Free The Fugitive Worlds by Bob Shaw

about?"
    "Every man who meets her. ..." The lieutenant paused, shaking her head. "I would have thought that after that business of the collision report ... Do you know that the beautiful Countess Vantara did her utmost to have you deprived of your command?"
    "Do you know that you are supposed to use the proper form of address when speaking to a senior officer?" Toller was vaguely aware that there was something ludicrous about his manner—especially when the two of them were poised in blue emptiness between the swirled disks of planets—but he was unable to listen passively while Vantara was subjected to such acidulous criticism.
    "I'm sorry, sir." The lieutenant's face had lost all ex pression and her voice was neutral. "Do you want me to see what I can do about the bluehorn?"
    "What's your name, anyway?"
    "Jerene Pertree, sir."
    Toller now felt pompous, but could see no way out of the web he had woven around himself. "There's no scarcity of experienced handlers on this flight—are you sure you won't get yourself sent flying?"
    "I grew up on a farm, sir." Jerene opened the valve of her propulsion unit a short distance, producing just enough thrust to drift her towards the bluehorn's head. The animal's bulging eyes rolled as she drew near and shining strands of saliva gathered in the air around its mouth. Toller felt a stab of concern—those massive jaws could easily rend human flesh beneath the stoutest garment—but Jerene was making gentle, wordless sounds which seemed to have an immediate soothing effect on the bluehorn. She slipped one arm around its neck and began stroking the animal's brow with her free hand. It submitted to her touch, visibly becoming docile, and in a few seconds she was able to slide its eyelids down over the staring amber eyes. Jerene nodded towards Toller, signaling for him to come in with the rope.
    He jetted forward, bound the bluehorn's back feet together, paid out a short length of line and repeated the process with the forelegs. He was not accustomed to that kind of work, and all the while was half-expecting a violent response from the captive animal, but it allowed him to complete the operation without mishap.
    By that time the chaos above was being brought under control. The stricken ship was being abandoned. Overland's surface was almost completely occulted by condensation trails as crewmen from other vessels began the work of salvaging supplies. They were shouting to each other, sound ing almost cheerful as they realized how slight was the damage to the fleet as a whole, compared to what it could have been. It occurred to Toller that the expedition had been lucky in another respect—if the encounter with the meteor swarm had not happened so close to the weightless zone recovery from it would have been much more difficult, if not imposs ible. Every object he could see was falling towards Land, but the rate of descent was so leisurely that in practice it could be disregarded for the time being.
    Men were also jetting upwards from the four ships of the first echelon, among them Sky-commodore Sholdde, chief executive officer for the expedition. Sholdde was a tough and laconic fifty-year-old, much favored by the Queen because of the relish with which he tackled difficult assign ments. The fact that he had lost a ship, although no blame could be laid at his door, was going to make him edgy and difficult to deal with for the rest of the flight.
    "Maraquine!" he shouted at Toller. "What do you think you're doing there? Get back to your ship and see what extra stores you can take on board. You shouldn't be concerning yourself with that miserable flea-bag."
    "How dare you call me a flea-bag!" Jerene murmured in Sholdde's direction, feigning indignation. "Flea-bag, your self!"
    "Look, I've already warned you about. . . ." Toller, who had been about to admonish the lieutenant on her disrespect for senior officers, met the humorous glint in her brown eyes and his resolve foundered. He liked people