thu Feb 20, 2020 5:08 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Bud Brewster wrote:
Thanks! Cool

This is actually a prequel to The Wishbone Express, a story about Randy Henson's life before he hooked up with Bill Jenkins.

In the sequel to The Wishbone Express, which is Sail the Sea of Stars (actually written way back in 1982 . . . before all the aforementioned stories) several of the main characters end up in sickbay with those Controlled Environment Casts on various limbs.

I also have notes for a story about how Randy and Bill first joined forces in the Arcturus system after Randy arrives aboard the Michelangelo and teams up with Bill Jenkins to battle pirates who try to cheat Bill Jenkins out his fee for delivering a valuable cargo to a destination in the outer system.

It's basically a min-version of the long running battle in The Wishbone Express. I later came up with the idea of expanding the idea, which then became the novel which now serves as a prequel to the one wrote prior to it! Cool

I love that long battle scene in "The Wishbone Express." Especially the detail you go into regarding how to manipulate the shields.
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