the Dark Light Years Read Online Free PDF

clean Mariestopes, it would have been impossible for an rational individual - and rational individuals exist even amid the incarcerations of space travel - to imagine that both craft were constructed for the same purpose.
    Indeed, many of the crew, and notably those who prided themselves on their rationality, were loud in their laughter as they refused to concede that the alien artifact was anything but a well-frequented jakes.
    Discovering the drive quenched about 98 per cent of the laughter. Under the mire the motor lay, a strange distorted thing no bigger than a rhinoman. It was snugged into the wooden hull without visible welding and bolting; it was made of a substance outwardly resembling porcelain; it had no moving parts; and a ceramicist followed it weeping with a wild surmise into the engineering labs when the unit was finally drilled and grilled from the hull The next discovery was a bunch of great nuts that clung to the two peaks of the roof with a tenacity that defied the best flame-cutters. At least, some said they were nuts, for a fibrous husk covering them suggested die fruits of the coconut palm. But when it was perceived that the ribs running down from the nuts which had hitherto been regarded as wall strengtheners connected with the drive, several sages declared the nuts to be fuel tanks.
    The next discovery put an end to discoveries for a time. An artisan chipping at a hardened bank of dirt discovered, entombed within it, a dead ETA. Thereupon the men gathered together and made emotional noises.
    " How much longer are we going to stand for this, fellows?" cried Interior Rating Ginger Duffield, jumping on to a tool box and showing them white teeth and black fists. "This is a company ship, not a Corps ship, and we don't have to put up with just any old treatment they care to give us.
    There's nothing down in regulations says we have to clean out alien tombs and bogs. I'm downing tools till we get Dirty Pay. and I demand you lot join me.”
    His words drew forth a babble of response.
    "Yes, make the company pay!”
    "Who do they think they are?”
    "Let 'em clean out their own stink holes!”
    "More pay! Time and a half, boys!”
    "Get knotted, Duffield, you ruddy trouble-maker.”
    "What does the sergeant say?”
    Sergeant Warrick elbowed his way through the bunch of men. He stood looking up at Ginger Duffield, whose lean and peppery figure did not wilt under the gaze.
    "Duffield, I know your sort. You ought to be out on the Deep Freeze Planet, helping to win the war.
    We don't want none of your factory tactics here. Climb down off that box and let's all get back to work.
    A bit of dirt won't harm your lily white hands.”
    Duffield spoke very quietly and nicely.
    "I'm not looking for any trouble, sarge. Why should we do it, that's all I say. Don't know what dangerous disease is lurking in this little cesspit. We want danger money for working in it. Why should we risk our necks for the company? What's the company ever done for us?" A rumble of approval greeted this question, but Duffield affected to take no notice of it. "What're they going to do when we get home?
    Why, they're going to put this stinking alien box on show, and everyone's going to come and have a look and a sniff at ten tubbies a tune. They're going to make their fortune out of this and out of those animals that lived in it. So why shouldn't we have our little bite now? You just push along to C Deck and bring the Union man to see us, hey, sarge, and keep that nose of yours out of trouble, hey?”
    "You're nothing but a flaming trouble-maker, Duffield, that's your trouble," the sergeant said angrily.
    He pushed through the men, heading for C Deck. Mocking cheers followed him into the corridor.
    Two watches later, Quilter, armed with hose and brush, entered the cage containing the two ETA's.
    They sprouted their limbs and moved to the far end of the confined space, watching him hopefully.
    "This is the last clean-out you guys are going to get from