I never took a cargo to Hespari again." He focused on Miles a little more clearly. "Say, you're a mess, aren't you?"
"Not as much of a mess as you are," Miles replied frankly, nettled.
"Mm," the pilot agreed. He passed his bottle back.
Curious stuff, thought Miles. Whatever was in it seemed to be
counteracting the usual effect ethanol had on him of putting him to sleep. He felt warm and energetic, as if it flowed right down to his fingers and toes. It was probably how Mayhew had kept awake for
three days, alone in this deserted can.
"So," Miles went on scornfully, "you haven't got a battle plan. You haven't asked for a million Betan dollars in small unmarked slips, or threatened to drop the ship through the roof of the shuttleport, or taken hostages, or—or anything constructive at all. You're just sitting up here, killing time and your bottle, and wasting your opportunities, for want of a little resolve, or imagination, or something."
Mayhew blinked at this unexpected point of view. "By God, Van
told the truth for once. You're not from the Mental Health Board. . . . I could take you hostage," he offered placatingly, swinging the needler toward Miles.
"No, don't do that," said Miles hastily. "I can't explain, but—they'd overreact, down there. It's a bad idea."
"Oh." The needler's aim drifted off. "But anyway, don't you see," he tapped his headset, attempting to explain, "what I want, they can't give me? I want to ride the jumps. And I can't, not any more."
"Only in this ship, I gather."
"This ship is going for scrap," his despair was flat, unexpectedly rational, "just as soon as I can't stay awake any more."
"That's a useless attitude," scoffed Miles. "Apply a little logic to the problem, at least. I mean like this. You want to be a jump pilot. You can only be a jump pilot for an RG ship. This is the last RG ship. Ergo, what you need is this ship. So get it. Be a pilot-owner. Run your own cargos. Simple, see? May I have some more of that stuff, please?" One got used to the ghastly taste quite quickly, Miles found.
Mayhew shook his head, clutching his despair and his toggle box to
him like a familiar, comforting child's toy. "I tried. I've tried everything. I thought I had a loan. It folded, and anyway, Calhoun
outbid me."
"Oh." Miles passed the bottle back, feeling deflated. He gazed at the pilot, to whom he was now floating at right angles. "Well, all I know is, you can't give up. Shur—surrender besmirches the honor of the
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Vor." He began to hum a little, a snatch of some half-remembered childhood ballad: "The Siege of Silver Moon." It had a Vor lord in it, he recalled, and a beautiful witch-woman who rode in a magic flying mortar; they had pounded their enemies' bones in it, at the end.