Starman Jones

by Robert A. Heinlein; Michael Z. Williamson

  “Oh, he wouldn’t do that.”

  “You don’t understand. He may be an ‘old sugar pie’ to you; to me he is the Captain. So don’t.”

  She pouted. “I was just trying to help.”

  “I appreciate it. But don’t. And anyhow, I can’t come to the lounge, ever. It’s off limits for me.”

  “But I thought—I think you’re just trying to avoid me. You run around up here now and you dress in pretty clothes. Why not?”

  They were interrupted by Dr. Hendrix returning to his room. “Morning, Jones. Good morning, Miss Coburn.” He went on in.

  Max said desperately, “Look, Ellie, I’ve got to go.” He turned and knocked on the Astrogator’s door.

  Dr. Hendrix ignored having seen him with Ellie. “Sit down, Jones. That was a very interesting exhibition you put on.” The Astrogator went on, “I’m curious to know how far your talent extends. Is it just to figures?”

  “Why, I guess not, sir.”

  “Do you have to study hard to do it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Hmm . . . Well try something. Have you read—let me see—any of the plays of Shakespeare?”

  “Uh, we had Hamlet and As You Like It in school, and I read A Winter’s Tale. But I didn’t like it,” he answered honestly.

  “In that case, I don’t suppose you reread it. Remember any of it?”

  “Oh, certainly, sir.”

  “Hmm—” Dr. Hendrix got down a limp volume.

  “Let me see. Act two, scene three; Leontes says, ‘Nor night nor day nor rest: it is but weakness . . . ’”

  Max picked it up. “ . . . it is but weakness to bear the matter thus; mere weakness. If the cause were not in being . . .” He continued until stopped.

  “That’s enough. I don’t care much for that play myself. Even the immortal Will had his off days. But how did you happen to have read that book of tables? Shakespeare at his dullest isn’t that dull. I’ve never read them, not what one would call ‘reading.’”

  “Well, sir, Uncle Chet had his astrogation manuals at home after he retired and he used to talk with me a lot. So I read them.”

  “Do I understand that you have memorized the entire professional library of an astrogator?”

  Max took a deep breath. “Well, sir, I’ve read them.”

  Dr. Hendrix took from his shelves his own tools of his profession. He did not bother with the binary tables, that being the one Max had shown that he knew. He leafed through them, asked Max questions, finally identifying what he wanted only by page number. He closed the last of them. “Whew!” he commented, and blinked. “While I am aware that there are numerous cases of your talent in the history of psychology, I must admit it is disconcerting to encounter one.” He smiled. “I wonder what Brother Witherspoon would think of this.”

  “Sir?”

  “Our High Secretary. I’m afraid he would be shocked; he has conservative notions about protecting the ‘secrets’ of our profession.”

  Max said uncomfortably, “Am I likely to get into trouble, sir? I didn’t know it was wrong to read Uncle’s books.”

  “What? Nonsense. There are no ‘secrets’ to astrogation. You use these books on watch, so does every member of the ‘Worry’ gang. The passengers can read them, for all I care. Astrogation isn’t secret; it is merely difficult. Few people are so endowed as to be able to follow accurately the mathematical reasoning necessary to plan a—oh, a transition, let us say. But it suits those who bother with guild politics to make it appear an arcane art—prestige, you know.” Dr. Hendrix paused and tapped on his chair arm. “Jones, I want you to understand me. Kelly thinks you may shape up.”

  “Uh, that’s good, sir.”

  “But don’t assume that you know more than he does just because you have memorized the books.”

  “Oh, no, sir!”

  “Actually, your talent isn’t necessary in the control room. The virtues needed are those Kelly has—unflagging attention to duty, thorough knowledge of his tools, meticulous care for details, deep loyalty to his job and his crew and his ship and to those placed over him professionally. Kelly doesn’t need eidetic memory, ordinary good memory combined with intelligence and integrity are what the job takes—and that’s what I want in my control room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Astrogator hesitated. “I don’t wish to be offensive but I want to add this. Strange talents are sometimes associated with ordinary, or even inferior, mentality—often enough so that the psychologists use the term ‘idiot savant.’ Sorry. You obviously aren’t an idiot, but you are not necessarily a genius, even if you can memorize the Imperial Encyclopedia. My point is: I am more interested in your horse sense and your attention to duty than I am in your phenomenal memory.”

  “Uh, I’ll try, sir.”

  “I think you’ll make a good chartsman, in time.” Dr. Hendrix indicated that the interview was over; Max got up. “One more thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “There are excellent reasons of discipline and efficiency why crew members do not associate with passengers.”

  Max gulped. “I know, sir.”

  “Mind your Ps and Qs. The members of my department are careful about this point—even then it is difficult.”

  Max left feeling deflated. He had gone there feeling that he was about to be awarded something—even a chance to become an astrogator. He now felt sweated down to size.

  10

  GARSON’S PLANET

  Max did not see much of Sam during the weeks following; the stiff schedule left him little time for visiting. But Sam had prospered.

  Like all large ships, the Asgard had a miniature police force, experienced ratings who acted as the First Officer’s deputies in enforcing ship’s regulations. Sam, with his talent for politics and a faked certification as steward’s mate first class, managed during the reshuffle following Max’s transfer to be assigned as master-at-arms for the Purser’s department. He did well, treading on no toes, shutting his eyes to such violations as were ancient prerogatives and enforcing those rules of sanitation, economy, and behavior which were actually needed for a taut, happy ship . . . all without finding it necessary to haul offenders up before the First Officer for punishment—which suited both Mr. Walther and the crew. When Stores Clerk Maginnis partook too freely of Mr. Gee’s product and insisted on serenading his bunk mates, Sam merely took him to the galley and forced black coffee down him—then the following day took him down to ‘H’ deck, laid his own shield of office aside, and gave Maginnis a scientific going over that left no scars but deeply marked his soul. In his obscure past Sam had learned to fight, not rough house, not in the stylized mock combat of boxing, but in the skilled art in which an unarmed man becomes a lethal machine.

  Sam had selected his victim carefully. Had he reported him, Maginnis would have regarded Sam as a snoop, a mere busybody to be outwitted or defied, and had the punishment been severe, he might have been turned into a permanent discipline problem—not forgetting that reporting Maginnis might also have endangered a sacred cow, Chief Steward Giordano. As it was, it turned Maginnis into Sam’s strongest supporter and best publicist, as Maginnis’s peculiar but not unique pride required him to regard the man who defeated him as “the hottest thing on two feet, sudden death in each hand, a real man! No nonsense about old Sam—try him yourself and see how you make out. Go on, I want to lay a bet.”

  It was not necessary for Sam to set up a second lesson.

  A senior engineer’s mate was chief master-at-arms and Sam’s nominal superior; these two constituted the police force of their small town. When the technician asked to go back to power room watch-standing and was replaced by an engineer’s mate third, it was natural that Walther should designate Sam as Chief Master-at-Arms.

  He had had his eye on the job from the moment he signed on. Any police chief anywhere has powers far beyond those set forth by law. As long as Sam stayed well-buttered up with Mr. Kuiper, Mr. Giordano, and (to a lesser extent) wit
h Mr. Dumont, as long as he was careful to avoid exerting his authority in either the engineering spaces or the Worry Hole, he was the most powerful man in the ship—more powerful in all practical matters than the First Officer himself since he was the First Officer’s visible presence.

  Such was the situation when the ship grounded at Garson’s Planet.

  Garson’s Planet appears to us to be a piece of junk left over when the universe was finished. It has a surface gravity of one-and-a-quarter, too much for comfort, it is cold as a moneylender’s heart, and it has a methane atmosphere unbreathable by humans. With the sky swarming with better planets it would be avoided were it not an indispensable way station. There is only one survey Horst congruency near Earth’s Sun and transition of it places one near Theta Centauri—and of the thirteen planets of that sun, Garson’s Planet possesses the meager virtue of being least unpleasant.

  But there are half a dozen plotted congruencies accessible to Theta Centauri, which makes Garson’s Planet the inevitable cross-roads for trade of the Solar Union.

  Max hit dirt there just once. Once was plenty. The colony at the space port, partly domed, partly dug in under the domes, was much like the Lunar cities and not unlike the burrows under any major Earth city, but to Max it was novel since he had never been on Luna and had never seen a big city on Terra other than Earthport. He went dirtside with Sam, dressed in his best and filled with curiosity. It was not necessary to put on a pressure suit; the port supplied each passenger liner with a pressure tube from ship’s lock to dome lock.

  Once inside, Sam headed down into the lower levels. Max protested, “Sam, let’s go up and look around.”

  “Huh? Nothing there. A hotel and some expensive shops and clip joints for the pay passengers. Do you want to pay a month’s wages for a steak?”

  “No. I want to see out. Here I am on a strange planet and I haven’t seen it at all. I couldn’t see it from the control room when we landed and now I haven’t seen anything but the inside of a trans tube and this.” He gestured at the corridor walls.

  “Nothing to see but a dirty, thick, yellow fog that never lifts. Worse than Venus. But suit yourself. I’ve got things to do, but if you don’t want to stick with me you certainly don’t have to.”

  Max decided to stick. They went on down and came out in a wide, lighted corridor not unlike that street in Earthport where Percy’s restaurant was located, save that it was roofed over. There were the same bars, the same tawdry inducements for the stranger to part with cash, even to the tailor shop with the permanent “CLOSING OUT’ sale. Several other ships were in and the sector was crowded. Sam looked around. “Now for a place for a quiet drink and a chat.”

  “How about there?” Max answered, pointing to a sign reading THE BETTER ’OLE. “Looks clean and cheerful.”

  Sam steered him quickly past it. “It is,” he agreed, “but not for us.”

  “Why not?”

  “Didn’t you notice the customers? Imperial Marines.”

  “What of that? I’ve got nothing against the Imperials.”

  “Mmm . . . no,” Sam agreed, still hurrying, “but those boys stick together and they have a nasty habit of resenting a civilian who has the bad taste to sit down in a joint they have staked out. Want to get your ribs kicked in?”

  “Huh? That wouldn’t happen if I minded my own business, would it?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Suppose a hostess decides that you’re cute—and the spit-and-polish boy she was with wants to make something of it? Max, you’re a good boy—but there just ain’t no demand for good boys. To stay out of trouble you have to stay away from it.”

  They threaded their way through the crowd for another hundred yards before Sam said, “Here we are—provided Lippy is still running the place.” The sign read THE SAFE LANDING; it was larger but not as pleasant as THE BETTER ’OLE.

  “Who’s Lippy?”

  “You probably won’t meet him.” Sam led the way in and picked out a table.

  Max looked around. It looked like any other fifth-rate bar grille. “Could I get a strawberry soda here? I’ve had a hankering for one for ages—I used always to get one Saturdays when I went to the Corners.”

  “They can’t rule you out for trying.”

  “Okay. Sam, something you said—you remember the story you told me about your friend in the Imperials? Sergeant Roberts?”

  “Who?”

  “Or Richards. I didn’t quite catch it.”

  “Never heard of the guy.”

  “But . . .”

  “Never heard of him. Here’s the waiter.”

  Nor had the humanoid Sirian waiter heard of strawberry soda. He had no facial muscles but his back skin crawled and rippled with embarrassed lack of comprehension. Max settled for something called “Old Heidelberg” although it had never been within fifty light-years of Germany. It tasted to Max like cold soap suds, but since Sam had paid for it he nursed it along and pretended to drink it.

  Sam bounced up almost at once. “Sit tight, kid. I won’t be long.” He spoke to the barman, then disappeared toward the back. A young woman came over to Max’s table.

  “Lonely, spaceman?”

  “Uh, not especially.”

  “But I am. Mind if I sit down?” She sank into the chair that Sam had vacated.

  “Suit yourself. But my friend is coming right back.”

  She didn’t answer but turned to the waiter at her elbow. “A brown special, Giggles.”

  Max made an emphatic gesture of denial. “No!”

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “Look,” Max answered, blushing, “I may look green as paint—I am, probably. But I don’t buy colored water at house prices. I don’t have much money.”

  She looked hurt. “But you have to order or I can’t sit here.”

  “Well . . .” He glanced at the menu. “I could manage a sandwich, I guess.”

  She turned again to the waiter. “Never mind the special, Giggles. A cheese on rye and plenty of mustard.” She turned back to Max. “What’s your name, honey?”

  “Max.”

  “Mine’s Dolores. Where are you from?”

  “The Ozarks. That’s Earthside.”

  “Now isn’t that a coincidence! I’m from Winnipeg—we’re neighbors!”

  Max decided that it might appear so, from that distance. But as Dolores babbled on it became evident that she knew neither the location of the Ozarks nor that of Winnipeg, had probably never been on Terra in her life. She was finishing the sandwich while telling Max that she just adored spacemen, they were so romantic, when Sam returned.

  He looked down at her. “How much did you take him for?”

  Dolores said indignantly, “That’s no way to talk! Mr. Lipski doesn’t permit . . .”

  “Stow it, kid,” Sam went on, not unkindly. “You didn’t know that my partner is a guest of Lippy. Get me? No ‘specials,’ no ‘pay-me’s’—you’re wasting your time. Now how much?”

  Max said hastily, “It’s okay, Sam. All I bought her was a sandwich.”

  “Well . . . all right. But you’re excused, sister. Later, maybe.”

  She shrugged and stood up. “Thanks, Max.”

  “Not at all, Dolores. I’ll say hello to the folks in Winnipeg.”

  “Do that.”

  Sam did not sit down. “Kid, I have to go out for a while.”

  “Okay.”

  Max started to rise, Sam motioned him back. “No, no. This I’d better do by myself. Wait here, will you? They won’t bother you again—or if they do, ask for Lippy.”

  “I won’t have any trouble.”

  “I hope not.” Sam looked worried. “I don’t know why I should fret, but there is something about you that arouses the maternal in me. Your big blue eyes I guess.”

  “Huh? Oh, go sniff space! Anyway, my eyes are brown.”

  “I was speaking,” Sam said gently, “of the eyes of your dewy pink soul. Don’t speak to strangers while I’m gone.”

  Max used
an expression he had picked up from Mr. Gee; Sam grinned and left.

  But Sam’s injunction did not apply to Mr. Simes. Max saw the assistant astrogator appear in the doorway. His face was redder than usual and his eyes looked vague. He let his body revolve slowly as he surveyed the room. Presently his eyes lit on Max and he grinned unpleasantly.

  “Well, well, well!” he said as he advanced toward Max. “If it isn’t the Smart Boy.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Simes.” Max stood up.

  “So it’s ‘good evening, Mr. Simes’! But what did you say under your breath?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Humph! I know! But I think the same thing about you, only worse.” Max did not answer. Simes went on, “Well, aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?”

  “Have a seat, sir,” Max said without expression.

  “Well, what do you know? The Smart Boy wants me to sit with him.” He sat, called the waiter, ordered, and turned back to Max. “Smart Boy, do you know why I’m sitting with you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “To put a flea in your ear, that’s why. Since you pulled that hanky-panky with the computer, you’ve been Kelly’s hair-faired—fair-haired—boy. Fair-haired boy,” he repeated carefully. “That gets you nowhere with me. Get this straight: you go sucking around the Astrogator the way Kelly does and I’ll run you out of the control room. Understand me?”

  Max felt himself losing his temper. “What do you mean by ‘hanky-panky,’ Mr. Simes?”

  “You know. Probably memorized the last half dozen transitions—now you’ve got Kelly and the Professor thinking you’ve memorized the book. A genius in our midst! You know what that is? That’s a lot of . . .”

  Fortunately for Max they were interrupted; he felt a firm hand on his shoulder and Sam’s quiet voice said, “Good evening, Mr. Simes.”

  Simes looked confused, then recognized Sam and brightened. “Well, if it isn’t the copper. Sit down, Constable. Have a drink.”