The Space Between

Jak's shoulders heaved in a greater sigh. He hoped for no more trips like this one. During endless earth-days he had cruised the Cassini Division of the Rings of Saturn, picking up a little yttrium, antimony and platinum, with Drusilla sunk in depths of boredom and rarely leaving the plane. The arrival of the viewnote informing her that her Self Portrait had won first prize in the Interearth Photographic Salon had elated her for several days; but then she had announced, one earth-morning, the development of an acute case of pregnancy. Since the much published history of Lar BW16177 on Hungaria throbbed vivid in his mind, Jak could do nothing except set a course for Luna, carrying half empty ore bins and four months of unexpired leave.

A bulb on the instrument panel blinked to signal the opening of the outer airlock door. Jak said, "If I can't greet them in uniform, I'll have to go like this." He adjusted his trunks and stood by the airlock, which placed him head down in relation to Drusilla posing by the strangely silent radio.

Lar BW16177, stranded on the asteroid, had been devitalized horribly when, under low gravity, the fetus had developed with unprecedented rapidity. Jak had set the fastest course he thought safe for Drusilla, 6,240,000,000 kilometers at 1 G acceleration, 208,000,000 kilometers in free fall, and 6,240,000,000 kilometers at 1 G deceleration. He had tried to keep Drusilla occupied with her photographic hobby and its current triumph, although he could not understand why her picture had won first prize. It had no color, being done in blacks, grays, and whites, and showed every detail of her face. It looked about like something Daguerre would have done in 1839. Jak much preferred modern photography with its soft colors, pleasing blurs, and striking abstractions. His own hobby was woodcarving, because so few things were made of wood.

The inner door of the airlock opened. The three men in space-suits walked across the ceiling and down the bulkhead to the deck. Jak saluted the faces almost invisible behind colored glass and made gestures asking the visitors to remove their helmets. One of the men turned and clanked off along the narrow passage. Another unsealed and removed the helmet of the tall man who seemed to be the leader.

Drusilla actually blushed and giggled. Jak, who considered himself above petty embarrassment, felt rather ashamed himself, for the visitor had never had his facial hair removed. It grew profusely in a disgusting fringe between nose and upper lip and formed a horrid black triangle on the point of his chin. Jak rubbed a shaking hand over his own smooth cheeks and shaven head and stammered, "Welcome to the--the Box. How's your hobby? I--I am Jak SP345O926O, and this is Drusilla GW414249834. How may we help?"

The man with the hairy lip paid little attention to the traditional greeting, nor did he reply. His black eyes smoldered at Drusilla. In a vibrant voice, he purred, "Drusilla, Latin, meaning 'with dewy eyes.' How appropriate! What a rare and sweet old name! I detest these ugly modern names."

The eyes flashed to Jak. "I presume your name is a horrid modern one?"

Jak, maddened with indignation, snapped, "I told you I'm Jak SP345O926O. Who are you, and how may we help? In about an hour and a half--"

"Silence!" shouted the visitor.

This brutal direction shocked Jak into acquiescence. An even greater shock stunned him when the other man who had remained in the cabin removed his helmet. This one, Jak decided, must be mentally deficient, or else he would have had a plastidoc treat the red scar tissue covering the left side of his face. Jak could not understand the semicircle of black cloth over the man's left eye.

The leader bent his torso toward Drusilla as much as the spacesuit allowed, and said, "My true name and serial number, you shall never know, fair lady; but for practical purposes, I have adopted the name of the most famous pirate of the early Twentieth Century, Earl Flim. You may call me Captain Flim."

The third man came back through the passage. He looked ordinary enough, although he had let his hair grow. He reported, "No one else aboard, captain."

Flim said, "Excellent, Ger. Destroy all communication apparatus."

Ger pulled a wrench from his tool kit and took a preliminary slash at the radio. Completely puzzled, Jak protested, "Wait! What do you mean 'pirate?' Pirate? What--"

"Silence!" Flim roared.

Only then did Jak notice the pistol. Since the successful conclusion of the Crime War, when Organized Crime, the greatest blight that ever sapped a planet, was eradicated, guns could be found only in museums. Even before the War, guns had become a rarity among the law abiding citizenry; since the slaughter of fifteen thousand people a year in hunting and home accidents in the State of America alone had brought about anti-firearm laws and sent the gun the way of the private automobile.

Of course, the small criminal divisions of the Earth Patrol and the Space Patrol still carried pistols, although more as ornaments than weapons. The pistol in the clip holster on Flim's right leg seemed to be the standard Patrol arm--not a "needle gun," or a "disintegrater," or a "heat ray," or any other impractical dream weapon, but a Morgia, 30-shot, 6 mm, semi-automatic pistol with adjustable optical sight. The Morgia alarmed Jak sufficiently to prevent him from interfering as Ger tore into the radio with wrench and pliers.

Drusilla squeaked and drifted aside. "There, there, fair lady," Flim crooned. "No harm shall come to you."

"Watch what you call her!" Jak rasped. "I demand to know what you're doing! There's no time for your hobby. Drusilla needs obstetric attention, and I'm--"

"Silence!" Flim turned to Drusilla. "Ah, fair one, you shall have every attention, obstetric and otherwise. Fear not. Such gorgeous green hair! Those lips! Do I detect the master touch of Per BT1414?"

Drusilla managed to subdue her blushing and said, "Yes. He did my eyelids too. Do you like them?"