Shanghaied to the Moon Read Free Page A

vehicles are over to the right. Off to the left is a Jupiter Floater; Mom was the test pilot for the prototype. In the center, the Lance Ramjet perches on its pedestal, angled toward the stars. The hull glints orange in the sunlight. It might have glowed like that when Val Thorsten skimmed it through the clouds of Venus.
    Venus: Inferno Below the Clouds is my favorite of his 3-Vid adventures. It was Val’s first mission for Alldrives; a test to see if this young hotshot fresh out of the academy really had what it took to become a permanent member of their team.
    The best part is when the Lance Ramjet is halfway through the Venusian atmosphere. The alarms start singing. The cloud density is above spec. The engines are in danger of flaming out. Abort! But it’s too late. Val’s plunging toward the lava-hot surface, out of control, with only a few minutes to find a way to refire the engines or … well, I wouldn’t have a pocket full of his other adventures if he hadn’t succeeded.
    That Lance Ramjet is no replica. Val pulled it out. Val Thorsten always pulls it out.
    â€œHey!” A voice. Close. “You a kid or a midget?”
    â€œHeeii-yaa!” I spin around, crouch into Position One, on my toes, jigging, ready for anything.
    The man from the bench leans on the guardrail a few feet from me. He’s bent so far over I see more of the top of his balding head than his face. A fringe of silver hair above his ears is pulled back into a knobby ponytail. Looks like the frayed end of a rope.
    â€œNice reflexes.” He straightens up, winces, and grabs at the small of his back. “Damn Mother Earth. No place for a spacer.”
    A spacer? He wears his stub of a ponytail like a pilot. And that is a flight jacket. Frayed bits of thread faintly outline less grimy patches on the sleeve and chest where the insignias used to be. The zipper is broken open over his big belly. He doesn’t look like a real pilot to me.
    â€œDrop the ninja act.” His teeth flash white and even as he speaks. “I’m the guy you came to see.”
    What’s he talking about? I deepen my crouch. He stares at me staring at him. His face is broad-featured. His mouth cuts a cheerless line across it.
    â€œPad 12?” He frowns. Rubs at the silver stubble on his jaw. “You are here about my ad, aren’t you?”
    â€œAd? What ad?”
    Disappointment remolds his face. He turns his back to me and, with a groan, settles his butt on the rail. He sure is hurting. They’ve mostly got the bone problem solved today, but a lot of people who went to space a few decades ago have serious troubles. Normal gravity can be torture.
    Most old spacers never come back to Earth, not without a really good reason. He’s probably a nutter. Just some homeless guy with bad arthritis who thinks he’s a spacer.
    â€œUm … mister?”
    â€œYou still here?” His head half turns my way.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œCome round where I can see you.”
    I one-step over the guardrail, but keep my distance, just to be safe, though I doubt he has any moves I couldn’t handle. I have three years of karate under my belt.
    He rests his hands on his knees. Short breaths whisper through his parted lips. He runs his tongue over their cracked dryness. “Well?”
    â€œYou got a place? I mean, you don’t sleep on that bench all night, do you?”
    â€œSo what if I do?” He juts his chin at me.
    â€œWell, maybe I could help. Rent you a cubby—”
    â€œI’ve got a berth. That’s not my problem.” He reaches into the right pocket and pulls out a small squeeze bottle—the kind they use in zero-g. The contents glow amber in the sun. He pops the straw in his mouth, squirts. The sharp smell of alcohol comes to my nose on the breeze.
    â€œSo what is your problem?” I ask, though I’m probably looking at it in that bottle.
    â€œEver been to space,