She laughed bitterly. "Second-in-Command of a starship! Months boxed up in a tin coffin with a mob of neurotic women! Having to cope, for every minute of the twenty-four hours, with petty tyranny from above and the most abject stupidity from below. Oh, you have it too—but to nothing like the same degree. You can always walk ashore when you feel like it . . ."
I said abruptly, "We don't really know enough about each other. I know hardly anything of you, of your background . .
She looked at her watch. "You asked for it, Clement. We should be safe for at least another two hours —and we'll spend them talking."
CHAPTER TEN
And then, sitting close together in that tiny cabin, we talked.
I told Claire of my life as a boy, of my schooling at Wyndham's Seminary in New Orleans, of my apprenticeship and career on the river and even (for she wanted to know) of my past loves.
And she told me of her life, of her girlhood at the Rocket Academy at Port Woomera in Australia, of her first flight, as a cadet, to one of the Space Stations, of her service in one of the ferry rockets running to and from Earth's Moon. And as she talked, the picture of her world began to take shape—a world in which men did all the menial jobs, never traveled, were treated always as the inferior sex, kept in their lowly station from birth onwards.
"But surely it wasn't always like that," I objected.
"As far as I can gather from our Records, such Records as survived the Burning, men and women used to be pretty well equal .... ."
"So some say," she admitted.
"Then how did you get the way you are now? Come to that, you've never told us how the Colonies came to be abandoned."
"It's a long story," she said, "and you may not find it pleasant, although I suppose our people acted for the best. We are always told that they did—those of us who know the story, that is. Most of Earth's people still believe that the original Colonies, on Mars and Venus, were wiped out by plague. And that's as close to the facts as your idea that Earth was destroyed by an Atomic War . . . Still, who knows? If we hadn't ditched the Colonies we might have had the war . . ."
It was a long story. On Earth, women had long been considered inferior beings, but by the middle of the twentieth century they had begun to challenge men in every field. They had the vote, but men still controlled politics. Then came Susan Dunstan's revolution.
She was an extremely capable person, and the world feared the war that seemed imminent week in, week out. She used every technique of politics known, and beat her opponents at underhanded trickery. The Women's Party gained power, first in England and then in the entire British Commonwealth. It was not long before America followed suit; then the movement spread to Russia and China. There was a little fighting there—but as the Communist nations had trained women to play their part in the war machine, they were well able to meet force with force. This was the pattern throughout the world. But the turning point came when Susan Dunstan was assassinated by her ex-husband. That united the women of the world as never before and they used the vote; they won.
It was a time when a high standard of living prevailed throughout the world, as machinery brought prosperity to even the most backward nations.
"It sounds fantastic," I said after listening to her detailed descriptions of people throwing a switch to see every menial task performed swiftly and efficiently, to scan the world at will for entertainment.
"It's not," she stated. "Now, just tell me what would happen to any government under whose rule this horn of plenty ran dry."
"O, U, T," I said. "Out."
That was it. Shortly after the women gained political power, the horn of plenty did start to run dry. The civilization was power-consuming, power-wasting; coal was running out; oil wells were running dry, and the supply of radio-actives, far from inexhaustible, was tied up to a very large extent in the power plants of spaceships.
The governments of the world asked themselves what was the use of the Martian Colony, the Lunar Colony, the Venusian Colony. What would be the output of the piles if they were ripped from the spaceships which serviced these colonies and set up in power stations on Earth?
They decided to keep the Moon, but the big interplanetary ships were grounded and gutted. The women stayed in power, and weathered the crisis; a story was put out that the Martian colonists had succumbed to some unknown virus, and the Venusian Colony had been wiped out by an uprising of oppressed natives.
"Darling," I said, "this is too much . . . The Phibians, of all people! They aren't oppressed, and they couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag!"
"They were, and they did, in the official stories. Our best writers did their best work on the last, despairing radio messages—and very few people knew that there was no radio communication with the Colonies—from both planets. The one from Venus was good—how did it end, now? 'After all, this is their world, and we're the aggressors . . . Please— no revenge . .
"After all," I said, "this is our world, and you're the aggressors . . . Why did you come, Claire?"
"Another crisis," she said. "Overpopulation. There's a move afoot to re-establish the colonies, and we have power to throw away once more . . ."
"I think that the descendants of the original colonists should have been consulted," I said.
"We didn't think that there were any to consult," she said. "But I'll consult this one . . ."
The gray dawn was coming in as I left the spaceship—gray dawn, and a small, bitter wind straight from the Pole and a spatter of cold rain. I should have felt tired, I should have felt like a corpse warmed up, but I was singing—one of the more cheerful hymns— as I walked over the muddy ground towards the river, towards Memphis Belle. I had decided to throw myself on the courtesy of the officer-of-the-watch of that vessel, to enjoy whatever hospitality he could provide until such time as I received instructions from Headquarters aboard the Show Boat.
As I was passing the Show Boat's gangway I heard my name called. I looked up and around—it was Adelie. She was pale and tired, and she had thrown a black cloak around herself. She was smoking one of the spacewomen's cigarettes.
"Clement!" she said again.
"Yes, Your Holiness?"
She walked slowly down the brow to join me. She put out her right hand to grasp my shoulder. "Where have you been? Where have you come from?"
"What concern is it of yours, Your Holiness?"
"Oh, drop this 'Holiness' rubbish, damn you. And, anyhow, I don't give a damn what you've been doing. I just want to talk to you. I've been up all night with those—witches, and there's old Munro wanting to call down the wrath of the Almighty on all our heads and Lafayette concerned only with fancy weapons and this infernal Jeanne d'Arc technique of theirs . . ."
"What is it?" I asked.
"I'll not tell you," she said. "I'm a woman—and I'd hate to have you know what women can do, have done. Anyhow—I forbade them to use it on Venus, no matter how the war goes. After all—I still hold the river."
She threw her cigarette into a puddle, looked at the tiny, disintegrating mess of paper and tobacco strands. She said at last, "I must get away from all this for a day or so, perhaps longer. I must see Paul again." There was a note of appeal in her voice. "You understand ..."
"Yes," I said.
"I've treated you shabbily. I hate to ask favors of you—but I'd better have an escort up to the Locks. Will you . . . ?"
"Of course, Your Holiness."
"Adelie!" Commandante Willis had come down the gangway. "Did I hear you say that you were going up to the Locks?"
"Yes, Carrie. We can do nothing more until we get word of the steam rams, or until you get a helicopter into commission again. There's a transceiver aboard Richmond Queen, as you know . . ."
"Then I must send a liaison officer with you. You, girl!"
"Yes, Ma'am?" replied the sentry.
"Go aboard Eve Curie, give Miss King my compliments and tell her to be ready to return to Richmond Queen at once." She turned to us.
"She's best for the job. She knows the ship, and she knows the people."
The Commandante said nothing further. The three of us stood in silence until the sentry returned with Claire. She approached us smartly, saluted the Commandante and Adelie, nodded brusquely to me.
"Claire," said the Commandante, "Miss Dale wishes to stay aboard Richmond Queen for a day or so. I am sending you with her as liaison officer."
I saw Claire's eyes flicker from Adelie to me, and back again. She must have been reassured by what she saw; she flashed me a swift, secret smile.
"Report by radio anything of importance," went on the Commandante. "We shall do likewise."
"Very good, Madam," said Claire.
Our journey from the Locks down to Wyndham's Landing had been glamorous—our journey from the Landing to the Locks was the reverse. The wind had dropped, but the rain was falling steadily and, underfoot, the path was treacherous. The soldiers of our escort—Mounted Archers—were surly and almost mutinous, making it quite clear that they were cavalry and not infantry, and this sort of work was far below their dignity. Too—I had to walk with Adelie, while Claire trudged along, alone, a few paces to our rear.
We were all pleased to see, at last, the tall, smoking twin stacks of Richmond Queen through the rain. The Old Man himself met us at the gangway. It was meant to be a ceremonial greeting, it started that way —but Adelie gave a little cry and was in his arms before he got his hand properly up to the salute. Claire looked at me, raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"That will do, Sergeant," I snapped to the N.C.O. in charge of the escort. "Take your men and report to the Chief Steward. He will lay on a meal and accommodation for you." To the Second Officer I said, "Show them where to go, will you?"
The Old Man and Adelie were walking slowly to the ladder up to the hurricane deck. He turned at the foot of it, said, "Whitley, you'd better get cleaned up. Report to my cabin at noon, with Miss King."
"Thank you, sir," I said.
I took Claire to her own cabin—the one that she had occupied during her trip up river.
At noon the rain had ceased, but a thick mist hung, unmoving, over all the world. I walked along the wet hurricane deck to the door of Claire's stateroom, rapped on it. She came out, smart in clean, crisp shirt and shorts, walked with me to the ladder up to the texas. The Captain's weather door was open. He and Adelie were seated at the big table, a decanter of rum and glasses before them. Both were smoking.
Adelie looked better, younger—some of the strain and the worry had gone from her face. She had changed from her uniform back to the robes of a Saint.
"Sit down," said the Captain. "Pour yourself drinks." To Claire he said, "I'm afraid you'll find your job rather a sinecure, Miss King. Miss Dale has been telling me that until there's definite word of the steam rams off Albany the war is practically at a standstill."
Claire selected a cheroot from the open box on the table. I struck a match and gave her a light.
"You know," she said, "I'm getting rather to like these things . . ." Then—"There's always the chance of air raids, Captain."
"I don't think so," he said. "There has been one raid on the Locks, and the raiders accomplished what they set out to do. The Locks are out of commission for an indefinite period. And, take it from me, the Duke no more wishes to see the Locks destroyed than we do."
"I'm just the small girl around here," said Claire. "I was given no chance to say my piece about strategy and tactics when I got back to Wyndham's Landing— if I had done so Carrie would soon have shut me up. But, Miss Dale, I certainly consider that a few antiaircraft batteries—even if they would consist only of light machine guns—around these Locks would make me feel happier."
Adelie smiled—a rather infuriating, superior smile. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, my dear—but what the Captain said is right. It's not a modest thing to say—but the only prize worth snatching from the Locks at the moment is myself."
"I agree," said Claire. "And what steps have been taken for your protection?"
"Nobody knows that I'm here," said Adelie.
"Did you people burn all the history books?" asked Claire. "Did you never hear of a Fifth Column? How do you know that word hasn't already gone to Albany, or to some base much closer to the Landing, about your present whereabouts?"
Outside something slithered along the deck, something caught in the weather rails with a clang and a thud. There was a muffled shouting, the sound of bodies falling heavily to the planking. I heard the officer of the watch—the Second—cry out once. Claire's hand flashed down to her belt, to where her pistol holster should have been. She grinned wryly, said, "I'm a fine apostle of preparedness!"
"You will raise your hands," said a voice from the door. "You will raise your hands," repeated Lieutenant Bean, his arbalest cocked and ready, the men standing behind him similarly armed. "I want you alive, but I still get my medals if I have to kill you all."
The Marines swarmed into the cabin, roughly hustled us out on deck. One of them snatched a rope's end—dangling, apparently, from nothingness, threw a hasty bowline around Adelie's waist. She screamed as she was jerked into the air. Looking up I saw, looming huge and vague in the fog, a long, dark shape from which splashed a thin, steady stream of water. It was Claire's turn next, then mine. The Old Man was last, flung on top of us where we lay on the deck of some sort of cabin.
I heard Bean, somewhere, yell, "Let go! Slip!" and felt the lift of the deck under me, the vibration of engines.
The Old Man was laughing. "You said, Whitley," he reminded me, "that you thought that the Duke's airships were safer than the helicopters . . . Here's your chance to find out!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We were not badly treated, though we were thrown into a small cabin. Claire noted that the door, bolted on the outside, was plastic. She wondered if it were a thermo-plastic or a thermo-setting plastic; this would have a lot to do with whether application of heat would soften the stuff.
It would and it did, but our attempt didn't get very far. The door opened and we were restrained none too gently. Bean spared no epithets or adjectives in expressing his opinion of people who played with matches on a hydrogen-filled airship. We were all searched, thoroughly, and stripped of matches and anything else that might conceivably be useful in sabotaging the airship. Bean took us out for a brief look overside, saying that we could jump if we liked. That look at featureless gray mist was convincing.
129
"Where are you taking us?" asked Captain Beynon.
"Where do you think? His Grace requested the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight—and when His Grace makes a request, it's an order." He bowed ironically to the women. "Even to you, Your Holiness, and to you, Madam Junior Commandante."
Our further treatment on the trip would have been cursory if Flight Commander Stewart hadn't come up then. After introductions, and Bean's account of the situation, Stewart obtained our promise to behave, then insisted that we be treated as guests. Bean didn't like it, but finally he and his Marines stomped away angrily. Stewart took us on a tour of the ship.
The wardroom was in the gondola, just abaft the bridge. It was a large compartment, comfortably furnished with chairs and tables of the woven spear-weed. A white-jacketed steward was in attendance and he, at the Flight Commander's order, brought us glasses of an excellent rum punch. We all needed it— our clothing was far too light for the chilliness of the altitude.
"And what do you think of her, Captain?" asked Stewart. "Do you still prefer your slow old Richmond Queen?" He flashed his gleaming smile at Claire, said, "Desert from your spaceship, darling, and I'll find a job for you in Firebird."
"Firebird/' she said. "A good name, Commander. What other names have you?"
"Oh, there're Buzzfly and Stingfly—little brutes, they are, barely enough lift for a couple of bombs apiece and a handful of darts. In this class we have, as well as ourselves, Warbird, Thunderbird and Doom-bird. Then, of course, there's Ad Astra—that means To th
e stars in some old Earth language—and she is something. Rocket batteries she has, even. He's a clever one, the Duke—he's figured out some way of taking care of the backblast so it won't set off any stray hydrogen ..."
"A pity," said Adelie. "I'm not forgetting what you people did to New Orleans."
"I was there, Miss Dale. Our instructions were to bomb military targets only. Those instructions were carried out to the letter."
"So you say, Flight Commander."
"Were you there, Miss Dale?"
Adelie was plainly displeased, but she made no reply.
In an attempt to lighten the tension, Stewart said, "I'll show you the bridge. "
We followed him through the forward door, into a long compartment that, both end and sides, seemed all glass. The first thing that struck me was that there were two quartermasters, one at a conventionally sited wheel before which was a compass in a light binnacle, the other one at a wheel the plane of which was parallel to the fore and aft line of the ship. The Flight Commander noticed my puzzlement, explained briefly.
"That gadget there is an altimeter—works on the same principle as an aneroid barometer. The coxswain has to keep the ship—or has to try to keep the ship—at the altitude that I have decided upon. In this case it's five thousand feet. Do you see the pointer? If, for any reason, he can't, he sings out to the officer of the watch, who sings out for me, and I juggle gas or water ballast as required. The other coxswain, of course, is just steering by compass.
"Charts here, as you see." He spoke to the tall officer who, dividers in hand, was bending over the chart table. "Where is she, Peter? H'm. Sure of that?"
"Not as sure as I'd like to be, sir."
"Fog or no fog, you got us to the Locks, Peter."
"Even so, sir, I'd like to send a look-out down."
"As you wish. Sure there's no chance of wiping him off against Mount Norbert?"
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