He admired the exact lettering on the pages of the book he held. They certainly had excellent clerks in those ancient times — not the sloppy draftsmen he was forced to put up with, who could hardly print two letters alike.
He made a mental note to study these two indispensable handbooks of the engineering department before turning them over to Ertz’s successor. It would be well, he thought, not to be too dependent on the statements of the Chief Engineer when he himself succeeded to the captaincy. Narby had no particular respect for engineers, largely because he had no particular talent for engineering. When he had first reached scientisthood and had been charged to defend the spiritual and material welfare of the Crew, had sworn to uphold the Teachings of Jordan, he soon discovered that administration and personnel management were more in his lines than tending the converter or servicing the power lines. He had served as clerk, village administrator, recorder to the Council, personnel officer, and was now chief executive for Jordan’s Captain himself — ever since an unfortunate and rather mysterious accident had shortened the life of Narby’s predecessor in that post.
His decision to study up on engineering before a new Chief Engineer was selected brought to mind the problem of choosing a new chief. Normally the Senior Watch Officer for the Converter would become Chief Engineer when a chief made the Trip, but in this case, Mort Tyler, the Senior Watch, had made the Trip at the same time — his body had been found, stiff and cold, after the mutie raid which had rescued that heretic, Hugh Hoyland. That left the choice wide open and Narby was a bit undecided as to whom he should suggest to the Captain.
One thing was certain — the new chief must not be a man with as much aggressive initiative as Ertz. Narby admitted that Ertz had done a good job in organizing the Crew for the proposed extermination of the muties, but his very efficiency had made him too strong a candidate for succession to the captaincy — if and when. Had he thought about it overtly Narby might have admitted to himself that the present Captain’s life span had extended unduly because Narby was not absolutely certain that Ertz would not be selected.
What he did think was that this might be a good time for the old Captain to surrender his spirit to Jordan. The fat old fool had long outlived his usefulness; Narby was tired of having to wheedle him into giving the proper orders. If the Council were faced with the necessity of selecting a new Captain at this time, there was but one candidate available —
Narby put the book down, his mind made up.
The simple decision to eliminate the old Captain carried with it in Narby’s mind no feeling of shame, nor sin, nor disloyalty. He felt contempt but not dislike for the Captain, and no mean spirit colored his decision to kill him. Narby’s plans were made on the noble level of statesmanship. He honestly believed that his objective was the welfare of the entire Crew — common-sense administration, order and discipline, good eating for everyone. He selected himself because it was obvious to him that he was best fitted to accomplish those worthy ends. That some must make the Trip in order that these larger interests be served he did not find even mildly regrettable, but he bore them no malice.
“What in the Huff are you doing at my desk?"
Narby looked up to see the late Bill Ertz standing over him, not looking pleased. He looked again, then as an afterthought closed his mouth. He had been so certain, when Ertz failed to reappear after the raid, that he had made the Trip and was in all probability butchered and eaten — so certain that it was now a sharp wrench to his mind to see Ertz standing before him, aggressively alive. But he pulled himself together.
“Bill! Jordan bless you, man — we thought you had made the Trip! Sit down, sit down, and tell me what happened to you."
“I will if you will get out of my chair," Ertz answered bitingly.
“Oh — sorry!" Narby hastily vacated the chair at Ertz’s desk and found another.
“And now," Ertz continued, taking the seat Narby had left, “you might explain why you were going through my writings."
Narby managed to look hurt. “Isn’t that obvious? We assumed you were dead. Someone had to take over and attend to your department until a new chief was designated. I was acting on behalf of the Captain."
Ertz looked him in the eyes. “Don’t give me that guff, Narby. You know and I know who puts words in the Captain’s mouth — we’ve planned it often enough. Even if you did think I was dead, it seems to me you could wait longer than the time between two sleeps to pry through my desk."
“Now really, old man — when a person is missing after a mutie raid, it’s a common-sense assumption that he has made the Trip."
“O.K., O.K., skip it. Why didn’t Mort Tyler take over in the meantime?"
“He’s in the Converter."
“Killed, eh? But who ordered him put in the Converter? That much mass will make a terrific peak in the load."
“I did, in place of Hugh Hoyland. Their masses were nearly the same, and your requisition for the mass of Hugh Hoyland was unfilled."
“Nearly the same isn’t good enough in handling the Converter. I’ll have to check on it." He started to rise.
“Don’t get excited," said Narby. “I’m not an utter fool in engineering, you know. I ordered his mass to be trimmed according to the same schedule you had laid out for Hoyland."
“Well — all right. That will do for now. But I will have to check it. We can’t afford to waste mass."
“Speaking of waste mass," Narby said sweetly, “I found a couple of Unnecessary books in your desk."
“Well?"
“They are classed as mass available for power, you know."
“So? And who is the custodian of mass allocated for power?"
“You are certainly. But what were they doing in your desk?"
“Let me point out to you, my dear Captain’s Best Boy, that it lies entirely within my discretion where I choose to store mass available for power."
“Hm-m-m — I suppose you are right. By the way, if you don’t need them for the power schedule at once, would you mind letting me read them?"
“Not at all, if you want to be reasonable about it. I’ll check them out to you — have to do that; they’ve already been centrifuged. Just be discreet about it."
“Thanks. Some of those ancients had vivid imaginations. Utterly crazy, of course, but amusing for relaxation."
Ertz got out the two volumes and prepared a receipt for Narby to sign. He did this absentmindedly, being preoccupied with the problem of how and when to tackle Narby. Phineas Narby he knew to be a key man in the task he and his blood brothers had undertaken — perhaps the key man. If he could be won over —
“Fine," he said, when Narby had signed, “I wonder if we followed the wisest policy in Hoyland’s case." Narby looked surprised, but said nothing.
“Oh, I don’t mean that I put any stock in his story," Ertz added hastily, “but I feel that we missed an opportunity. We should have kidded him along. He was a contact with the muties. The worst handicap we work under in trying to bring mutie country under the rule of the Council is the fact that we know very little about theni. We don’t know how many of them there are, nor how strong they are, or how well organized. Besides that, we will have to carry the fight to them and that’s a big disadvantage. We don’t really know our way around the upper decks. If we had played along with him and pretended to believe his story, we might have learned a lot of things."
“But we couldn’t rely on what he told us," Narby pointed out
“We didn’t need to. He offered us an opportunity to go all the way to no-weight, and look around."
Narby looked astounded. “You surely aren’t serious? A member of the Crew that trusted the muties’ promise not to harm him wouldn’t get up to no-weight; he’d make the Trip — fast!"
“I’m not so certain about that," Ertz objected. “Hoyland believed his own story — I’m sure of that. And —"
“What! All that utter nonsense about the Ship being capable of moving. The solid Ship." He pounded the
bulkhead. “No one could believe that."
“But I tell you he did. He’s a religious fanatic, granted. But he saw something up there, and that was how he interpreted it. We could have gone up to see whatever it was he was raving about and used the chance to scout out the muties."
“Utterly foolhardy!"
“I don’t think so. He must have a great deal of influence among the muties; look at the trouble they went to just to rescue him. If he says he can give us safe passage up to no-weight, I think he can."
“Why this sudden change of opinion?"
“It was the raid that changed my mind. If anyone had told me that a gang of muties would come clear down to high-weight and risk their necks to save the life of one man I would not have believed him. But it happened. I’m forced to revise my opinions. Quite aside from his story, it’s evident that the muties will fight for him and probably take orders from him. If that is true, it would be worth while to pander to his religious convictions if it would enable us to gain control over the muties without having to fight for it."
Narby shrugged it off. “Theoretically you may have something there. But why waste time over might-have-beens? If there was such an opportunity, we missed it."
“Maybe not. Hoyland is still alive and back with the muties. If I could figure out some way of getting a message to him, we might still be able to arrange it."
“But how could you?"
“I don’t know exactly. I might take a couple of the boys and do some climbing. If we could capture a mutie without killing him, it might work out."
“A slim chance."
“I’m willing to risk it"
Narby turned the matter over in his mind. The whole plan seemed to him to be filled with long chances and foolish assumptions. Nevertheless if Ertz were willing to take the risk and it did work, Narby’s dearest ambition would be much nearer realization. Subduing the unities by force would be a long and bloody job, perhaps an impossible job. He was clearly aware of its difficulty.
If it did not work, nothing was lost — but Ertz. Now that he thought it over, Ertz would be no loss at this point in the game. Hm-m-m.
“Go ahead," he said. “You are a brave man, but its a worthwhile venture."
“O.K.," Ertz agreed. “Good eating."
Narby took the hint. “Good eating," he answered, gathered up the books, and left. It did not occur to him until later that Ertz had not told him where he had been for so long.
And Ertz was aware that Narby had not been entirely frank with him, but, knowing Narby, he was not surprised. He was pleased enough that his extemporaneous groundwork for future action had been so well received. It never did occur to him that it might have been simpler and more effective to tell the truth.
Ertz busied himseif for a short time in making a routine inspection of the Converter and appointed an acting Senior Watch Officer. Satisfied that his department could then take care of itself during a further absence, he sent for his chief porter and told the servant to fetch Alan Mahoney from his village. He had considered ordering his litter and meeting Mahoney halfway, but he decided against it as being too conspicuous.
Alan greeted him with enthusiasm. To him, still an unmarried cadet and working for more provident men when his contemporaries were all heads of families and solid men of property, the knowledge that he was blood brother to a senior scientist was quite the most important thing that had ever happened to him, even overshadowing his recent adventures, the meaning of which he was hardly qualified to understand anyway.
Ertz cut him short, and hastily closed the door to the outer engineering office. “Walls have ears," he said quietly, “and certainly clerks have ears, and tongues as well. Do you want us both to make the Trip?"
“Aw, gosh, Bill … I didn’t mean to —"
“Never mind. I’ll meet you on the same stair trunk we came down by, ten decks above this one. Can you count?"
“Sure, I can count that much. I can count twice that much. One and one makes two, and one more makes three, and one more makes four, and one makes five, and —"
“That’s enough. I see you can. But I’m relying more on your loyalty and your knife than I am on your mathematical ability. Meet me there as soon as you can. Go up somewhere where you won’t be noticed."
Forty-one was still on watch when they reached the rendezvous. Ertz called him by name while standing out of range of slingshot or thrown knife, a reasonable precaution in dealing with a creature who had grown to man size by being fast with his weapons. Once identification had been established, he directed the guard to find Hugh Hoyland. He and Alan sat down to wait.
Forty-one failed to find Hugh Hoyland at Joe-Jim’s apartment. Nor was Joe-Jim there. He did find Bobo, but the pinhead was not very helpful. Hugh, Bobo told him, had gone up where-everybody-flies. That meant very little to Forty-one; he had been up to no-weight only once in his life. Since the level of weightlessness extended the entire length of the Ship, being in fact the last concentric cylinder around the Ship’s axis — not that Forty-one could conceive it in those terms — the information that Hugh. had headed for no-weight was not helpful.
Forty-one was puzzled. An order from Joe-Jim was not to be ignored and he had got it through his not overbright mind that an order from Ertz carried the same weight. He woke Bobo up again. “Where is the Two Wise Heads?"
“Gone to see knifemaker." Bobo closed his eyes again.
That was better. Forty-one knew where the knifemaker lived. Every mutie had dealings with her; she was the indispensable artisan and tradesman of mutie country. Her person was necessarily taboo; her workshop and the adjacent neighborhood were neutral territory for all. He scurried up two decks and hurried thence.
A door reading THERMODYNAMIC LABORATORY — KEEP OUT was standing open. Forty-one could not read; neither the name nor the injunction mattered to him. But he could hear voices, one of which be identified as coming from the twins, the other from the knifemaker. He walked in. “Boss —" be began.
“Shut up," said Joe. Jim did not look around but continued his argument with the Mother of Blades. “You’ll make knives," he said, “and none of your lip."
She faced him, her four calloused hands set firmly on her broad hips. Her eyes were reddened from staring into the furnace in which she heated her metal; sweat ran down her wrinkled face into the sparse gray mustache which disfigured her upper lip, and dripped onto her bare chest. “Sure I make knives," she snapped. “Honest knives. Not pig-stickers like you want me to make. Knives as long as your arm — ptui!" She spat at the cherry-red lip of the furnace.
“Listen, you old Crew bait," Jim replied evenly, “you’ll make knives the way I tell you to, or I’ll toast your feet in your own furnace. Hear me?"
Forty-one was struck speechless. No one ever talked back to the Mother of Blades; the Boss was certainly a man of power!
The knifemaker suddenly cracked. “But that’s not the right way to make knives," she complained shrilly. “They wouldn’t balance right. I’ll show you." She snatched up two braces of knives from her workbench and let fly at a cross-shaped target across the room — not in succession, but all four arms swinging together, all four blades in the air at once. They spunged into the target, a blade at the extreme end of each arm of the cross. “See? You couldn’t do that with a long knife. It would fight with itself and not go straight."
“Boss —" Forty-one tried again. Joe-Jim handed him a mouthful of knuckles without looking around.
“I see your point," Jim told the knifemaker, “but we don’t want these knives for throwing. We want them for cutting and stabbing up close. Get on with it — I want to see the first one before you eat again."
The old woman bit her lip. “Do I get my usuals?" she said sharply.
“Certainly you get your usuals," he assured her. “A tithe on every kill till the blades are paid for — and good eating all the time you work."
She shrugged her misshapen shoulders. “O.K." She turned, tonged up a long flat fragme
nt of steel with her two left hands and clanged the stock into the furnace. Joe-Jim turned to Forty-one.
“What is it?" Joe asked.
“Boss, Ertz sent me to get Hugh."
“Well, why didn’t you do it?"
“I don’t find him. Bobo says he’s gone up to no-weight."
“Well, go get him. No, that won’t do — you wouldn’t know where to find him. I’ll have to do it myself. Go back to Ertz and tell him to wait."
Forty-one hurried off. The Boss was all right, but it was not good to tarry in his presence.
“Now you’ve got us running errands," Jim commented sourly. “How do you like being a blood brother, Joe?"
“You got us into this."
“So? The blood-swearing was your idea."
“Damn it, you know why I did that. They took it seriously. And we are going to need all the help we can get, if we are to get out of this with a skin that will hold water."
“Oh? So you didn’t take it seriously?"
“Did you?"
Jim smiled cynically. “Just about as seriously as you do, my dear, deceitful brother. As matters stand now, it is much, much healthier for you and me to keep to the bargain right up to the hilt. 'All for one and one for all!’"
“You’ve been reading Dumas again."
“And why not?"
“That’s O.K. But don’t be a damn fool about it."
“I won’t be. I know which side of the blade is edged."
Joe-Jim found Squatty and Pig sleeping outside the door which led to the Control Room. He knew then that Hugh must be inside, for he had assigned the two as personal bodyguards to Hugh. It was a foregone conclusion anyhow; if Hugh had gone up to no-weight, he would be heading either for Main Drive, or the Control Room, more probably the Control Room. The place held a tremendous fascination for Hugh. Ever since the earlier time when Joe-Jim had almost literally dragged him into the Control Room and had forced him to see with his own eyes that the Ship was not the whole world but simply a vessel adrift in a much larger world — a vessel that could be driven and moved — ever since that time and throughout the period that followed while he was still a captured slave of Joe-Jim’s, he had been obsessed with the idea of moving the Ship, of sitting at the controls and making it go!
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