Home is the SpacemanSmith, George O. (George Oliver)
Science
Home is the Spaceman
Smith, George O. (George Oliver)
Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Science fiction; Short stories; Space travelers -- Fiction
"I told him, 'But we're in free flight. I can't.'
"At this point he swore in an unintelligible voice and the green
searchlight turned to bright red. It must have been a tractor beam
because he started hauling and I could see the stars spinning and I
could feel a definite deceleration forward that almost pulled me out of
the astrodome and into space itself. Then there was a metallic clink
and in another half minute a tall man in polished leather came in and
waved me back to the pilot's chair.
"'Realize you were doing sixty?'
"'Sixty?'
"'Sixty light years per hour in a forty light zone. Let's see your
license!'
"'License?' I asked blankly.
* * * * *
"He pulled out a pad and started to scribble. 'Sixty lights in a forty
light zone and driving without a license. Boy, oh boy! Say! What kind
of a crate is this anyway?'
"'It's a standard reaction drive with mass nullifiers.'
"His eyes gleamed brighter. 'You know that free flight is just plain
coasting?'
"'Of course,' I said angrily.
"'Spacecraft running out of control," he said, scribbling some more.
"'But you can't do this to me,' I cried.
"The gleam in his eyes grew hard and scornful. 'Suppose you're the
best pal of the Sector Senator, play knolla with the Commissioner
of Spacelanes, and will get me patrolling a beat along the Lesser
Magellanic Cloud, huh?' He looked down at his pad and grunted again.
'Better come with me,' he said sourly. 'We couldn't accept your bail,
with no known address and not wearing a license. Boy, you've had it!'"
Captain Billy Enright took a deep breath and grinned. "No, gentlemen,
my delay was legal, not technical. They slipped me eighteen months, by
the time they'd finished adding up the charges. I was not gallivanting,
I was doing time at what they please to call 'Educational Labor.'"
Everybody looked a bit slack-jawed. Commodore Hogan leaped in front of
Billy Enright and waved a finger under his nose.
"Of all of the incredibly fantastic--" his voice failed. He took charge
of himself. "You sent a radio message?" he asked calmly.
"Yes. The whole thing is coming in via radio."
"And you expect us to swallow this bucket of foul fish unsupported for
the next fifteen years? I suggest that you spend the intervening time
in jail so we'll know where to send our apologies."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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