LARSON'S LUCK
by GERALD
VANCE
Larson couldn't possibly have known what was
going on in the engine room, yet he acted....
There would be hell to pay; Larson was stunting again."We moor in ten minutes,"I said.
We were flying at reducedspeed because of the heavy fog wehad run into at the outer fringe ofEarth's atmosphere. But I knew wewere within forty or fifty miles of theTrans-Space base. I had counted themiles on this particular trip because ofthe load of radium we were carryingfrom the Venusian mines. I wouldn'tdraw a completely relieved breath untilwe were down and the stuff was in thehands of the commerce agents.
I eased my position slightly to relievethe pressure on my broken flipperand grinned at the pilot, Lucky Larson,the screwiest, most unpredictable voidtrotter who had ever flown for dearold Trans-Space.
"You've been too good to be true thistrip," I said, "and it's a good thing.The chief told me that if you so muchas thought about clowning around orstunting he was going to clip your wingsfor good."
Lucky grinned, an impish, devil-may-caregrin that lightened up his freckledface and bunched the tiny wrinkles atthe corners of his eyes. Then withcharacteristic abruptness he scowled.
"That grandmother," he said disgustedly."Who does he think I am,anyway? Some crazy irresponsiblemadman who hasn't got enough brainsto stay on a space beam?"
"That's just what he does think," Igrinned, "and you've given him plentyof reason to think it. You can't bringyour crate in to the base without stuntingaround and showing off and riskingyour damn neck. That's why he sentme along with you this trip. Just tosee that you act like a pilot—instead ofcircus acrobat."
"A lot of good you'd do," Luckymumbled. "You got a broken arm. Theonly reason he sent you is because hedidn't want to pay you while you wasin the hospital so he cooks up this tripto get his money out of you. And say,"he turned to me belligerently, "whendid I ever crack up a ship? When didI ever even dent one of the babies?"
"You haven't," I was forced to admit,"but that's just because of thatscrewy luck of yours. But it won't lastforever and one of these days it's goingto run out just when you need it. Sojust remember—no stunting this trip oryou'll be out of the strata for the restof your natural life."
"Aw, that's the trouble with thisracket," Lucky grumbled, "a guy can'thave no fun no more. Back when Iwas with the Space circus—"
"Okay, okay," I cut in, "I've heardthat before. Just fly your ship, now,and forget about the deep dark plot ofthe company to take all the joy out ofyour life. I'm going to take a look-seeat the atomic floats and get the passengersbundled together."
I stood up and crawled over him andopened the door leading to the body ofthe ship. I could still hear him grumblingas I slid the light chrome-alloydoor shut. I chuckled to myself andheaded up the aisle to the baggage compartments.Lucky Larson was a legendas space pilots go. An unpredictable,erratic screwball but one of the finestrocket riders who ever flashed throughthe void.
Company regulations and interplanetarycommissions were the baneof his existence. He made his ownrules and regulations and got by withit. That is he had gotten by with it.Now they were cracking down on him.He had been grounded twice and thechief had threatened to set him downfor life if any more in