"Fair enough," the skipper conceded, ungrudgingly. "What a load! And no losses!"
"One boatload of air, is all; but air is expensive out here." Samms made a point, deliberately.
"Air!" Willoughby snorted. "I'll swap you a hundred flasks of air, any time, for any one of those leaves!" Which was what Samms wanted to know.
Captain Willoughby was smart. He knew that the way to succeed was to use and then to trample upon his inferiors; to toady to such superiors as were too strong to be pulled down and thus supplanted. He knew this Olmstead had what it took to be a big shot. Therefore:
"They told me to keep you in the dark until we got to Trenco," he more than half apologized to his Fourth Officer shortly after the Virgin Queen blasted away from the Trenconian system. "But they didn't say anything about afterwards—maybe they figured you wouldn't be aboard any more, as usual—but anyway, you can stay right here in the control room if you want to."
"Thanks, Skipper, but mightn't it be just as well," he jerked his head inconspicuously toward the other officers, "to play the string out, this trip? I don't care where we're going, and we don't want anybody to get any funny ideas."
"That'd be a lot better, of course—as long as you know that your cards are all aces, as far as I'm concerned."
"Thanks, Willoughby. I'll remember that."
Samms had not been entirely frank with the private captain. From the time required to make the trip, he knew to within a few parsecs Trenco's distance from Sol. He did not know the direction, since the distance was so great that he had not been able to recognize any star or constellation. He did know, however, the course upon which the vessel then was, and he would know courses and distances from then on. He was well content.
A couple of uneventful days passed. Samms was again called into the control room, to see that the ship was approaching a three-sun solar system.