The Sentinel - Arthur C. Clarke [43]
It was now three days since the meteor had struck. For the last twenty-four hours Earth and Venus had been in conference and Grant wondered when he would hear the result of their deliberations. He did not believe that the finest technical brains in the Solar System could save them now, but it was hard to abandon hope when everything still seemed so normal and the air was still clean and fresh.
On the fourth day Venus spoke again. Shorn of its technicalities, the message was nothing more or less than a funeral oration. Grant and McNeil had been written off, but they were given elaborate instructions concerning the safety of the cargo.
Back on earth the astronomers were computing all the possible rescue orbits that might make contact with the Star Queen in the next few years. There was even a chance that she might be reached from Earth six or seven months later, when she was back at aphelion, but the maneuver could be carried out only by a fast liner with no payload and would cost a fortune in fuel.
McNeil vanished soon after this message came through. At first Grant was a little relieved. If McNeil chose to look after himself that was his own affair. Besides there were various letters to write—though the last-will-and-testament business could come later.
It was McNeil’s turn to prepare the “evening” meal, a duty he enjoyed for he took good care of his stomach. When the usual sounds from the galley were not forthcoming Grant went in search of his crew.
He found McNeil lying in his bunk, very much at peace with the universe. Hanging in the air beside him was a large metal crate which had been roughly forced open. Grant had no need to examine it closely to guess its contents. A glance at McNeil was enough.
“It’s a dirty shame,” said the engineer without a trace of embarrassment, “to suck this stuff up through a tube. Can’t you put on some ‘g’ so we can drink it properly?”
Grant stared at him with angry contempt, but McNeil returned his gaze unabashed.
“Oh, don’t be a sourpuss! Have some yourself—what does it matter now?”
He pushed across a bottle and Grant fielded it deftly as it floated by. It was a fabulously valuable wine—he remembered the consignment now—and the contents of that small crate must be worth thousands.
“I don’t think there’s any need,” said Grant severely, “to behave like a pig—even in these circumstances.”
McNeil wasn’t drunk yet. He had only reached the brightly lighted anteroom of intoxication and had not lost all contact with the drab outer world.
“I am prepared,” he said with great solemnity, “to listen to any good argument against my present course of action—a course which seems eminently sensible to me. But you’d better convince me quickly while I’m still amenable to reason.”
He pressed the plastic bulb again and a purple jet shot into his mouth.
“Apart from the fact that you’re stealing Company property which will certainly be salvaged sooner or later—you can hardly stay drunk for several weeks.”
“That,” said McNeil thoughtfully, “remains to be seen.”
“I don’t think so,” retorted Grant. Bracing himself against the wall, he gave the crate a vicious shove that sent it flying through the open doorway.
As he dived after it and slammed the door he heard McNeil shout, “Well, of all the dirty tricks!”
It would take the engineer some time—particularly in his present condition—to unbuckle himself and follow. Grant steered the crate back to the hold and locked the door. As there was never any need to lock the hold when the ship was in space McNeil wouldn’t have a key for it himself and Grant could hide the duplicate that was kept in the control cabin.
McNeil was singing when, some time later, Grant went back past his room. He still had a couple of bottles for company and was shouting:
“We don’t care where the oxygen goes.
If it doesn’t get into the wine. . . .”
Grant, whose education had been severely technical, couldn