"Not a very new one, sir. A Challenger 7-jet, four berth explorer. But in good shape. My friend and I managed to get it cheap, reconditioned it—"
"Then you have a companion?"
"Yes, Padre. Syd Palmer. He's waiting aboard. We had planned to lift gravs tomorrow for a prospecting tour of the planetoids. I visited the Cosmobar because I thought I might run into some old space-dodger who would give me a tip on a lode-rock—"
"And you ran into," said the missionary, "something which may turn out to be the greatest discovery ever made by man. Murder ... thievery ... wealth ... is this the ship?"
They had stopped before one of the smaller cradles. Chip pressed a signal button, a buzzer responded, there came from within the familiar wheeze of an air-lock generator.
"This is it, sir. Please step in. 'Lo, Syd. This is Doctor—Mister—"
"Call me 'Salvation'," said the old man. "I'm used to it. Palmer, I take it you're the chief engineer of this jaloppy?"
Syd Palmer was short and chubby; his hair was a tow colored bristle that stood up like a cock's-comb when he was excited or annoyed. It stood up now, and his pale blue eyes danced with tiny, indignant sparks.
"I'm the engineer of this ship!"
"Call it what you will," grunted Salvation. "Is it fast?"