“Yes, sir.”  Dane left the cabin, closing the panel carefully behind him.  Would he—­or could he—­he thought drearily, get back in Van Rycke’s profit column again?  Sargol had been unlucky as far as he was concerned.  First he had made that stupid mistake and then he got sick and now—­And now—­what was the matter?  Was it just the general attack of nerves over their voyage and the commitments which forced their haste, or was it something else?  He could not rid himself of a vague sense that the Queen was about to take off into real trouble.  And he did not like the sensation at all!

Chapter VIII

HEADACHES

They lifted from Sargol on schedule and went into Hyper also on schedule.  From that point on there was nothing to do but wait out the usual dull time of flight between systems and hope that Steen Wilcox had plotted a course which would cut that flight time to a minimum.  But this voyage there was little relaxation once they were in Hyper.  No matter when Dane dropped into the mess cabin, which was the common meeting place of the spacer, he was apt to find others there before him, usually with a mug of one of Mura’s special brews close at hand, speculating about their landing date.

Dane, himself, once he had thrown off the lingering effects of his Sargolian illness, applied time to his studies.  When he had first joined the Queen as a recruit straight out of the training Pool, he had speedily learned that all the ten years of intensive study then behind him had only been an introduction to the amount he still had to absorb before he could take his place as an equal with such a trader as Van Rycke—­if he had the stuff which would raise him in time to that exalted level.  While he had still had his superior’s favor he had dared to treat him as an instructor, going to him with perplexing problems of stowage or barter.  But now he had no desire to intrude upon the Cargo-master, and doggedly wrestled with the microtapes of old records on his own, painfully working out the why and wherefor for any departure from the regular procedure.  He had no inkling of his own future status—­whether the return to Terra would find him permanently earthed.  And he would ask no questions.

They had been four days of ship’s time in Hyper when Dane walked into the mess cabin, tired after his work with old records, to discover no Mura busy in the galley beyond, no brew steaming on the heat coil.  Rip sat at the table, his long legs stuck out, his usually happy face very sober.

“What’s wrong?” Dane reached for a mug, then seeing no pot of drink, put it back in place.

“Frank’s sick—­”

“What!” Dane turned.  Illness such as they had run into on Sargol had a logical base.  But illness on board ship was something else.

“Tau has him isolated.  He has a bad headache and he blacked out when he tried to sit up.  Tau’s running tests.”