Date Night on Union Station by E. M. Foner Read Free Book Online Page B

enthusiastic about the terms.”
    “Yeah, well, my tug’s right there, as you can see.” Joe indicated the stubby salvage vessel that was built for the sole purpose of short-haul towing and orbital junk sifting. “Where’s the exterior propulsion unit you guys promised? I don’t mind doing repo work, but I’ll never catch a cabin cruiser, not even if you gave me the head start.”
    The robot ignored Joe, rolled up to the tug, and then right up its side onto the hull. “Let’s go,” it called.
    “You’re the propulsion system?” Joe asked in disbelief.
    “They aren’t getting any closer,” the robot pronounced languidly, and its various limbs seemed to wilt as they sought anchoring spots on the hull. “Come on now, hotshot. Get the lead out.” It snapped the commands with a momentary display of energy and knowledge of archaic human slang. “I didn’t load myself down with all these extras to stand around yapping with a glorified trash collector.”
    “Alright, alright. Mind the shop, Paul, and no cutting until I get back.” Joe gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze and then followed the Stryx to the tug. He stopped and shook his head at the little robot perched on the hull, then hauled himself up the ladder and into the cockpit. There was barely enough room for a human operator in the tug, which had been built for smaller humanoids and converted for human use.
    The vessel was procured in a barter deal for a rather elaborate potbelly still which the former owner of the junkyard had employed to make pretty good moonshine. Joe had long since decided that he’d gotten the short end of the stick on that trade. Strapping himself into the command chair, he began the launch sequence by calling to station control for clearance, but the controls abruptly locked out.
    “I’ll do the talking and the flying if you don’t mind.” The robot spoke through his implants, sounding positively exhausted at this point. “How many G’s can your body tolerate without permanent damage?”
    In Joe’s experience, nothing good ever came from responding to this type of question. However, his years in the mobile infantry had taught him the answer, and he decided to play it straight rather than leaving the robot to guess, especially since this particular Stryx didn’t sound like it would be upset by accidentally turning Joe into a gelatinous mass. “I can take 5 G’s for about thirty minutes, though I won’t be worth much for a while when it cuts out. Or I can take 15 G’s for around twenty seconds, but I’ll pass out without a pressure suit.”
    “Passing out won’t be necessary,” the robot practically yawned the words in his ear. “Launch initiated.”
    The tug took off like it had been kicked by a Thurillian riding beast, blowing through the ionized field that kept the air in the hold and out into the vacuum of the station core, without pausing to check for traffic. There was a brief high G turn, and then Joe felt himself pressed back into the pilot’s seat by a giant hand, though it was nowhere near as bad as some rapid assault landings he could recall, or strategic withdrawals for that matter.
    Joe was impressed so much thrust could be generated with the casually bolted-on attachments that made the little robot look like it had magnetized its casing and blundered through a scrap heap, but none of the biologicals fostered by the Stryx had a clue as to their patron’s true technological limits. The robots gifted or bartered their fosterlings just enough technology to reach the stars, but generally left the different life forms to work out their own solutions to the problems they encountered in space.
    The accelerometer on the tug’s instrument panel held steady as the velocity continued to ramp up, already far beyond the speed the ship could have reached on its own even when it was new. Joe actually caught himself studying the forward sensor display for their fleeing quarry, then he remembered that it had failed