LITMIR.BIZ

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wealth.”

      * * * *

      When they had gone and the sound of their departing spacecraft had faded, Amschel Mayer snapped, “We might as well get underway. And cheer up, confound it, we have lots of time to contrive a reasonable report for the Co-ordinator.”

      Jerry Kennedy managed a thin grin, almost reminiscent of the younger Kennedy of the first years on Genoa. “Say,” he said, “I wonder if we’ll be granted a good long vacation before being sent on another assignment.”

      STOWAWAY

      Lieutenant Johnny Norsen, his lanky body sprawled uncomfortably in an acceleration chair, was playing Spartan rules with the darts, and paused only momentarily before each shot. Spartan rules were pretty Spartan, but in spite of the handicaps he hit the bull’s eye six times out of six and grunted in disgust.

      He complained, to no one in particular, “This was a swell game when we first brought it aboard. Now everybody is as good as it’s possible to get. We might as well flush it overboard.”

      No one in particular happened to be Dick Roland, ship’s navigator. He looked up from the onion skin, paper bound history he was reading. “Ummm,” he said vaguely. “Maybe we could toughen up the rules.”

      “How?” Norsen grumbled. “They’re as tough already as it’s possible to get them. We’d have to close both eyes, or something.” He shifted in his chair, yawned and recrossed his legs. “What in the kert are you reading?”

      “Decline and Fall of the United Stales. Ancient history. What do you think of it?” The navigator was young, rather handsome in an easygoing sort of way, but almost colorless in his lack of aggressiveness.

      Johnny Norsen yawned again. “I don’t like history, so I’ve only read the book four or five times.” He looked up at the earth time chrono on the wall. “Let’s crack today’s video-news.”

      Dick Roland followed his eyes. “We’ve still got five minutes to go,” he protested mildly.

      The other was irritated. “Five minutes, ten minutes, what’s the difference? Today is today. It’s not as though we were cracking next week’s news. Besides, I think Doc Thorndon’s crazier than a makron. What difference does it make when we show a news wire?”

      He knew the answer to his own question as well as anyone else in the New Taos, but it was something to talk about.

      Dick Roland said, “I think it’s a good idea. Keeps us interested in things. Every day we can look forward to getting the news. Sure, it’s a full year old, but that doesn’t make any difference to us. We haven’t heard it yet. Doc Thorndon says it’s one way of keeping space cafard from hitting the crew—something new every day, something to look forward to.”

      Norsen screwed up his angular face. “Where’d Doc get the idea, anyway? We never did it before.”

      Dick closed his history and tossed it to the wardroom table. He’d read it half a dozen times already, himself. He said, “You know Doc. Always reading those old books. From what he says, back in ancient times they used to pull the same idea—weather station men who were stuck up in the Artie and snowed in for maybe six months at a crack. They’d have a file of newspapers on hand, and each day they’d take one off the top. The news was exactly one year old, but it didn’t make any difference to them. They hadn’t read it before and so it was as fresh as though it’d just happened. When their supplies came in, in the Spring, they’d get another batch of papers.”

      Lieutenant Norsen looked up at the chrono again. “Well, it’s time now. Let’s crack today’s. I want to see if there’s anything on Jackie Black. It’s about time for him to pull one of his jobs again. That little makron is sure giving the S.S.B.I. a run for their credits.”

      Dick Roland was on his feet and getting the video-news wire from its built-in file. “Ummm,” he said. “Most effective criminal for the past century. If he keeps on making haul after haul, he ought to be set for life pretty soon.”

      Ensign Mart Bakr, his chubby face questioning, and his mouth still working on some tidbit or other, hurried through the wardroom door. “Haven’t started the video-wire yet have—” He saw they were about to run it and interrupted himself. “Good,” he said, and slumped into a chair.

      “Be ready in a second,” Dick Roland told him.

      “Good. By the way, you fellows hear the news?”

      They weren’t particularly interested. There wasn’t any news that could develop on a space cruiser on a year long trip.

      He said, nonchalantly, “Commander Gurloff thinks he’ll turn around and head back home.”

      They spun on him. “What!”

      He grinned at their excitement. “April Fool!”

      They stared at him, then their eyes went to each other, questioningly.

      Doctr Thorndon entered the tiny officer’s mess and wardroom just in time to pick up the end of the conversation. He said soothingly, “Never mind, boys, he’s not down with cafard. It’s a joke.”

      “A joke?” Johnny Norsen grumbled. “Why the fat little makron had Dick and me believing him for a minute. What’s this about April something or other?”

      Doc Thorndon settled into a chair. He was a cheerful, rolypoly man, his cheeks still pink but his hair thinning and graying. He was about forty-five—old for the space service.

      “April Fool,” he said. “It’s a time-honored jest. By the ancient calendar there was a day in the Terran year during which persons played practical jokes on each other. When the victim became indignant, the perpetrator merely called out April Fool! and the other was forced to admit himself duped.”

      They still didn’t quite get it. Doc Thorndon added, patiently, “If we were still following the old calendar, this would be April 1st, All Fool’s Day, as they called it.” Dick Roland said, “Well, anyway, here’s the video-news for last April Fool’s Day.” He dimmed the room’s lights and flashed the video wire on the wall so that everyone could read.

      Over an hour later, he said, “Should we run it again now, or should we wait another couple of hours.”

      “Three times is enough,” Johnny Norsen said, “We’ll get tired of it, otherwise. Remember, it’s another twenty-four hours until we get another one. Let’s sit around and discuss it for awhile.”

      “Yeah,” Mart Bakr said. The chubby third officer shook his head in reluctant admiration. “Did you see that item about Jackie Black? They almost got him there on Calypso, but he’s too slick for them.”

      Johnny Norsen grunted contemptuously. “I don’t think that was him at all. Too big, for one thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if Black was still on Earth. They’ve been reporting him on every planet and satellite in the system, but I’ll bet he never left Neuve Los Angeles, where he pulled his last—”

      “Caper,” Doc Thorndon said.

      The other three looked at him. “His what?” Mart Bakr asked.

      “His caper,” the doctr repeated, pleased with himself. “It’s a new word I ran into today. Criminals used to call a crime a caper.”

      Dick Roland shook his head and grinned. “What a hobby. Prehistoric slang.”

      There was a gentle knock at the wardroom door and the four of them looked up at the messman who stood there, somewhat nervous at being in officer’s country.

      “Yes, Spillane?” Johnny Norsen said.

      The messman cleared his throat. “Could you tell me where the skipper is, sir?”

      “I think he’s sleeping, Spillane. What is it?”

      “Well, sir. Well… there’s a stowaway on board.” He cleared his throat again and said, “We found her in the

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