An Elephant For the Prinkip
BY L. J. STECHER, JR.
Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine August 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
A Delta class freighter can
carry anything—maybe more
than its skipper can bear!
A delta class freighter isn't pretty to look at, but it can be adaptedto carry most anything, and occasionally even to carry it profitably.So when I saw one I didn't recognize sitting under the gantry atHelmholtz Spaceport, I hurried right over to Operations.
It looked as if I might be able to get my Gasha root off-planet beforeit started to spoil, after all.
It was the Delta Crucis, they told me. She was a tramp, and shehadn't yet been signed for a cargo. The skipper was listed as his ownagent. They told me where they thought I could find him, so I driftedover to the Spaceport bar, and looked around.
I found my man quickly enough. He had the young-old look of a deepspacer. He wore a neat but threadbare blue uniform, with the four broadgold rings of command—rather tarnished—on each sleeve. He had a glassof rhial—a liquor that was too potent for my taste—in front of him atten o'clock in the morning, and that wasn't a good sign. But he lookedsober enough.
So I picked up a large schooner of beer at the bar and strolled over tohis table in the far corner away from the window.
"Mind if I join you?" I asked casually. "I hate to drink alone."
He stared at me for a minute out of those pale-blue spacer's eyes ofhis, until I figured he thought he had me catalogued.
Then he motioned me to the chair across from his at the small table. Wesat for a few minutes in silence, sizing each other up.
"That's a mighty nice looking freighter out there on pad seven," I saidat last. "Yours?"
He uncapped his glass, took a sip of rhial, snicked the cover back, andlet the heady stuff evaporate in his mouth. He breathed in sharply inthe approved manner, but he didn't even shudder. He just nodded slowly,once.
That appeared to pass the conversational ball back to me. "I mighthave a cargo for you, if you can handle it," I said. "I hear theseDelta class ships can manage almost anything, but this is a rough one.The Annabelle is the only ship in the area built to take my stuff,and she's grounded with transposer troubles."
He cocked one sandy eyebrow at me. I interpreted this to be a requestfor the nature of my cargo, so I told him, and let him ponder about itfor a while.
"Gasha root," he said at last, and nodded once. "I can handle it.That'll be easy, for Delta Crucis. Like you said, she can handleanything. Her last cargo was a live elephant."
We completed our deal without much trouble. He drove a hard bargain,but a fair one, and he had plenty of self-confidence. He signed acontingent-on-satisfactory-delivery contract, and that's unusual for aship that's handling Gasha. Hadn't thought I'd be so lucky. Gasha istricky stuff.
We went over to the Government office to complete the deal—customsarrangements, notarizations, posting bonds and so forth—but we finallysigned the contract, all legal and binding. His name turned out to beBart Hannah.
Then, by unspoken consent, we went back to the bar.
It was after noon, by that time, so I had a Scotch, and then I hadanother. I was so relieved to have found a ship for my cargo that Idi