"You aren't Baslim. If it wasn't hard, he didn't like it."
"I'm no hero. I'm more the salt of the earth. Pappy, were you with him in the rescue of the Hansea?"
"You think I would fail to wear the ribbon? No, thank goodness; I had been transferred. That was a hand-weapons job. Messy."
"Maybe you would have had the sense not to volunteer."
"Stinky, even you would volunteer, fat and lazy as you are—if Baslim asked for volunteers."
"I'm not lazy, I'm efficient. But riddle me this: what was a C.O. doing leading a landing party?"
"The Old Man followed regulations only when he agreed with them. He wanted a crack at slavers with his own hands—he hated slavers with a cold passion. So he comes back a hero and what can the Department do? Wait until he gets out of hospital and court-martial him? Stinky, even top brass can be sensible when they have their noses rubbed in it. So they cited him for above-and-beyond under unique circumstances and put him on limited duty. But from here on, when 'unique circumstances' arise, every commanding officer knows that he can't thumb through the book for an alibi. It'll be up to him to continue the example."
"Not me," Stancke said firmly.
"You. When you're a C.O. and comes time to do something unpleasant, there you'll be, trying to get your tummy in and your chest out, with your chubby little face set in hero lines. You won't be able to help it. The Baslim conditioned-reflex will hit you."
Around dawn they got to bed. Brisby intended to sleep late but long habit took him to his desk only minutes late. He was not surprised to find his professedly-lazy Exec already at work.
His Paymaster-Lieutenant was waiting. The fiscal officer was holding a message form; Brisby recognized it. The night before, after hours of dividing Baslim's report into phrases, then recoding it to be sent by split routes, he had realized that there was one more chore before he could sleep: arrange for identification search on Colonel Baslim's adopted son. Brisby had no confidence that a waif picked up on Jubbul could be traced in the vital records of the Hegemony—but if the Old Man sent for a bucket of space, that was what he wanted and no excuses. Toward Baslim, dead or not, Colonel Brisby maintained the attitudes of a junior officer. So he had written a despatch and left word with the duty officer to have Thorby finger-printed and the prints coded at reveille. Then he could sleep.
Brisby looked at the message. "Hasn't this gone out?" he demanded.
"The photo lab is coding the prints now, Skipper. But the Comm Office brought it to me for a charge, since it is for service outside the ship."
"Well, assign it. Do I have to be bothered with every routine matter?"
The Paymaster decided that the Old Man had been missing sleep again. "Bad news, Skipper."
"Okay, spill it."
"I don't know of a charge to cover it. I doubt if there is an appropriation to fit it even if we could figure out a likely-sounding charge."
"I don't care what charge. Pick one and get that message moving. Use that general one. Oh-oh-something."
" 'Unpredictable Overhead, Administrative.' It won't work, Skipper. Making an identity search on a civilian cannot be construed as ship's overhead. Oh, I can put that charge number on and you'll get an answer. But—"
"That's what I want. An answer."
"Yes, sir. But eventually it reaches the General Accounting Office and the wheels go around and a card pops out with a red tag. Then my pay is checked until I pay it back. That's why they make us blokes study law as well as accounting."
"You're breaking my heart. Okay, Pay, if you're too sissy to sign it, tell me what charge number that overhead thing is; I'll write it in and sign my name and rank. Okay?"
"Yes, sir. But, Skipper—"
"Pay, I've had a hard night."
"Yes, sir. I'm required by law to advise you. You don't have to take it, of course."
"Of course," Brisby agreed grimly.
"Skipper, have you any notion how expensive an identification search can be?"
"It can't be much. I can't see why you are making such an aching issue of it. I want a clerk to get off his fundament and look in the files. I doubt if they'll bill us. Routine courtesy."
"I wish I thought so, sir. But you've made this an unlimited search. Since you haven't named a planet, first it will go to Tycho City, live files and dead. Or do you want to limit it to live files?"
Brisby thought. If Colonel Baslim had believed that this young man had come from inside civilization, then it was likely that the kid's family thought he was dead. No.
"Too bad. Dead files are three times as big as the live. So they search at Tycho. It takes a while, even with machines—over twenty billion entries. Suppose you get a null result. A coded inquiry goes to vital bureaus on all planets, since Great Archives are never up to date and some planetary governments don't send in records anyhow. Now the cost mounts, especially if you use n-space routing; exact coding on a fingerprint set is a fair-sized book. Of course if you take one planet at a time and use mail—"
"No."
"Well . . . Skipper, why not put a limit on it? A thousand credits, or whatever you can afford if—I mean 'when'—they check your pay."
"A thousand credits? Ridiculous!"
"If I'm wrong, the limitation won't matter. If I'm right—and I am, a thousand credits could just be a starter—then your neck isn't out too far."
Brisby scowled. "Pay, you aren't working for me to tell me I can't do things."
"Yes, sir."
"You're here to tell me how I can do what I'm going to do anyhow. So start digging through your books and find out how. Legally. And free."
"Aye aye, sir."
Brisby did not go right to work. He was fuming—some day they would get the service so fouled up in red tape they'd never get a ship off the ground. He bet that the Old Man had gone into the Exotic Corps with a feeling of relief—"X" Corps agents didn't have red tape; one of 'em finds it necessary to spend money, he just did so, ten credits or ten million. That was how to operate—pick your men, then trust them. No regular reports, no forms, no nothing—just do what needs to be done.
Whereupon he picked up the ship's quarterly fuel and engineering report. He put it down, reached for a message form, wrote a follow-up on Baslim's report, informing Exotic Bureau that the unclassified courier who had delivered report was still in jurisdiction of signer and in signer's opinion additional data could be had if signer were authorized to discuss report with courier at discretion.
He decided not to turn it over to the code and cipher group; he opened his safe and set about coding it. He had just finished when the Paymaster knocked. Brisby looked up. "So you found the paragraph."
"Perhaps, Skipper. I've been talking with the Executive Officer."
"Shoot."
"I see we have subject person aboard."
"Now don't tell me I need a charge for that!"
"Not at all, Skipper. I'll absorb his ration in the rush. You keep him aboard forever and I won't notice. Things don't get awkward until they get on the books. But how long do you expect to keep him? It must be more than a day or two, or you wouldn't want an identity search."
The Commanding Officer frowned. "It may be quite a while. First I've got to find out who he is, where he's from. Then, if we're going that way, I intend to give him an untagged lift. If we aren't—well, I'll pass him along to a ship that is. Too complicated to explain, Pay—but necessary."
"Okay. Then why not enlist him?"
"Huh?"
"It would clear up everything."
Brisby frowned. "I see. I could take him along legally . . . and arrange a transfer. And it would give you a charge number. But . . . well, suppose Shiva III is the spot—and his enlistment is not up. Can't just tell him to desert. Besides I don't know that he wants to enlist."
"You can ask him. How old is he?"
"I doubt if he knows. He's a waif."
"So much the better. You ship him. Then when you find out where he has to go, you discover a
n error in his age . . . and correct it. It turns out that he reaches his majority in time to be paid off on his home planet."
Brisby blinked. "Pay, are all paymasters dishonest?"
"Only the good ones. You don't like it, sir?"
"I love it. Okay, I'll check. And I'll hold up that despatch. We'll send it later."
The Paymaster looked innocent. "Oh, no, sir, we won't ever send it."
"How's that?"
"It won't be necessary. We enlist him to fill vacancy in complement. We send in records to BuPersonnel. They make the routine check, name and home planet—Hekate, I suppose, since we got him here. By then we're long gone. They don't find him registered here. Now they turn it over to BuSecurity, who sends us a priority telling us not to permit subject personnel to serve in sensitive capacity. But that's all, because it's possible that this poor innocent citizen never got registered. But they can't take chances, so they start the very search you want, first Tycho, then everywhere else, security priority. So they identify him and unless he's wanted for murder it's a routine muddle. Or they can't identify him and have to make up their minds whether to register him, or give him twenty-four hours to get out of the Galaxy—seven to two they decide to forget it—except that someone aboard is told to watch him and report suspicious behavior. But the real beauty of it is that the job carries a BuSecurity cost charge."
"Pay, do you think that Security has agents in this vessel I don't know about?"
"Skipper, what do you think?"
"Mmm . . . I don't know—but if I were Chief of Security I would have! Confound it, if I lift a civilian from here to the Rim, that'll be reported too—no matter what I log."
"Shouldn't be surprised, sir."
"Get out of here! I'll see if the lad will buy it." He flipped a switch. "Eddie!" Instead of sending for Thorby, Brisby directed the Surgeon to examine him, since it was pointless to pressure him to enlist without determining whether or not he could. Medical-Major Stein, accompanied by Medical-Captain Krishnamurti, reported to Brisby before lunch.
"Well?"
"No physical objection, Skipper. I'll let the Psych Officer speak for himself."
"All right. By the way, how old is he?"
"He doesn't know."
"Yes, yes," Brisby agreed impatiently, "but how old do you think he is?"
Dr. Stein shrugged. "What's his genetic picture? What environment? Any age-factor mutations? High or low gravity planet? Planetary metabolic index? He could be as young as ten standard years, as old as thirty, on physical appearance. I can assign a fictional adjusted age, on the assumption of no significant mutations and Terra-equivalent environment—an unjustified assumption until they build babies with data plates —an adjusted age of not less than fourteen standard years, not more than twenty-two."
"Would an adjusted age of eighteen fit?"
"That's what I said."
"Okay, make it just under that—minority enlistment."
"There's a tattoo on him," Dr. Krishnamurti offered, "which might give a clue. A slave mark."
"The deuce you say!" Colonel Brisby reflected that his follow-up despatch to "X" Corps was justified. "Dated?"
"Just a manumission—a Sargonese date which fits his story. The mark is a factor's mark. No date."
"Too bad. Well, now that he is clear with Medical, I'll send for him."
"Colonel."
"Eh? Yes, Kris?"
"I cannot recommend enlistment."
"Huh? He's as sane as you are."
"Surely. But he is a poor risk."
"Why?"
"I interviewed subject under light trance this morning. Colonel, did you ever keep a dog?"
"No. Not many where I come from."
"Very useful laboratory animals, they parallel many human characteristics. Take a puppy, abuse him, kick him, mistreat him—he'll revert to feral carnivore. Take his litter brother, pet him, talk to him, let him sleep with you, but train him—he's a happy, well-behaved house pet. Take another from that same litter, pet him on even days and kick him on odd days. You'll have him so confused that he'll be ruined for either role; he can't survive as a wild animal and he doesn't understand what is expected of a pet. Pretty soon he won't eat, he won't sleep, he can't control his functions; he just cowers and shivers."
"Hmm . . . do you psychologists do such things often?"
"I never have. But it's in the literature . . . and this lad's case parallels it. He's undergone a series of traumatic experiences in his formative years, the latest of which was yesterday. He's confused and depressed. Like that dog, he may snarl and bite at any time. He ought not to be exposed to new pressures; he should be cared for where he can be given psychotherapy."
"Phooey!"
The psychological officer shrugged. Colonel Brisby added, "I apologize, Doctor. But I know something about this case, with all respect to your training. This lad has been in good environment the past couple of years." Brisby recalled the farewell he had unwillingly witnessed. "And before that, he was in the hands of Colonel Richard Baslim. Heard of him?"
"I know his reputation."
"If there is any fact I would stake my ship on, it is that Colonel Baslim would never ruin a boy. Okay, so the kid has had a rough time. But he has also been succored by one of the toughest, sanest, most humane men ever to wear our uniform. You bet on your dogs; I'll back Colonel Richard Baslim. Now . . . are you advising me not to enlist him?"
The psychologist hesitated. Brisby said, "Well?"
Major Stein interrupted. "Take it easy, Kris; I'm overriding you."
Brisby said, "I want a straight answer, then I'll decide."
Dr. Krishnamurti said slowly, "Suppose I record my opinions but state that there are no certain grounds for refusing enlistment?"
"Why?"
"Obviously you want to enlist this boy. But if he gets into trouble—well, my endorsement could get him a medical discharge instead of a sentence. He's had enough bad breaks."
Colonel Brisby clapped him on the shoulder. "Good boy, Kris! That's all, gentlemen."
Thorby spent an unhappy night. The master-at-arms billeted him in senior P.O.s quarters and he was well treated, but embarrassingly aware of the polite way in which those around him did not stare at his gaudy Sisu dress uniform. Up till then he had been proud of the way Sisu's dress stood out; now he was learning painfully that clothing has its proper background. That night he was conscious of snores around him . . . strangers . . . fraki—and he yearned to be back among People, where he was known, understood, recognized.
He tossed on a harder bed than he was used to and wondered who would get his own?
He found himself wondering whether anyone had ever claimed the hole he still thought of as "home." Would they repair the door? Would they keep it clean and decent the way Pop liked? What would they do with Pop's leg?
Asleep, he dreamt of Pop and of Sisu, all mixed up. At last, with Grandmother shortened and a raider bearing down, Pop whispered, "No more bad dreams, Thorby. Never again, son. Just happy dreams."
He slept peacefully then—and awoke in this forbidding place with gabbling fraki all around him. Breakfast was substantial but not up to Aunt Athena's high standards; however he was not hungry.
After breakfast he was quietly tasting his misery when he was required to undress and submit to indignities. It was his first experience with medical men's offhand behavior with human flesh—he loathed the poking and prodding.
When the Commanding Officer sent for him Thorby was not even cheered by seeing the man who knew Pop. This room was where he had had to say a last "good-business" to Father; the thoughts lingering there were not good.
He listened listlessly while Brisby explained. He woke up a little when he understood that he was being offered status—not much, he gathered. But status. The fraki had status among themselves. It had never occurred to him that fraki status could matter even to fraki.
"You don't have to," Colonel Brisby concluded, "but it will make simpler the thing Col
onel Baslim wanted me to do—find your family, I mean. You would like that, wouldn't you?"
Thorby almost said that he knew where his Family was. But he knew what the Colonel meant: his own sib, whose existence he had never quite been able to imagine. Did he really have blood relatives somewhere?
"I suppose so," he answered slowly. "I don't know."
"Mmm . . ." Brisby wondered what it was like to have no frame to your picture. "Colonel Baslim was anxious to have me locate your family. I can handle it easier if you are officially one of us. Well? It's guardsman third class . . . thirty credits a month, all you can eat and not enough sleep. And glory. A meager amount."
Thorby looked up. "This is the same Fam—service my Pop—Colonel Baslim, you call him—was in? He really was?"
"Yes. Senior to what you will be. But the same service. I think you started to say 'family.' We like to think of the Service as one enormous family. Colonel Baslim was one of the more distinguished members of it."
"Then I want to be adopted."
"Enlisted."
"Whatever the word is."
CHAPTER 16
Fraki weren't bad when you got to know them.
They had their secret language, even though they thought they talked Interlingua. Thorby added a few dozen verbs and a few hundred nouns as he heard them; after that he tripped over an occasional idiom. He learned that his light-years as a trader were respected, even though the People were considered odd. He didn't argue; fraki couldn't know better.
H.G.C. Hydra lifted from Hekate, bound for the Rim worlds. Just before jump a money order arrived accompanied by a supercargo's form which showed the draft to be one eighty-third of Sisu's appreciation from Jubbulpore to Hekate—as if, thought Thorby, he were a girl being swapped. It was an uncomfortably large sum and Thorby could find no entry charging him interest against a capital share of the ship—which he felt should be there for proper accounting; it wasn't as if he had been born in the ship. Life among the People had made the beggar boy conscious of money in a sense that alms never could—books must balance and debts must be paid.
He wondered what Pop would think of all that money. He felt easier when he learned that he could deposit it with the Paymaster.
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