The Warlock's Companion wisoh-9

by Christopher Stasheff

  Rod glanced down at his own clothes, and his greasy hands.

  "Don't worry, you're excepted until you're issued your uniform. You can wash up on the way." Muldoon set her cap on and tucked the strap under her chin. "Come on, meet your mates."

  "Mates" had an unpleasant sound, suddenly. "Doesn't somebody have to stand watch?"

  "The computer will, bucko. You wouldn't know what to look for yet, anyway." She turned away, and Rod couldn't help but follow—in uniform, her glide was even more a magnet.

  As he passed Fess, the robot murmured, "Remember, Rod—swabbies should be seen, and not heard."

  "Oh, don't worry, I won't make you ashamed of me," Rod grumbled. Just the same, he found himself making a mental note not to talk.

  Apparently, he was the only one who didn't. Now he knew why they called it a "mess." He did think of adding his two cents' worth now and then, but every time he opened his mouth, Weiser caught his eye and, for some reason, Rod found himself shutting up.

  They were gathered around the table. Rod started to sit, but a tall man with captain's bars cleared his throat, and Rod realized that the others were still standing. He pulled himself back up, surprised that he wasn't going to have to act proletarian to fit in, then remembered to salute. The captain returned it, then looked around at the others. "I hope you're all making our new crewman feel welcome." It was a remark certain to make Rod uncomfortable.

  "Oh, yes, Captain! I've given him the full tour of the engine room, and checked his background." Muldoon was standing straight, shoulders back, eyes bright (maybe a little feverish), smiling. She seemed more reticent, somehow; the brassy lady projected shyness.

  "Good, good. Well, let's see he meets everyone else, then. I'm Captain Donough." He was broad-shouldered, lean, handsome, and well-groomed. "The gentleman on my right is First Officer Jonas Whelk."

  The first officer smiled and returned Rod's salute. He was skinny, balding, and sharp-featured.

  "And I believe you've met Mr. Weiser, our second officer."

  Rod saluted. Weiser returned it, narrow-eyed.

  "Ah, you might ask to be excused, Albie," Donough murmured, and gave him the eye while he ran a finger over his own cheek.

  Weiser's face darkened, but he muttered, "Asking the Captain's pardon."

  "Of course."

  Weiser left.

  Rod wondered what all that had been about—but Donough was going on. "And this is Third Officer Noah McCracken."

  Rod saluted. "A pleasure, sir."

  McCracken returned it. His profile showed what free-fall could do for the figure—he was round as a ball from hip to shoulder, with another globe on top. No sagging; he was a perfect sphere. Rod wondered if he dared leave the ship on anything larger than Luna.

  Weiser rejoined them, looking sullen but clean-shaven. Rod's eyes widened; then he remembered his manners and looked away, just before Weiser gave him a murderous glare.

  "Gentlemen and lady," the captain said, "this is Spaceman Rodney d'Armand."

  Weiser's eye lit with a wicked gleam, hearing Rod's full name. But the young man didn't care; just hearing the title from the captain's lips made his heart sing. He was a spaceman!

  "However, as the junior member," Donough went on, "it falls to you to serve at table. Everyone else, please be seated."

  Rod thought of mentioning something about his job description, then remembered how far it was to the nearest spaceport. Besides, Weiser had caught his eye again. And Muldoon was sitting down. Rod moved to hold her chair, but McCracken beat him to it. Not that it made any real difference—the seats were securely tracked, anyway. The other crewmen slid forward to lock themselves in place, and Donough said, "Stand by the autochef, Mr. d'Armand."

  Rod looked around, identified the food synthesizer, and pushed himself over to it. He found himself really respecting Donough; any man who could keep his crew dressing for dinner, and even making some attempt at good manners, was pretty good. He was also pretty smart—it was a prime ingredient in maintaining morale.

  It sure seemed to work on Muldoon.

  "We'll begin with minestrone—key in I-C, please. And a plain salad, B-V. Dressings?"

  "French," said Whelk.

  "Russian," Weiser answered.

  "Clavian," McCracken stated.

  "None," Muldoon said.

  "And I'll have Roquefort. Now, let's see the day's menu." He picked it up, pretending not to have it memorized. The others followed suit, except McCracken. Donough caught his eye, and the Third picked up the printout with a sigh.

  The 'chef rang; Rod pulled cups out and started setting them in front of people.

  "Thank you, Mr. d'Armand. Be seated, please."

  Rod went to his chair, then stopped. He looked up and found the captain's eye on him, amused. "You might want to punch up one for yourself."

  "Yes, sir!" Rod went back for another minestrone, brought it to his chair, and sat.

  Donough picked up his cup, sipped through the spout, and set it down as he said. "I thought we did rather well at Maxima."

  "Yes, sir," Whelk agreed. "Made a nice profit on the textiles from Terra."

  "And the wines." McCracken smiled. "I never cease to be amazed that people will pay so much for fermented grape juice, when any decent autochef can synthesize it just as well."

  "It's the status," Weiser grunted.

  "And the link to the homeworld." Donough held his cup up, gazing off into space. "I remember when I was midshipman, on the Mars run…"

  Whelk coughed politely into his fist and said, "Standing orders, sir."

  Donough looked up, startled, then smiled with self-deprecation. "Yes, I have told that one a few times before, haven't I? Thank you, Mr. Whelk."

  Muldoon glared daggers at Whelk, who carefully avoided her glance.

  The captain pushed his almost-empty soup cup away, and everyone followed suit. Rod immediately rose and circled the table, clearing the cups, then went to the autochef and started serving again. The salads were just as easy as the soup had been, but he did have to try to remember which dressing went with whom. He didn't have much trouble with Muldoon, strangely.

  Donough speared a tomato through the clinging film and lifted it through the surface tension as he said, "We should do well on Ceres. Not with the components from Maxima, of course."

  "No, sir," Whelk agreed. "Coals to Newcastle, and all that."

  "Very. But the people on Ganymede will pay through the nose for them, and Ceres should be a good market for the second-grade textiles." He looked up at a sudden thought. "We don't have any furs left, do we?"

  "Two, I'm afraid, sir," Whelk answered. "The demand on Maxima wasn't quite what we thought it would be."

  "Mm." Donough went after a cucumber slice. "Well, we certainly won't be able to unload them on Ceres."

  Rod could scarcely believe his ears. All his life, "Ceres" had been synonymous with luxury and decadence—but here these men were saying that nobody on the big rock could afford anything nearly as good as the Maximans could!

  And they couldn't be wrong. This was their living—and they were still alive.

  When the salad dishes were cleared away, Donough said, "I think I'll have the ragout tonight—that's J-O. And I'll have a burgundy with it—A-A."

  Rod pressed the pressure pads with the labels named, and waited. The others ordered, and he entered their dishes, then almost immediately started removing and serving. For a moment, he was tempted to mention that he had a robot who was really very good at this sort of thing, but he noticed Weiser's eye on him and changed his mind.

  Finally they were all served, and Rod could punch in his own order and sit. They dug in, and he had to admit the first two courses had done the trick—he really wasn't all that hungry any more.

  "I'm a bit worried about the political situation on Ganymede," Whelk noted.

  Donough smiled. "We've known they aren't really a democracy for a long time, Number One."

  "Yes, but this new president the
Council has just, um, 'elected'…"

  Weiser shrugged. "A dictator is a dictator. How's that going to affect trade?"

  "Not at all," McCracken said, with finality. "I remember when we stopped at Triton, when I was a lad—little bit of a thing, scarcely two hundred pounds…"

  The others all looked pained, but Donough leaned forward, all polite interest.

  "They'd just elected a new Doge, and he was making loud noises about the 'Terran menace,' and glorifying home culture. But we landed with a load of Paris originals, champagne, Beluga caviar, and Cleveland cheeseburgers, and his agents bought two-thirds of the cargo. Then the locals climbed all over each other bidding for what was left. And all the while, he was spouting about the dangers of thinking anybody could make anything better than the Tritons could." He looked around with a hard smile that slowly slipped as he noticed his mates paying attention to their dinners. "I've told that one before, haven't I?"

  "It was still fascinating," Donough said quickly, "and quite apt to the situation at hand. Now, Mr. d'Armand—if you would serve the sweet?"

  Rod cleared, with a glance at the Second. He was startled; Weiser still looked ravenous. Rod wondered how he could have gone through such big portions and still be hungry.

  Then he saw that the man was looking at Muldoon.

  Alarm and anger flared in him, at the thought of that pig daring to even look at so ethereal a lady—but hard on the heels of it came a surge of sympathy; Rod knew just how the poor guy must feel, having to see the look on her face whenever she glanced at the captain.

  Which made Rod terribly confused. He chucked his load in the recycler and went to punch in desert. Just serve the meal, swabbie—just serve.

  "I push on the lower edge, right?"

  "If the top edge is the outside, and if it operates as the locker does—yes."

  "Okay, we'll try." Rod pushed in on the bottom line of the big rectangle on the wall, and the bed glided smoothly out and down. A stack of sheets and blankets lay in the middle; one end of the mattress bulged into a pillow. "Hmph! Well, here goes self-reliance." Rod picked up a sheet.

  "I beg your pardon," Fess murmured, taking the sheet from him and shaking it out.

  "Fess, no! If my shipmates catch you at it, they'll never let me hear the end of it!"

  Fess paused in mid-shake. "Considering the evidence of Mr. Weiser's attitude…"

  "Right." Rod took the sheet back, handed Fess the rest of the stack, and started tucking. "I cannot believe Muldoon! She is a real beauty, and she doesn't seem to know it!"

  Fess glanced back toward the engines.

  "Oh, I'm not worried about her hearing—she has a cabin, and the door's closed."

  "True—and she is beautiful," Fess admitted. "Still, she has not learned the graces of a true lady."

  "Well, I never learned to be comfortable with 'em." Rod stopped in mid-movement. "Fess, when I saw her today, I felt a surge all through me."

  "I was watching, Rod."

  "And when it passed, I was still kind of light-headed, and the only thing I could think was, 'So this is what it's like to be in love!' "

  "Yes," the robot murmured. "Yes."

  "Did it show?"

  "Only if you knew what to look for."

  "Which she probably does." Rod's mouth tightened with chagrin. "Just as well she knows it, I suppose."

  "A lady is always complimented, Rod."

  "Yeah, I suppose so." Rod stood back, arms akimbo, proudly contemplating his handiwork. "There! I can make my own bed!"

  "You have done well, Rod." Fess omitted saying anything about hospital corners, or smoothness.

  Rod pulled out his duffel bag, took out pajamas, and glanced around him. "If I can be sure that door stays shut…"

  Fess boosted his audio gain, then reported, "She is breathing evenly and deeply, Rod."

  "Asleep." Rod stripped quickly. "It still behooves me to move fast. Why the heck don't they give us at least a privacy curtain?"

  "Possibly, Rod, because the designers assumed the whole crew would be of the same sex."

  "Quaint." Rod yanked the pajamas on, rolled into the bunk, and pulled the blankets up. "Of course, I suppose I should want her to surprise me in the buff."

  "It would perhaps be premature, at this stage of your relationship."

  "I'll take your word for it. I have to—I don't quite know how to act."

  "Yes. You have never had such vivid feelings toward another person, have you?"

  "But… Why?" Rod breathed. "When all my life, I've been surrounded by delicate ladies of high breeding, with all the graces and all the advantages—why!"

  "Perhaps because Muldoon is of above-average intelligence.''

  "Well—maybe. But I don't remember anybody back home who had such a lovely face, either. Except Lucretia, and she's so neurotic it's a wonder she doesn't fall apart."

  "I must say I'm delighted by your perception, Rod. Many men would fail to see Muldoon's beauty unless she used cosmetics in such a way as to make it overly obvious."

  Rod's eyes flew open, staring into the darkness. He lay back, speculations running through his mind.

  After an interval of silence, Fess murmured, "Good night, Rod."

  "Hm? Oh. Yeah. Good night, Fess."

  The ship shuddered, and Rod said, "Can I get up now?"

  "Not yet," Muldoon called back.

  "Shouldn't I have an acceleration couch?

  "That's what your bunk is. So's mine. Everything has to do double duty, on a freighter."

  So that was why she was staying in her room.

  "Docking completed," Donough's voice said over the intercom. "Twenty-four-hour liberty commences now! Have fun in Ceres City, crew!"

  They heard a cheer in the background, before the captain let the mike close.

  Rod released his webbing and was sitting up before it had finished snapping back. He hopped down, pushed his bed up and into the wall, and headed for the passageway. Then he stopped, realizing that his footsteps didn't have an echo. He turned around and saw Muldoon with computerboard in hand, checking the bank of meters on the wall. "Aren't you coming?"

  Muldoon shook her head. "Always something to do, here."

  "But it doesn't have to be done, does it?"

  "Have to or not, I'm doing it."

  "But why?" Rod frowned, coming toward her. "You can't…"

  And Muldoon burst into tears.

  Rod froze, staring.

  "Out!" Muldoon snapped. "Let me take care of my engines in peace! Now, get out!''' Rod got.

  "But why didn't she want company?" Rod muttered.

  "There are nuances in human relationships that are indecipherable without knowing the complex of ties involved," Fess answered, sotto voce.

  "Which means we don't know enough to guess."

  "A sufficiently accurate interpretation. And, if you'll pardon the comment, Rod…"

  "It's none of my damn business." Rod lay back, waiting for the acceleration to pass. "But Fess, I love her."

  "That does not give you the right to meddle in her affairs."

  "I suppose," Rod sighed.

  "But Rod, you have been worrying this problem for twenty-six hours now—and I am certain you scarcely noticed the sights of Ceres City."

  Rod shrugged. "Ceres, I've seen before. Muldoon, I haven't."

  The acceleration eased off, and the intercom announced, "Departure completed. We have set course for Ganymede. Duty stations."

  Rod sat up, stood, and turned to push his bunk back into the wall. "Well, let's hope she's—"

  A sudden raucous hooting echoed through the ship. Rod froze, recognizing the "loss of atmosphere" signal. "We're holed!"

  If Fess said anything, it was to empty air. Maximan reflexes had taken over, and Rod was on his way to the emergency toolkit.

  He yanked it up—it took quite a pull; the bottom was magnetized—and glanced up at the screen above it. An outline of the ship glowed there, with a red dot blinking in the forward hold. He tu
rned toward the doorway, swinging the toolbox up as he sprang. Behind him, he heard Muldoon calling, but for once, it didn't seem important.

  He shot down the passageway, ricocheted off the sides of the dog-leg, and hurtled past the entry hatch. Behind him, way behind, somebody was yelling, "Out of the way, swabbie!" But that didn't matter. He braced himself, wrenched at the grip on the hatch, and leaped into the forward hold, hitting the lights as he came.

  It felt as though his face was trying to swell. He saw the puncture, an ugly, ragged hole with sharp edges pointing toward him, a good centimeter in diameter. He dove toward it, ripping the emergency box open and yanking out a temporary patch, then swinging the box down against the hull. The magnetic bottom clanked, hard, and Rod held onto it as he swung his feet up, went into a crouch by the hole, and slapped the patch on. He pushed against the box as he smoothed the edges, then swung his legs back to grasp the sides of the toolbox as he pulled an insulated glove on, then took out a steel patch and the spotwelder. Feet pounded up behind him, and Weiser's voice yelled, "What the hell do ya think y're doing? Out of the way, ya spoiled brat, before I push you through that hole!"

  Rod gritted his teeth and ignored the man. He stuck the positive contact onto the wall, then held the steel patch over the temp. He pounded its center flat with the hammer end of the welder, then tilted the tip to the edge and pressed the button. Lightning spat from it, and the alloy edge of the patch flowed.

  He traced the rectangle around the edges of the patch, then sat back on his heels and heaved a sigh. Now he could let the shakes hit.

  And look up at Weiser.

  He braced himself; he knew he had disobeyed a direct order.

  But the Second was studying the patch, and, slowly, nodding.

  Rod felt limpness hovering. "I'm sorry, sir. I…"

  "Did what you should." Weiser still nodded. "Good job of welding, too. I should say, 'Sorry'; I didn't see you'd already put the temp patch on." He turned around to scowl down at Muldoon, who was coming up, panting. "Y' taught him fast."

  Muldoon shook her head. "Not that, I didn't."

  Weiser turned back to Rod. "Where'd ya learn, rich boy?"