But the doorkeeper did not stand aside, although he did salute—while placing himself so that he filled the door. “Gangway, man!” Ertz said gruffly.
“Yes, sir,” acknowledged the guard, without moving. “Your weapons, please.”
“What! Don’t you know me, you idiot? I’m the Chief Engineer.”
“Yes, sir. Leave your weapons with me, please. Regulations.”
Ertz put a hand on the man’s shoulder and shoved. The guard stood firm. “I’m sorry, sir. No one approaches the Captain wearing weapons. No one.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
“He remembers what happened to the old Captain,” Hugh observed sotto voce. “He’s smart.” He drew his own knife and tossed it to the guard, who caught it neatly by the hilt. Ertz looked, shrugged, and handed over his own. Alan, considerably crestfallen, passed his own pair over with a look that should have shortened the guard’s life.
Narby was talking; Joe-Jim was scowling on both his faces; Bobo looked puzzled, and naked, unfinished, without his ubiquitous knives and slingshot. “The matter is closed, Joe-Jim. That is my decision. I’ve granted you the favor of explaining my reasons, but it does not matter whether you like them or not.”
“What’s the trouble?” inquired Hugh.
Narby looked up. “Oh—I’m glad you came in. Your mutie friend seems to be in doubt as to who is Captain.”
“What’s up?”
“He,” growled Jim, hooking a thumb toward Narby, “seems to think he’s going to disarm all the muties.”
“Well, the war’s over, isn’t it?”
“It wasn’t agreed on. The muties were to become part of the Crew. Take the knives away from the muties and the Crew will kill them off in no time. It’s not fair. The Crew have knives.”
“The time will come when they won’t,” Narby predicted, “but I’ll do it at my own time in my own way. This is the first step. What did you want to see me about, Ertz?”
“Ask Hugh.” Narby turned to Hugh.
“I’ve come to notify you, Captain Narby,” Hugh stated formally, “that we are about to start the Main Converter and move the Ship.”
Narby looked surprised but not disconcerted. “I’m afraid you will have to postpone that. I am not yet ready to permit officers to go up to no-weight.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Hugh explained. “Ertz and I can handle the first maneuvers alone. But we can’t wait. If the Ship is not moved at once, the Trip won’t be finished in your lifetime nor mine.”
“Then it must,” Narby replied evenly, “wait.”
“What?” cried Hugh. “Narby, don’t you want to finish the Trip?”
“I’m in no hurry.”
“What sort of damn foolishness is this?” Ertz demanded. “What’s got into you, Fin? Of course we move the Ship.”
Narby drummed on his desk top before replying. Then he said, “Since there seems to be some slight misunderstanding as to who gives orders around here, I might as well let you have it straight. Hoyland, as long as your pastimes did not interfere with the administration of the Ship, I was willing for you to amuse yourself. I granted that willingly, for you have been very useful in your own way. But when your crazy beliefs become a possible source of corruption to good morals and a danger to the peace and security of the Ship, I have to crack down.”
Hugh had opened and closed his mouth several times during this speech. Finally he managed to get out: “Crazy? Did you say crazy?”
“Yes, I did. For a man to believe that the solid Ship can move means that he is either crazy, or an ignorant religious fanatic. Since both of you have the advantage of a scientist’s training, I assume that you have lost your minds.”
“Good Jordan!” said Hugh. “The man has seen with his own eyes, he’s seen the immortal stars—yet he sits there and calls us crazy!”
“What’s the meaning of this, Narby?” Ertz inquired coldly. “Why the razzle-dazzle? You aren’t kidding anyone—you’ve been to the Control Room, you’ve been to the Captain’s veranda, you know the ship moves.”
“You interest me, Ertz,” commented Narby, looking him over. “I’ve wondered whether you were playing up to Hoyland’s delusions, or were deluded yourself. Now I see that you are crazy, too.”
Ertz kept his temper. “Explain yourself. You’ve seen the Control Room; how can you contend that the Ship does not move?”
Narby smiled. “I thought you were a better engineer than you appear to be, Ertz. The Control Room is an enormous hoax. You know yourself that those lights are turned on and off by switches—a very clever piece of engineering. My theory is that it was used to strike awe in the minds of the superstitious and make them believe in the ancient myths. But we don’t need it any more, the Crew believe without it. It’s a source of distraction now—I’m going to have it destroyed and the door sealed up.”
Hugh went all to pieces at this, sputtered incoherently, and would have grappled with Narby had not Ertz restrained him. “Easy, Hugh,” he admonished. Joe-Jim took Hugh by the arm, his own faces stony masks.
Ertz went on quietly, “Suppose what you say is true. Suppose that the Main Converter and the Main Drive itself are nothing but dummies and that we can never start them, what about the Captain’s veranda? You’ve seen the stars there, not just an engineered shadow show.”
Narby laughed. “Ertz, you are stupider than I ever guessed. I admit that the display in the veranda had me mystified at first—not that I ever believed in it! But the Control Room gave the clue—it’s an illusion, a piece of skillful engineering. Behind that glass is another compartment, about the same size and unlighted. Against that darkness those tiny moving lights give the effect of a bottomless hole. It’s essentially the same trick as the one used in the Control Room.
“It’s obvious,” he went on. “I’m surprised that you did not see it. When an apparent fact runs contrary to logic and common sense, it’s obvious that you have failed to interpret the fact correctly. The most obvious fact of nature is the reality of the Ship itself, solid, immutable, complete. Any so-called fact which appears to dispute that is bound to be an illusion. Knowing that, I looked for the trick behind the illusion and found it.”
“Wait,” said Ertz. “Do you mean that you have been on the other side of the glass in the Captain’s veranda and seen these trick lights you talk about?”
“No,” admitted Narby, “it wasn’t necessary. No doubt it would be easy enough to do so, but it isn’t necessary. I don’t have to cut myself to know that knives are sharp.”
“So—” Ertz paused and thought a moment. “I’ll make a deal with you. If Hugh and I are crazy in our beliefs, no harm is done as long as we keep our mouths shut. We’ll try to move the Ship. If we fail we’re wrong and you’re right.”
“The Captain does not bargain,” Narby pointed out. “However—I’ll consider it. That’s all. You may go.”
Ertz turned to go, unsatisfied but checked for the moment. He caught sight of Joe-Jim’s faces, and turned back. “One more thing,” he said. “What’s this about the muties? Why are you shoving Joe-Jim around? He and his boys made you Captain—you’ve got to be fair about this.”
Narby’s smiling superiority cracked for a moment.
“Don’t interfere, Ertz! Groups of armed savages can’t be tolerated. That’s final.”
“You can do what you like with the prisoners,” Jim stated, “but my own gang keep their knives. They were promised good eating forever if they fought for you. They keep their knives. And that’s final!”
Narby looked him up and down. “Joe-Jim,” he remarked, “I have long believed that the only good mutie was a dead mutie. You do much to confirm my opinion. It will interest you to know that, by this time, your gang is disarmed—and dead in the bargain. That’s why I sent for you!”
The guards piled in, whether by signal or previous arrangement it was impossible to say. Caught flatfooted, naked, weaponless, the five found themselves each with an armed man at his back
before they could rally. “Take them away,” ordered Narby.
Bobo whined and looked to Joe-Jim for guidance. Joe caught his eye. “Up, Bobo!”
The dwarf jumped straight for Joe-Jim’s captor, careless of the knife at his back. Forced to split his attention, the man lost a vital half second. Joe-Jim kicked him in the stomach, and appropriated his blade.
Hugh was on the deck, deadlocked with his man, his fist clutched around the knife wrist. Joe-Jim thrust and the struggle ceased. The two-headed man looked around, saw a mixed pile-up of four bodies, Ertz, Alan, two others. Joe-Jim used his knife judiciously, being careful to match the faces with the bodies. Presently his friends emerged. “Get their knives,” he ordered superfluously.
His words were drowned by a high, agonized scream. Bobo, still without a knife, had resorted to his primal weapons. His late captor’s face was a bloody mess, half-bitten away.
“Get his knife,” said Joe.
“Can’t reach it,” Bobo admitted guiltily. The reason was evident—the hilt protruded from Bobo’s ribs, just below his right shoulder blade.
Joe-Jim examined it, touched it gently. It was stuck. “Can you walk?”
“Sure,” grunted Bobo, and grimaced.
“Let it stay where it is. Alan! With me. Hugh and Bill—cover rear. Bobo in the middle.”
“Where’s Narby?” demanded Ertz, dabbing at a wound on his cheekbone.
But Narby was gone—ducked out through the rear door behind his desk. And it was locked.
Clerks scattered before them in the outer office; Joe-Jim knifed the guard at the outer door while he was still raising his whistle. Hastily they retrieved their own weapons and added them to those they had seized. They fled upward.
Two decks above inhabited levels Bobo stumbled and fell. Joe-Jim picked him up. “Can you make it?”
The dwarf nodded dumbly, blood on his lips. They climbed. Twenty decks or so higher it became evident that Bobo could no longer climb, though they had taken turns in boosting him from the rear. But weight was lessened appreciably at that level; Alan braced himself and picked up the solid form as if it were a child. They climbed.
Joe-Jim relieved Alan. They climbed.
Ertz relieved Joe-Jim. Hugh relieved Ertz.
They reached the level on which they lived forward of their group apartments. Hugh turned in that direction. “Put him down,” commanded Joe. “Where do you think you are going?”
Hugh settled the wounded man to the deck. “Home. Where else?”
“Fool! That’s where they will look for us first.”
“Where do we go?”
“Nowhere—in the Ship. We go out of the Ship!”
“Huh?”
“The Ship’s boat.”
“He’s right,” agreed Ertz. “The whole Ship’s against us now.”
“But . . . but—” Hugh surrendered. “It’s a long chance—but we’ll try it.” He started again in the direction of their homes.
“Hey!” shouted Jim. “Not that way.”
“We have to get our women.”
“To Huff with the women! You’ll get caught. There’s no time.” But Ertz and Alan started off without question. “Oh—all right!” Jim snorted. “But hurry! I’ll stay with Bobo.”
Joe-Jim sat down, took the dwarf’s head in his lap, and made a careful examination. His skin was gray and damp; a long red stain ran down from his right shoulder. Bobo sighed bubblingly and rubbed his head against Joe-Jim’s thigh. “Bobo tired, Boss.”
Joe-Jim patted his head. “Easy,” said Jim, “this is going to hurt.” Lifting the wounded man slightly, he cautiously worked the blade loose and withdrew it from the wound. Blood poured out freely.
Joe-Jim examined the knife, noted the deadly length of steel, and measured it against the wound. “He’ll never make it,” whispered Joe.
Jim caught his eye. “Well?”
Joe nodded slowly. Joe-Jim tried the blade he had just extracted from the wound against his own thigh, and discarded it in favor of one of his own razor-edged tools. He took the dwarf’s chin in his left hand and Joe commanded, “Look at me, Bobo!”
Bobo looked up, answered inaudibly. Joe held his eye. “Good Bobo! Strong Bobo!” The dwarf grinned as if he heard and understood, but made no attempt to reply. His master pulled his head a little to one side; the blade bit deep, snicking the jugular vein without touching the windpipe. “Good Bobo!” Joe repeated. Bobo grinned again.
When the eyes were glassy and breathing had unquestionably stopped, Joe-Jim stood up, letting the head and shoulders roll from him. He shoved the body with his foot to the side of the passage, and stared down the direction in which the others had gone. They should be back by now.
He stuck the salvaged blade in his belt and made sure that all his weapons were loose and ready.
They arrived on a dead run. “A little trouble,” Hugh explained breathlessly. “Squatty’s dead. No more of your men around. Dead maybe—Narby probably meant it. Here—” He handed him a long knife and the body armor that had been built for Joe-Jim, with its great wide cage of steel, fit to cover two heads.
Ertz and Alan wore armor, as did Hugh. The women did not—none had been built for them. Joe-Jim noted that Hugh’s younger wife bore a fresh swelling on her lip, as if someone had persuaded her with a heavy hand. Her eyes were stormy though her manner was docile. The older wife, Chloe, seemed to take the events in stride. Ertz’s was crying softly; Alan’s wench reflected the bewilderment of her master.
“How’s Bobo?” Hugh inquired, as he settled Joe-Jim’s armor in place.
“Made the Trip,” Joe informed him.
“So? Well, that’s that—let’s go.”
They stopped short of the level of no-weight and worked forward, because the women were not adept at weightless flying. When they reached the bulkhead which separated the Control Room and boat pockets from the body of the Ship, they went up. There was neither alarm nor ambush, although Joe thought that he saw a head show as they reached one deck. He mentioned it to his brother but not to the others.
The door to the boat pocket stuck and Bobo was not there to free it. The men tried it in succession, sweating with the strain. Joe-Jim tried it a second time, Joe relaxing and letting Jim control their muscles, that they might not fight each other. The door gave. “Get ’em inside!” snapped Jim.
“And fast!” Joe confirmed. “They’re on us.” He had kept lookout while his brother strove. A shout from down the line reinforced his warning.
The twins faced around to meet the threat while the men shoved the women in. Alan’s fuzzy-headed mate chose that moment to go to pieces, squalled, and tried to run, but weightlessness defeated her. Hugh nabbed her, headed her inside and booted her heartily with his foot.
Joe-Jim let a blade go at long throwing range to slow down the advance. It accomplished its purpose; his opponents, half a dozen of them, checked their advance. Then, apparently on signal, six knives cut the air simultaneously.
Jim felt something strike him, felt no pain, and concluded that the armor had saved him. “Missed us, Joe,” he exulted.
There was no answer. Jim turned his head, tried to look at his brother. A few inches from his eye a knife stuck through the bars of the helmet; its point was buried deep in Joe’s left eye. His brother was dead.
Hugh stuck his head back out of the door. “Come on, Joe-Jim,” he shouted. “We’re all in.”
“Get inside,” ordered Jim. “Close the door.”
“But—”
“Get inside!” Jim turned, and shoved him in the face, closing the door as he did so. Hugh had one startled glimpse of the knife and sagging, lifeless face it pinned. Then the door closed against him, and he heard the lever turn.
Jim turned back at the attackers. Shoving himself away from the bulkhead with legs which were curiously heavy, he plunged toward them, his great arm-long knife, more a bolo than a sword, grasped with both hands. Knives sang toward him, clattered against his breastplate, bit into
his legs. He swung—a wide awkward two-handed stroke which gutted an opponent—nearly cut him in two. “That’s for Joe!”
The blow stopped him. He turned in the air, steadied himself, and swung again. “That’s for Bobo!”
They closed in on him; he swung widely, caring not where he hit as long as his blade met resistance. “And that’s for me!”
A knife planted itself in his thigh. It did not even slow him up; legs were dispensable in no-weight.
“‘One for all!’”
A man was on his back now—he could feel him. No matter—here was one before him, too—one who could feel steel. As he swung, he shouted, “All for o—” The words trailed off, but the stroke was finished.
Hugh tried to open the door which had been slammed in his face. He was unable to do so—if there were means provided to do so, he was unable to figure them out. He pressed an ear against the steel and listened, but the airtight door gave back no clue.
Ertz touched him on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Where’s Joe-Jim?”
“He stayed behind.”
“What! Open the door—get him.”
“I can’t, it won’t open. He meant to stay, he closed it himself.”
“But we’ve got to get him—we’re blood-sworn.”
“I think,” said Hugh, with a sudden flash of insight, “that’s why he stayed behind.” He told Ertz what he had seen.
“Anyhow,” he concluded, “it’s the End of the Trip to him. Get on back and feed mass to that Converter. I want power.” They entered the Ship’s boat proper; Hugh closed the airlock doors behind them. “Alan!” he called out. “We’re going to start. Keep those damned women out of the way.”
He settled himself in the pilot’s chair, and cut the lights.
In the darkness he covered a pattern of green lights. A transparency flashed on the lap desk: drive ready. Ertz was on the job. Here goes! he thought, and actuated the launching combination. There was a short pause, a short and sickening lurch—a twist. It frightened him, since he had no way of knowing that the launching tracks were pitched to offset the normal spinning of the Ship.
Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky Page 41
