the satellite-keeper's daughter

By MARK REINSBERG

It isn't advisable to get that gleam in your eye when you're out in space. It can lead to complications....

Chicago's own Mark Reinsberg, associated with Shasta Publishers, the SF house, there, makes a first appearance in these pages with this quiet little story of a susceptible trucker—galactic style—who once swore by Mattapenny's otherwise so dependable GALACTIC GUIDEBOOK.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe December 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Sex and space don't mix. And Mattapenny's Galactic Guidebook can't be trusted.

If you doubt either proposition, ask Bill Brack. It's hard to tell what he thought about women, but all space truckers used to look upon Mattapenny's little red book as a sort of interstellar Bible.

"Looking for a planet to stop over at?" they'd say. "Place to get good meals? Decent room for the night? You can't go wrong with Mattapenny!"

Brack did.

You see, the Galactic Guidebook lists Corbie as one of the five small fuel stations sharing the outer-most orbit of the Dryodean planetary system. The latest edition still gives Hotel Eros two asterisks.

Now, two asterisks (**) is supposed to mean "Plain but fairly comfortable".

"Sure," says Brack, "the hotel may lack an up-to-date Dreamawake or a Time-conditioner, but at least you expect your room to have a Vibrobath and controllable gravity."

None of this at the Hotel Eros. Brack shakes his head complainingly. "You sleep in a primitive 7/8G-bed. You wash yourself with old-fashioned magnetic water. And oxygen service costs 10% extra."

Some people ask: "Then why in the world did you stay there?"

"Had to," Bill answers. "I was hauling out of Dryod-7 with a cargo of deluplasm. Damn valuable stuff, consigned to Hesdin-2. Well, I'd figured the time a little wrong, and it left me with twelve hours to kill before our convoy jumped off. And you know how it is. I was facing three weeks of interstellar rations, and I had a sudden yen for nonsynthetic food. So I looked in the guidebook, and there was Corbie...."

Brack was disappointed from the start. When he sat at a table of the hotel restaurant and studied the menu, he saw it was all synthetics.

"Blast it!" he barked into the table phone, "haven't you anything else?"

"I understand how you feel, mister." It was a live human female voice that answered, not the usual robot. "Hold on. I'll come out and see if I can help you."

Through the kitchen door emerged a young girl, short and white-skinned, but very well proportioned.

"Outbound?" she queried. Her pretty face was clouded by an unhappy expression.

"Yes, and I wanted something with a little taste to it, a little substance."

"Such as what?" said the girl, tossing her long blond hair.

Brack looked at the girl carnivorously. "A steak."

She smiled sympathetically. "We haven't anything of that sort. Sorry." She stared at him with light blue eyes the color of moonstones. "How do you happen to land at this miserable place? Fuel?"

"I'm early for my convoy."

Brack stared at the girl's face and he could see it was the mask of some hidden, tragic emotion.

"You weren't thinking of staying at the Hotel Eros?" she inquired in a voice edged with repugnance.

"Well, I do have about twelve hours."

The girl was emphatic. "Take my advice, mister. Spend them in your ship."

A man's voice crackled over the table phone. "Esther!"