"That was Relke, the damn fool."
Lije smote his forehead. "Look at Suds! They tole him! They went an tole him, Joe. We'll nevah get back in that ship now."
The pusher watched the four figures on the plain. They were just standing there. Brodanovitch had stopped gesticulating. For a few seconds he seemed frozen. His head turned slowly as he looked up at the rocket. He took three steps toward it, then stopped.
"He gonna have apoplexy, thass what he gonna have." Brodanovitch turned slowly. He gave the S&R men a blank look, then broke into a run toward his tractor. "I'd better climb out," Joe said.
He met the engineer beside the command runabout. Suds's face was a livid mask behind the faceplate. "Get in," he snapped at the pusher.
As soon as they were inside, he barked, "Drive us to Crater City."
"Slow down, Suds."
"Joe. That ship. Damn brothel. Out to fleece the camp." "So what're you going to do in Crater City?"
"Tell Parkeson, what else?"
"And what's the camp going to be doing while you're gone?"
That one made him pause. Finally he shook his head. "Drive, Joe."
Novotny flipped the switch and glanced at the gauges. "You haven't got enough oxygen in this bug to last out the trip."
"Then we'll get another one."
"Better take a minute to think it over, Suds. You're all revved up. What the hell can Parkeson do?"
"What can he do? What can—migawd, Joe!" Suds choked.
"Well?"
"He can get that ship out of here, he can have those women interned."
"How? Suppose they refuse to budge. Who appointed Parkeson king of creation? Hell, he's only our boss, Suds. The moon's open to any nation that wants to send a ship, or to any corporation that can get a clearance. The W.P. decided that a long time ago."
"But it's illegal—those women, I mean!"
"How do you know? Maybe their racket's legal in Algiers. That's where you told me they had clearance from, didn't you? And if you're thinking about the Schneider-Volkov Act, it just applies to the Integrated Projects, not wildcat teams."
Brodanovitch sat silent for a few moments, his throat working. He passed a shaky hand over his eyes. "Joe, we've got to keep discipline. Why can't I ever make the men understand that? On a moon project, it's discipline or die. You know that, Joe."
"Sure I know it. You know it. Parkeson knows it. The First Minister of the Space Ministry knows it. But the men don't know it, and they never will. They don't know what the word 'discipline' means, and it's no good trying to tell them. It's an overseer's word. It means your outfit's working for you like your own arms and legs. One brain and one body. When it cracks, you've just got a loose handful of stray men. No coordination. You can see it, but they can't see it. 'Discipline' is just a dirty word in the ranks, Suds."
"Joe, what'll I do?"
"It's your baby, not mine. Give it first aid. Then talk to Parkeson later, if you want to."
Suds sat silent for half a minute, then: "Drive back to the main wagon."
Novotny started the motors. "What are you going to do?"
"Announce Code Red, place the ship off limits, put an armed guard on it, and hope the Crater City crew gets that telephone circuit patched up quick. That's all I can do."
"Then let me get a safe distance away from you before you do it."
"You think it'll cause trouble?"
"Good Lord, Suds, use your head. You've got a campful of men who haven't been close to a dame in months and years, even to talk to. They're sick, they're scared, they're fed-up, they want to go home. The Party's got them bitter, agitated. I'd hate to be the guy who puts those women off limits."
"What would you do?"
"I'd put the screws on the shift that's on duty. I'd work hell out of the crews that are supposed to be on the job. I'd make a horrible -example out of the first man to goof off. But first I'd tell the off-duty team-pushers they can take their crews over to that ship, one crew at a time, and in an orderly manner."
"What? And be an accomplice? Hell, no!"
"Then do it your own way. Don't ask me."
Novotny parked the runabout next to the boss-wagon. "Mind if I use your buggy for awhile, Suds?" he asked. "I left mine back there, and I've got to pick up my men."
"Go ahead, but get them back here—fast."
"Sure, Suds."
He backed the runabout out again and drove down to B-shift's sleep-wagon. He parked again and used the air-lock phone. "Beasley, Benet, the rest of you—come on outside."
Five minutes later they trooped out through the lock. "What's the score, Joe?"
"The red belts are ahead, that's all I know."
"Come on, you'll find out."
"Sleep! I haven't had no sleep since— Say! You takin' us over to that ship, Joe?"
"That's the idea."
"YAYHOO!" Beasley. danced up and down. "Joe, we love ya!"
"Cut it. This is once-and-once-only. You're going once, and you're not going again."
"Who says?"
"Novotny says."
"But why?" Benet wailed.
"What did you say?"
"I said 'why!' "
"OK. I'll tell you why. Brodanovitch is going to put the 'ship off limits. If I get you guys in under the wire, you've got no gripe later on—when Suds hangs out the big No."
"Joe, that's chicken."
Novotny put on the brakes. "Get out and walk back, Benet."
"Joe—!"
"Benet."
"Look, I didn't mean anything."
Novotny paused. If Brodanovitch was going to try to do things the hard way, he'd lose control of his own men unless he gave them. loose rein for a while first—keeping them reminded that he still had the reins. But Benet was getting out of hand lately. He had to decide. Now.
"Look at me, Benet."
Benet looked up. Joe smacked him. Benet sat back, looking surprised. He wiped his nose on the back of a glove and looked at the red smear. He wiped it again. The smear was bigger.
"You can stay, Benet, but if you do, I'll bust your hump after we get back. You want it that way?"
Benet looked at the rocket; he looked at Joe; he looked at the rocket. "Yeah. We'll see who does the busting. Let's go."
"All right, but do you see any other guys taking their teams over?"
"No."
"But you think you're getting a chicken deal."
"Yeah."
The pusher drove on, humming to himself. As long as he could keep them alternately loving him and hating him, everything was secure. Then he was Mother. Then they didn't stop to think or rationalize. They just reacted to Mother. It was easy to handle men reacting, but it wasn't so easy to handle men thinking. Novotny liked it the easy way, especially during a heavy meteor fall.
"It is of no importance to me," said Madame d'Annecy, "if you are the commandant of the whole of space, M'sieur. You wish entrance, I must ask you to contribute thees small fee. It is not in my nature to become unpleasant like thees, but you have bawl in my face, M'sieur."
"Look," said Brodanovitch, "I didn't come over here for . . . for what you think I came over here for." His ears reddened. "I don't want a girl, that is."
The madame's prim mouth made a small pink O of sudden understanding. "Ah, M'sieur, I begin to see. You are one of those. But in that I cannot help you. I have only girls."
The engineer choked. He started toward the hatch. A man with a gun slid into his path.
"Permit yourself to be restrained, M'sieur."
"There are four men in there that are supposed to be on the job, and I intend to get them. And the others too, while I'm at it."
"Is it that you have lost your boy friend, perhaps?"
Brodanovitch croaked incomprehensibly for a moment, then collapsed onto a seat beside the radar table that Madame d'Annecy was using for an accounting desk. "I'm no fairy," he said.
"I am pleased to hear it, M'sieur. I was beginning to pity you. Now if you will pl
ease sign the sight draft, so that we may telecast it—"
"I am not paying twelve hundred dollars just to get my men out of there!"
"I do not haggle, M'sieur. The price is fixed."
"Call them down here!"
"It cannot be done. They pay for two hours, for two hours they stay. Undisturbed."
"All right, let's see the draft."
Madame d'Annecy produced a set of forms from the map case and a small gold fountain pen from her ample bosom. "Your next of kin, M'sieur?" She handed him a blank draft.
"Wait a minute! How did you know where my ac-count—"
"Is it not the correct firm?"
"Yes, but how did you know?" He looked at the serial number on the form, then looked up accusingly. "This is a telecopy form. You have a teletransmitter on board?"
"But of course! We could not risk having payment stopped after services rendered. The funds will be transferred to our account before you leave this ship. I assure you, we are well protected."
"I assure you, you are all going to jail."
Madame d'Annecy threw back her head and laughed heartily. She said something in French to the man at the door, then smiled at the unhappy engineer. "What law prevails here, M'sieur?"
"UCOJE does. Uniform Code of Justice, Extraterrestrial. It's a semi-military—“
"U.N.-based, I believe?"
"Certainly."
"Now I know little of thees matters, but my attorneys would be delighted, I am certain, if you can tell me: which articles of thees UCOJE is to be used for inducing us to be incarcerated?"
"Why . . . Uh . . ." Suds scratched nervously at one corner of his moustache. He glanced at the man with the gun. He gazed forlornly at the sight draft.
"Exactly!" Mme. d'Annecy said brightly. "There have been no women to speak of on the moon since the unfortunate predicament of les en/ants perdus. The moon-born grotesque ones. How could they think to pass laws against thees—thees ancien establishment, thees maison intime—when there are no women, eh M'sieur?"
"But you falsified your papers to get clearance. You must have."
"But no. Our clearance is 'free nation,' not 'world federal.' We are an entertainment troupe, and my government's officials are most lenient in defining 'entertainment.' Chacun a son gout, eh?"
Suds sat breathing heavily. "I can place this ship off limits."
"If you can do dat, if the men do not come"—she shrugged eloquently and spread her hands—"then we will simply move on to another project. There are plenty of others. But do you think thees putting us off limits will make you very popular with your men?"
"I'm not trying to win a popularity contest," Suds wheezed. "I'm trying to finish the last twelve miles of this line before sundown. You've got to get out of here before there's a complete work stoppage."
"Thees project. It is important? Of an urgent nature?"
"There's a new uranium mine in the crater we're building toward. There's a colony there without an independent ecology. It has to be supplied from Copernicus. Right now, they're shooting supplies to them by rocket missile. It's too far to run surface freight without trolley service—or reactor-powered vehicles the size of battleships and expensive. We don't have the facilities to run a fleet of self-powered wagons that far."
"Can they not run on diesel, perhaps?"
"If they carry the oxygen to burn the diesel with, and if everybody in Copernicus agrees to stop breathing the stuff."
"Embarras de choix. I see."
“It's essential that the line be finished before nightfall. If it isn't, that mine colony will have to be shipped back to Copernicus. They can't keep on supplying it by bird. And they can't move out any ore until the trolley is ready to run."
Mme. d'Annecy nodded thoughtfully. "We wish to make the cordial entente with the lunar workers," she murmured. "We do not wish to cause the bouleversement—the disruption. Let us then negotiate, M'sieur."
"I'm not making any deals with you, lady."
"Ah, but such a hard position you take! I was but intending to suggest that you furnish us a copy of your camp's duty roster. If you will do that, Henri will not permit anyone to visit us if he is—how you say?—goofing off. Is it not that simple?"
"I will not be a party to robbery!"
"How is it robbery?"
"Twelve hundred dollars! Pay for two day-hitches. Lunar days. Nearly two months. And you're probably planning to fleece them more than once."
"A bon marche! Our expenses are terrific. Believe me, we expect no profit from this first trip."
"First trip and last trip," Suds grumbled.
"And who has complained about the price? No one so far excepting M'sieur. Look at it thus; it is an investment." She slid one of the forms across the table. "Please to read it, M'sieur."
Suds studied the paper for a moment and began to frown. "Les Folies Lunaires, Incorporated . . . a North African corporation . . . in consideration of the sum of one hundred dollars in hand paid by—who?—Howard Beasley!—aforesaid corporation sells and grants to Howard Beasley . . . one share of common stock!"
"M'sieur! Compose yourself! It is no fraud. Everybody gets a share of stock. It comes out of the twelve hundred. Who knows? Perhaps after a few trips, there will even be dividends. M'sieur? But you look positively ill! Henri, bring brandy for the gentleman."
"So!" he grated. "That's the way it goes, is it? Implicate everybody—nobody squawks."
"But certainly. It is for our own protection, to be sure, but it is really stock."
"Blackmail."
"But no, M'sieur. All is legal."
Henri brought a plastic cup and handed it to him; Suds shook his head.
"Take it. M'sieur. It is real brandy. We could bring only a few bottles, but there is sufficient pure alcohol for the mixing of cocktails."
The small compartment was filled with the delicate perfume of the liquor; Brodanovitch glanced longingly at the plastic cup.
"It is seventy-year-old Courvoisier, M'sieur. Very pleasant."
Suds took it reluctantly, dipped it toward Mme. d'Annecy in self-conscious toast, and drained it. He acquired a startled expression; he clucked his tongue experimentally and breathed slowly through his nose.
"Good Lord!" he murmured absently.
Mme. d'Annecy chuckled. "M'sieur has forgotten the little pleasures. It was a shame to gulp it so. Encore, Henri. And one for myself, I think. Take time to enjoy this one, M'sieur." She studied him for a time while Henri was absent. She shook her head and began putting the forms away, leaving out the sight draft and stock agreement which she pushed toward him, raising one inquisitive brow. He gazed expressionlessly at them. Henri returned with the brandy; Madame questioned him in French. He seemed insistently negative for a time, but then seemed to give grudging assent. "Bien!" she said, and turned to Brodanovitch: "M'sieur, it will be necessary only for you to purchase the share of stock. Forget the fee."
"What?" Suds blinked in confusion.
"I said—" The opening of the hatch interrupted her thought. A dazzling brunette in a filmy yellow dress bounced into the compartment, bringing with her a breath of perfume. Suds looked at her and emitted a loud guttural cluck. A kind of glazed incredulity kneaded his face into a mask of shocked granite wearing a supercilious moustache. The girl ignored his presence and bent over the table to chat excitedly in French with Mme. d'Annecy. Suds's eyes seemed to find a mind and will of their own; involuntarily they contemplated the details of her architecture, and found manifest fascination in the way she relieved an itch at the back of one trim calf by rubbing it vigorously with the instep of her other foot while she leaned over the desk and bounced lightly on tiptoe as she spoke.
"M'sieur Brodanovitch, the young lady wishes to know—M'sieur Brodanovitch?—M'sieur!"
"What—? Oh." Suds straightened and rubbed his eyes. "Yes?"
"One of your young men has asked Giselle out for a walk. We have pressure suits, of course. But is it safe to promenade about this area?" She paused.
"M'sieur, please!"
"What?" Suds shook his head. He tore his eyes away from the yellow dress and glanced at a head suddenly thrust in through the hatch. The head belonged to Relke. It saw Brodanovitch and withdrew in haste, but Suds made no sign of recognition. He blinked at Madame again.
"M'sieur, is it safe?"
"What? Oh.' I suppose it is." He gulped his brandy and poured another.
Mme. d'Annecy spoke briefly to the girl, who, after a hasty merci and a nod at Suds went off to join Relke outside. When they were gone, Madame smilingly offered her pen to the engineer. Suds stared at it briefly, shook his head, and helped himself to another brandy. He gulped it and reached for his helmet. La d'Annecy snapped her fingers suddenly and went to a locker near the bulkhead. She came back with a quart bottle.
"M'sieur' will surely accept a small token?" She offered the bottle for his inspection. "It is Mumms 2064, a fine year. Take it, M'sieur. Or do you not care for champagne? It is our only bottle, and what is one bottle of wine for such a crowd? Take it—or would you prefer the brandy?"
Suds blinked at the gift while he fastened his helmet and clamped it. He seemed dazed. She held the bottle out to him and smiled hopefully. Suds accepted it absent-mindedly, nodded at her, and stepped into the airlock. The hatch slid closed.
Mme. d'Annecy started back toward her counting table. The alarm bell burst into a sudden brazen clamor. She looked back. A red warning signal flashed balefully. Henriburst in from the corridor, eyed the bell and the light, then charged toward the airlock. The gauge by the hatch showed zero pressure. He pressed a starter button, and a meter hummed to life. The pressure needle crept upward. The bell and the light continued a frenetic complaint. The motor stopped. Henri glanced at the gauge, then swung open the hatch. "Allons! Ma foi, quelle merde!"
Mme. d'Annecy came to peer around him into the small cubicle. Her subsequent shriek penetrated to the farthest corridors. Suds Brodanovitch had missed his last chance to become a stockholder.
"It wasn't yo' fault, Ma'am," said Lije Henderson a few minutes later as they half-led, half-carried her to her compartment. "He know bettuh than to step outside with that bottle of booze. You didn't know. You couldn' be 'spected to know. But he been heah long enough to know—a man make one mistake, thass all. BLOOIE."
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