Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Hugh stepped in closer to him from the other side. “You don’t seem to understand. You’re going now.”

  Narby glanced the other way at Ertz. Ertz nodded. “That’s how it is, Narby.”

  Narby cursed himself silently. Great Jordan! What in the Ship was he thinking of to let himself get into such a position? He had a distinct feeling that the two-headed man would rather that he showed fight. Impossible, preposterous situation. He cursed again to himself, but gave way as gracefully as he could.

  “Oh, well! Rather than cause an argument I’ll go now. Let’s get on with it. Which way?”

  “Just stick with me,” advised Ertz. Joe-Jim whistled loudly in a set pattern. Muties seemed to grow out of the floor plates, the bulkheads, the overhead, until six or eight more had been added to the party. Narby was suddenly sick with the full realization of just how far he had strayed from the way of caution. The party moved up.

  It took them a long time to get up to no-weight, as Narby was not used to climbing. The steady reduction in weight as they rose from deck to deck relieved him somewhat but the help afforded was more than offset by the stomach qualms he felt as weight dropped away from him. He did not have a true attack of space-sickness—like all born in the Ship, muties and Crew, he was more or less acclimated to lessened weight, but he had done practically no climbing since reckless adolescence. By the time they reached the innermost deck of the Ship he was acutely uncomfortable and hardly able to proceed.

  Joe-Jim sent the added members of the party back below and told Bobo to carry Narby. Narby waved him away. “I can make it,” he protested, and by sheer stubborn will forced his body to behave. Joe-Jim looked him over and countermanded the order. By the time a long series of gliding dives had carried them as far forward as the transverse bulkhead beyond which lay the Control Room, he was reasonably comfortable again.

  They did not stop first at the Control Room, but, in accordance with a plan of Hugh’s, continued on to the Captain’s veranda. Narby was braced for what he saw there, not only by Ertz’s confused explanation, but because Hugh had chattered buoyantly to him about it all the latter part of the trip. Hugh was feeling warmly friendly to Narby by the time they arrived—it was wonderful to have somebody to listen!

  Hugh floated in through the door ahead of the others, executed a neat turn in midair, and steadied himself with one hand on the back of the Captain’s easy chair. With the other he waved at the great view port and the starry firmament beyond it. “There it is!” he exulted. There it is. Look at it—isn’t it wonderful?”

  Narby’s face showed no expression, but he looked long and intently at the brilliant display. “Remarkable,” he conceded at last, “remarkable. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “‘Remarkable’ ain’t half,” protested Hugh. “Wonderful is the word.”

  “O.K.—‘wonderful,’” Narby assented. “Those bright little lights—you say those are the stars that the ancients talked about?”

  “Why, yes,” agreed Hugh, feeling slightly disconcerted without knowing why, “only they’re not little. They are big, enormous things, like the Ship. They just look little because they are so far away. See that very bright one, that big one, down to the left? It looks big because it’s closer. I think that is Far Centaurus—but I’m not sure,” he admitted in a burst of frankness.

  Narby glanced quickly at him, then back to the big star. “How far away is it?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ll find out. There are instruments to measure such things in the Control Room, but I haven’t got the hang of them entirely. It doesn’t matter, though. We’ll get there yet!”

  “Huh?”

  “Sure. Finish the Trip.”

  Narby looked blank, but said nothing. His was a careful and orderly mind, logical to a high degree. He was a capable executive and could make rapid decisions when necessary, but he was by nature inclined to reserve his opinions when possible, until he had had time to chew over the data and assess it.

  He was even more taciturn in the Control Room. He listened and looked, but asked very few questions. Hugh did not care. This was his toy, his gadget, his baby. To show it off to someone who had never seen it and who would listen was all he asked.

  At Ertz’s suggestion the party stopped at Joe-Jim’s apartment on the way back down. Narby must be committed to the same course of action as the blood brotherhood and plans must be made to carry out such action, if the stratagem which brought Narby to them was to be fruitful. Narby agreed to stop unreluctantly, having become convinced of the reality of the truce under which he made this unprecedented sortie into mutie country. He listened quietly while Ertz outlined what they had in mind. He was still quiet when Ertz had finished.

  “Well?” said Ertz at last, when the silence had dragged on long enough to get on his nerves.

  “You expect some comment from me?”

  “Yes, of course. You figure into it.” Narby knew that he did and knew that an answer was expected from him; he was stalling for time.

  “Well—” Narby pursed his lips and fitted his fingertips together. “It seems to me that this problem divides itself into two parts. Hugh Hoyland, as I understand it, your purpose of carrying out the ancient Plan of Jordan cannot be realized until the Ship as a whole is pacified and brought under one rule—you need order and discipline for your purpose from Crew country clear to the Control Room. Is that right?”

  “Certainly. We have to man the Main Drive and that means—”

  “Please. Frankly, I am not qualified to understand things that I have seen so recently and have had no opportunity to study. As to your chances of success in that project, I would prefer to rely on the opinion of the Chief Engineer. Your problem is the second phase; it appears that you are necessarily interested in the first phase.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let’s talk about the first phase only. It involves matters of public policy and administration—I feel more at home there; perhaps my advice will be useful. Joe-Jim, I understand that you are looking for an opportunity to effect a peace between the muties and the members of the Crew—peace and good eating? Right?”

  “That’s correct,” Jim agreed.

  “Good. It has been my purpose for a long time and that of many of the Ship’s officers. Frankly it never occurred to me that it could be achieved other than by sheer force. We had steeled ourselves to the prospect of a long and difficult and bloody war. The records of the oldest Witness, handed down to him by his predecessors clear back to the time of the mythical Mutiny, make no mention of anything but war between muties and the Crew. But this is a better way—I am delighted.”

  “Then you’re with us!” exclaimed Ertz.

  “Steady—there are many other things to be considered. Ertz, you and I know, and Hoyland as well I should think, that not all of the Ship’s officers will agree with us. What of that?”

  “That’s easy,” put in Hugh Hoyland. “Bring them up to no-weight one at a time, let them see the stars and learn the truth.”

  Narby shook his head. “You have the litter carrying the porters. I told you this problem is in two phases. There is no point in trying to convince a man of something he won’t believe when you need him to agree to something he can understand. After the Ship is consolidated it will be simple enough then to let the officers experience the Control Room and the stars.”

  “But—”

  “He’s right,” Ertz stopped him. “No use getting cluttered up with a lot of religious issues when the immediate problem is a practical one. There are numerous officers whom we could get on our side for the purpose of pacifying the Ship who would raise all kinds of fuss if we tackled them first on the idea that the Ship moves.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts’ about it. Narby is right. It’s common sense. Now, Narby—about this matter of those officers who may not be convinced—here’s how we see it: In the first place, it’s your business and mine to win over as many as we can. Any who hold out aga
inst us—well, the Converter is always hungry.”

  Narby nodded, completely undismayed by the idea of assassination as a policy. “That seems the safest plan. Mightn’t it be a little bit difficult?”

  “That is where Joe-Jim comes in. We’ll have the best knives in the Ship to back us up.”

  “I see. Joe-Jim is, I take it, Boss of all the muties?”

  “What gave you that idea?” growled Joe, vexed without knowing why.

  “Why, I supposed . . . I was given to understand—” Narby stopped. No one had told him that Joe-Jim was king of the upper decks; he had assumed it from appearances. He felt suddenly very uneasy. Had he been negotiating uselessly? What was the point in a pact with this two-headed monstrosity if he did not speak for the muties?

  “I should have made that clear,” Ertz said hastily. “Joe-Jim helps us to establish a new administration, then we will be able to back him up with knives to pacify the rest of the muties. Joe-Jim isn’t Boss of all the muties, but he has the largest, strongest gang. With our help he soon will be Boss of all of them.”

  Narby quickly adjusted his mind to the new data. Muties against muties, with only a little help from the cadets of the Crew, seemed to him a good way to fight. On second thoughts, it was better than an outright truce at once—for there would be fewer muties to administer when it was all over, less chance of another mutiny. “I see,” he agreed. “So—Have you considered what the situation will be afterwards?”

  “What do you mean?” inquired Hoyland.

  “Can you picture the present Captain carrying out these plans?”

  Ertz saw what he was driving at, and so did Hoyland—vaguely.

  “Go on,” said Ertz.

  “Who is to be the new Captain?” Narby looked squarely at Ertz.

  Ertz had not thought the matter through; he realized now that the question was very pertinent, if the coup d’état was not to be followed by a bloody scramble for power. He had permitted himself to dream of being selected as Captain—sometime. But he knew that Narby was pointed that way, too.

  Ertz had been as honestly struck by the romantic notion of moving the Ship as Hoyland. He realized that his old ambition stood in the way of the new; he renounced the old with only a touch of wistfulness.

  “You will have to be Captain, Fin. Are you willing to be?”

  Phineas Narby accepted gracefully. “I suppose so, if that’s the way you want it. You would make a fine Captain yourself, Ertz.”

  Ertz shook his head, understanding perfectly that Narby’s full cooperation turned on this point. “I’ll continue as Chief Engineer—I want to handle the Main Drive for the Trip.”

  “Slow down!” Joe interrupted. “I don’t agree to this. Why should he be Captain?”

  Narby faced him. “Do you want to be Captain?” He kept his voice carefully free of sarcasm. A mutie for Captain!

  “Huff’s name—no! But why should you be? Why not Ertz or Hugh?”

  “Not me,” Hugh disclaimed. “I’ll have no time for administration. I’m the astrogator.”

  “Seriously, Joe-Jim,” Ertz explained, “Narby is the only one of the group who can get the necessary cooperation out of the Ship’s officers.”

  “Damn it—if they won’t cooperate we can slit their throats.”

  “With Narby as Captain we won’t have to slit throats.”

  “I don’t like it,” groused Joe. His brother shushed him. “Why get excited about it, Joe? Jordan knows we don’t want the responsibility.”

  “I quite understand your misgivings,” Narby suggested suavely, “but I don’t think you need worry. I would be forced to depend on you, of course, to administer the muties. I would administer the lower decks, a job I am used to, and you would be Vice Captain, if you are willing to serve, for the muties. It would be folly for me to attempt to administer directly a part of the Ship I’m not familiar with and people whose customs I don’t know. I really can’t accept the captaincy unless you are willing to help me in that fashion. Will you do it?”

  “I don’t want any part of it,” protested Joe.

  “I’m sorry. Then I must refuse to be Captain—I really can’t undertake it if you won’t help me that much.”

  “Oh, go ahead, Joe,” Jim insisted. “Let’s take it—for the time being at least. The job has to be done.”

  “All right,” Joe capitulated, “but I don’t like it.”

  Narby ignored the fact that Joe-Jim had not specifically agreed to Narby’s elevation to the captaincy; no further mention was made of it.

  The discussion of ways and means was tedious and need not be repeated. It was agreed that Ertz, Alan, and Narby should all return to their usual haunts and occupations while preparations were made to strike.

  Hugh detailed a guard to see them safely down to high-weight. “You’ll send Alan up when you are ready?” he said to Narby as they were about to leave.

  “Yes,” Narby agreed, “but don’t expect him soon. Ertz and I will have to have time to feel out friends—and there’s the matter of the old Captain, I’ll have to persuade him to call a meeting of all the Ship’s officers—he’s never too easy to handle.”

  “Well, that’s your job. Good eating!”

  “Good eating.”

  On the few occasions when the scientist priests who ruled the Ship under Jordan’s Captain met in full assembly they gathered in a great hall directly above the Ship’s offices on the last civilized deck. Forgotten generations past, before the time of the mutiny led by Ship’s Metalsmith, Roy Huff, the hall had been a gymnasium, a place for fun and healthy exercise, as planned by the designers of the great starship—but the present users knew nothing of that.

  Narby watched the roster clerk check off the Ship’s officers as they arrived, worried under a bland countenance. There were only a few more to arrive; he would soon have no excuse not to notify the Captain that the meeting was ready—but he had received no word from Joe-Jim and Hoyland. Had that fool Alan managed to get himself killed on the way up to deliver the word? Had he fallen and broken his worthless neck? Was he dead with a mutie’s knife in his belly?

  Ertz came in, and before seeking his seat among the department heads, went up to where Narby sat in front of the Captain’s chair. “How about it?” he inquired softly.

  “All right,” Narby told him, “but no word yet.”

  “Hm-m-m—” Ertz turned around and assayed his support in the crowd. Narby did likewise. Not a majority, not a certain majority, for anything as drastic as this. Still—the issue would not depend on voting.

  The roster clerk touched his arm. “All present, sir, except those excused for sickness, and one on watch at the Converter.”

  Narby directed that the Captain be notified, with a sick feeling that something had gone wrong. The Captain, as usual, with complete disregard for the comfort and convenience of others, took his time about appearing. Narby was glad of the delay, but miserable in enduring it. When the old man finally waddled in, flanked by his orderlies, and settled heavily into his chair, he was, again as usual, impatient to get the meeting over. He waved for the others to be seated and started in on Narby.

  “Very well, Commander Narby, let’s have the agenda—you have an agenda, I hope?”

  “Yes, Captain, there is an agenda.”

  “Then have it read, man, have it read! Why are you delaying?”

  “Yes, sir.” Narby turned to the reading clerk and handed him a sheaf of writings. The clerk glanced at them, looked puzzled, but, receiving no encouragement from Narby, commenced to read: “Petition to Council and Captain: Lieutenant Braune, administrator of the village of Sector 9, being of frail health and advanced age, prays that he be relieved of all duty and retired—” The clerk continued, setting forth the recommendations of the officers and departments concerned.

  The Captain twisted impatiently in his chair, finally interrupted the reading. “What’s this, Narby? Can’t you handle routine matters without all this fuss?”

  “I unders
tood that the Captain was displeased with the fashion in which a similar matter was lately handled. I have no wish to trespass on the Captain’s prerogatives.”

  “Nonsense, man! Don’t read Regulations to me. Let the Council act, then bring their decision to me for review.”

  “Yes, sir.” Narby took the writing from the clerk and gave him another. The clerk read.

  It was an equally fiddling matter. Sector 3 village, because of an unexplained blight which had infected their hydroponic farms, prayed for relief and a suspension of taxes. The Captain put up with still less of this item before interrupting. Narby would have been sorely pressed for any excuse to continue the meeting had not the word he awaited arrived at that moment. It was a mere scrap of parchment, brought in from outside the hall by one of his own men. It contained the single word, “Ready.” Narby looked at it, nodded to Ertz, and addressed the Captain:

  “Sir, since you have no wish to listen to the petitions of your Crew, I will continue at once with the main business of this meeting.” The veiled insolence of the statement caused the Captain to stare at him suspiciously, but Narby went on. “For many generations, through the lives of a succession of Witnesses, the Crew has suffered from the depredations of the muties. Our livestock, our children, even our own persons, have been in constant jeopardy. Jordan’s Regulations are not honored above the levels where we live. Jordan’s Captain himself is not free to travel in the upper levels of the Ship.

  “It has been an article of faith that Jordan so ordained it, that the children pay with blood for the sins of their ancestors. It was the will of Jordan—we were told.

  “I, for one, have never been reconciled to this constant drain on the Ship’s mass.” He paused.

  The old Captain had been having some difficulty in believing his ears. But he found his voice. Pointing, he squealed, “Do you dispute the Teachings?”

  “I do not. I maintain that the Teachings do not command us to leave the muties outside the Regulations, and never did. I demand that they be brought under the Regulations!”