The Cosmic Computer - H. Beam Piper (best black authors txt) 📗

As soon as I can find a place for Sylvie to stay, I’ll come back and go to work for your company building a spaceship. And a lot of the men who were working here are farm-tramps and drifters, one job’s as good as another as long as they get paid for it. And I know a few good men in Storisende⁠—engineers⁠—who’d be glad for a job, too.”

“You think it would be all right with Mother and Flora if Sylvie stayed with us?” Conn asked.

“Of course it would; they’d be glad to have her.” Rodney Maxwell turned to Yves Jacquemont. “Let’s consider that fixed up. Now, suppose you and I go into Storisende, and⁠ ⁠…”

The Transcontinent & Overseas people arrived at Barathrum Spaceport the next morning; a rear-rank vice-president, a front-rank legal-eagle, and three engineers. They were horrified at what they saw. The Harriet Barne had been gutted. Bulkheads and decks had been ripped out and relocated incomprehensibly; the bridge and the control room under it were gone; she had been stripped to her framework, and the whole underside was sheathed in shimmering collapsium.

“Great Ghu!” the vice-president almost howled. “That isn’t our ship!”

“That’s the Harriet Barne,” her captain said. “She looks a little ragged now, but⁠—”

“You helped these pirates do this to her?”

“If I hadn’t, they’d have cut my throat and gotten somebody else to help them. My throat’s more valuable to me than the ship is to you; I can’t get anybody to build me a new one.”

“Well, understand,” one of the engineers said, “they were converting her into an interplanetary ship. It wouldn’t cost much to finish the job.”

“We need an interplanetary ship like we need a hole in the head!” The vice-president turned to Rodney Maxwell. “Just how much prize-money do you think you’re entitled to for this wreck?”

“I wouldn’t know; that’s up to Sterber, Flynn & Chen-Wong. Up to the court, if we can settle it any other way.”

“You mean you’d litigate about this?” the lawyer demanded, and began to laugh.

“If we have to. Look, if you people don’t want her, sign her over to Litchfield Exploration & Salvage. But if you do want her, you’ll have to pay for her.”

“We’ll give you twenty thousand sols,” the lawyer said. “We don’t want to be tightfisted. After all, you fought a gang of pirates and lost some men and a couple of boats; we have some moral obligation to you. But you’ll have to realize that this ship, in her present state, is practically valueless.”

“The collapsium on her is worth twice that, and the engines are worth even more,” Jacquemont said. “I worked on them.”

The discussion ended there. By midafternoon, Luther Chen-Wong, the junior partner of the law firm, arrived from Storisende with a couple of engineers of his own. Reporters began arriving; both sides were anxious to keep them away from the ship. Conn took care of them, assisted by Sylvie, who had rummaged an even more attractive costume out of what she called the loot-cellar. The reporters all used up a lot of film footage on her. And the Fawzis’ Office Gang arrived from Force Command, bitterly critical of the value of the spaceport against its cost in lives and equipment. Brangwyn and Zareff returned to Force Command with them. A Planetary Air Patrol ship arrived and removed the captured pirates. The liberated prisoners were airlifted to Litchfield.

The third day after the battle, Conn and his father and Sylvie and her father flew to Litchfield. To Conn’s surprise, Flora greeted him cordially, and Wade Lucas, rather stiffly, congratulated him. Maybe it was as Tom Brangwyn had said; he hadn’t been on Poictesme in the last four or five years and didn’t know how bad things had gotten. His mother seemed to think he had won the Battle of Barathrum single-handed.

He was even more surprised and gratified that Flora made friends with Sylvie immediately. His mother, however, regarded the engineer’s daughter with badly concealed hostility, and seemed to doubt that Sylvie was the kind of girl she wanted her son getting involved with. Outwardly, of course, she was quite gracious.

Rodney Maxwell and Yves Jacquemont flew to Storisende the next morning, both more optimistic about finding a ship than Conn thought the circumstances warranted. Conn stayed at home for the next few days, luxuriating in idleness. He and Sylvie tore down his mother’s household robots and built sound-sensors into them, keying them to respond to their names and to a few simple commands, and including recorded-voice responses in a thick Sheshan accent. All the smart people on Terra, he explained, had Sheshan humanoid servants.

His mother was delighted. Robots that would answer when she spoke to them were a lot more companionable. She didn’t seem to think, however, that Sylvie’s mechanical skills were ladylike accomplishments. Nice girls, Litchfield model, weren’t quite so handy with a spot-welder. That was what Conn liked about Sylvie; she was like the girls he’d known at the University.

They were strolling after dinner, down the Mall. The air was sharp and warned that autumn had definitely arrived; the many brilliant stars, almost as bright as the moon of Terra, were coming out in the dusk.

“Conn, this thing about Merlin,” she began. “Do you really believe in it? Ever since Dad and I came to Poictesme, I’ve been hearing about it, but it’s just a story, isn’t it?”

He was tempted to tell her the truth, and sternly put the temptation behind him.

“Of course there’s a Merlin, Sylvie, and it’s going to do wonderful things when we find it.”

He looked down the starlit Mall ahead of him. Somebody, maybe Lester Dawes and Morgan Gatworth and Lorenzo Menardes, had gotten things finished and cleaned up. The pavement was smooth and unbroken; the litter had vanished.

“It’s done wonderful things already, just because people started looking for it,” he said. “Some of these days, they’re going to realize that they had Merlin all along and didn’t know it.”

There was a faint humming from somewhere ahead, and he was wondering what it