Starman Jones (20 page)

“Oh, brother! What did he say?”

“What could he say? He could order me in writing and I could accept in writing, with my objection to the orders entered in the log—and his neck is out a yard. Which left him his choice of putting you back on the list, asking the Captain to split it with him, or turning his cap around and relieving himself for the next few weeks. With Kovak laid up it didn’t leave him much choice. You heard about Kovak?”

“Yes. Say, what was that?” Max glanced over where Noguchi was loafing at the computer and lowered his voice. “Mutiny?”

Kelly’s eyes grew round. “Why, as I understand it, sir, Kovak slipped and fell down a companionway.”

“Oh. Like that, huh?”

“That’s what it says in the log.”

“Hmm…well, I guess I had better relieve you. What’s the dope?”

They were in orbit under power for the nearby G-type star; the orders were entered in the Captain’s order book…in Simes’ handwriting but with Captain Blaine’s signature underneath. To Max it looked shaky, as if the Old Man had signed it under emotional stress. Kelly had already placed them in the groove. “Have we given up trying to find out where we are?” Max asked.

“Oh, no. Orders are to spend as much time as routine permits on it. But I’ll lay you seven to two you don’t find anything. Max, this is somewhere else entirely.”

“Don’t give up. How do you know?”

“I feel it.”

Nevertheless, Max spent the watch “fishing.” But with no luck. Spectrograms, properly taken and measured, are to stars what fingerprints are to men; they can be classified and comparisons made with those on file which are most nearly similar. While he found many which matched fairly closely with catalogued spectra, there was always the difference that makes one identical twin not quite like his brother.

Fifteen minutes before the end of the watch, he stopped and made sure that he was ready to be relieved. While waiting he thought about the shenanigan Kelly had pulled to get him back on duty. Good old Kelly! He knew Kelly well enough to know that he must not thank him; to do so would be to attribute to the Chief Computerman a motive which was “improper”—just wink the other eye and remember it.

Simes stomped in five minutes past the hour. He said nothing but looked over the log and records of observations Max had made. Max waited several minutes while growing more and more annoyed. At last he said, “Are you ready to relieve me, sir?”

“All in good time. I want to see first what you’ve loused up this time.” Max kept his mouth shut. Simes pointed at the log where Max had signed it followed by ‘C.O.o/W.’ “That’s wrong, to start with. Add ‘under instruction.’”

Max breathed deeply. “Whose instruction, sir?”

“Mine.”

Max hesitated only momentarily before answering, “No, sir. Not unless you are present during my watch to supervise me.”

“Are you defying me?”

“No, sir. But I’ll take written orders on that point…entered in the log.”

Simes closed the log book and looked him slowly up and down. “Mister, if we weren’t short-handed you wouldn’t be on watch. You aren’t ready for a top watch—and it’s my opinion that you won’t ever be.”

“If that’s the way you feel, sir, I’d just as lief go back to chartsman. Or steward’s mate.”

“That’s where you belong!” Simes’ voice was almost a scream. Noguchi had hung around after Lundy had relieved him; they both looked up, then turned their heads away.

Max made no effort to keep his answer private. “Very good, sir. Will you relieve me? I’ll go tell the First Officer that I am surrendering my temporary appointment and reverting to my permanent billet.”

Max expected a blast. But Simes made a visible effort to control himself and said almost quietly, “See here, Jones, you don’t have the right attitude.”

Max thought to himself, “What have I got to lose?” Aloud he said, “You’re the one who doesn’t have the right attitude, sir.”

“Eh? What’s that?”

“You’ve been riding me ever since I came to work in the Hole. You’ve never bothered to give me any instruction and you’ve found fault with everything I did. Since my probationary appointment, it’s been four times worse. You came to my room and told me that you were opposed to my appointment, that you didn’t want me…”

“You can’t prove that!”

“I don’t have to. Now you tell me that I’m not fit to stand the watch you’ve just required me to stand. You’ve made it plain that you will never recommend me for permanent appointment, so obviously I’m wasting my time. I’ll go back to the Purser’s gang and do what I can there. Now, will you relieve me, sir?”

“You’re insubordinate.”

“No, sir, I am not. I have spoken respectfully, stating facts. I have requested that I be relieved—my watch was over a good half hour ago—in order that I may see the First Officer and revert to my permanent billet. As allowed by the rules of both guilds,” Max added.

“I won’t let you.”

“It’s my option, sir. You have no choice.”

Simes’ face showed that he indeed had no choice. He remained silent for some time, then said more quietly, “Forget it. You’re relieved. Be back up here at eight o’clock.”

“Not so fast, sir. You have stated publicly that I am not competent to take the watch. Therefore, I can’t accept the responsibility.”

“Confound it! What are you trying to do? Blackmail me?”

Max agreed in his mind that such was about it, but he answered, “I wouldn’t say so, sir. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Well—I suppose you are competent to stand this sort of watch. There isn’t anything to do, actually.”

“Very good, sir. Will you kindly log the fact?”

“Huh?”

“In view of the circumstances, sir, I insist on the letter of the rules and ask you to log it.”

Simes swore under his breath, then grabbed the stylus and wrote quickly. He swung the log book around. “There!”

Max read: “M. Jones is considered qualified to stand a top watch in space, not involving anomaly, (s) R. Simes, Astrogator.”

Max noted the reservation, the exception that would allow Simes to keep him from ever reaching permanent status. But Simes had stayed within the law. Besides, he admitted to himself, he didn’t want to leave the Worry gang. He comforted himself with the thought that since they were all lost together it might never matter what Simes recommended.

“Quite satisfactory, sir.”

Simes grabbed the book. “Now get out. See that you’re back here on time.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Max could not refrain from having the last word, standing up to Simes had gone to his head. “Which reminds me, sir: will you please relieve me on time after this?”

“
What?
”

“Under the law a man can’t be worked more than four hours out of eight, except for a logged emergency.”

“Go below!”

Max went below, feeling both exultant and sick. He had no taste for fights, never had; they left him with a twisted lump inside. He burst into his room, and almost fell over Sam.

“Sam!”

“The same. What’s eating you, boy? You look like the goblins had been chasing you.”

Max flopped on his bunk and sighed. “I feel that way, too.” He told Sam about the row with Simes.

Sam nodded approval. “That’s the way to deal with a jerk like that—insult him until he apologizes. Give him lumps enough times and he’ll eat out of your hand.”

Max shook his head dolefully. “Today was fun, but he’ll find some way to take it out on me. Oh, well!”

“Not so, my lad. Keep your nose clean and wait for the breaks. If a man is stupid and bad-tempered—which he is, I sized him up long ago—if you are smart and keep
your
temper, eventually he leaves himself wide open. That’s a law of nature.”

“Maybe.” Max swung around and sat up. “Sam—you’re wearing your shield again.”

Sam stuck his thumb under the badge of office of Chief Master-at-Arms. “Didn’t you notice?”

“I guess I was spinning too fast. Tell me about it—did the First decide to forgive and forget?”

“Not precisely. You know about that little excitement last night?”

“Well, yes. But I understand that officially nothing happened?”

“Correct. Mr. Walther knows when to pull his punches.”

“What did happen? I heard you cracked some skulls together.”

“Nothing much. And not very hard. I’ve seen ships where it would have been regarded as healthy exercise to settle your dinner. Some of the lads got scared and that made them lap up happy water. Then a couple with big mouths and no forehead got the inspiration that it was their right to talk to the Captain about it. Being sheep, they had to go in a flock. If they had run into an officer, he could have sent them back to bed with no trouble. But my unfortunate predecessor happened to run into them and told them to disperse. Which they didn’t. He’s not the diplomatic type, I’m afraid. So he hollered, ‘Hey, Rube!’ in his quaint idiom and the fun began.”

“But where do you figure? You came to help him?”

“Hardly. I was standing at a safe distance, enjoying the festivities, when I noticed Mr. Walther’s bedroom slippers coming down the ladder. Whereupon I waded in and was prominent in the ending. The way to win a medal, Max, is to make sure the general is watching, then act.”

Max grinned. “Somehow I hadn’t figured you for the hero type.”

“Heaven forbid! But it worked out. Mr. Walther sent for me, ate me out, told me that I was a scoundrel and a thief and a nogoodnick—then offered me my shield back if I could keep order below decks. I looked him in the eye, a sincere type look, and told him I would do my best. So here I am.”

“I’m mighty pleased, Sam.”

“Thanks. Then he looked me in the eye and told me that he had reason to suspect—as if he didn’t know!—that there might be a still somewhere in the ship. He ordered me to find it, and then destroy any liquor I found.”

“So? How did Mr. Gee take that?”

“Why, Fats and I disassembled his still and took the pieces back to stores, then we locked up his stock in trade. I pleaded with him not to touch it until the ship was out of its mess. I explained that I would break both his arms if he did.”

Max chuckled. “Well, I’m glad you’re back in good graces. And it was nice of you to come tell me about it.” He yawned. “Sorry. I’m dead for sleep.”

“I’ll vamoose. But I didn’t come to tell you, I came to ask a question.”

“Huh? What?”

“Have you seen the Skipper lately?”

Max thought back. “Not since transition. Why?”

“Nor has anyone else. I thought he might be spending his time in the Worry Hole.”

“No. Come to think, he hasn’t been at his table either—at least when I’ve been in the lounge.”

“He’s been eating in his cabin.” Sam stood up. “Very, very interesting. Mmm… I wouldn’t talk about it, Max.”

Simes was monosyllabic when Max relieved him. Thereafter, they had no more words; Simes acted as if Max did not exist except for the brief formalities in relieving. The Captain did not show up in the control room. Several times Max was on the point of asking Kelly about it, but each time decided not to. But there were rumors around the ship—the Captain was sick, the Captain was in a coma, Walther and the Surgeon had relieved him of duty, the Captain was constantly at his desk, working out a new and remarkable way to get the ship back to where it belonged.

By now it was accepted that the ship was lost, but the time for hysteria had passed; passengers and crew were calm and there seemed to be general consent that the decision to put down around the solar-type star toward which they were headed was the only reasonable decision. They were close enough now that it had been determined that the star did have planets—no G-class star had ever been found to be without planets, but to pick them up on a stereoplate was consoling.

It came to a choice between planet #3 and planet #4. Bolometric readings showed the star to have a surface temperature slightly over 6000° Kelvin, consistent with its spectrum; it was not much larger than Father Sol; calculated surface temperatures for the third and fourth planets gave a probability that the third might be uncomfortably hot whereas number four might be frigid. Both had atmospheres.

A fast hyperboloid swing past both settled the matter. The bolometer showed number three to be too hot and even number four to be tropical. Number four had a moon which the third did not—another advantage for four, for it permitted, by examining the satellite’s period, an easy calculation of its mass; from that and its visible diameter its surface gravity was a matter of substitution in classic Newtonian formula…ninety-three percent of Earth-normal, comfortable and rather low in view of its over ten-thousand-mile diameter. Absorption spectra showed oxygen and several inert gases.

Simes, assisted by Kelly, placed the
Asgard in
a pole-to-pole orbit to permit easy examination—Max, as usual, was left to chew his nails.

The Captain did not come to the control room even to watch this maneuver.

They hung in parking orbit while their possible future home was examined from the control room and stared at endlessly from the lounge. It was in the lounge that Ellie tracked Max down. He had hardly seen her during the approach, being too busy and too tired with a continuous heel-and-toe watch and in the second place with much on his mind that he did not want to have wormed out of him. But, once the orbit was established and power was off, under standard doctrine Simes could permit the watch to be taken by crewmen—which he did and again told Max to stay out of the control room.

Max could not resist the fascination of staring at the strange planet; he crowded into the lounge along with the rest. He was standing back and gazing over heads when he felt his arm grabbed. “Where have you been?”

“Working.” He reached out and caressed Chipsie; the spider puppy leaped to his shoulders and started searching him.

“Hmmmph! You don’t work all the time. Do you know that I sent
nine
notes to your room this past week?”

Max knew. He had saved them but had not answered. “Sorry.”

“Sorry he says. Never mind—Max, tell me all about it.” She turned and looked out. “What have they named it? Is there anybody on it? Where are we going to land?
When
are we going to land? Max, aren’t you
excited?
”