Starfarers by Poul Anderson

medium height but powerful build, he had made the mistake of wearing a naval-style tunic and trousers, and was sweating copiously and pungently. The bullet head was totally bald except for bushy brows and sweeping black mustache. Brown almond eyes looked out of a broad, rather flat countenance. His age was fifty-five.
    She relaxed. “Oh, I suppose ‘Dr. Mokoena’ will do till we feel free to be less formal. What do you prefer for yourself?”
    Ruszek poured more tea. Ice cubes clinked. “Whatever you want. I’ve been many things.”
    “So I’ve gathered. Although the information’s remarkablyscanty, considering how the journalists are after us. Did you make them hostile to you on purpose?”
    “I give the pests what they deserve.”
    “Forgive me, but is that quite wise? Especially when you will be second in command.”
    “And a boat pilot,” he reminded her, veering from a subject he disliked. “That interests me much more.”
    She went along with him. “I’m sure it does, from what I’ve heard about you.”
    “Besides, Captain Nansen won’t really need any second.”
    His tone had altered. “You sound as though you admire him,” she said.
    “There’s no better man, in space or on the ground.”
    “Is that why you enlisted? To serve under him? I didn’t know you’d met before.”
    “We hadn’t, till I applied. Then I found out.”
    “May I ask why you did join?”
    Ruszek forced a laugh. “I came here to ask you that, Dr. Mokoena.”
    “It works both ways, Mr. Ruszek.”
    “Well, adventure, challenge, if you must have big words.”
    “There are closer stars, shorter voyages, no dearth of discoveries and great deeds.”
    “Could I get a berth on any such expedition? Not fucking likely—uh, pardon me. Too few starships so far. Too much competition.”
    “Yes, I suppose so. As you say, adventure and challenge, and the time away from home isn’t usually too many years.”
    He grinned. “Don’t forget the profits. Crew members get their lecture fees, endorsements, book contracts, fat Earth-side jobs. The Foundation, or whoever has built and backed the ship, gets the specimens and samples to sell—and the entertainment rights, the documentaries and dramas. Oh, it pays.”
    “It pays us all, in knowledge, in hope—hope of meeting other intelligences, settling new worlds,” she said earnestly.
    “Why are we trading these duck-billed platitudes?” heretorted. “To get to your point, Dr. Mokoena,
Envoy’s
the one starship with no serious competition for berths.”
    “Nevertheless—”
    He cut her off. “All right, God damn it, all right, I’ll tell you about myself. Don’t blame me if you already know everything.
    “Born in Budapest, lower middle class, rough-and-tumble boy, left home at sixteen and odd-jobbed around the world a few years—yes, sometimes had to dodge the busybody law—till I joined the Peace Command of the Western Alliance. Surprise, I liked that and buckled down to getting an education. Got posted to military construction on Luna and in free space, got piloting skills, but kept being broken in rank for this or that trouble. At the end of my hitch I found me a civilian post, with the Solmetals Consortium, and piloted around, everywhere from Mars to Saturn. Saw some action in the Space War.”
    Her eyes widened. “Really? But you were a civilian then, you said. And a European.”
    He shrugged. “It wasn’t a decent old-time kind of war, remember. A nasty, drawn-out, sniping thing between the cat’s-paws of the big powers, for who should control this or that out there. Even after Europe withdrew, the Chinks—Argh, it’s years past. I came through with experience, a record, that made Captain Nansen push hard for the Foundation to accept me. Are you satisfied?”
    “An active life,” she murmured, her gaze contemplative upon him. “Often harder than you admit, I’m sure.”
    His irritation subsided. “You have an eye for people, Dr. Mokoena.”
    She smiled.