Farradyne could find words. Donaldson left with him but stopped at the spacelock to hurl at Farradyne: "Luck, fella."
An hour later Farradyne was a-space between Mercury and Ganymede. On his own in space for the first time in four long aching years. Not quite a free man, but at least no prisoner. He took a deep breath once he was out of control-range and could put the Lancaster on the autopilot. Gone were the smells and the rotting filth of the fungus fields; here were the bright clear stars in the velvety sky. Here was freedom--freedom of the body, at least. Maybe even freedom of the soul. But not freedom of the intellect yet. He had a tough row to hoe and the tougher row of his innocence to turn up into the light of day.
But for the first time since he'd been thrown flat on his face, Farradyne felt that he had a chance.
Ganymede was in nightfall and Jupiter was a half-rim over the horizon when he landed. He checked in at the Operations Office and listed his Lancaster as available for a pick-up job. The clerk that took his license to make the listing raised one mild eyebrow at the big rubber stamp reading 'Reinstated' across the face of the card, but made no comment. Farradyne's was not the only one so stamped. Pilots had been suspended for making a bounce-landing with an official aboard or coming in too slantwise instead of following a beacon down vertically.
He folded the leather case and slipped it back into his pocket. He looked at the pick-up list, which was not too long. He had a fair chance of picking up a job, and that would add to whatever backlog Clevis had left him. Farradyne found himself able to figure his chances as though he had not spent his time digging mushrooms on Venus. The pilot that owned his ship outright was a rare one. The rest were mortgaged to the scupper and it was a touch and clip job to make the monthly payments. Some pilots never did get their ships paid off but managed to scratch out a living anyway. A pilot with a clear ship could rake in the dough, and could eventually start a string of his own. This was the ultimate goal which so many aimed at but so few achieved. With no mortgage to contend with, Farradyne could loaf all over space and still make out rather well, picking up a job here and a job there.
He waved a hand at the registry clerk and went out into the dark of the spaceport.
Rimming the edge of the field were three distant globs of neon, all indicating bars. One was as good as the next, so Farradyne headed towards the nearest. He entered it with the air of a man who had every right to land his ship anywhere he pleased and then hit the nearest bar. He waggled a finger at the barkeep, called for White Star Trail, and dropped a ten-spot on the bar with an air that indicated that he might be there long enough 

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