The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jean-Jacques,” said Chapman. “On your way to Osiris to drum up business?”
    “Well, yes, maybe. I suspect that you and I, we are after the same thing.”
    “Got a line of summer wear?”
    “Pour le sport, that is it. This is droll, no? What is this about keeping your sample trunk in your cabin?”
    Chapman grinned. “Thought some sharp operator like you might be along, so . . .”
    “I see, ha-ha. Me, I think Captain Almeida’s locks will keep unwanted ones away. And I can imagine more amusing things to keep in my cabin than a trunk.”
    “No doubt,” said Chapman. “But as there are only three females aboard . . .”
    “Exactement. When the number does not come out even, the results are sometimes of the most amusing. Unless you count Kichik, who is neither one thing nor the other.”
    “Both,” squeaked the Thothian. “Don’t you envy me? Three spades.”
    It was hard to get Celia aside for private conversation because of the lack of space. He met the other passengers, including Bergerat’s luscious redhead, who seemed a nice straightforward girl. At least she didn’t tower over him as Celia did.
    Since Mpande turned out to be a sunburst enthusiast, Chapman finally got a moment with his model in his cabin. He said: “I’m going to get a look at that trunk of Bergerat’s.”
    “How, if it’s locked up?”
    “Didn’t you know I once worked for a locksmith?”
    “Now, look, Cato, don’t start something like that again. You remember what happened to you in the case of that Argentine polo player . . .”
    “You leave this to me! I didn’t say I was going to do anything to his trunk, did I?”
    “No, but I know you—”
    “And I know Jean-Jacques; the only way to treat that no goodnik is to beat him to the punch.”
    “I think he’s perfectly nice!”
    “Ha ha. You’ll see.”
    Chapman went back down the corridor and studied the baggage-room door. Then he took life easy until chance introduced him to Zuloaga, the chief engineer of the Camões.
    “Could I have a look around?” he asked after the amenities.
    “I much regret, but it is a strict rule of the Viagens Interplanetarias that no passengers are allowed in the power compartments.”
    “Then how about the machine shop? I couldn’t do any harm there.”
    Zuloaga wagged a forefinger. “Oh, you Americanos do Norte all want to get your hands greasy as soon as you come aboard. It must give you a feeling of virility, pois não? But come, you shall see our little shop.”
    In the shop Chapman cultivated the acquaintance of Chief Machinist Gustafson. Zuloaga left them puttering among the tools. When Chapman departed a quarter-hour later, he took with him a lump of beeswax and a length of wire which he had slipped into his pockets unseen.
    When he was sure nobody was coming along the corridor, Chapman made an impression of the cross-section of the slot of the lock on the baggage-room door, and poked his wire into the slot until he knew how deep it was.
    As the hours passed, some passengers took short-trance pills while others continued to play sunburst. Fiasakhe, whose claws were ill-shaped for holding playing cards, sat folded in a corner of the saloon with his tail curled up against the wall, reading through a pile of slushy sentimental Earthly novels he had brought with him.
    Chapman, after letting a decent interval elapse, found an excuse to get back into the machine shop. Here he wheedled a couple of pieces of titanium brass out of Gustafson and began hammering and filing them into the shape he wanted. Gustafson appeared to believe the unlikely story that they were for Chapman’s portable radio.
    The two pieces of metal finally took the form of a couple of very slender cylinder-lock keys, one without any of the usual saw-toothed projections and the other with a single such projection. The two keys had handles offset in opposite directions. “For adjusting my germanium crystals,” said Chapman.
    “You must show me how to fix mine some