The Warlock's Companion wisoh-9

by Christopher Stasheff

  "He would have con-tin-ued to be off-offensive until he managed to… pro-voke you into attac-king, mas-ter. He was seeking to… e-sta-blish his au-tho-ri-ty."

  Rod's mouth tightened. "Are you telling me I shouldn't have reacted, no matter what he did?"

  "Short of attack with lethal intentions, no. I certainly was not damaged; I am considerably more durable than that."

  Rod remembered childhood tales about accidents when Fess had been building the castle. "All right, so I shouldn't have worried."

  "But I am delighted by your wish to defend one you regard as a friend, boss—it shows that my moral teachings have taken firm hold. Nonetheless, please remember that it is I who am supposed to be loyal to you, not the reverse."

  ''Point noted,'' Rod grumbled. "People don't help robots.''

  "Of course, my own loyalty is reinforced by such firm evidence of your own."

  "But you would have suffered a major breakdown if I'd been really hurt. Yeah, yeah, I know."

  "Well… I did note that you seemed to have forgotten your boxing, boss."

  "I don't know what that guy was using, but it sure wasn't boxing." Rod pushed his jaw back into place and blinked at the pain. "Whew! And you'd better not call me 'boss' around here; I'm beginning to see that it could bother my fellow crewmen."

  "How shall I address you, then?"

  "How about 'Rod'?" Rod said sourly.

  "If you insist," Fess sighed.

  "I do. After all, I've learned my first lesson—that the universe is a nasty place. Let's see if I can't make my way in it anyway, shall we?"

  "One human is not the universe, Rod."

  "So I've got a negative attitude. I can hardly wait to meet my chief."

  "According to Mr. Weiser's instructions, you must 'stow your duffel' first."

  "Oh, yeah." Rod frowned, turning to the little locker. "How do I get it open, do you suppose?" He started running his fingers along the outline, pressing as he went. The left edge gave under pressure, so Rod pushed harder. The panel rotated outward, revealing small shelves on its other side, and a compartment three feet deep.

  Rod stared, appalled. "There's no way you'll ever fit in there!"

  "I can if it is necessary, Rod."

  "Yeah, well, let's try and get by without it first, shall we?" Rod tossed his bag in and pushed the panel shut. "You just stand in the corner here and do your best to turn into a statue. Okay?"

  "Certainly, Rod." Fess stepped into the corner and became just what Rod had ordered—a modernistic sculpture of a human being.

  "You gonna be okay if the ship changes direction?"

  "The floor is an iron alloy, Rod, and I have electromagnets in my feet. We found them quite useful, during Maxima's construction phase. And I notice ringbolts within reach, if the change in velocity is really strong."

  "Well, okay, then…"

  "Report for duty, please, Rod."

  "Oh, all right. Now, let me see—where's my boss?"

  Rod wandered away into the cubistic environment of the engine room. Fess boosted the gain on his microphones, to make sure he would be able to hear Rod if he was needed.

  The light was dim but adequate, and all from ahead. Rod followed it, around shapes that he assumed had something to do with powering the engines. Then he began to hear the cursing. That made it easier—he simply followed the sound.

  Whoever it was had a really remarkable vocabulary. Rod made mental notes of the more exotic terms, planning to ask for their definitions, after he got to know their author a little better. He rounded a large metal housing and saw somebody in a dirty, baggy coverall, hair tied back in a club, laboring over a machine with a wrench.

  What was he supposed to do? Obviously, the guy thought he was alone. Rod swallowed, screwed his courage to the molly-bolt, and stepped forward, stiffening to attention and saluting. "Recruit Rod d'Armand reporting for duty, sir!"

  His new boss whirled, almost dropping the wrench, saw him, then relaxed. "Hellfire, boy, don't do that! I thought I was alone down here." The engineer laid the wrench aside and stood, face coming into the brighter light of an overheard —and Rod caught his breath. The hair wasn't really clubbed, it was caught in a net, and the face under the grease smudges was oval and smooth, with delicate features. "You're the new swabbie, right?" The voice was a lovely alto, the eyes were large, green, and long-lashed, and Rod was in love.

  "Uh-h-h-h—yes, ma'am. I'm your new engine-wiper. Where's the engine I'm supposed to wipe?"

  "Over there." The engineer pointed to a bulging wall in the dimness at the end of the room. "Doesn't need any wiping, though. If it does, we're all in trouble. We just call you that 'cause it came down to us from ocean ships." She turned back, peering up at him. "Don't know anything about engines, huh?"

  "Uh, no, ma'am. I want to learn, though!"

  She groaned. "Defend me from the eager student! Why can't they send me someone who knows what he's doing?" She held up a hand to forestall the answer. "I know, I know—if she's learned that much, she's working on a better ship than this. Well, swabbie, I'm Gracie Muldoon."

  "Rod d'Armand, ma'a—sir!"

  "Better." Muldoon nodded. "And don't you forget it, swabbie."

  "No, sir. Can I help?"

  "Let's see." Muldoon pointed to the huge wheel she'd been working on, half-bared by an opened housing. It rippled with blades that looked uncomfortably like knives. "That's the backup turbine—and the threads on the last bolt are stripped, courtesy of the dirtside mechanic who overhauled it before I was hired; I'd never allow anyone to work on my engines without my watching."

  Rod noticed the possessive attitude, though he doubted she owned the ship. He also noticed the correct grammar. Also the way her head tilted, and how fine her eyebrows were, though they didn't seem to be plucked… he hauled his mind back to the rotor. "How come it was the last bolt?"

  " 'Cause when I found out it was stuck, I took off the other ones first."

  "Oh." Rod felt his face heat up. "And when you try to turn the nut, the whole wheel spins?"

  Muldoon nodded, watching him. "Not spins, really—it's pretty massive. But it doesn't stay put, either." She pointed to the wrench. "Give it a try."

  Rod picked up the wrench and heaved at the nut. Sure enough, the wheel moved, but the nut didn't rotate. He nodded. "Any way to brace the wheel?"

  "Yes, now that you're here." She knelt beside him, and his head filled with her aroma—female with a trace of perspiration. "Hand me the wrench, and take the Stillson… No, the big one."

  Rod picked up the four-foot monkey wrench that lay beside her.

  "Now, this is the brake lever." Muldoon hauled down on a stick to her right. "Watch the hub."

  Rod saw a huge double cam rotate, pushing the edges of the hub out.

  "But watch what happens when I lock it down." Muldoon made something click, and the stick stayed put—but the cam immediately snapped back ninety degrees, and the inner cylinder shrank.

  "Another goodie, courtesy of that dirtside grease monkey who never should have come down out of the trees," Muldoon explained, "and that's why I was cursing."

  Rod nodded, frowning at the huge nut in the center of the cam. "And I hold this still?"

  "Yeah, after I put the brake on again." Muldoon released the stick, then pushed it down once more. Rod waited till the cam had stopped turning, then locked his wrench on and held fast. "What's the nut for?" he grunted.

  "Taking the cam off—so push clockwise." Muldoon picked up her wrench, fitted it on the bolt, and heaved. The nut groaned, then began to move. Rod leaned all his mass on the wrench and pushed. Nonetheless, he felt himself beginning to move, and let go with one hand to grab the edge of the housing.

  "Smart," Muldoon grated, and her wrench began to move more easily. Then it was going around and around quickly and smoothly, and the nut clattered off onto the floor.

  "Success!" Muldoon crowed. "You can let up now, swabbie."

  Rod let go of the housing and laid the wr
ench carefully aside. He was surprised to find he was panting.

  "Good work." Muldoon stood up and came around to face the rotor. "Step back, now—these blades are sharp." Carefully, she lifted the rotor off its axle.

  Rod scurried back out of the way, watching, amazed that a woman smaller than himself could handle a rotor bigger than herself.

  She carried the wheel over to a workbench, mounted it on a hub, and locked it steady. "Just one blade to replace. Know how to cut threads, swabbie?"

  "Uh—yes, sir."

  "Good. Do." Muldoon tossed her head at a huge rack of tools on the wall. "Take your time and do it right."

  "Yes, sir." Rod got busy.

  He was done before she was, but not by much. She took off her mask, racked the welder, and said, "Now. Let's see if you can put it all back together."

  Rod swallowed and came over to unlock the rotor and take it off the mount. "Yes, sir."

  Muldoon leaned back against the workbench, arms folded, watching while he worked. Occasionally, she made an approving noise. When he had all the pieces back in place, he turned to her and said, "Ready for inspection, before I lock them in, sir."

  "Good idea. Glad I didn't have to recommend it." Muldoon came over and examined the fastenings. She nodded slowly. "Nice job—and a nice surprise. I thought you said you didn't know anything about engines."

  "I don't. But I did learn a little basic mechanics."

  "Why, rich boy?"

  Rod sighed. "Everybody sort of assumed I'd go into the family business, when I grew up—so my father insisted I learn how to do everything needed in the robot factory."

  Muldoon frowned. "I thought you technocrats had robots do everything from sweeping up to machining and growing circuits."

  Rod shrugged. "Robots do the actual labor, sure. But people have to make sure they do it right."

  Muldoon nodded slowly. "Smart again. Your old man has a good head on his shoulders."

  Rod felt a flush of purely illogical pleasure, and pride in his father. For the first time, he was glad Dad had put him through all that boring training.

  Then something clicked, and he began to wonder if maybe Dad hadn't figured the boredom might give Rod an extra reason to want to leave Maxima.

  An unworthy thought, surely. Pater had only been trying to train Rod to be a responsible citizen, and a worthy member of the House d'Armand.

  Surely.

  As he finished tightening the housing bolts, Rod asked, "What's this turbine do?"

  Muldoon grinned. "It kicks in if anything goes wrong with the main turbine."

  "Sorry. Let me try again, sir—what's the main turbine for?"

  "It runs the generator."

  "Oh." Rod frowned. "Wouldn't it be more efficient to run a converter directly off the fusion plant?"

  "Very good," she noted. "But you don't know anything about engines, huh?"

  "I don't. That's electronics!"

  "There is still a subtle difference," Muldoon admitted. "Well, it would be more efficient, yes—and we do use it when we go to FTL. But it's an extra drain on the plant, and we go sublight most of the time—we're a local freighter, running between Saturn and Mars. When we're sublight, we use water for reaction mass, and we're heating the water to steam and blasting it out anyway—so it might as well turn the turbine on its way. Effectively, we get our electricity for the cost of the turbine, and the company amortizes that over ten years."

  "Oh." Rod nodded. "So the best way isn't always the best way, huh?"

  "Well, not optimum, anyway." Muldoon smiled. "Come on—I'll give you the four-bit tour."

  She turned away, beckoning, moving like a mermaid as she glided through the air. Rod decided he'd follow that wriggle anywhere.

  Muldoon pointed to a massive door in a dull metal wall. "Lead, a meter thick. Behind it is the fusion plant."

  Rod asked, "Why the lead? The plasma bottle is a better radiation shield than any metal could be."

  She looked up at him, surprised, and nodded. "But if the bottle fails, there could be a brief burst of very hard radiation."

  Rod gave a snort of derision.

  "I know, I know—but tell that to the rest of the crew. And my hindbrain, for that matter—my prefrontal lobes may believe in science, but my cerebellum is superstitious." She put a hand over her tummy. "I still have hopes of having children."

  Rod was suddenly acutely aware of his own vulnerability; before radiation, we're all naked. In fact, we're downright transparent.

  "I think you can figure out where the main turbine is, and the generator." Muldoon pointed to a large red toolbox on the floor. "That's the emergency kit. Small fire extinguisher, Geiger counter…" (her mouth twitched) "… basic hand tools, first-aid box, quick-patches in case we're holed, spot-welder, and steel patches. There's a box of quick-patches inset next to every hatch, and one in the middle of the longest wall in each room." She looked up at him. "You savvy?"

  Rod nodded. "Maxima's only an asteroid, sir. We're very used to patches."

  "Good. This ship has a good deflector field, mind you, and the signal officer—that's Weiser, the Second—"

  "I met him," Rod grunted.

  Muldoon flashed him a quick look, but went on. "We both spend a lot of time making sure the field generator and its connections stay sound. And the ship is double-hulled, with foam filling, ready to expand—but this is the asteroid belt, and some of the junk has a lot of punch. We still get holed once or twice each trip."

  Rod grinned. "Ever taken a close look at the Maxima tugs, sir?"

  Muldoon shook her head. "I don't usually get to a viewscreen while we're matching orbits with you."

  "They have a lot of patches on them. All colors, too—and some pretty outrageous patterns."

  Muldoon wondered, "Why colors?"

  Rod shrugged. "Why not? If you're going to have to have patches anyway, they might as well be decorative."

  Muldoon cracked a smile. "When you look at it that way, I suppose it makes sense. On with the tour."

  She moved back toward Rod's bunk, and slapped the wall of rectangles. "Here's the accumulators, and… What the hell is that?" She stood rigid, staring at the corner.

  "Oh, that's just Fess." Rod felt very sheepish. "He's my robot."

  "You have your own robot?"

  "Well, uh, I'd be lost without him, you know." Rod swallowed. "He's an heirloom, if you know what I mean."

  "No, I don't." Muldoon was still staring.

  Rod gulped. "Sorry about the surprise. I should have told you, sir."

  "Yeah, you sure should have." Muldoon shook her head. "But I'll try to get used to it."

  Rod almost went limp with relief. "Thanks. I mean, a lot, sir. Fess, come over here and say hello to my new boss."

  The sculpture moved, turned its head, and drifted over to them with fluid grace. "Hello, madam. I am the old family robot." He held out his hand.

  Muldoon accepted it gingerly, studying the joints and the structure. "Delighted. Solenoids, huh?"

  "In the hands, yes, for better feedback in applying pressure. Most of my other joints are servomotors, though."

  Muldoon nodded. "Good design. You'll have to take orders from me, too, you know."

  Fess hesitated, and Rod said quickly, "Anything she says, Fess. Subject to your programmed restraints, of course."

  "Oh, don't worry! I won't tell him to kill anyone."

  "Certainly, Rod." Fess bowed to Muldoon. "It will be a pleasure to serve you, mem-sahib."

  Muldoon actually blushed, but all she said was, "Does he always talk like that? The titles, I mean?"

  "I'm afraid so," Rod sighed. "That's an heirloom, too. I cured him of it when he talks to me, but I forgot to tell him to hold off with other people."

  "Don't bother." Muldoon grinned. "I kinda like it."

  She turned away, heading back toward the workbench. Rod ventured. "You seem to know a bit about robots, sir."

  Muldoon shrugged. "A machine's a machine. If it moves and has
bolts, I can talk to it."

  "Yeah, that's what I was wondering about. A robot's part mechanics, but it's mostly computer."

  "And can I write a program?" Muldoon gave him a condescending smile. "An engineer these days has to know all the parts of a system, swabbie—including each type of subsystem. To be a specialist, you have to be a generalist."

  Rod stood still, looking off into space. "You know, that's a very good way of putting it.''

  Muldoon said, "My first professor in college told us that. It stuck with me all the way through."

  Rod focused on her again. "That's where you learned your engineering, then?"

  Muldoon snorted. "The ideas and facts, or what to do with the wrench and the keyboard?"

  "Both."

  "I learned the book-knowledge in college, swabbie—but I learned how to do the job right here."

  "You've got a bachelor's?"

  "Only the degree."

  "But if you've got those kind of qualifications, what're you doing aboard a little freighter like this?"

  "Don't knock the Murray Rain," Muldoon snapped, "she's a good ship! And we all have to start someplace. I had your job, five years ago. Now I'm chief."

  Which hadn't meant anything, Rod noted, until he had signed on. "But you could have moved on to a bigger ship."

  A strange expression crossed Muldoon's face. "It's good enough here."

  Rod glanced at her eyes, glanced away, and kept silent. For the first time, he began to understand what it meant to be adult, but insecure.

  A chime rang; Muldoon looked up. "Chow time. Excuse me a second." She ducked into a closet and closed the door.

  Rod suppressed a sudden urge to call out to Fess. If he'd been near the robot, he would have had a quick discussion of the day's events—but he couldn't bring himself to do it by yelling. Also, he'd been awake twenty hours now, and was beginning to feel it.

  The door opened, and Muldoon came out wearing an officer's uniform with the same rank insignia as Weiser's. Rod goggled; the jacket was cut loose, but not loosely enough. Neither were the trousers. Also, the net was gone, and her hair floated in a cloud around her face.

  She smiled at his surprise. "Well, thank you. Don't think it's a habit, though—we only dress up for dinner on this ship."