Free Rhapsody in Black by Brian Stableford Page A

and the inscription with all due seriousness when we first landed, and I could tell that he was impressed. But he was of asthenic rather than athletic build, and never put on weight no matter how much he ate. It would take a lot more than healthy exercise and clean living to turn him into a reasonable imitation of a superman. This, mercifully, prevented him from becoming involved with the culture and philosophy of the world, and the way that the inhabitants went to great lengths to insult us soon drove out any least vestige of admiration which he might have harboured for them.
    Hence, when temptation struck me, as it occasionally did, he was unable to muster sufficient disapproval to counsel caution. One night—the last of our intended stay—I, with Lapthorn as accessory before and after the fact, did wilfully and maliciously deface the sacred statue.
    I inserted the word DON’T into the inscription.
    I thought it was funny.
    So did Lapthorn.
    They threw us in jail for ninety days (local). Fortunately, the world turned on its axis faster than most.
    Until I landed on Rhapsody, that was the only time I was ever in jail. It may seem peculiar that a career so long and checkered as my own should not have resulted in other periods of incarceration, but it was a fact. My innate cautiousness and honesty had conspired to keep me safe from the versatile arm of the Law of New Rome, and simple diplomacy had sufficed to keep me out of trouble on a purely local scale.
    That single episode had instilled into me a healthy regard for the dangers of trespassing on other people’s idiosyncrasies. It also added fuel to my strong dislike for those of definite and exclusive faith.
    I actually remembered and rehearsed that incident as I approached Rhapsody, but I make no claim to a prophetic gift. I was as surprised as anyone else when we were jumped as soon as the drive-unit was cooled.
    I had taken off the hood, and was relaxing in the cradle with my eyes shut. It hadn’t been a difficult approach and landing at the speed I’d elected to adopt—as evidenced by the fact that I’d been able to reflect on old times—but there are proprieties to be observed. A space pilot should always look as if he’s been through hell and a half to get where he is.
    Charlot and Nick had gone down to attend to the passengers, and Eve was disconnecting my electrodes with one hand and preparing my shot with the other. We weren’t in any hurry, and while we exchanged a few innocuous and irrelevant remarks some fifteen or twenty minutes crept by. I would have been moderately content, in fact, to stay on board for the duration. We need our t erra firma , of course—as I’ve said—but we prefer it accompanied by air and sky and sunlight.
    I heard the inner lock swing shut with an unusually loud thump. I presumed, of course, that somebody was getting out. But a few seconds later, an anonymous figure in a surface-suit scrambled into the cabin with an indecent amount of haste.
    He was waving a gun.
    At first I thought it was Johnny, because he was the only person I knew who habitually waved guns for no good reason. Then I realised that it wasn’t one of our suits, and I knew we’d been jumped.
    I couldn’t see his face because of the black glass visor in his helmet, but I could imagine him watching me like a hawk. All-seeing and predatory.
    He pointed the gun at me and said, ‘Get out of the chair.’
    Strangely enough, that order made me feel better. No spaceman would refer to the cradle as a ‘chair’. Ergo, I conclusion jumped, he hadn’t come to steal my ship. It was me he wanted.
    I disentangled myself from the straps, and stood clear of the cradle.
    â€˜Right,’ he said. ‘Now, one at a time, get down the ladder. Put your suits on slowly.’
    The others were already being shipped through the lock, two at a time. There was another heavy with a gun at the bottom of the