Eric Frank Russell - Jay Score (Marathon) 01 - Jay Score, Angielskie [EN](4)(2)
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JAY SCORE by Eric Frank Russell
There are very good reasons for everything they do. To
the uninitiated some of their little tricks and some of their
regulations seem mighty peculiar-but rocketing through
the cosmos isn't quite like paddling a bathtub across a farm
pond, no, sir!
For instance, this stunt of using mixed crews is pretty
sensible when you look into it. On the outward runs toward
Mars, the Asteroids or beyond, they have white Terrestrials
to tend the engines because they're the ones who perfected
modern propulsion units, know most about them and can
nurse them like nobody else. All ships' surgeons are black
Terrestrials because for some reason none can explain no
Negro gets gravity-bends or space nausea. Every outside
repair gang is composed of Martians who use very little air,
are tiptop metal workers and fairly immune to cosmic-ray
burn.
As for the inward trips to Venus, they mix them similarly
except that the emergency pilot is always a big clunker like
Jay Score. There's a motive behind that; he's the one who
provided it. I'm never likely to forget him. He sort of sticks
in the mind, for keeps. What a character!
Page 1
Destiny placed me at the top of the gangway the first
time he appeared. Our ship was the
Upskadaska City
, a
brand new freighter with limited passenger accommodation,
registered in the Venusian space-port from which she took
her name. Needless to say she was known among hardened
spacemen as the
Upsydaisy
.
We were lying in the Colorado Rocket Basin, north of
Denver, with a fair load aboard, mostly watch-making
machinery, agricultural equipment, aeronautical jigs and
tools for Upskadaska, as well as a case of radium needles
for the Venusian Cancer Research Institute. There were
eight passengers; all emigrating agriculturalists planning on
making hay thirty million miles nearer the Sun. We had
ramped the vessel and were waiting for the blow-brothers-
blow siren due in forty minutes, when Jay Score arrived.
He was six feet nine, weighed at least three hundred
pounds yet toted this bulk with the easy grace of a ballet
dancer. A big guy like that, moving like that, was something
worth watching. He came up the duralumin gangway
with all the nonchalance of a tripper boarding the bus
for Jackson's Creek. From his hamlike right fist dangled a
rawhide case not quite big enough to contain his bed and
maybe a wardrobe or two.
Page 2
Reaching the top, he paused while he took in the crossed
swords on my cap, said, "Morning, Sarge. I'm the new
emergency pilot. I have to report to Captain McNulty."
I knew we were due for another pilot now that Jeff
Durkin had been promoted to the snooty Martian scent-bottle
Prometheus. So this was his successor. He was a Terrestrial
all right, but neither black nor white. His expressionless
but capable face looked as if covered with old, well-
seasoned leather. His eyes held fires resembling
phosphorescence. There was an air about him that marked
him an exceptional individual the like of which I'd never
met before.
"Welcome, Tiny,"I offered, getting a crick in the neck
as I stared up at him. I did not offer my hand because I
wanted it for use later on."Open your satchel and leave
it in the sterilizing chamber. You'll find the skipper in
the bow:'
"Thanks," he responded without the glimmer of a smile.
He stepped into the airlock, hauling the rawhide haybarn
with him.
"We blast in forty minutes," I warned.
Page 3
Didn't see anything more of Jay Score until we were two
hundred thousand out, with Earth a greenish moon at the
end of our vapour-trail. Then I heard him in the passage
asking someone where he could find the sergeant-at-arms.
He was directed through my door.
"Sarge," he said, handing over his official requisition,
"I've come to collect the trimmings." Then he leaned on
the barrier; the whole framework creaked and the top tube
sagged in the middle.
"Hey!" I shouted.
"Sorry!" He unleaned. The barrier stood much better
when he kept his mass to himself.
Stamping his requisition, I went into the armoury, dug out
his needle-ray projector and a box of capsules for same.
The biggest Venusian mud-skis I could find were about
eleven sizes too small and a yard too short for him, but
they'd have to do. I gave him a can of thin, multipurpose
oil, a jar of graphite, a Lepanto power-pack for his micro-
wave radiophone and, finally, a bunch of nutweed pellicules
marked :"Compliments of the Bridal Planet Aromatic Herb
Corporation:"
Shoving back the spicy lumps, he said, "You can have
'em-they give me the staggers." The rest of the stuff he
Page 4
forced into his side-pack without so much as twitching an
eyebrow. Long time since I'd seen anyone so poker-faced.
All the same, the way he eyed the space-suits seemed
strangely wistful. There were thirty bifurcated ones for
the Terrestrials, all hanging on the wall like sloughed
skins. Also there were six head-and-shoulder helmets for
the Martians, since they needed no more than three pounds
of air. There wasn't a suit for him. I couldn't have
fitted him with one if my life had depended upon it. It'd
have been like trying to can an elephant.
Well, he lumbered out lightly, if you get what I mean.
The casual, loose-limbed way he transported his tonnage
made me think I'd like to be some place else if ever he
got on the rampage. Not that I thought him likely to run
amok; he was amiable enough though sphinxlike. But I was
fascinated by his air of calm assurance and by his motion
which was fast, silent and eerie. Maybe the latter was due
to his habit of wearing an inch of sponge-rubber under his
big dogs.
I kept an interested eye on Jay Score while the Upsydaisy
made good time on her crawl through the void. Yes, I was
more than curious about him because his type was
Page 5
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JAY SCORE by Eric Frank Russell
There are very good reasons for everything they do. To
the uninitiated some of their little tricks and some of their
regulations seem mighty peculiar-but rocketing through
the cosmos isn't quite like paddling a bathtub across a farm
pond, no, sir!
For instance, this stunt of using mixed crews is pretty
sensible when you look into it. On the outward runs toward
Mars, the Asteroids or beyond, they have white Terrestrials
to tend the engines because they're the ones who perfected
modern propulsion units, know most about them and can
nurse them like nobody else. All ships' surgeons are black
Terrestrials because for some reason none can explain no
Negro gets gravity-bends or space nausea. Every outside
repair gang is composed of Martians who use very little air,
are tiptop metal workers and fairly immune to cosmic-ray
burn.
As for the inward trips to Venus, they mix them similarly
except that the emergency pilot is always a big clunker like
Jay Score. There's a motive behind that; he's the one who
provided it. I'm never likely to forget him. He sort of sticks
in the mind, for keeps. What a character!
Page 1
Destiny placed me at the top of the gangway the first
time he appeared. Our ship was the
Upskadaska City
, a
brand new freighter with limited passenger accommodation,
registered in the Venusian space-port from which she took
her name. Needless to say she was known among hardened
spacemen as the
Upsydaisy
.
We were lying in the Colorado Rocket Basin, north of
Denver, with a fair load aboard, mostly watch-making
machinery, agricultural equipment, aeronautical jigs and
tools for Upskadaska, as well as a case of radium needles
for the Venusian Cancer Research Institute. There were
eight passengers; all emigrating agriculturalists planning on
making hay thirty million miles nearer the Sun. We had
ramped the vessel and were waiting for the blow-brothers-
blow siren due in forty minutes, when Jay Score arrived.
He was six feet nine, weighed at least three hundred
pounds yet toted this bulk with the easy grace of a ballet
dancer. A big guy like that, moving like that, was something
worth watching. He came up the duralumin gangway
with all the nonchalance of a tripper boarding the bus
for Jackson's Creek. From his hamlike right fist dangled a
rawhide case not quite big enough to contain his bed and
maybe a wardrobe or two.
Page 2
Reaching the top, he paused while he took in the crossed
swords on my cap, said, "Morning, Sarge. I'm the new
emergency pilot. I have to report to Captain McNulty."
I knew we were due for another pilot now that Jeff
Durkin had been promoted to the snooty Martian scent-bottle
Prometheus. So this was his successor. He was a Terrestrial
all right, but neither black nor white. His expressionless
but capable face looked as if covered with old, well-
seasoned leather. His eyes held fires resembling
phosphorescence. There was an air about him that marked
him an exceptional individual the like of which I'd never
met before.
"Welcome, Tiny,"I offered, getting a crick in the neck
as I stared up at him. I did not offer my hand because I
wanted it for use later on."Open your satchel and leave
it in the sterilizing chamber. You'll find the skipper in
the bow:'
"Thanks," he responded without the glimmer of a smile.
He stepped into the airlock, hauling the rawhide haybarn
with him.
"We blast in forty minutes," I warned.
Page 3
Didn't see anything more of Jay Score until we were two
hundred thousand out, with Earth a greenish moon at the
end of our vapour-trail. Then I heard him in the passage
asking someone where he could find the sergeant-at-arms.
He was directed through my door.
"Sarge," he said, handing over his official requisition,
"I've come to collect the trimmings." Then he leaned on
the barrier; the whole framework creaked and the top tube
sagged in the middle.
"Hey!" I shouted.
"Sorry!" He unleaned. The barrier stood much better
when he kept his mass to himself.
Stamping his requisition, I went into the armoury, dug out
his needle-ray projector and a box of capsules for same.
The biggest Venusian mud-skis I could find were about
eleven sizes too small and a yard too short for him, but
they'd have to do. I gave him a can of thin, multipurpose
oil, a jar of graphite, a Lepanto power-pack for his micro-
wave radiophone and, finally, a bunch of nutweed pellicules
marked :"Compliments of the Bridal Planet Aromatic Herb
Corporation:"
Shoving back the spicy lumps, he said, "You can have
'em-they give me the staggers." The rest of the stuff he
Page 4
forced into his side-pack without so much as twitching an
eyebrow. Long time since I'd seen anyone so poker-faced.
All the same, the way he eyed the space-suits seemed
strangely wistful. There were thirty bifurcated ones for
the Terrestrials, all hanging on the wall like sloughed
skins. Also there were six head-and-shoulder helmets for
the Martians, since they needed no more than three pounds
of air. There wasn't a suit for him. I couldn't have
fitted him with one if my life had depended upon it. It'd
have been like trying to can an elephant.
Well, he lumbered out lightly, if you get what I mean.
The casual, loose-limbed way he transported his tonnage
made me think I'd like to be some place else if ever he
got on the rampage. Not that I thought him likely to run
amok; he was amiable enough though sphinxlike. But I was
fascinated by his air of calm assurance and by his motion
which was fast, silent and eerie. Maybe the latter was due
to his habit of wearing an inch of sponge-rubber under his
big dogs.
I kept an interested eye on Jay Score while the Upsydaisy
made good time on her crawl through the void. Yes, I was
more than curious about him because his type was
Page 5
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