“Sir—?”
“It’s not necessary, Mr. Korie.” He glances up. “Just confine him to quarters for a week and dock his pay for the time off duty.”
“Sir!” Korie is outraged. “Negligence is an offense requiring court-martial. And—it would demonstrate to the crew that we mean business.”
“I’m familiar with the regulations,” Brandt sighs. He wipes at his nose. “But in this case, we might find it very difficult to prove.”
Korie allows himself the luxury of an oath—a single sharp syllable.
The captain raises a shaggy eyebrow. “Mr. Korie!” he says in mock horror. “Such language from an officer and gentleman?”
Korie ignores the jibe. “It’s pretty obvious, sir, that Wolfe was negligent in not showing Rogers the complete setup on the G-control board.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Of course—”
“If I were Wolfe’s counsel,” the captain puts in, “I’d plead that it was Wolfe’s every intention to complete Rogers’ training at a more opportune time in the immediate future.”
“That’s an awfully thin thread to hang a case on.”
“Strong enough,” Brandt counters. “After all, he doesn’t have to prove it. But we—as prosecutors—would have to disprove it.
“Besides, Mr. Korie—and you’d better learn this now if you ever hope to have a ship of your own—convening a court is a headache. And the resultant upheaval in morale is an even bigger one.” He cuts off the other’s objection with a brief gesture and adds thoughtfully, once more staring into the table top, “So, rather than reach for a possibly untenable position, this gives us instead an opportunity to show that we are both just and merciful. The man saves face and we save ourselves one competent crewman.”
“Competent?” Korie snorts.
“Relatively speaking,” Brandt concedes. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how bad the replacement situation is. We’re at war. Everything has to be stretched a little, even regulations.”
“Yes, but—”
“Ah, there’s always the ‘yes, but—’ isn’t there, Mr. Korie?” A hint of a smile starts to flicker across the captain’s face, but it dies before it has a chance to be realized. “Give him a chance, give him a chance. If he’s smart enough to take it, we all benefit. And if not—if he turns out to be as big a wobblehead as you seem to feel . . . well, then we’ll only be giving him enough rope to hang himself.”
“Then, if we do have to court-martial him,” says Korie, “we’ll have two incidents instead of one. . . .”
“I hope not,” says Brandt. “Let’s wait and see. . . .” Abruptly he looks up, seems to notice Korie again. “You’d do better to concentrate on your—uh, master plan—to have the ship ready for battle. After all, that bogie is our main concern.”
Korie straightens. “Yes, sir, but this would be a useful part of the psychonomic gestalt.”
Brandt waves away the objection. He changes the subject. Psychonomy discomfits him. He is a captain of the old school. “Those battle drills you were running—how long has it been since you’ve held one?”
“Too long.”
“Hmmm,” Brandt says. “All right, I suppose you might begin a new series of them.” He sighs. “I suppose this is as good a time as any—in fact, I can’t think of a more appropriate one. Go ahead, Mr. Korie. Amuse yourself.”
“Yes, sir. Any suggestions on what kind or how many?”
Brandt shakes his head. “No. Use your own discretion. I trust you.”
“Yes, sir.” He turns to go.
“Oh, and Korie—”
“Sir?”
“Remember what I told you before about overdoing it. Don’t push them too hard.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, you can go.”
For a long time, Korie stands in the corridor outside the captain’s cabin, exploring a crevice in his mouth with his tongue, and the possible course of action as well.
There is nothing he can do about Wolfe at the moment. However, there will undoubtedly be opportunities in the future to take care of the matter. (Wolfe is too big a fool to disappoint me. All I have to do is wait.) It’s only a matter of time—
Abruptly, he makes a decision. He turns on his heel and heads aft. Through the galley, bright, deserted, smelling of cleanser and coffee. Through the lounge, not as bright, its plastic furniture folded into the walls, leaving only an empty, carpeted room. Through the auxiliary control decks, dark and silent.
He comes to a ladder suspended in a no-gravity tube and downs it hand over hand. He’d rather go through the torpedo storage decks than the crew’s quarters. Dull plastoid casings line the walls, cylinders secure in narrow racks. His steps are loud on the plastic deck.
The engine room is large and filled with the stasis engines. Korie finds himself on a sudden catwalk halfway up one wall. Nylon webs are stung throughout the room and across the generators; the webs are for easy access to the machines, but nobody is on them now. The stasis generators are six cone-shaped monsters set in a spherical framework; each cone points inward to the center and to another cone pointing back at it from the opposite side. Each pair of cones is mounted at right angles to the others. The north and south poles of the framework and every ninety degrees of its equator are marked by generator mountings. Great cables are strung from them.
This first spherical framework is itself set within a second. It is mounted on gimbals and can rotate into any desired position in relation to the rest of the ship. The direction of the warp field is independent of the direction of the rest of the ship. The whole unit nearly fills the engine room.
Korie glances back and forth. There are men on the other side of the room, but he can’t see them past the blue haze of the generators, nor hear them over the hum. He lowers himself down another ladder, finds a bored-looking technician at a monitor console. “Where’s Leen?” he demands.
“Gymnasium,” grunts the other. “He’s filling it.”
Korie continues his journey aft. He gives wide berth to the stasis frames and leaves the engine room through the rear.
Now he is in “goblin country,” the dark, dirty aft part of the ship. There is another section of crew’s quarters here, but it is on the next deck up; he will not have to pass through it. This deck contains the access and maintenance equipment for the two life-shuttles on the deck below. There is also a well-equipped machine shop, complete with templates and synthesizers for hyperstate units.
Past it is a narrow chamber which functions as an observatory; but its sensory equipment has been locked away in its mountings. The chamber has a dual function—now it is being converted into the vestibule for the gymnasium.
Korie pulls himself into the cramped room, but only halfway; almost immediately he backs out to give the three men working inside more room. It is doubtful that they have even noticed him. Only Leen grunts, and that is a less than cordial acknowledgment of his existence. The chief turns his attention back to the job at hand.
The “gymnasium” is a balloon-like chamber. When deflated, it takes up no more than a few cubic feet; when inflated at the stern of the ship, it becomes a large, almost spherical, free-fall environment. Its storage closet becomes an alcove leading into it, but access to that is still through the observatory.
Air is slowly being pumped into the plastic bubble; one of the men is watching carefully for any sudden pressure drops. The gymnasium is supposed to be untearable, but there have been exceptions. An exterior webbing holds the mylar balloon firm. It is released slowly, only a bit at a time, preventing a too sudden filling. The alcove to the gym will not be opened to the ship until the last pressure check is made, but their concern is about possibly ripping or weakening the balloon by over-hastiness.
“Boy, I’ll be glad when we get this mother up.”
“Me too. One more watch on battle alert and I would have been ready for the rubber room. Watch it. It’s pulling too hard on the bottom.”
&n
bsp; “I got it.
Slowly, majestically, the chamber puffs out, becomes a sphere. They can see into it through the glass door of the alcove. On the monitor board, all the lights stay green. All the dials remain at full. “It’s at one-fourth pressure,” says the man. “No leaks.”
“No leaks yet,” corrects Leen. “Watch it for five minutes. If the pressure holds, bring it up to full, then drop a dozen Ping-Pong balls into it. If they don’t cluster together within a half hour, you can open up for the crew. He turns to the door, “And what brings you down here, Mr. Korie?”
Korie steps inside, startling the two crewmen; they hadn’t realized the first officer was watching. “Business,” he says. “The captain wants me to set up another series of drills.”
Leen’s eyes are wary. “What kind of drills?”
“Battle alerts. Things like that.”
The chief engineer nods slowly. “I’ll set up the boards for you. Who’re you going to be working on?”
Korie pauses for effect, he studies the other, “I was thinking that the engine room has been a little too loose lately.”
Leen is a short man with a fatherly manner, but under the eyes of the first officer he begins to tighten up. He purses his lips, almost bites them. “Mr. Korie, my men have been doing the best they can—”
“It hasn’t been good enough.”
“I’ll talk to them.”
“We’ll drill them. I’ll tell you when they’re doing their best.”
“Yes, sir.” Leen’s words are clipped.
“I’d like to begin at—” Korie looks at his watch. “—six hundred hours.”
“Sir—”
“Yes?”
“That’s too soon. The men won’t be ready—”
“But I will. The enemy doesn’t schedule appointments, Chief. Neither do I. That’s plenty of time.” He turns to go. “They’ll be ready.” Then he ducks out through the door.
As he strides away from the observatory, a voice says, “That bastard! I’d like to—”
And another voice answers, “Who wouldn’t?”
Korie scowls; he is tempted to go back and discipline the men, but he forces himself to continue on instead. Let the damn fools work it out now. After the drill, we’ll see if they need discipline.
He retraces his steps forward, taking a side corridor instead of passing through the engine room. This time, the auxiliary control decks are lit as he passes through them. Two technicians are warming up the consoles.
In the lounge, some of the furniture has been unfolded, but there is a tenseness about the few men there. They stiffen momentarily as he strides through, but he ignores them.
The galley is the busiest. “Hey, Cookie, hurry up, huh?” A line of men waits impatiently to be served. None of them look happy, even though this is their first real break in days. Korie glances at his watch; this is a new shift coming up; these men will be the first to drill. Probably they already know about it. In just the time it has taken him to come forward, Leen could have alerted the entire crew.
He follows three of the men forward to the bridge; they will be relieving three of their shipmates. He steps through after them and down into the pit. He taps the officer there out of the Command and Control Seat and settles himself into it. (I’ll only watch for a little while.)
On the horseshoe, Goldberg, Rogers, and one other man have just been relieved. Rogers has a stoop-shouldered gait and a downcast expression. As he walks, he watches the heels of the man in front of him. Just before exiting, he looks back at Korie—and is surprised to find the first officer studying him intently. Flustered, he hurries off the bridge. “Why does he look at me like that?”
“Huh?” asks Goldberg in front of him.
“Nothing,” says Rogers, following. He leaves the other two at the galley and keeps heading aft, toward his bunk.
This particular section of quarters is a narrow room with bunks cramped up against each wall in layers of three. There are four stacks of three bunks each, twelve in all; they are hard plastic frameworks strung with wide nylon webbing.
At the end of the room is a double bank of lockers and a lavatory. There is also a sonovac; the only real shower on the ship is forward—for easier access by the captain.
Only two other men are in the room; both are asleep. Except for the lavatory, the crew’s quarters are kept in perpetual semi-darkness. Night and day have no meaning on a spaceship; they are only arbitrary designations of time and are discarded on all but passenger vessels. A cruiser operates on a twenty-four-hour clock, and it is up to the individual to schedule his eating and sleeping around his watch periods.
The room is hot and has a stale, sweaty smell. Taking care not to disturb the others, Rogers starts peeling off his clothes. His tunic is still clean and he hangs it carefully in his locker. His shorts he tosses into the laundry chute; his sock-skins go into the locker. Wearing only briefs, he closes the plastic door of the locker and pads back to the bunks. He starts to pull himself into one of the narrow webbed frames, then remembers something. He pads back to the locker, opens it, reaches in, and fumbles in his tunic pocket. He pulls out a tiny bottle of capsules, pops one into his mouth, and swallows it dry. As he returns the pills to his tunic pocket, something clatters to the floor. A silver stylus. Wolfe’s.
He looks at it for a long moment, then picks it up. He starts to lay it on a shelf in the locker, then changes his mind. He pulls out a pair of shorts and a loose-fitting T-shirt and starts getting dressed again.
SIX
Nothing exceeds like excess.
—SOLOMON SHORT
Wolfe stares at the bottom of the bunk above him. The webbing is only a few inches away from his face. It is so close he has trouble focusing on it clearly. He is wearing only shorts. His tunic and sock-skins lie in a crumpled heap at the bottom of his locker.
“Wolfe?” a voice asks, breaking into his thoughts.
“Huh?” Startled, Wolfe turns sideways—a bit too fast, he bumps his shoulder on the hard frame above. “What do you want?” Then he sees who it is. Rogers. “Shit!” What the hell—” He pushes at the webbed framework of the bunk above him, folds it flat against the wall, then sits up on his own bed to face the other.
“Uh, I came to apologize,” says Rogers. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Screw if you didn’t mean to!” Mimicking the other’s high-pitched voice, he echoes, “‘Uh, sir—Wolfe—I mean Crewman Wolfe was supposed to show me this board.’” In his own voice now, “You couldn’t have torpedoed me worse if you had tried.”
“It was an accident. It just slipped out that way. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, that’s right. You couldn’t be smart enough to do it on purpose. Well, what do you want from me now? You want to make sure I’m staying in my quarters?”
“No. I—I—you left this on the bridge.” He fumbles in the pocket of his shorts, produces the silver stylus.
Wolfe looks at it, looks at Rogers incredulously. “You came down here just to return that! Shit! You’ve got to be the stupidest dumb wobblehead—”
Rogers stiffens somewhat. “If I’m so stupid, how come you’re the one confined to quarters?” He is still holding the pen.
Wolfe reacts as if playing to an unseen audience. He is breathing heavily and he looks around to see if anyone else has heard Rogers’ last incredible statement—he wants to share his astonishment. There are several other men in the bunkroom, but they are trying to appear nonchalant. Wolfe looks to Rogers again. “I’m confined because of your stupidity, you dumb shit!” he explodes. “Don’t you know enough to cover for a fellow crewman?”
“I’ve never had a ‘fellow crewman!’ I’ve been on this ship four months and I’m still waiting for someone to say something to me besides ‘you dumb shit!’”
“Well, you are a dumb shit! Face it, Rogers! You were born a dumb shit and you’re going to die a dumb shit!”
Rogers’ face is red, his body
trembling. “At least, I’m not confined to quarters—!!”
“Aw, go to hell. Get out of here, will you? I don’t want to look at you anymore.” Wolfe lays back down on his bunk.
“No!” says Rogers in his loudest voice yet. “I came down here to tell you something and I’m not leaving until I say it. Nobody on this ship ever speaks to me or listens to me or anything—well, dammit, I’m tired of being treated like an idiot child! I have feelings too—”
“Will you get out of here—you’re boring me.”
“Not until I finish!”
Wolfe puts his hands over his ears. “Okay, you can talk all you want, but I don’t have to listen.” He fixes his gaze on the ceiling.
Rogers starts screaming at him. “If you want to be able to depend on me, you’ve got to start treating me like someone you can depend on! You’ve got to start being nice to me!”
Wolfe just smiles at the younger man. Smugly.
“I didn’t get you in trouble. You did it yourself! You can’t blame me! Wolfe! Are you listening, Wolfe? It’s your own fault you’re down here—but if you want me to help you, you’ve got to start being nice to me! Wolfe!”
Wolfe continues to smile, continues to pretend he can’t hear him; his face is a leering grin. Rogers lunges at him, trying to pull Wolfe’s hands away from his ears. “You listen to me, now! Just once, you’re going to listen to what I have to say!”
Wolfe’s silence is shattered—“Get off of me, you little shit head!”—he pushes the other back away from him. Rogers comes right back, flailing wildly. Again Wolfe pushes him away, then rolls off his bunk to face him squarely.
Rogers stops, looks at him. “Wolfe, listen—”
But Wolfe is angry and out of control—he steps into the other, sinking his fist into Rogers’ soft belly. As the younger man doubles over, Wolfe kicks upward with his knee, at the same time pushing Rogers’ face into his rising leg. Rogers staggers back, Wolfe punches hard at his head, slamming him suddenly against the opposite row of bunks. Rogers hangs on the plastic frames for a second, then slips to the floor, all the while making gasping sounds in his throat. He clutches his stomach in agony; his face is spattered with blood, and he curls into a writhing fetal position.
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