“The why,” snapped the whiskery man, “is I promised to make you so rich y’couldn’t spend the interest on y’money! And you a junior partner!”

“Carynths?” suggested Link.

Carynths were the galaxy’s latest and most fabulous status gems. They couldn’t be synthesized—they were said to be the result of meteoric impacts on a special peach-colored ore—and they were as beautiful as they were rare. So far they’d only been found on Glaeth. But if a woman had a carynth ring, she was somebody. If she had a carynth bracelet, she was Somebody. And if she had a carynth necklace, she ruled society on the planet on which she was pleased to reside. But—

“Carynths are garbage,” said Thistlethwaite contemptuously, “alongside of what’s waitin’ for us! For each one of what I’m tradin’ for, to bring it away from where we’re goin’, I’ll get a hundred million credits an’ half the profits after that! An’ I’ll have a shipload of ’em! And it’s all set! Now you do your stuff and I’ll check over the engines.”

He headed down the stairwell. He reached the first landing below. The second. Link heard a faint click and then a mechanical grunting noise. At the sound, the little man howled enragedly. Link jumped.

“What’s the matter?” he asked anxiously.

“We’re leakin’ air!” roared the little man. “Bleedin’ it! You musta started some places, takin’ off at six gees! All the air’s pourin’ out!”

His words became unintelligible, but they were definitely profane. Doors clanged shut, cutting off his voice. He was sealing all compartments.

Link surveyed the control room of the ship. In his younger days he’d aspired to be a spaceman. He’d been a cadet in the Merchant Space Academy on Malibu for two complete terms. Then the faculty let him go. He liked novelty and excitement and on occasion, tumult. The faculty didn’t. His grades were all right but they heaved him out. So he knew a certain amount about astrogation. Not much, but enough to keep from having to go back to Trent.