Exiled to the Stars Read Online Free Page B

preferably two. Then the hush field generator, and then the other stuff in no particular order."
    Manny nodded. "I'll do my best." He took the large sheaf of bills and turned away, then turned back to Ron. "You're straight now, but you been there. From the accent, San Lou?"
    Ron shook his head, "South 'Cago."
    Manny whistled. "Yeah, you been there." He glanced at Vlad. "Stick wit' him, Doc, and you might make it through this!" He sauntered away, whistling.
    The bunks were arranged to form groups of twelve, and Ron carefully scrutinized and evaluated the other nine members of their group. Four were women. All of them were obviously frightened, but two of them stayed between the others and the men, glaring challengingly if any man came close. The two assertive ones had gone around trading bunks until the four were grouped together against the wall, in the bottom two bunks on each side of the central aisle. The four huddled together, whispering and throwing apprehensive glares at the men in the group. It would obviously be impossible to learn their identities and capabilities until they calmed down.
    Two of the residents were street toughs, gang teens. They had even torn the sleeves from their issue shipsuits to display the crude tattoos that identified their street gang. They swaggered in together, and never said a word to their bunkmates. After a contemptuous glance at their neighbors, they had stuffed their belongings into their safes, and immediately left the group.
    Then there was a classic street urchin from Nawlins, about fourteen years old. He'd been running a crooked crap game when the police caught him.
    The only other 'straight' was a short, wide man with large, scarred hands and a ready smile. He was a machinist, which nowadays meant a combination computer tech and mechanic. He'd been one of the players in the kid's crap game when the police raided it.
    Von and Vlad were talking with the kid when Vlad was suddenly pushed hard from behind, propelling him face-first into the wall at the end of the short aisle. "Watch it, four eyes," said a gravelly voice.
    A large man stood at the entrance to the aisle. Scarred and muscular, his battered visage literally screamed "street tough." He surveyed the occupants of the aisle.
    "M'name's Jack Tundell," he grated. He looked at the card in his hand, and pointed to the upper bunk at the rear of the group. "I'm supposed to have that bunk," he said, "But I like this'n better." He indicated Ron's bunk.
    Ron shook his head. He hadn't been in a fight since he'd escaped South 'Cago to go to college, and he'd hoped his escape was permanent. But he knew this type. A street thug. Not intelligent, but tough and pain-tolerant. If he gave in now, submitted to the man's demands, he would be dominated by him and whatever gang boss he hired on with for the entire voyage, and maybe longer.
    No , he decided. I might be in for a beating, but there's no way I'm giving in without a fight!
    Suddenly he noticed Tundell's clumsy movements in zero-gee. He retreated slightly, to brace his back against the metal edge of the bunk, and spread his arms, sliding a hand along to grasp the pipe supporting the bunks on each side. He decided he was as firmly anchored as possible.
    "No," he said. "That's my bunk, and I don't want to swap."
    Tundell had liked his retreating movement. The man's lip curled. "You don't look so tough. I think you better change your mind."
    Ron shook his head. "I'm not tough," he replied. "That's why I fight dirty."
    A wide grin flared in the battered face. "Yeah? Me too !" On the final word Tundell launched a huge right-handed haymaker. Had it landed, it would probably have put Ron in the hospital.
    But they were in zero-gee. Ron ducked, and all the wide swing did was send the big man into an uncontrollable spin. As he completed the first revolution, his face encountered both of Ron's feet, launched with all the strength in his well-braced body, and swung in the opposite direction.