As soon as he had reported his success to Colonel Hilda Morrisey he went looking for his landlady. “I’m taking your advice and getting out of town for a while, Rita,” he told her.
“Hey, great! Where are you going?”
“Florida,” he said, and stopped her lecture on how nasty the Floridians were since they got their own government by taking out his payment machine. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, so I’d better pay a week or so in advance. I don’t want you throwing my stuff out into the street.”
“Oh, Dan! I wouldn’t do that,” she protested, “not even if you were away for even a month.”
“It won’t be that long,” he assured her. “I’m sure of that.”
CHAPTER NINE
Dan
The captain’s voice woke Dannerman as the plane was making its approach to the Jose Marti airport outside the Cape. He hadn’t intended to sleep. He hadn’t realized he actually was sleeping until he woke up, saw the red light on the seat back before him to show that the airbag had just been armed and saw Pat Adcock stirring beside him. “Look there,” she said, yawning as she gazed out the window. “That’s our Clipper.” There it was, gleaming ceramic white, forty meters tall, with work trucks and people busy around it.
So it wasn’t a dream. It was real. That was the ship that was going to lift Dannerman and the others right off the solid planet they had been born to, and all those childish fantasies would become fact.
“Are you scared?” his cousin asked him, giving him a searching look.
“Oh, no. Well, not really scared. Are you?”
“Certainly not,” she said. “Going into space isn’t what worries me. Uncle Cubby brainwashed me pretty well, you know; it was his dream, only he never could pass the physical to make it on his own, and I guess he infected me. That’s not what’s bothering me.”
He looked at her with new interest. “But something else is?”
“Well, yes.” She squirmed around to look back at Jimmy Lin and Rosaleen Artzybachova, in their own seats a few rows back. “For one thing, I don’t know if I can trust Lin,” she said moodily as she straightened again. “Delasquez, either. That’s why I want you along, Dan. Keep an eye on those guys while we’re up there.”
“But they’re the pilots you picked,” he said reasonably.
She shrugged. “I had to take what I could get. Just be careful about them, okay?” She peered up and down the length of the plane. “Do you suppose it’s too late to go to the can?” she asked.
It was. The stews were cruising the aisle, checking seat belts and picking up empty glasses. He said consolingly, “We’ll be on the ground in a moment.”
“Yes? And then what?”
He said, surprised, “Then there’ll be a chance to get to the ladies’ room right away.”
She gave him a pursed-lips look. “That’s right, you’ve never been in Florida before, have you?”
He hadn’t understood what Pat had meant by that, but as soon as they were off the plane it became clear. The passengers were not permitted to step off the plane and go freely about their business. The passengers were immediately herded into long lines for customs inspection- well, it wasn’t called “customs,” exactly, since Florida wasn’t really an exactly independent country, however determinedly they insisted on their own laws and practices. The processing was just .is thorough, though, and the first step was that one of the agents collected everybody’s carry weapons. Dannerman hated to give up his twenty-shot, but all the more seasoned Florida travelers seemed to take it as a matter of course. The agent tagged each gun and gave the owner a claim check-“So you can redeem it, senor, when you leave our beautiful Free State.” Then another set of agents searched methodically through everyone’s bags and pockets. For a moment Dannerman thought they might even insist on a body-cavity search as well, but it didn’t come to that. It was bad enough, though; the inspector gasped in outrage when she patted him down and found his ankle weapon.
She held the gun in her hand and gave him a severe look. “This is contraband weapon,” she announced. “It is conceal. This is not permit in the Free State of Florida. It must be confiscate.” She beckoned to a state policeman, who patted his own gun to make sure it hadn’t fallen out of its holster as he strolled toward them.
The cop waved all four of the party over to a little quarantine ghetto while the customs agent and her supervisor debated the matter in Spanish. Pat was irate. Rosaleen Artzybachova waited patiently for a resolution to the problem. Jimmy Lin showed amusement. “Danny, Danny,” he said reproachfully, “don’t you know any better than that? When you go to Florida you leave your own gun at home. Nobody brings a gun to Florida. You don’t need it. You can always pick up another on the street-there’s not a block in the state where you can’t buy anything you want.”
Dannerman didn’t answer. He did know better; he just hadn’t wanted to part with his service special.
“It’s all right,” Pat announced, waving in relief to a tall man who had appeared at the customs desk. Although he was wearing a different uniform this time, gleaming dress whites with clusters of ribbons at his chest, Dannerman recognized General Martin Delasquez. He spoke rapidly to the customs agents, then approached them, looking grave.
“What a pity, Dr. Adcock,” he said to Pat, ignoring Dannerman. “Your man has attempted to break our law. Therefore he is forbidden admission to our state. However, I believe that we can avoid the legal penalties. I have arranged that he will be placed on the first return flight to New York, and the rest of you may proceed to the staging area.”
“Oh, no!” Pat Adcock exclaimed. “I want him with me.”
Delasquez shook his head politely. “But it is impossible, you see?” he said reasonably.
“Maybe not,” Dannerman said. He had been watching Delasquez carefully. The general looked at him for the first time.
“You spoke?” he asked, his tone frosty.
“Yes, I did, General. You know what I bet? I bet you have enough authority to get us all through these bureaucrats, don’t you, General?”
Delasquez said coldly, “It is apparent that you do not understand the gravity of your situation.”
“I bet I do. For instance, I bet I know what would happen next. I bet while I was waiting for the next plane the cops would ask me a lot of questions. I wouldn’t want to lie to them, either. And if the subject of our first meeting came up I’d have to tell them anything they wanted to know-you know, like the articles I delivered to you in New York?”
Delasquez did not respond for a moment. He studied Dannerman in silence, then turned to Pat Adcock. “Who is this man?” he demanded.
She shrugged. “He’s my cousin.”
“And do you know what trouble this could cause?” She didn’t answer, only shrugged again. Then Delasquez smiled. “Well, what harm can it do? It is only a technical violation, after all. I think I can persuade the authorities to let you pass.”
“And get our guns back for us, too, please,” Dannerman added.
CHAPTER TEN
Dan
The flight started tamely. The takeoff thrust was not much worse than some of the high-speed scramjets Dannerman had taken to cross an ocean, but the Clipper was still being an airplane then.
He hardly noticed when the takeoff jets switched over to the higher-speed contoured flow, but then the time came when the scram cut over to rocket thrust, and he noticed that, all right. That was real acceleration. He was squashed into his seat for four long minutes. His belly sagged, his head drooped, he realized for the first time that even his eyeballs had weight on their sockets. Then he fell forward against his chest straps as the thrust cut; he was suddenly weightless, and they were on their way.
It was about then that Dannerman realized that space travel took a long time to happen . . . and that while it was happening there was nothing much to do. What he wanted to do was to get out of his seat and roam around the Clipper, but he had been warned against that. He quickly saw why. Every course correction brought another jolt, not nearly as violent as the first but unpredictable for either time or direction. Then the gimbaled seats tilted, the motors roared, and you were lucky if you didn’t bite your tongue or bash your head.
A window, at least, would have been nice. He didn’t have one. All he had was the tiny TV screen on his armrest, but all it showed was black, empty space. By his side Rosaleen Artzybachova sat with her eyes placidly closed, maybe even napping; well, spaceflight was nothing new to her. She could not have been comfortable; her feet rested on a pair of gray metal boxes, lashed to the seat supports, and so her knees were squeezed almost into her belly. Just ahead, but out of his sight, Pat was in the third-pilot seat, trying to talk to Delasquez and Lin at the controls; Dannerman couldn’t make out the words, and if the pilots answered he couldn’t hear.