Randall Garrett

“ The Martians frowned in bewilderment. "We've never been in space," one of them said. "We don't know how to get into the acceleration cradles."
Kendall showed them. Das Shamra lay closest to him, a blaster cradled in his arms. "You're the only one who can move around now, Kendall. One move out of place and I'll drill you."
"Sure you will," Kendall said. "And which one of you is going to pilot the ship back down again? If you want to live, Das Shamra, keep that blaster from going off." ”

“ Das Shamra grinned affably. "Indeed? Then we can talk business—for eight thousand dollars happens to be exactly the sum I'm prepared to offer you if you do a certain job for me."
"What kind of a job?"
"Piloting a spaceship."
"But that's impossible—" Kendall started to say, and stopped. By law, all space commerce was to be handled through Space Service and its authorized pilots. There was a reason for that; a spaceship out of control could destroy half a continent in a crash landing, and so only authorized personnel could be permitted to handle spacecraft. No private piloting was allowed. ”

“ The Martian branch of Space Service didn't work with the same smooth efficiency as the Earth office. There, you walked in, let the computer run you over, and in ten minutes your license was stamped for another six-month extension. Here things worked differently.
It had taken him two days just to get an appointment—two days in which he wandered through Mars City, lonely and bitter, shuddering in the biting cold and feeling homesick for Earth and Kathy and good warm air with some oxygen in it. Then he had his exam—and, unaccountably, they requested him to return the next day for a re-test. ”

“ A couple of tearless sobs shook him.
A man ought to be better prepared for things like this, he told himself. One minute a top-flight spaceman; then a machine gives you a few tests and you're nothing but a bum sobbing in the gutter. ”

“ At twenty-seven his career as a spacepilot was over, and he had been booted out of the Space Service office without ceremony.
Worse than that—he was stuck here on Mars with about ten dollars in his pocket. It would cost eight thousand to get back home. Eight thousand—and Kathy with a baby coming, and him with no job now. It was enough to make a man kill himself. ”

“ It's an old trick, planting a distorter in a man."
"What?" Kendall was suddenly sober. "Distorter? What do you mean?"
He reached across the table and shook the older man.
"Lemme alone. I'll tell you. It's a dodge they use to get men to flunk out. Least they tried it on me; I didn't find out what they did till later. They're damned clever surgeons. They slip up on a spacer when he's asleep and bury a neural distorter on his body. It louses up his reflexes so he flunks the six-monther. They spring the job offer on him. If he takes it, they remove the distorter and he's as good as new. ”

“ Who's this Das Shamra, and what can he arrange for me?"
"Das Shamra is a wealthy merchant, Pilot Kendall. Wealth has many advantages. Will you come with me?"
Suspiciously, Kendall said, "Where to?"
"The Hotel Cosmos. Das Shamra is very anxious to see you. He is a very generous man."
Kendall had been long taught never to trust a blueskin. But in his present state of mind, he didn't give much of a damn. He was numb with cold, and whoever this Das Shamra was, he was indoors. At the moment that was all that mattered.
"Buy me a drink," Kendall told the Martian. "I need a little pick-me-up. ”

“ He knew the computer would now accept him and restore his certificate. He toyed briefly with the idea of somehow ducking out and getting back to the Space Service office, but he turned that notion down. He wanted to do this up in style.
"We'll take you to the ship," Das Shamra said. "The plan is to lie in wait off Phobos until the dionate ship shows up. Then you can follow our instructions."
"You're the boss," Kendall said. "Until this caper is over, anyway. Then I'm heading back to Earth and you can all rot so far as I care." ”