unit would supply ample power for the mini-Mannschenn, the inertial drive, the Carlotti radio, the Normal Spacetime radio, light, heat, cooking, the playmaster . . . And would it be possible for him to lay in a stock of spools for this instrument in Muldoon? He hoped so. Thirty-seven subjective days of utter solitude is quite a long time, but not too long if it is not compounded with utter boredom.
And then he came to the calculations for which his past training and experience had not fitted him. How much would it cost? How much should he charge? On the one hand, he was not a philanthropic institution, but, on the other hand, he was entitled to a fair profit. What was a fair profit? He supposed that he could regard Little Sister as an investment. A deep space-going pinnace is a very expensive hunk of ironmongery . . . A return of 10%? But Little Sister was not a hunk of ironmongery. She was the outcome of miscegenation between a goldsmith and a shipbuilder . . . And how much had she cost? How much was she worth?
Grimes didn’t know.
All right, then. How much would the voyage cost him? His port dues here on Tiralbin, for a start. Hospitality to the port officials. Such stores—luxuries as well as necessities—as he would have to purchase before lift-off. Such stores as he would have to purchase after arrival at Boggarty. Depreciation of ship and fittings during the round trip. (But depreciation in a vessel such as Little Sister, built of almost everlasting materials, was negligible.) Insurance? That was something he would have to go into with the local Lloyd’s Agent. Salaries? There was only one salary, and that was his own, paid (presumably) by himself to himself. What was the Award Rate for the master of a vessel of this tonnage? Did the Astronauts’ Guild have a representative in Muldoon?
It was all quite simple, he realized. He would charge on a cost plus basis. The only trouble was that he did not know what the costs were likely to be. There was no way of finding out until various business offices opened in the morning.
He let down the folding bunk that he had been using—the other one, intended for the Baroness, had never been used—took a sleeping tablet to counteract the effects of the soberup, told the computer to wake him at 0600 hours local, and turned in.
Chapter 4
GRIMES HAD A BUSY MORNING. He was able to arrange a hook-up between the pinnace’s NST transceiver and the local telephone exchange, so was able to carry out most of his business by telephone. This was just as well, as it was still raining heavily and he had no local currency with which to pay for cab hire. As he accumulated data he fed it into Little Sister’s computer. The insurance premium demanded by Lloyd’s was amazingly high, but not so amazing, he realized, bearing in mind the fact that his spacecraft was built of a precious metal. He was rather surprised that the figure should be quoted with so little delay, but, of course, Lloyd’s records would contain all details of The Far Traveller, including her pinnace.
Finally the estimated cost of the round voyage appeared on the screen. It was, inevitably, frightening. After he realized that his master’s salary was included in the total he decided to add only a modest 10%. He put through a call to the Superintending Postmistress. After a short delay her face appeared on the screen, as his would be appearing on the one at her end.
“Yes, Captain?” she asked.
“I’ve done my sums,” he replied. “I don’t think you’ll like the result.”
“Tell me.”
He told her.
Her fine eyebrows arched, but the rest of her face remained impassive.
She said, “I’m not buying your pinnace.”
He said, “If you were it would cost quite a bit more.”
She smiled. “I suppose so. And, after all, I’m not paying the bill. Neither is my government. The Boggartians want the shipment no later than yesterday, and if it’s sent through normal channels it could take a year to reach
And then he came to the calculations for which his past training and experience had not fitted him. How much would it cost? How much should he charge? On the one hand, he was not a philanthropic institution, but, on the other hand, he was entitled to a fair profit. What was a fair profit? He supposed that he could regard Little Sister as an investment. A deep space-going pinnace is a very expensive hunk of ironmongery . . . A return of 10%? But Little Sister was not a hunk of ironmongery. She was the outcome of miscegenation between a goldsmith and a shipbuilder . . . And how much had she cost? How much was she worth?
Grimes didn’t know.
All right, then. How much would the voyage cost him? His port dues here on Tiralbin, for a start. Hospitality to the port officials. Such stores—luxuries as well as necessities—as he would have to purchase before lift-off. Such stores as he would have to purchase after arrival at Boggarty. Depreciation of ship and fittings during the round trip. (But depreciation in a vessel such as Little Sister, built of almost everlasting materials, was negligible.) Insurance? That was something he would have to go into with the local Lloyd’s Agent. Salaries? There was only one salary, and that was his own, paid (presumably) by himself to himself. What was the Award Rate for the master of a vessel of this tonnage? Did the Astronauts’ Guild have a representative in Muldoon?
It was all quite simple, he realized. He would charge on a cost plus basis. The only trouble was that he did not know what the costs were likely to be. There was no way of finding out until various business offices opened in the morning.
He let down the folding bunk that he had been using—the other one, intended for the Baroness, had never been used—took a sleeping tablet to counteract the effects of the soberup, told the computer to wake him at 0600 hours local, and turned in.
Chapter 4
GRIMES HAD A BUSY MORNING. He was able to arrange a hook-up between the pinnace’s NST transceiver and the local telephone exchange, so was able to carry out most of his business by telephone. This was just as well, as it was still raining heavily and he had no local currency with which to pay for cab hire. As he accumulated data he fed it into Little Sister’s computer. The insurance premium demanded by Lloyd’s was amazingly high, but not so amazing, he realized, bearing in mind the fact that his spacecraft was built of a precious metal. He was rather surprised that the figure should be quoted with so little delay, but, of course, Lloyd’s records would contain all details of The Far Traveller, including her pinnace.
Finally the estimated cost of the round voyage appeared on the screen. It was, inevitably, frightening. After he realized that his master’s salary was included in the total he decided to add only a modest 10%. He put through a call to the Superintending Postmistress. After a short delay her face appeared on the screen, as his would be appearing on the one at her end.
“Yes, Captain?” she asked.
“I’ve done my sums,” he replied. “I don’t think you’ll like the result.”
“Tell me.”
He told her.
Her fine eyebrows arched, but the rest of her face remained impassive.
She said, “I’m not buying your pinnace.”
He said, “If you were it would cost quite a bit more.”
She smiled. “I suppose so. And, after all, I’m not paying the bill. Neither is my government. The Boggartians want the shipment no later than yesterday, and if it’s sent through normal channels it could take a year to reach
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