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MILK RUN

By Robert Donald Locke

Captain Jock Warren came out of his drunken
stupor to check the flight of his ship. What he
found aboard made him dash for blessed oblivion!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
May 1953
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Two hours before the vessel plunged into minus point, building up fora hundred and fifty parsec jump through hyperspace, Capt. Jock Warrenwas so high on narcol he couldn't read his own manifest. Not unusualon this milk run. After two hours inside of minus point, his sobergray cells were functioning like blaster tubes—but by then, it wastoo late. The skags had taken over control of the ship.

Charlie Guhn's Log.

The Star Rover, a rusty freighter that shuttled between Rigel and thehome system, hovered above a transfer station some two million milesout from Rigel's twelfth planet, awaiting port clearance. Every crewmanknew the skipper was oiled, but they knew the entropy barrier wouldset him back a full day, shocking him into cold alertness.

Second Officer Charles Guhn knocked at the captain's cabin, entered andsaluted: "Sir, cargo's loaded and customs cleared."

The skipper, his face bagged like the Coal Sack, his blood-crackedeyes possessing chilling steel-blue irises that could blister asuper-cargo's hide at fifty paces, was unable to focus on the papershanded him. He growled, "Blast off, Mr. Guhn! Blast off!"

"Aye aye, sir," Guhn paused, then reported: "I thought you shouldknow, Captain. We just brought on some skags. Some archeology outfit'sshipping the things to Earth for further study."

"Blasted mummies. Next, we'll be hauling heathen idols." CaptainWarren glanced at his chronometer. "Shove-off time, is it? Go to thebridge and tell Mr. Caldwell I said to make her grunt."

This was his final utterance. His massive head slumped back into narcolstupor, his sotted brain dreaming of days when every space lane was anew frontier and adventure lurked on all unknown planets.

On his way up to the bow, Charlie Guhn poked his head into thewardroom, thinking it possible First Officer Mark Caldwell might begetting off one last message to the brunette on Rigel. But no one wasin the lounge. Guhn followed the catwalk over the pulsing auxiliariesand mounted the starboard companionway to the bridge. There, he foundthe astrogator, pouring over a set of star charts.

"The old man says shove off," Guhn greeted him. "Got your DS done?"

Caldwell grinned, without looking up from his desk: "A DS is justa formality the rule book says you've got to enter in the log.Hyperspace's too slinky to obey normal laws. That's why we cut it infifty parsec slices—to see how far we've drifted."

"You brain boys and your double talk."

"Not at all. Normal Einstein space is curved. Hyperspace isn't. Verysimple."

"Simple like wombat chess, huh?"

"You can politely remove yourself to the deck," Caldwell replied. "I'vegot to get our junk pile coasting through the midnight black. Any womenon board?"

"None your speed, Romeo ... unless you like skags." A split seconddodge through the hatchway eluded the waste basket hurled at him.

After his calculations looked satisfactory, Caldwell unhinged hissolar plane compass. Its needle pointed not to Earth, but to that vastimaginary plane in the galaxy to which the home system was horizontaland to which a line drawn through the sun and Polaris was nearlyperpendicular. Once a heading was determined, it was possible byquadrangulation to arr

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