Starman Jones

by Robert A. Heinlein; Michael Z. Williamson

  He was saved by a steward’s mate rushing up to the table and starting to deal out plates of soup. Max stopped him when he came around and said quietly, “Jim, where’s Dumont?”

  Out of the corner of his mouth the waiter said, “Cooking.”

  “Huh? Where’s the chef?”

  The steward’s mate leaned down and whispered, “Frenchy is boiled as a judge. I guess he couldn’t take it. You know.”

  Max let him go. Mr. Arthur said sharply, “What did he tell you?”

  “I was trying to find out what went wrong in the galley,” Max answered. “Seems the cook incapacitated himself.” He spooned up a mouthful of the soup. “From the taste, I’d say he had burned his thumb in this so-called chowder. Pretty bad, isn’t it?”

  Max was saved from further evasions by the arrival of the First Officer. Mr. Walther went to the Captain’s table and banged on a glass with a spoon. “Your attention, please!”

  He waited for quiet, then took a paper from his pocket. “I have an announcement to make on behalf of the Captain. Those of you who are familiar with the theory of astrogation are aware that space is changing constantly, due to the motions of the stars, and that consequently no two trips are exactly alike. Sometimes it is necessary, for this reason, to make certain changes in a ship’s routing. Such a circumstance has arisen in this present trip and the Asgard will be somewhat delayed in reaching her next destination. We regret this, but we can’t change the laws of nature. We hope that you will treat it as a minor inconvenience—or even as additional vacation, in the friendly and comfortable atmosphere of our ship. Please remember, too, that the insurance policy accompanying your ticket covers you completely against loss or damage you may be cost through the ship being behind schedule.”

  He put away the paper; Max had the impression that he had not actually been reading from it. “That is all that the Captain had to say, but I want to add something myself. It has come to my attention that someone has been spreading silly rumors about this minor change in schedule. I am sorry if any of you have been alarmed thereby and I assure you that I will take very strict measures if the originator can be identified.” He risked a dignified smile. “But you know how difficult it is to trace down a bit of gossip. In any case, I want to assure you all that the Asgard is in no danger of any sort. The old girl was plying space long before any of us were born, she’ll still be going strong after we all die of old age—bless her sturdy bones!” He turned and left at once.

  Max had listened in open-mouthed admiration. He came from country where the “whopper” was a respected literary art and it seemed to him that he had never heard a lie told with more grace, never seen one interwoven with truth with such skill, in his life. Piece by piece, it was impossible to say that anything the First Officer had said was untrue; taken as a whole it was a flat statement that the Asgard was not lost—a lie if he ever heard one. He turned back toward his table mates. “Will someone pass the butter, please?”

  Mr. Arthur caught his eye. “And you told us,” he said sharply, “that nothing was wrong!”

  Mr. Daigler growled, “Lay off him, Arthur. Max did pretty well, under the circumstances.”

  Mrs. Weberbauer looked bewildered. “But Mr. Walther said that everything was all right?”

  Daigler looked at her with compassion. “We’re in trouble, Mama Weberbauer. That’s obvious. But all we can do is keep calm and trust the ship’s officers. Bight, Max?”

  “I guess that’s right, sir.”

  15

  “THIS ISN’T A PICNIC”

  Max kept to his room that evening and the next day, wishing neither to be questioned by passengers nor to answer questions about why he had been relieved of duty. In consequence, he missed the riot, having slept through it. He first heard of it when the steward’s mate who tended his room showed up with a black eye. “Who gave you the shiner, Garcia?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. It happened in the ruckus last night.”

  “Ruckus? What ruckus?”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it. What happened?”

  Garcia Lopez stared at the overhead. “Well—I wouldn’t want to say too much. You know how it is— nobody wants to testify against a mate. No?”

  “Who asked you to peach on a mate? You don’t have to mention names—but what happened?”

  “Well sir. Some of those chicos, they ain’t got much sense.” Slowly Max learned that the unrest among the crew had been greater than that among the passengers, possibly because they understand more clearly the predicament. Some of them had consulted with Giordano’s poor-man’s vodka, then had decided to call on the Captain in a body and demand straight talk. The violence had taken place when the master-at-arms had attempted to turn them back at the companionway to “C” deck.

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “Not what you’d call hurt. Cut up a little. I picked this up . . .” He touched his eye tenderly. “ . . . from being too anxious to see what was going on. Slats Kovak busted an ankle.”

  “Kovak! Why would he be in it?” It did not make sense that a member of the Worry gang should take part in anything so unreasonable.

  “He was coming down, coming off watch, I guess. Maybe he was backing up the constable. Or maybe he just got caught in the swinging doors. Your friend Sam Anderson was sure in the thick of it.”

  Sam! Max felt sick at heart—Sam in trouble again! “You’re sure?”

  “I was there.”

  “Uh, he wasn’t leading it, was he?”

  “Oh, you got me wrong, M—Mr. Jones. He settled it. I never see a man who could use his hands like that. He’d grab two of ’em . . . clop! their heads would come together. Then he would grab two more.”

  Max decided to come out of hiding and do two things: look up Kovak, find out how he was and what he might need or want; and second, look up Sam. But before he could leave, Smythe arrived with a watch list to initial. He found that he was assigned watch-and-watch with Simes—and that he himself was due on watch immediately. He went up, wondering what had caused Simes to relent.

  Kelly was in the control room; Max looked around, did not see Simes. “You got it, Chief?”

  “Until you relieve me. This is my last watch.”

  “How’s that? Are you his pet peeve now?”

  “You could say so. But not the way you think, Max. He drew up a watch list with him and me heel-and-toe. I politely pointed out the guild rules, that I wasn’t being paid to take the responsibility of top watch.”

  “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 w
ay 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.