S.T.A.R. FLIGHT by E.C. Tubb Read Free Book Online Page A

was proud both of his efficiency and his equipment.
    Behind a desk in the lobby Miss Watson looked at him with indulgent eyes. It was great to be young, she thought. To be eighteen and doing a good, worthwhile job. Milt wasn’t like others of his generation. He didn’t belong to a zany group. He was a decent, hard-working boy and if he liked bright colours and a touch of the flamboyant, where was the harm?
    “All right if I go for coffee, Miss Watson?” Milt wasalways polite.
    She began to nod, halting the gesture as a light shone on her panel. She stabbed a button. “Messenger service.”
    “I need a new heart,” Hilda Thorenson’s voice came clearly over the wire. “Type 382795193HM. Got that?”
    “Just a minute.” Miss Watson picked up her pen and gestured to Milt. “Wait a minute,” she hissed and then, into the phone, “What was that number again?”
    She wrote it down, pen busy as she filled in the docket, mouth pursed so as to make no mistake. Carefully she read back the number, waited for the O.K., then hung up the phone, “Emergency,” she said to Milt. “Miss Thorenson needs a new heart and fast. The ones in stock are the wrong type.” She stripped the docket from her pad.
    Grabbing it, Milt ran from the room. His motorcycle stood outside within the hospital compound. It roared to life at the first kick and he opened the throttle as he headed towards the gate. Only after he’d left the compound did he realize that he’d forgotten his helmet. Darn it, he thought, but perhaps it was all for the best. The paint was still wet. As long as he kept clear of zanies he would be all right.
    He opened the throttle, leaning over as he rounded a corner, revelling in the speed, the sound, the pressure of air against his face. Siren wailing, he raced past cars, trucks, intersections and crossings. A police car heard the siren and escorted him for a couple of miles, waving him on as they turned from the route. He braked as an officer, military not police, waved him down.
    “This area’s closed to traffic,” he said irritably. “You’ll have to take the diversion.”
    “Not me,” said Milt importantly. He gestured towards his head, remembered his missing helmet, jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where his badge was painted on the back of his jacket. “Urgent official business,” he explained. “Some guy’s dying for want of a heart. I’m getting him one.”
    “From the Gate?”
    “Where else?” Impatiently he revved his engine. “Howabout letting me get on with the job?”
    “Well, I don’t know.” The officer scowled. “It’s murder up there,” he explained. “Every old guy and his dog are jamming the streets. They all want to get in before the deadline,” he explained. “You sure you’ve got to go to the Gate?”
    “I’m sure.” Inwardly Milt seethed. What’s the matter with the dumb cluck? he thought. Can’t he recognize what I am? Hell, if it was him lying back there waiting for a new pump he wouldn’t be so obstructive. That’s a good word, he told himself. Obstructive. He decided to try it. “Look,” he said. “I’m doing a job of work. You don’t have to be so obstructive.”
    “What’s that?” The officer blinked.
    “Obstructive,” said Milt. He squeezed the clutch, kicked in the the gear, revved up the engine. Releasing the clutch, he shot away with a roar from his unsilenced exhaust. Almost at once he had to brake. Fuming, jocking his controls, he wove through the crowd. Half a mile and he was there. The perimeter guard checked his docket and jerked his head.
    “O.K., inside.”
    Milt looked at the crowd bunched up at the perimeter, the sweating policemen forcing them into line, the long queue reaching to the Gate. “You’ll watch the bike?”
    “I’ll watch it. Now move.”
    Milt always felt a little odd walking into a Gate. You’ve nothing to be afraid of, he told himself. They won’t eat you, kidnap you, hold you back. But still he couldn’t get