by Ron Miller
“Suppose I try it tonight?”
“No. It’ll need both of us and tonight I wouldn’t have the energy to pull a trigger let alone lift a gun. Then, too, you must not take the initiative. You’re just an ordinary spaceman and most space law is devised for your punishment. I’m an officer and to a large extent exempt from the law. I have the full authority of the Patrol behind me.”
“What sort of a crowd is your watch?” asked Judikha after a moment’s thought.
“No two alike—all different, some barely human. A few who are unclassified—maybe even unclassifiable, I’d swear. I’m the only Terrian.”
“My side the same, except Wopple. He’s Udskayan.”
“You’d better not be thinking about mutiny. Forget it, if you are. Think of the scandal! ‘Nineteen murderous scoundrels spaced for mutiny.’ No, let me do it alone. It’ll merely be a Patrol officer taking charge of a spaceship. I can do it legally. Who’s Wopple? The man who was called up to the catwalk this morning?”
“Yes. He seems all right. He agrees with you that it’d only make things worse to kick.”
“He’s right. You’re too quick to fight, Judikha. You don’t appreciate finesse. Go get Wopple and introduce us. I’m too tired to find him myself.”
Judikha obeyed and soon returned with the elder spaceman.
“Excuse my not rising,” said Birdwhistle. “I’m a little out of shape, I suppose.”
“And it’s a damned shame, sir,” replied Wopple softly, sitting beside the lieutenant. “If you could only make the skipper believe you, it’d be OK. He wouldn’t dare haze you—oh, I know an officer when I see one, sir. I put three years in the Service. I could tell by the way you walk and your voice and the way you carried yourself and when the skipper twitted you about making a bluff, I was sure.”
“Well,” said Birdwhistle coldly, “I hope you have kept this speculation to yourself?”
“No fear about that, sir. I’ve kept my trap shut and I mean to keep it shut. If I can be any service to you aboard this hell driver you can call on me.”
“Surely,” interrupted Judikha, “the three of us could take charge—”
“No, no,” answered the lieutenant, angrily. “Will you shut up about mutiny? Wopple, what about this grub? Are we going to get this stuff all along?”
“Until we find out and give up the man what crippled the mate. Until then we’re on government whack.”
“The old Patrol war ration, I suppose. But I’ve condemned Patrol stores that were better than these.”
“No doubt true, sir. And if you did, it’s probably what we’ve been eating since a good many shipowners and skippers buy up condemned Patrol stores.”
“And there’ll be no change,” said Judikha, “unless we find out who assaulted the mate and turn him over to the skipper. What’d happen to him, if we did?”
“He’d be slapped in irons, quick enough,” replied Wopple, “and probably beaten until he wishes he was dead and then given his wish.”
“If you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment,” said Birdwhistle, who had suddenly turned as pale as the dinner fatback exuding a greasy-looking dew. “I do believe I am going to be ill.”
Judikha and Wopple watched while the lieutenant, doubled over in agony, lurched for the nearest head.
“He’s not much used to hard labor,” she explained. She tried, but was not entirely successful at removing the contempt from her voice. Wopple looked at her sharply, but did not comment.
“Wopple,” said Judikha in a hard voice, “do you know anything of the layout of the cabin deck?”
“Why, yes. They’re all about alike in this class of ship. The two mates’ rooms are each side the forrard passage that the main companionway opens into. Next aft is the dining room, with staterooms and storerooms along the sides, and next is the after cabin where the old man lives. His sleeping room’s in one corner, bathroom in the other. The after companion stairs is between them.”
“Where does the steward sleep?”
“In one of the rooms off the dining room.”
“And the engineer and cook?”
“MacHinery has a little kennel off his shop between the two turbine rooms. The cook has a room off the galley.”
“Then, to get into the after cabin at night when the captain has the helm, a man’d have to enter by the forwards door, pass the doors of two officers, either of whom might be awake, and pass the steward’s room, who might also be awake.”
“Yep.”
“Where would the skipper be likely to keep his weapons?”
“In his pockets until the crew gets settled. Then, I suppose, in some good, dry place. It’s a risky thing you’re suggesting, youngster. He’d be apt to shoot you if he caught you in his cabin day or night.”
“Unless I shot him first. It all depends on those toasters. Well, we’ll see. Who’s this?”
A man approached out of the gloom and peered into their faces. He was a little man with the size and nervous movements of a rat. Still, his accent was clearly Terrian, which was something.
“What’s wrong, Steward?” asked Wopple.
“Yeah, you’re the one. I’m looking for the man that talked back at the captain this morning.”
“I reckon I’m him.”
“Well, Captain Krill wants to see you in his cabin.”
“What for?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, all right,” Wopple said as he arose. “I may come back feet first,” he told the girl, “and I may go in irons, but—take care of yourself, QX?”
Judikha watched as the two men crossed the open turbine deck. To get forward, they had to pass among Judikha’s watch mates, who had gathered near the hatchway. As soon as they were absorbed by the group, there came a commotion, followed by curses, shouting and the ringing smacks of fists and open palms against skin.
Birdwhistle joined Judikha just as the melée became genuinely rowdy.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s the steward. The crew blame him for the grub.”
Just as his name was mentioned, the steward flew from the crowd, with his hands clasped over his head, a two-foot wrench whirling just behind. He passed by the two Patrolmen and dived for cover through the forward hatch, the wrench banging into the metal ineffectively.
“Just in time, too,” observed Birdwhistle. “I was just about to interfere in his behalf.”
“I wonder,” said Judikha, gazing at the still-fuming crew, “if they’d be willing to tackle the cook or the skipper?”
“I doubt it. The steward didn’t appear to be seriously hurt. I wonder what would have happened if they’d disabled him, or even killed him? Who would take his place?”
“The cook, I suppose.”
“No—I don’t think so. If he could have done the work of the steward, they would have shipped only one man. If the steward were disabled, someone else would take his place in the cabin. I think that I’d be the likeliest candidate.”
“Want me to cripple him?” asked Judikha.
“Good heavens, no! Only as a last resort. Besides, he’s harmless enough—it’d scarcely be gentlemanly to disable him unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”
“Well, then, sir, we must think of a way that one of us can get the run of that cabin for ten minutes. What about the cook? He’s bound to make some sort of fuss on account of what I did to him. Suppose I take him out—it’d certainly be a pleasure.”
“And then you’d be clapped in irons. What good’d that do? What good would you be to me then? No, I need you to remain free and relatively intact. Is there anyone else we could get to do it?”
“MacHinery?”
“He’s a possibility. I’ve no love for that man: he was rather harsh and unkind to me today. It wouldn’t bother me one bit to see him in irons for killing the cook—or the cook in irons for killing him, for that matter. It would be one and the same for our purposes. In any case, it may not be necessary. The captain will have
to stand the mate’s watch until he recovers. As soon as I’m restored from my fatigues I mean to sneak into his cabin. I’m in the same watch as the skipper and it’d be easy to slip away while he’s busy.”
Wopple came around the corner just then and joined them.
“Interesting news. I’m to be third mate. The skipper’s tired of standing watch. But I still wouldn’t tell him who the man was.”
“Do you know?” asked Birdwhistle.
“Yes, or I did once the skipper explained how the mate’s arm was broke. Mate woke up and clinched the intruder in the dark, but the man broke away. Then the mate struck out at his face and the man ducked and caught his wrist in both hands and quicker’n lightning brought the arm elbow down over his own shoulder and hove down on it. Snapped it clean as kindling. I recognized it right off. It’s a trick taught trained fighters, like those in the Patrol. That man was no simple thief, he was after the mate’s toasters, not knowing that he slept with them.”
-VIII-
With those words, Wopple turned and sauntered away, while Birdwhistle glared at his subordinate. Judikha blushed under the gaze, felt defensive, and angry because of it. She looked at the slim, graceful figure of her officer, drooped and haggard after less than twenty-four hours’ hard labor, judging her actions by his code of gentlemanly fair play.
“Well, so it was a foul trick,” she said. “But what was I supposed to do?”
“I guess you did the right thing,” the lieutenant admitted grudgingly, with a painful shrug of his shoulders. “If you’d got one of the weapons you’d have killed him and the other two besides. No, I suppose that fair play needn’t be practiced aboard a hellship, though the thought of it rankles all the same. It just isn’t understood here. What do you think Wopple will make of his knowledge, now that he knows?”
The spaceman himself replied to that question, since he had just returned with his duffel, on his way to the officer’s quarters.
“Don’t fear that I’ll give you away,” he said, without rancor. “I’ve sworn I don’t know nothing about it and that’ll stand. And I want to say that I think you took the best plan in playing flunky. If you’d acted your natural self and shown your knowledge of spacing you mighta convinced the skipper—too late, for he’d already hazed you and kicked you around. Knowing that as an officer of the Patrol you could make him sweat for it, he’d conclude that the safest plan for him would be to kill you with work somehow, or shoot you for a mutineer and put you in down in the log under the name you’ve got in the articles, or maybe just have you spaced some night and erase your name from the record.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” agreed Birdwhistle.
“And you thought right. It’s a known fact that an officer and a gentleman shanghaied in a Rastablanaplanian ship seldom finishes the passage. But as a harmless servant man, you’d have a chance out of your pure innocence.
“Well, now,” he went on, lowering his voice, “you’ll be in my watch and I can make it easy for you. But you understand, once I’ve gone aft with that duffel, I’m an officer and I can’t talk with you and if I catch you in that cabin I’ll have to put you out. Just the same—good luck to you.”
He threw his duffel over his shoulder and moved to leave them, then turned and said to Birdwhistle:
“You’ll understand that my believing in your being a Patrol officer won’t help you any more now than if I’d stayed forward. I might convince the skipper before long; so could you before long; but it’d be the worst thing that could happen. You’d die, somehow, and your death’d be listed in the official log as accidental and one of the mates’d witness the entry. That’s evidence in court. I could swear only to my belief, after you’re dead, and that wouldn’t help you.
“But,” he added, lowering his voice, “I’ll have the lower bunk in Glom’s room.”
Then he was gone.
“There’ll be somebody on each side of that passage, continually,” said Judikha. “Things are coming to a head.”
“I’m too tired to think about it,” said the lieutenant. “I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m on watch again in a few hours, don’t you know. I can’t even consider taking any action until I regain my energy.”
Judikha watched the graceful man lift himself painfully and slog off to the quarters of the second watch. For a moment she felt pity for the lieutenant. He was, after all, a product of both breeding and training, and was altogether unprepared and unfitted for the role he was now forced to play. She had to give him credit, however grudgingly, that for all of his complaints he did his best.
She had just risen from her seat when the lanky figure of the engineer slipped from the darkness. Seeing her about to greet him, he held a finger to his lips. “Shhh!” Over the sound of the engines and pumps could be heard the scraping of a knife on a stone. Wheeze wheech.
“Hear it, lassie?” he said earnestly. “Hear the great beast a-grinding his knife? Is it for me or you? You soaked him well with the slops and I’m thinking he’s a beastie to be watchful of. Musrum, but it makes me nervous—to hear that sound.”
“It’s for you,” said Judikha. “It’s for you. He told me he’d kill you. He’s not afraid of you.”
“Get away from me, you time-serving hussy!” MacHinery said angrily, raising his hand. Judikha leaped back quickly, snatching at a length of pipe. The man was obviously scared witless and she had no wish to be within striking distance of a witless man with a weapon. It was equally obvious that the man was teetering on a knife edge of outright insanity and she saw no reason not to take advantage of an opportunity to give him a nudge.
“He says,” she persisted, “that he won’t allow you or anyone else to lay hands on him again. He’s says you’re nothing but a white-washed Crotoyan sheepherder—”
“Hush, you bag of bad tidings,” cried the exasperated engineer. “A damned Crotoyan, am I? Me, a MacHinery? Out of my sight, hussy, or I’ll—”
He advanced toward the retreating girl, but Judikha, grinning in the darkness, kept talking.
“Never mind that,” she said. “The question is: what about the cook? He’s sharpening that knife for one of us—perhaps both. What do you think we ought to do?”
“How do I know? It’s a mortal sin to hurt a ship’s cook. He’s a sacred person. Didn’t you hear the second mate call me down on it? But I can try the effect of moral suasion. I’ll even put an edge on the broadaxe.”
The engineer left her and soon enough the sound of a grindstone came from his shop, and the steady grating of cold steel pressed against its wet surface. It drowned the wheeze wheetch from the galley.
A chime sounded from the annunciator. “Eight bells,” thought Judikha. “Four more hours for me.”
-VII-
When the first watch turned out at 2400, it was Judikha who had the helm for the first two hours. In her Patrol training she had learned as much about astrogation and the handling of a ship as any common spaceman needed to know, but had not acquired that sense of feedback which enables an experienced merchant spaceman to operate a ship almost by feel alone. After repeating the drill given by her predecessor, and swinging the ship back and forth with unnecessary vigor, she gradually brought the Rasputin under her control. Her nerves were steady and her judgment good; she handled the freighter in a way that brought no complaint from Glom, though he frequently scrutinized her instruments and she often caught him staring at her distinctive profile as though he were trying to puzzle out a trick picture. He would then resume his ponderous pacing of the deck. Twice before two bells had struck, he had stepped out of sight into the companionway; Judikha knew that it was forbidden for him to leave the helm officer less. Each time he returned, she could detect the sour tang of alcohol. The second time, he spoke to her in a thick, conspiratorial voice.
“What’s up between you and the cook?”
“Nothing, sir. I just lost my head and dumped the slops on him.”
“What’d he do?”
“Not much, but
he looked like murder and I let it go.”
“You doused him well, according to what MacHinery says,” he chortled. “But keep a look out. He’s a bad proposition. Killed two men last voyage with his bare hands.”
“Then you’ve shipped with him before, sir?”
“For three years—all my time in space, in fact. See? I ain’t been at it that long. Could never a told, could you? I licked a growed man my first voyage and I took the fight outta the cook the second. He’s afraid to look sideways at me now. And I licked the second mate last passage home. That’s why I got his place. That’s what a skipper looks for in an officer. You can learn all you like and be the best spaceman there is but unless you can whip men and win every time you’re no good aft.”
“So I should think,” Judikha agreed, humbly. “I guess I’d never do. I can work, but I can’t fight. Never could, sir.”
“Well, you wanta brace up and learn to fight, and—another thing: stick to your skipper and learn as—ash—ashtrogation. I’m halfway through it now. No good swingin’ a wrench your whole life. What part of Terria you from, anyway?”
“Ah—Tamlaght, sir. Port Blavek.” She thought better about lying—surely he’d already recognized her accent.
“I’m a Tamlaght boy m’self,” said Monkfish. “From Deedner. You know, you do look almighty like a kid I went to school with—Juh, Juh, Judikha was the little bitch’s name. But she was a skinny little runt. ‘listed with the Patrol and never heard from again, least up to the time I shipped out.”
“Think she’s dead, sir?” Judikha was breathless to hear how her disappearance had affected the people she’d known.
“Hope to Musrum she is. She was a hellion for th’ size of ‘er. Took on a whole slew of fellers an’ got ‘em in hot with th’ p’lice. I wasn’t in it from th’ first, but I was one of th’ gang what done ‘er up later. She’d got run outa school for being a thief and skipped town.”