He went shooting out along the line like a housewife’s dry laundry in the first drops of rain. For a moment, he was tempted to try going faster by pulling himself hand-over-hand along the line; then he remembered that he was in vacuum, which meant no friction, but his gauntlets on the line would mean friction, and would probably slow him down as much as they speeded him up. So he hung on, arms outstretched in a swan dive—and began to enjoy it.

Then the burro-boat’s side shot up at him, and he grabbed frantically for the line, remembering that he might have lost weight, but he hadn’t lost mass—which meant inertia. If he didn’t brake, fast, the next friend down the line would have to scrape a nice, thin layer of Mandra off the burro-boat before he could get into the airlock. The scream of improvised brakes squealed all through his suit, while the burro-boat’s side kept rushing up at him, seeming to come faster and faster. Frantically, he doubled up, getting his feet and flexed knees between him and it…

Then he hit, with a jar that he swore knocked his teeth back into the gums. But, as he slowly straightened, he realized his joints were still working, and the stars that didn’t fade from his vision were really asteroids sweeping past. Somehow, he’d made it—and all in one piece! He breathed a brief, silent prayer of thanks and stepped gingerly through the hatch. When he was sure both of his feet were pressing down on solid metal, he let go of the line with one hand to grasp the rim of the hatchway; then he let go with the other, and pulled himself down into the nice, safe darkness of the interior. His elbow bumped a lever; irritated, he pushed it away—and the hatch swung shut behind him.

Darkness. Total. Complete.

That was when Dar learned what “claustrophobia” meant. He had to fight to keep himself from pounding on the nearest wall, screaming to be let out. It’s just an airlock, he repeated to himself, over and over They can’t let me out until it’s filled with air. Just a few minutes…

It seemed like an hour. He found out, later, that it was really forty-two seconds.

Then a green light glowed in the darkness. He lunged toward it, felt the wheel of the door-seal, wrenched it open, and tumbled into light, warmth, and … AIR! He twisted his helmet off, and inhaled a reek of rancid food, unwashed body, and a sanitation recycler that wasn’t quite working right. They were the sweetest scents he’d ever smelled.

A chime rang behind him. He whirled about to see an amber light blinking next to the airlock. Of course—nobody else could come in until he shut the inside hatch! He slammed and dogged it shut—and realized he’d been hearing voices as soon as he’d come in; they were just now beginning to register.

“Consarn it, ‘tain’t none of my affair!” a gravelly voice ranted. “Now you turn this blasted tub around and get back to my claim!”

“But under the Distressed Spacers’ Law,” a calm, resonant voice replied, “you are required to render assistance to the crew of any imperiled ship.”

“You’ve said that fifteen times, hang it, and I’ve given you fifteen good reasons why we shouldn’t!”

“Three,” the calm voice reminded, “five times each, and none of them sufficient.”

“Any of ‘em’s good enough! ‘Tain’t none of our business—that’s the best one of all!”

Dar finished shucking out of his space suit and racked it, then tiptoed along the companion way toward the voices.

“Totally inadequate,” the other voice answered, unruffled. “The Distressed Spacers’ Law specifically mentions that a distressed spaceman is the overriding concern of any who happen to be near enough to offer assistance.”

“Overriding” was the key word; it made Dar suddenly certain as to who the calm voice belonged to. He peeked around the edge of the hatchway, and saw the burro-boat’s cabin, a cramped space littered with ration containers and papers, dirty laundry, and smudges of oil and grease. It held two acceleration couches, a control console with six scanner screens, and a short, stocky man in a filthy, patched coverall, with matted hair and an unkempt, bushy beard.

“Jettison the law!” he yelled. “Common sense oughta tell you that! It’s the Patrol’s job to take care of a shipwreck!”

“Which was your second reason.” The calm voice seemed to come from the control console. “The crew of the ship in question might be those whom the Patrol was pursuing.”

“If they was, bad cess to ‘em! Damn telepaths, poking their noses into other people’s secrets! Who do they think they are, anyway?”

“Human beings,” the voice answered, “and as much entitled to life as anyone else—especially since the Patrol has apparently not accused them of any crimes.”

Dar decided he liked the unseen owner of the calm voice.

“Bein’ a telepath’s a crime, damn it! Don’t you follow the news?”

“Only insofar as it is logical—which is to say, not very far at all. I fail to comprehend how a person can commit a crime by being born with an extra ability.”

Neither did Dar—and it was definitely news, at least to him. Just how powerful were the people involved in the plot to overthrow the I.D.E., anyway?

Apparently, powerful enough to whip up a full-scale witch-hunt, just for the purpose of catching his humble self. He realized the implications, and felt his knees dissolve.

“ ‘Tain’t fer you or me to understand it—the government does, and that’s enough. What—you figger you’re smarter than the Executive Secretary and all them Electors put together?”

Suddenly, Dar realized why the plot had gotten as far as it had. The old man sounded more like a medieval serf than a well-informed citizen of a democracy.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and Sam snarled in his ear, “I didn’t think you’d sink so low as to listen at keyholes.”

Dar looked up, startled; then he smiled. “Of course I haven’t. That’s why I left the door open.”

“That depends on your definition of intelligence,” the calm voice answered.

“What difference does it make?” the old man howled. “You can’t vote, anyway—you’re just a damned computer!”

“Computers do not have souls,” the voice said complacently, “and therefore cannot be damned.”

“Kicked into the mass-recycler, then! Do you realize how much money you’re losing me, by kiyoodling off to rescue these garbage-can castaways?”

Sam’s lips drew into a thin hard line. She took a step toward the door. Dar grabbed her shoulder, hissing, “Not yet.”

“Perfectly,” the computer answered, “since this is the sixth time you’ve mentioned the fact. Considering the quality of your ore and the current price of a kilogram of nickel-iron as quoted by Ganymede half an hour ago, multiplied by my rate of excavation, this salvage mission has thus far cost you exactly 1,360 BTUs.”

“There!” the old miner crowed triumphantly. “See? You know how much one thousand BTUs’ll buy?”

“Ten cubic centimeters of hydrogen, at current prices,” the computer answered, “or three ration bars.”

“Damn inflation,” the miner growled. “It’s getting so a body can’t afford a patch for the arse of his coveralls anymore.”

“Be that as it may,” the computer mused, “I believe a human life is worth considerably more.”

“Not the life of a confounded telepath, damn it!”

Sam was trembling. She pushed Dar’s hand away and took a determined step into the cabin.

“Me first,” Whitey growled as he squeezed past her. “This one’s more my size—or age, anyway.”

He stepped into the cabin, calling out, “There aren’t any telepaths on our ship, old-timer.”

Looking back over his shoulder, Dar saw that Whitey was only telling the truth—Lona and Father Marco stood right behind him.

“And thanks for the rescue, by the way,” Whitey finished.

The old miner spun around, staring wild-eyed. “Where in hell’d you come from?”