The meteor-smashed clock at first meant nothing.
Malenson had all the time in the cosmos. Too late, he
discovered there can be such a thing as too much time.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1949.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
A long career of cutting corners had taught Malenson the importance oftiming. Time, he had long ago concluded, was the fabric from which werecut the garments of poverty or greatness. And since Malenson had nolove for the simple life, it naturally followed that he should turn histalents toward the amassing of wealth with the least possible waste ofthe precious commodity ... time.
He didn't bother to conceal his crime. He only timed it well. Andfollowing his carefully thought out plans further, he boarded his shipat the proper instant and vanished into the interstellar fastnesseswith five million irridium dollars in coin and government certificates.
A galaxy, he reflected, would make a perfect hiding place. One wouldhave only to look at the girdle of the Milky Way on a clear night tosee the logic of his choice. Among a billion billion stars separatedby light years of brooding emptiness, one man in a small ship wouldbe a fantastically difficult thing to find. Easier by far it would beto find one particular grain of sand on the seashore, than to locateMalenson within the vast limbo of the galaxy.
Only if he made a planetfall on one of the colonized worlds could he befound, and Malenson was no fool. His ship was fueled and provisionedfor twelve years in space. With care and a strict system of rationing,he could stretch it out to fifteen years. And at the end of that timehe could return safely with his millions, for an enlightened penalsystem had long ago assigned statutes of limitation to all felonies.
Nor would exile be an unbearable thing. The three hundred foot ship waspacked with reading tapes, classical and popular recordings, all mannerof occupational therapy devices, and old fashioned books.
Only human companionship was missing, and to Malenson that meantnothing. He had lived a lonely life, isolated from his fellows by aprofound sense of his own superiority. He had no love for humanity.
So Malenson and his treasure ship fled from the world of men. Up fromthe spaceport and into the void he went. As soon as he had cleared theatmosphere, he cut in the second order drive and lifted clear of theecliptic plane at better than light speed.
Malenson was no navigator, but his spacecraft was fool-proof, andrelying on that fact he drove upward and outward from Earth toward thecelestial pole. Leisurely, he settled himself for the first short legof his long voyage. He was completely at ease, for pursuit in secondorder flight was impossible.
Exactly seventy hours elapsed before he cut the drive for a look aroundhim. The ship was in a moderately starred region of the galaxy. Hecould still make out most of the familiar constellations. Ursa Majorlay ahead and to the right; Cygnus, a trifle distorted lay overhead.And the beacon stars Rigel, Altair and Sirius were easily recognizable.Sol had dwindled to a yellow star of the third magnitude.
Malenson smiled with satisfaction and pointed the ship's nose at thebright vee of Taurus. The red eye of Aldebaran would make an excellentcheck point, and his trajectory would be well above Sol and the regularshipping lanes. Then he cut in the drive again and went to bed.
Six hours later he awoke. Food, automatically prepared in the galleyawaited him. He ate and made his way to the control room. He c