As long as he didn't know where he was going there wasn't any particular hurry.
For three days he had been saturated with liquor and boredom. This particular binge had started at the swanky summer resort on Jupiter's cool side. It had no rhyme or reason, but then, few of Dirk Temple's actions ever did. Too much money, too much leisure, and too few responsibilities had turned him into a carousing, wasteful interplanetary playboy.
The stamp of his excesses was apparent in his blood-shot eyes, his flabby muscles and the petulant cast of his mouth and jaw.
The nose of the ship was dipping fast now, but Dirk was almost dozing in his seat. The ship continued to drop, and it was not until it had hissed into the atmosphere of the planet again, that Dirk's head snapped up.
A glance downward showed him the green sprawling expanses of Jupiter's unexplored areas, a vast plain of desolation and death. Cursing furiously Dirk manipulated the controls frantically. One rocket sputtered and missed and the ship lurched about in a wild arc as the remaining tube's off-balance bursts slewed the ship around.
For minutes Dirk fought the ship, trying to level it out and straighten its course. Sober, he might have accomplished something, but his drunken, confused efforts did more harm than good.
The ship continued its circling spin unchecked.
Dirk Temple decided his number was up. He didn't give a damn anyhow. Twisting in his seat he glanced out the pilot's sideview window, curious as to the exact terrain he had picked to honor with his last remains.
He stared downward, then shook his head and blinked. It wasn't possible—he peered downward again incredulously.
For spread out below him was a wide clearing containing a number of dwellings that looked about the size of toy blocks from his altitude. But more incredible than this—and more heartening—was the gleaming length of a mooring tower rising toward him. Two of the mooring sockets he saw were occupied by late style space craft, but several of the sockets were invitingly empty.
DRUNK as he was, and as unpredictable as his ship was, he brought it about in a fast circle and headed its nose for the nearest socket.
His timing and speed were off. As the nose of the ship plowed into the mooring socket he kicked the deceleration bar and slammed home the reverse rocket levers at the same instant. But not soon enough. The ship crashed hard and metal grated against metal with a crunching, rending noise.
Dirk's head snapped back with the impact, and a thousand firecrackers seemed to explode in his liquor-sodden brain. He slumped to the floor of the ship under a blanket of darkness.
"TOSS the drunken bum into a bunk. He's not hurt."
Dirk heard these words, heard the cold brutal voice of the speaker as if it were coming from a great distance. Through the black fog that blanketed his brain, a faint light was beginning to creep. He felt hands on either side of him, heard scuffled footsteps vaguely.
Weakly, he attempted to press his hands to his aching head.
"He's comin' around, Boss," a voice said next to him.
The footsteps stopped. Dirk realized that it had been his own footsteps as they led him along that he had heard. He shook his head and then opened his eyes.
