“Yes,” agrees the doctor. “But I can only lose one at a time—”
Korie looks at him sharply. Panyovsky amends the thought. “I don’t envy your job, Jon—you have no margin for error. You can’t afford to be wrong. Ever.” He finishes his drink hastily. “Want another?”
Korie shakes his head. Panyovsky caps the bottle. “Well,” he says, “I have a body to wrap up for burial. I’ll have to autopsy him first—” He stands, his motion is slow, almost tired.
At the sound of the door, he turns. Korie looks up as Brandt enters. The captain looks from one to the other. “What’s the matter?”
“We’ve had a death in the engine room.”
Brandt goes pale. “Oh, God, no—who?”
“MacHeath,” says Korie. “He fell into the generator cage—”
“How? He’s a console man—”
“Leen had him on the ‘monkey crew’ so he could monitor the phase adapters.”
Brandt sags with the weight of it; he turns to Panyovsky. “Has the crew been told?”
“No, not yet.”
The captain rubs his chin; his cheeks are unshaven and gray. “Oh, Christ,” he says. The thought of breaking the news—
He looks at Korie. “You want to tell them?”
The first officer nods slightly. “I was thinking that might be best.”
“All right—I suppose there’ll have to be an investigation. It happened during a drill?”
“Yes. We’ve got the tapes.”
“All right. Uh—I guess I’d better get reports from you and Leen—and from any witnesses.”
“That’ll be the whole engine room crew.”
“Yes,” says the captain, his manner deepening. His eyes seem to focus on something far away. “MacHeath was a good man.”
Korie and Panyovsky look in different directions; neither replies.
Brandt stares at the door behind the doctor. “He’s in there now?”
“Uh huh.” Panyovsky.
His gaze still on the door, Brandt says, “You’ll take care of everything?”
“Yes. I still have to—autopsy him, and then I’ll put him in a stasis box.”
“I was thinking,” says the captain, “of burial at space.”
Out of Brandt’s sight, Korie catches Panyovsky’s eye and shakes his head slightly. Panyovsky sees it and nods with a flicker of his wide-set eyes. To Brandt, he says, “I don’t think that’d be good idea.”
“Why not?”
“—Uh, I’m thinking of the crew. It might not have a good effect on them. I’d rather wait until we return to base.”
“I agree,” puts in Korie. “For one thing, it’d mean dropping out of warp—and that’d mean stopping the search.”
Brandt turns to look at him. “I should think you’d be willing to abandon that by now.”
“I still have four days left in which to find that bogie—”
Brandt doesn’t reply. He shakes his head, almost in pity at Korie’s stubborn persistence. “All right,” he says. To the doctor, “You might sound out the men a little and see how they’d feel about a burial after the search concludes, but before we start back. Otherwise—we’ll take him home.”
“You might want to check,” says Korie, “and see if he has a will on file. There might be something in there.”
“Yes, there might. I’ll have to do that.”
“Also—”
They are interrupted by a beep from the communicator. “Sick bay, this is Leen.”
The three men exchange a glance; Korie steps to the wall. “Yes, Chief?”
“Uh—” Recognizing the first officer’s voice, Leen hesitates. “Sir, I called to find out about MacHeath’s condition. Is he all right?”
“Chief—” Korie’s tone is careful. “—MacHeath died just a little while ago.”
There is an audible gasp from the intercom.
Korie continues quickly, “Ah, don’t say anything to anyone yet. We were just about to announce it to the crew, and it would be better if you let us do it.”
The intercom remains silent, except for a sound like someone sobbing or choking. Korie looks to Panyovsky, helplessly.
“Sir—” Another voice on the intercom. “What’s the matter with Chief Leen?”
Panyovsky steps up. “Why? What happened?”
“He just sort of crumpled up—”
“I’ll be right down.” He reaches for his bag. “Mike, don’t let anyone else in here till I get back.”
“I’m going up to the bridge,” says Korie. “I’ll make the announcement from there.”
“Hold off till I find out about Leen,” says Panyovsky, then darts out the door.
“Right,” Korie calls after him. To Brandt, “Do you need me for anything else, sir?”
“No. You go on up to the bridge. I’ll—I’m going to stay here for a while.”
“Yes, sir.” Korie is already on his way.
—leaving Brandt, staring at the door to the other room. (My God, what have we done?)
TWENTY-THREE
It isn’t power that corrupts; it’s the use of it. After a while, a person loses his perspective.
—GUNTER WHITE,
Mechanics of Government
Channel B, the all-talk channel:
“Attention, all hands. This is First Officer Korie. About an hour ago, an accident occurred in the engine room, interrupting the drill then in progress. Crewman Randall MacHeath, while on duty on the ‘monkey crew,’ caught his cable in the generator cage. He was pulled from the webbing and fell more than twenty feet onto a stanchion.” Korie pauses, carefully he chooses his next words. “MacHeath’s injuries were severe; so severe that Medical Officer Panyovsky was unable to revive him. He was pronounced dead just a short while ago.” Again, he pauses.
“There will be a memorial service later this evening. We will hold it in the ship’s lounge and broadcast it through the PA system for those of you who will be on station at that time.
“Let me add that both Captain Brandt and I share the grief and shock that every member of this crew must be feeling. MacHeath was a good man. It is our decision that we will dedicate this bogie, this kill, to the memory of Crewman MacHeath. It is no longer for us—it is for him.
“Thank you.”
TWENTY-FOUR
If he’s wrong, he’ll be a dead fool—but if he’s right, dammit, he’ll be a hero.
—JACK MACAULEY,
mule skinner for General Custer
Chief Leen is sitting on a bench in the cabin he shares with three other men. Captain Brandt is sitting on a chair opposite him. “Are you feeling better now, Chief?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—break up like that.”
“It’s all right. It’s understandable.”
Leen looks around, as if familiarizing himself with his own room. His eyes are red-rimmed and move nervously, at last stopping on the communicator panel. “That didn’t help any,” he says. “His announcement, I mean.”
“He meant well,” soothes Brandt.
Leen shakes his head—insistent and quick. His reddish-brown hair is thick and wavy. “Uh-uh—uh-uh. If he’d meant well, he wouldn’t have been driving us so hard. Drills and drills and more drills—” He focuses fiercely on the captain. “You know, that’s what killed MacHeath—those drills. If hadn’t been so tired—”
“Chief, don’t think about it. We can’t change the past—” Brandt cuts himself off abruptly; the words sound so banal.
“We ought to try to change the future though.” He meets the captain’s eyes.
“Of course,” says Brandt. “That’s what gives us hope—the thought that we can make tomorrow better.”
“That’s not what I mean—”
“What do you mean?”
“Stop him—stop Korie. Stop the drills and let’s go home. This is mad, this search is—futile. It’s already killed one man. We’re not
going to find that bogie; he must be light years from here by now—”
Brandt doesn’t reply. He shifts his position in the chair, looks off beyond the walls, the floor—“Chief, I don’t know—you don’t know either. There are—aspects—to the situation—”
“You’re still the captain, aren’t you?” Leen’s question is cutting.
Brandt stiffens. “What do you mean by that? Of course, I’m the captain. The captain. But I gave Korie a promise—I told him he could have ten days to search—” He looks at Leen; the chief’s eyes are bitter and accusing. Brandt adds hastily, “I don’t think we’ll find it; we can afford the few extra days of patrol—”
“At least make him stop the drills—he’s killing us—” And then he realizes the truth of what he has said and lapses into moody silence.
“I’ll talk to him,” Brandt promises. “I’ll see what I can do, but—I did say he could have the time and that means I have to let him maintain battle-readiness too—”
“Bullshit!” Leen blazes suddenly. “You’re the captain! You can do anything you want to—you can change your mind if you want. Korie’s becoming the Ahab of the great wide nothingness—he’s using this ship and everyone in it for one thing only: to chase that bogie—and you’re just as bad as he is for letting him get away with it! You’re supposed to be the captain—”
Brandt stands, cutting off Leen’s bitter fury. “Chief, you’re right about one thing—I am the captain—”
“Then why don’t you start acting like one, goddammit?” Leen is close to tears again; his voice catches and breaks.
Brandt answers gently, “I have to do what’s right by this ship—but I also have to do what’s right by the war and by the High Command—”
“But you’re not—,” Leen sobs. “You’re not doing it—Korie is. He’s acting in your name. Do you approve of what he’s doing? Do you?”
Slowly, Brandt says, “No, of course not—but—”
“Then, stop him!”
“—I can’t stop him! It goes in the log. Every time we go back to base they check that log—and if there’s anything in it they don’t understand, they investigate—and—”
“Do they know that Korie’s running this ship?”
“They know that Korie’s been given as much responsibility as he can handle; they know that he’s responsible for putting this ship back into shape; they know that he’s acting under my approval—if I suddenly go back on myself, they’re going to want to know why. It would—it would look bad for Korie and—”
“You’ve let him get out of hand,” Leen accuses. “You can’t control him anymore, can you?”
“Yes, I can. I’m the captain! Korie used to be a fine first officer, then this business with the bogie began and everything seems to have fallen apart. This ship was running so well before—”
“We never had any contact with the enemy before—”
“—But we’re in this situation now, we have to let it—”
“No, we don’t!”
“It’s only for a few days more—”
“A few days, a few years—what’s the difference? You’re still letting him get away with it—”
“No, I’m not! I’m the captain. I have to think of my ship, my crew, my men—I have to think of the High Command; I have to think of—”
“You’re right—you have to think of your ship. Save it from Korie!”
“I am thinking of my ship! I have to save it—but it’s not in any danger, is it, Chief? That bogie isn’t there anymore! So there’s no danger to us—we can let Korie have his search patterns and it looks good on the record. We have to do something to look good—”
“You’re afraid of him too,” Leen says suddenly.
Brandt is abruptly quiet.
“It’s true, isn’t it—?”
Brandt’s reaction confirms the accusation. He opens his mouth. He closes it. He looks away. He looks at the floor, the ceiling, the walls—
Leen’s gaze is shocked. “I knew it . . .” he breathes. “The crew kept saying it—but I didn’t believe it. I didn’t want to—”
The captain’s eyes are unfocused. He forces himself back to reality. He tries to force himself back—
“Captain—” Leen stands. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it. I—I—” But it’s too late; the pieces are too widely scattered.
Brandt mumbles something. “I’m the captain. I’ll pretend you didn’t say it. I’ll pretend—you didn’t—” He turns abruptly, fumbles at the door. “—didn’t say it—” He lurches through it; it slides shut behind him.
Leen stares after him with unseeing eyes. “—Damn them! Damn them! Bloody damned son of a bitch—” he murmurs. “—Ass-licking, brown-nosing, hypocritical, shit-headed fools—damn them all!”
He goes on like that for a long time.
TWENTY-FIVE
MEMO
FROM: Base Admiral Farrel
TO:Vice Admiral Harshlie
Joe,
I have just finished reading your report on the Burlingame incident. It is very disturbing.
Naturally, we will want a full investigation. I will appreciate seeing tapes of the testimony as well as a more detailed report from you. Please implement this as soon as possible.
We are fortunate in one respect, in that the situation was not worse—thanks to the quick thinking of at least one of the officers on the ship. As you suggest, the man should be commended.
I agree with you that the incident should be hushed up as much as possible—it would not be good for general morale and the situation at home is such that an incident like this would not go down well at all.
By the way, please circulate a memo to all other F-class ships concerning the mechanical details of this incident. Point out the precautions necessary to prevent a repetition. For God’s sake, once is enough.
Stephen
TWENTY-SIX
I am suggesting that just as we psychoanalyze individuals to rid them of their neuroses, we do the same on a global level—that we psychoanalyze the characteristics and behavior patterns of the human species. I am suggesting that Homo sapiens needs to become self-aware as a race.
If we don’t the alternative is to rattle down through the cage of history, continuing to enact only our self-destructive games of blind aggression: the little aggressions of individual against individual, the medium-sized aggressions of group against group, the big aggressions of nation against nation, the massive aggressions of planet against planet—until finally, the race shatters and destroys itself in genetic chaos because it was too mixed in its schizoid games to look up and see that God is not a condition that all humans are born with, but one that all humans must aspire to earn.
—JARLES “FREE FALL” FERRIS,
Electric Philosophies
Korie sits alone in the galley; his usual place is in the corner, away from the noise and clatter of the serving counter. Generally the crew leaves him alone, keeps to the other side of the room as much as possible—
—except that this morning, Crewman Wolfe is coming back on duty; his one week’s restriction to quarters is ended. When he comes into the galley, it is with a smugness that he makes no effort to conceal; he fills his tray and purposely chooses a place at Korie’s table. With a smirk, he calls out, “Good morning, sir.” Across the room, one or two of the men watching him shake their heads.
Korie looks up at Wolfe and a sour frown crosses his features, but he returns his attention to the cup of coffee in front of him. Wolfe snickers, half to himself, half for the benefit of his audience. He slides his tray noisily across the table, makes a great production out of thumping and banging the various condiment containers; his presence is gratingly obvious.
Every bite Wolfe takes, every mouthful of food, crunches loud and annoying—it is as if Wolfe is saying, “You can’t touch me, sir; you can’t touch me.” He slurps at his coffee and he chews loudly on his toast.
Korie looks at him again. His expression is strained,
almost on the verge of annoyance—anger. Wolfe returns the glance’ expectant, mocking, smug—
It is a conversation with words. Wolfe is saying, I’m here, Mr. Korie, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
And Mr. Korie is answering with his look, You’d better watch yourself, Wolfe—you’d better not push too hard.
And Wolfe is replying, reiterating, But I’m immune to you, now. Rogers won’t talk and I’m no longer confined to quarters and there’s nothing you can do about it. And he says it all with a look and a smirk.
Abruptly Korie puts his coffee cup down, almost a little too hard. He stands and brushes at his tunic. For a moment, he looks down at the other, “What board are you going to be on, Wolfe?”
“Power six, sir.”
Coldly, Korie says, “I’ll be watching for it.” He turns and disappears into the ship’s head.
“You do that, sir.” Wolfe breathes to himself, and then wonders, Now why did I do that? He wasn’t bothering me any. He turns around and looks for the reaction of his shipmates, but at the moment, they seem to be looking elsewhere. He returns his attention to his food.
The clunk of a tray makes him look up. Rogers is just sitting down at the other end of the table. Wolfe leers sardonically. “Hey, little boy—” he calls. “How ya doin’? How’s your back?”
Rogers ignores him.
Wolfe calls, a little louder, “I hear you’ve been getting awfully chummy with Mr. Korie. I thought I told you that wasn’t a good idea.”
“No,” says Rogers, not looking up. “I’m not.”
“I didn’t hear you—what was that?”
Rogers concentrates on his soup.
“Hey Rogers—I’m talking to you.”
“I’m listening.” Another mouthful.
“But you’re not answering—”
“Hey, Wolfe!” Erlich, from the other side of the room.
Wolfe looks up. “Yeah?”
“You’re awfully loud.”
“I didn’t realize you were listening.”
“I’m not—you’re making too much noise.”
“I’ll lower my voice.”
“You’d do better to shut up.”
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