provisions, sir?â
âVaguely,â said Tennyson. âI know it is illegal to stow away. But I must tell youââ
âThere is, however, another matter which I feel compelled to consider,â the captain told him. âI have the feeling, knee-deep as I am in alien scum, that humans, under whatever circumstances, should always stick together. We run fairly thin out here and it is my opinion that we should be supportive of one another, overlooking transgressions if they be not too odious.â¦â
âYour attitude does credit to you,â said Tennyson. âThere has been something Iâve been trying to tell you and havenât had the chance. You see, sir, I am not a stowaway.â
The captain turned steely eyes on him. âThen tell me what you are. If youâre not a stowaway, what are you?â
âWell, let us say,â said Tennyson, âthat I was simply pressed for time. That I did not have the time to arrange for passage by going through the formal channels. That, for compelling reasons I have revealed to you, I couldnât afford to miss your ship, so came aboard in a rather unorthodox manner, passed on board by an unsuspecting alien crew member who mistook me for the mate andââ
âBut you hid away.â
âEasy to explain. I feared that you might not give me the time to explain my situation and be so conscientious as to heave me off the ship. So I hid and waited until there seemed little chance you could do anything but continue on your way.â
âBy all of this, do I understand you to be saying that you stand prepared to pay your passage?â
âMost certainly I do. If youâll only name the figure.â
âWhy,â said the captain, âmost willingly indeed. And Iâll charge you not one tittle above the regular fare.â
âThatâs considerate of you, sir.â
âDr. Tennyson,â the captain said, âplease go ahead and drink. You have not touched the bottle to your lips. It makes me nervous to see you sit there and merely fondle it.â
âIâm sorry, Captain. I didnât mean to make you nervous.â Tennyson tipped the bottle, took a generous swallow, then lowered it again.
âMarvelous,â he said. âWhat is it?â
âItâs a concoction called Scotch,â the captain told him. âIt first was brewed on Mother Earth.â
âYou mean Old Earth?â
âThatâs right,â the captain said. âThe home planet of us humans.â
âI have a great curiosity about Old Earth. Have you ever been there?â
The captain shook his head. âFew humans have ever set foot upon its sacred soil. We are scattered far and thin in space, and few of us go on that pilgrimage we always promise ourselves that someday we will make.â
âAh, well,â said Tennyson. He tilted the bottle once again.
âTo get back to our arrangement,â the captain said. âI fear I have to tell you that I have no place for you. The cabins, the few that I have, are filled. Even my own quarters are rented out to a horde of scaly horrors who are pilgriming to End of Nothing. At the end of the voyage, I shall have to fumigate the place before I can move back in, and it may be years before I am rid of the stench of them.â
âWhy let them have it, then?â
âBecause of money,â said the captain. âThis particular band of scum is filthy rich and they must have my best accommodations without regard to cost. So that is how it is. I charged each of the bastards a triple fare. Although I think now I may live to regret my greed. The mate and I are sharing his quarters, turn and turn about. The mate is a devoted garlic eater. Thinks it keeps him healthy. Only dire necessity forces me to crawl into his bunk.â
âThe mate is the only other human?â
âOrdinarily, yes. Just the two of us. The crew is made up of rat