Jupiter is a ball of luminous clouded marble, gigantic in the sky
of Ganymede. Its light is a queer, pale glow that lacks the warm
brilliance of sunlight. When the titanic planet lifts over the horizon,
gravity seems to shift, and the ground feels unstable beneath your feet.
Jupiter was rising now. Oretown lay ugly and desolate in the strange
dawn. Across the plain where the spaceship had landed a string of
truck-cats, big silvery desert freighters, stood motionless, ready to
start the trip. There were signs of activity. At the central port of
the _Hunter_ stood a lanky, gray-haired man with a clipped, stiff Van
Dyke. Behind him was Captain Brown.
Garth, his medical kit strapped to his back, ploughed through the light
film of snow that lay over the sand. He was shivering in his thin
garments, wishing he had a drink. Neither Brown nor his companion saw
Garth's approach. The gray-haired man was speaking.
"--time to start. If this guide of yours doesn't show up, we'll have to
wait till we find another."
"He'll show up," Brown said. "I only gave him ten bucks."
Garth reached the foot of the ramp leading up to the port-valve.
"'Morning. Am I late?"
There was no answer. He climbed the slope, slippery with snow despite
the skid-treads, and stopped before the two men. Brown nodded at him.
"Here's our guide, Commander Benson."
Benson scowled incredulously under tufted brows. "What the devil!
You--you're an Earthman!"
"Sure," Garth said. "What about it?"
The Commander glanced at Brown. "I expected a native. I didn't know--"
He left the sentence hanging. "You can't wear those rags, man.
Captain, break out some clothes for him." Without another look at
Garth, Benson hurried down the ramp, shouting orders to someone below.
Brown grinned at the other. "Come on inside," he urged, and, in a lower
tone, "He's the big shot. You know enough to keep your mouth shut--eh?"
Garth nodded. Brown peered at him sharply.
"You need coffee. I'll lace it. Come along." He took Garth to the
galley, and, presently, supplied food, drink, and clothing. He lit a
cigaret, idly watching the smoke sucked into the air-conditioning grill.
"Benson's a tough egg," he said at last. "If he had the slightest idea
we were figuring on--what we're figuring on, there'd be trouble. The
Commander never takes chances. We've got to give him the slip, somehow."