Mr. Meek was having his troubles. First, the
educated bugs worried him; then the
welfare worker tried to stop the Ring Rats' feud
by enlisting his aid. And now, he was a drafted
space-polo player—a fortune bet on his ability
at a game he had never played in his cloistered life.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The sign read:
Atomic Motors Repaired. Busted
Plates Patched Up. Rocket Tubes
Relined. Wheeze In, Whiz Out!
It added, as an afterthought, in shaky, inexpert lettering:
We Fix Anything.
Mr. Oliver Meek stared owlishly at the sign, which hung from an armattached to a metal standard sunk in solid rock. A second sign waswired to the standard just below the metal arm, but its legend wasfaint, almost illegible. Meek blinked at it through thick-lensedspectacles, finally deciphered its scrawl:
Ask About Educated Bugs.
A bit bewildered, but determined not to show it, Meek swung away fromthe sign-post and gravely regarded the settlement. On the chart it wasindicated by a fairly sizeable dot, but that was merely a matter ofcomparison. Out Saturn-way even the tiniest outpost assumes importancefar beyond its size.
The slab of rock was no more than five miles across, perhaps evenless. Here in its approximate center, were two buildings, both ofalmost identical construction, semi-spherical and metal. Out here, Meekrealized, shelter was the thing. Architecture merely for architecture'ssake was still a long way off.
One of the buildings was the repair shop which the sign advertised.The other, according to the crudely painted legend smeared above itsentrance lock, was the Saturn Inn.
The rest of the rock was landing field, pure and simple. Blasters hadleveled off the humps and irregularities so spaceships could sit down.
Two ships now were on the field, pulled up close against the repairshop. One, Meek noticed, belonged to the Solar Health and WelfareDepartment, the other to the Galactic Pharmaceutical Corporation.The Galactic ship was a freighter, ponderous and slow. It was here,Meek knew, to take on a cargo of radiation moss. But the other was apuzzler. Meek wrinkled his brow and blinked his eyes, trying to figureout what a welfare ship would be doing in this remote corner of theSolar System.
Slowly and carefully, Meek clumped toward the squat repair shop. Onceor twice he stumbled, hoping fervently he wouldn't get the feet of hiscumbersome spacesuit all tangled up. The gravity was slight, next tonon-existent, and one who wasn't used to it had to take things easy andremember where he was.
Behind him Saturn filled a tenth of the sky, a yellow, lemon-tingedball, streaked here and there with faint crimson lines and blotchedwith angry, bright green patches.
To right and left glinted the whirling, twisting, tumbling rocks thatmade up the Inner Ring, while arcing above the horizon opposed toSaturn were the spangled glistening rainbows of the other rings.
"Like dewdrops in the black of space," Meek mumbled to himself. But heimmediately felt ashamed of himself for growing poetic. This sector ofspace, he knew, was not in the least poetic. It was hard and savage andas he thought about that, he hitched up his gun belt and struck outwith a firmer tread that almost upset him. After that, he tried tothink of nothing except keeping his two feet under him.
Reaching the repair shop's entrance lock, he braced himself solidly tokeep his balan