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Updated: June 17, 2025
I asked, as soon as I was inside. I saw Joe Kivelson getting up from the radio and making place for Abe. "Who did you contact?" "The Mahatma; Helldiver," he said. "Signal's faint, but plain; they're trying to make a directional fix on us. There are about a dozen ships out looking for us: Helldiver, Pequod, Bulldog, Dirty Gertie..." He went on naming them. "How did they find out?" I wanted to know.
Oscar is skipper of the Pequod he wouldn't have looked baffled if Bish Ware called him Captain Ahab and while his family name is Old Terran Japanese, he had blue eyes and red hair and beard. He was almost as big as Joe Kivelson. "Hello, Walt," Joe greeted me. "What's this Tom's been telling me about Bish Ware shooting a tread-snail that was going to sting Mr. Murell?" "Just about that," I said.
"Well, Bish Ware; he was dead drunk, last I heard of him," Joe Kivelson said. "Aah, just an act," Oscar said. "That was to fool the city cops, and anybody else who needed fooling. It worked so well that he was able to crash a party Steve Ravick was throwing at Hunters' Hall, after the meeting. That was where he picked up some hints that Ravick had a spy in the Javelin crew.
Joe Kivelson wasn't in sight, but Glenn Murell and Oscar were drinking coffee. I went to the front window, and there was a scarlet glow on the horizon ahead of me. That's another sight Cesário Vieria will miss, if he takes his next reincarnation off Fenris.
Joe Kivelson should have gone on the Helldiver, to have his broken arm looked at, but a captain's always the last man off, so he stayed. Oscar said he'd take Tom and Joe, and Glenn Murell and me, on the Pequod. I was glad of that.
"Why, then the Co-op would have been stuck with it." "That's right. And as soon as Murell's price was announced, everybody would drop out of the Co-operative and reclaim their wax, even the captains who owe Ravick money. He'd have nobody left but a handful of thugs and barflies." "But that would smash the Co-operative," Joe Kivelson objected.
Oscar got Joe Kivelson, with his arm in a sling, out in front where he could be seen, and began shouting: "Please make way; this man's been injured. Please don't crowd; we have an injured man here." The crowd began shoving back, and in the rear I could hear them taking it up: "Joe Kivelson; he's been hurt. They're carrying Joe Kivelson off."
A hunter-boat captain, even a good one like Joe Kivelson, won't make much more in a year than Dad and I make out of the Times. Chemically, tallow-wax isn't like anything else in the known Galaxy. The molecules are huge; they can be seen with an ordinary optical microscope, and a microscopically visible molecule is a curious-looking object, to say the least.
The next thing I knew, Oscar Fujisawa's mate was shaking me awake. "We're in sight of Port Sandor," he was telling me. I mumbled something, and then sat up and found that I had been lying down and that somebody had thrown a blanket over me. Tom Kivelson was still asleep under a blanket on the other couch, across from me. The clock over the instrument panel had moved eight G.S. hours.
"Why, that's incredible!" the Reverend Zilker burst out, and Joe Kivelson was saying: "Steve Ravick isn't any woman...." "Least of all one who died fourteen years ago," Bish agreed. "But the fingerprints were hers. A pauper, dying in a public ward of a big hospital. And a man who has to change his identity, and who has small, woman-sized hands. And a crooked hospital staff surgeon.
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