A bit bewildered, but determined not to show it, Meek swung away from
the sign-post and gravely regarded the settlement. On the chart it was
indicated by a fairly sizeable dot, but that was merely a matter of
comparison. Out Saturn-way even the tiniest outpost assumes importance
far beyond its size.
The slab of rock was no more than five miles across, perhaps even
less. Here in its approximate center, were two buildings, both of
almost identical construction, semi-spherical and metal. Out here, Meek
realized, shelter was the thing. Architecture merely for architecture's
sake was still a long way off.
One of the buildings was the repair shop which the sign advertised.
The other, according to the crudely painted legend smeared above its
entrance lock, was the _Saturn Inn_.
The rest of the rock was landing field, pure and simple. Blasters had
leveled off the humps and irregularities so spaceships could sit down.
Two ships now were on the field, pulled up close against the repair
shop. One, Meek noticed, belonged to the Solar Health and Welfare
Department, the other to the Galactic Pharmaceutical Corporation.
The Galactic ship was a freighter, ponderous and slow. It was here,
Meek knew, to take on a cargo of radiation moss. But the other was a
puzzler. Meek wrinkled his brow and blinked his eyes, trying to figure
out what a welfare ship would be doing in this remote corner of the
Solar System.
Slowly and carefully, Meek clumped toward the squat repair shop. Once
or twice he stumbled, hoping fervently he wouldn't get the feet of his
cumbersome spacesuit all tangled up. The gravity was slight, next to
non-existent, and one who wasn't used to it had to take things easy and
remember where he was.
Behind him Saturn filled a tenth of the sky, a yellow, lemon-tinged
ball, streaked here and there with faint crimson lines and blotched
with angry, bright green patches.
To right and left glinted the whirling, twisting, tumbling rocks that
made up the Inner Ring, while arcing above the horizon opposed to
Saturn were the spangled glistening rainbows of the other rings.
"Like dewdrops in the black of space," Meek mumbled to himself. But he
immediately felt ashamed of himself for growing poetic. This sector of
space, he knew, was not in the least poetic. It was hard and savage and
as he thought about that, he hitched up his gun belt and struck out
with a firmer tread that almost upset him. After that, he tried to
think of nothing except keeping his two feet under him.
Reaching the repair shop's entrance lock, he braced himself solidly to
keep his balance, reached out and pressed a buzzer. Swiftly the lock
spun outward and a moment later Meek had passed through the entrance
vault and stepped into the office.
A dungareed mechanic sat tilted in a chair against a wall, feet on the
desk, a greasy cap pushed back on his head.
Meek stamped his feet gratefully, pleased at feeling Earth gravity
under him again. He lifted the hinged helmet of his suit back on his
shoulders.
"You are the gentleman who can fix things?" he asked the mechanic.
* * * * *
The mechanic stared. Here was no hell-for-leather freighter pilot, no
be-whiskered roamer of the outer orbits. Meek's hair was white and
stuck out in uncombed tufts in a dozen directions. His skin was pale.
His blue eyes looked watery behind the thick lenses that rode his nose.
Even the bulky spacesuit failed to hide his stooped shoulders and
slight frame.
The mechanic said nothing.
Meek tried again. "I saw the sign. It said you could fix anything. So
I...."
The mechanic shook himself.
"Sure," he agreed, still slightly dazed. "Sure I can fix you up. What
you got?"
He swung his feet off the desk.
"I ran into a swarm of pebbles," Meek confessed. "Not much more than
dust, really, but the screen couldn't stop it all."
He fumbled his hands self-consciously. "Awkward of me," he said.
"It happens to the best of them," the mechanic consoled. "Saturn sweeps
in clouds of the stuff. Thicker than hell when you reach the Rings.
Lots of ships pull in with punctures. Won't take no time."
Meek cleared his throat uneasily. "I'm afraid it's more than a
puncture. A pebble got into the instruments. Washed out some of them."
The mechanic clucked sympathetically. "You're lucky. Tough job to
bring in a ship without all the instruments. Must have a honey of a
navigator."
"I haven't got a navigator," Meek said, quietly.
The mechanic stared at him, eyes popping. "You mean you brought it in
alone? No one with you?"
Meek gulped and nodded. "Dead reckoning," he said.
The mechanic glowed with sudden admiration. "I don't know who you are,
mister," he declared, "but whoever you are, you're the best damn pilot
that ever took to space."
"Really I'm not," said Meek. "I haven't done much piloting, you see. Up
until just a while ago, I never had left Earth. Bookkeeper for Lunar
Exports."
"Bookkeeper!" yelped the mechanic. "How come a bookkeeper can handle a
ship like that?"
"I learned it," said Meek.
"You learned it?"
"Sure, from a book. I saved my money and I studied. I always wanted to
see the Solar System and here I am."
Dazedly, the mechanic took off his greasy cap, laid it carefully on the
desk, reached out for a spacesuit that hung from a wall hook.
"Afraid this job might take a while," he said. "Especially if we have
to wait for parts. Have to get them in from Titan City. Why don't you
go over to the _Inn_. Tell Moe I sent you. They'll treat you right."
"Thank you," said Meek, "but there's something else I'm wondering
about. There was another sign out there. Something about educated bugs."
"Oh, them," said the mechanic. "They belong to Gus Hamilton. Maybe
belong ain't the right word because they were on the rock before Gus
took over. Anyhow, Gus is mighty proud of them, although at times they
sure run him ragged. First year they almost drove him loopy trying to
figure out what kind of game they were playing."
"Game?" asked Meek, wondering if he was being hoaxed.
"Sure, game. Like checkers. Only it ain't. Not chess, neither. Even
worse than that. Bugs dig themselves a batch of holes, then choose up
sides and play for hours. About the time Gus would think he had it
figured out, they'd change the rules and throw him off again."
"That doesn't make sense," protested Meek.
"Stranger," declared the mechanic, solemnly, "there ain't nothing
about them bugs that make sense. Gus' rock is the only one they're on.
Gus thinks maybe the rock don't even belong to the Solar system. Thinks
maybe it's a hunk of stone from some other solar system. Figures maybe
it crossed space somehow and was captured by Saturn, sucked into the
Ring. That would explain why it's the only one that has the bugs. They
come along with it, see."
"This Gus Hamilton," said Meek. "I'd like to see him. Where could I
find him?"
"Go over to the _Inn_ and wait around," advised the mechanic. "He'll
come in sooner or later. Drops around regular, except when his
rheumatism bothers him, to pick up a bundle of papers. Subscribes to a
daily paper, he does. Only man out here that does any reading. But all
he reads is the sports section. Nuts about sports, Gus is."