the overheated converter, he knew, had finally
shorted out. The port coil was still operating normally. He considered
turning it off, but conceded it was better to struggle around in an
apparently listing ship than to be wracked by the nausea of
weightlessness.

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

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

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

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

Numbed, he found he could no longer react to the total disregard of his
rights with any degree of excited resentment. He closed his eyes
indifferently. Shuddering, he squeezed the cylinder of tobacco between
his fingers without being aware of the action. The glowing end bent back
and 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 that
some other vessel would happen along. The pile, his arm, spillthrough,
the Fleury threatening to break in two ... he enumerated all the
factors.

If he went aboard the Cluster Queen now, Altman would at least give him
passage to port. Any charges Brad would make would never hold up without
substantiation. And Altman would see that he brought nothing with him
that could back up the accusations. It would be just as easy for the
crew of the Queen to prove that Brad Conally had conceived the whole
weird account of assault and piracy as a means of winning back the cargo
he was faced with losing.

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