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and Quorquel's a slimy, conniving trickster. The only officer on the tub worth a tinker's damn is the first--hey! Didn't you say you were going as first? They've got a first mate!"
"I dunno," replied Hartwell, uncertainly. "All he said was 'maybe'."
"Watch it, son," was the portmaster's last warning. Then he shut up and put his endorsement on Hartwell's papers. Fools came and fools went. If a man ignored good advice, there was nothing an oldtimer could do.
When Bob Hartwell reached the Hyperion's berth the next day, after a night of hectic dreams, he noted that her tubes were hot and that her cargo ports were shut and sealed. The ground crew were getting clear of the searing blasts to come, but before the entry port stood Captain Fennery and beside him the portmaster with a sheaf of papers.
"Glad to see you, Hartwell," said Captain Fennery with surprising cordiality. "We're being withheld clearance for the lack of a first mate. Our Mr. Owsley indiscreetly got into a brawl with some natives in a tavern last night. The gendarmes picked him up this morning with a cut throat. Will you sign the articles quickly, please, so this gentleman will let us clear?"
The shocking news of the demise of his predecessor gave Hartwell pause, for it was confirmation of the gloomy predictions made the day before by the friendly portmaster. It matched the foreboding dreams that had kept him tossing throughout the hot, dank night. The most ominous aspect of it was that Fennery himself--perhaps Quorquel--had foreknowledge of it. Or else what did, "Come back tomorrow--may need a first" mean otherwise?
Had Owsley's death been arranged?
But Hartwell was reluctant to back out now. He had scoffed away good advice and disregarded his own better judgment. It was also not his habit to back out of commitments. So he lost but a moment in darkling consideration, then reached for the articles and signed.
A miserable specimen of the dock-rats that the Stellar Transport h