"To hell with the Pits," he said finally. "I need a session with you, Doc. I think I'm getting the flips."
"That's precisely the subject. The holophonic monitor tapes are a prime indicator of the psychological vectors on board."
"Monitor tapes!"
She shushed him and he lowered his voice.
"Do you mean to say the Pit dreams go on display, for Christ's sake?"
There was a hint of pink in her alabaster cheeks. "I'll expect you to keep this confidential, for project security. From a medical standpoint, it's legal. I'll tell you frankly, we have a problem with psychophasing. The incidence lately has become critical."
"But that's an invasion of privacy!"
"Don't play roles, Captain. Our lives are at stake."
He gaped at her while she moved into the delicate subject with all the tact of a bulldozer, amazingly insulated from the subtler currents of personal interplay. The computer, she said, was very versatile in its responses. A rapid mode-selection change was indicating an inceptual phasing curve among the users of the Pit. She was making a survey.
He remembered Kitty's new inputs, her unaccountable versatility. Was this the computer's response to a change in himself? Freddie had a point, come to think of it.
"Okay, Doc, if you want a sweaty report, I was in the Pit when the explosion happened."
"I know."
He stared with a new sense of outrage. "You were scanning us?"
When she nodded confirmation he couldn't suppress his reaction. "What the hell, Freddie, no wonder you don't need the hollow phonies yourself – not with a super peep show! You get to knothole everybody!"
"Not everybody," she retorted sharply. "The non-users and users are classified and ratioed: twenty-five to seventy-five percent of personnel. In the user ranges, the frequency is three days to three months. You are in the latter group. I want to know your latest reactions. A lot has happened in the past three months."
"Okay, if we're strictly playing doctor, I'll tell you. When I came out of there, I felt schizo. I was uptight and cynical as hell."
"A sense of futility?"
"Exactly! Like wanting to throw in the towel!"
She smiled faintly as though sympathizing. "You can see what I'm getting at."
"I'm not too sure about that."
The speakers blared an announcement. This time it wasn't the autotape. Danny recognized the supercilious tones of Lyshenko's star adjutant, Philo Q. Bates, a known frequenter of the Pits. Whenever he became a bit too lofty with any of the crew his whispered pseudonym was "Master Bates." What he had to say at the moment, however, was apparently too important for any pretentiousness.
"Attention, all personnel. Message from Flight Command! Prepare for gravity phase in three minutes. There will be a laser turnoff, pending decisions of staff. No retropulsion will be used until a vote is taken, but you will feel an inertial swing of the main gimbals. Maintenance and tech personnel will check the heavier portable equipment for deck ties and magnaclamps. Repeat: prepare for gravity phase in three minutes. Countdown commit is now, at seventeen fifty-seven."
* * * *
This broke up Danny's impromptu session with Dr. Sachs. Fitz, Mabuse, and Foxy joined them.
"Hey, they're moving pretty fast in favor of the Jumpers," Fitz said, taking a seat next to Frederica. "There's no damned vote yet, at least not for us peasants in steerage, because there's still no answer on that missing S-link!"
"We'll be in free fall," said Boozie. "There'll be no time lost, to speak of. They're saving the main pile."
"It's like we didn't pay the light bill or something," said Foxy. "Nobody asks. They tell us."
Danny scanned Frederica's fascinating features speculatively. "Maybe you can use the countdown for your survey, Doc. We've got some prime users here."
Her swift glance at Mabuse and Foxy was a giveaway. Obviously she already had had her session with them on the subject. The moody-eyed Belgian smirked knowingly. The little blond electrician's mate looked pasty faced, suddenly at a loss for a wisecrack.
"Survey?" said Fitz, observing them all warily. "What's going on?"
"Dr. Sachs has been graphing our libidos," said Boozie, still in his soft, easy drawl. "It seems that monitored feedbacks from the Pits have become a Freudian smorgasbord for the headshrink department."
"Monitored feedbacks?" said Fitz. His big Irish face reddened. "You're kidding!"
Foxy finally rallied. "Maybe next thing they'll be monitoring our potty habits." He grinned, but he didn't sound as glib as usual.
Surprisingly, Frederica maintained face in spite of the pressure. "You have a valid point, Captain Troy," she answered in clipped professional tones. She crossed her legs, and Danny noted that Foxy, for one, forgot to think of her clinically. He knew that she caught their male reactions, and her tone of voice hardened. "If this were not an emergency, I'd schedule you for individual checkouts, but time is a vital factor."
Before Fitz could voice any objections, she quickly reviewed what she had told Danny already and then added more. Psychological stability on star ships was still an unknown factor since none of the other expeditions had returned to Earth. There were no comparative data. She had obtained authorization from the medical staff to conduct her survey. Although the Pit feedbacks were only one of several indicators she was using, frequency of Pit use was a definite factor. It had increased exponentially among many of the crewmen during the past few months, ever since a decision had been made to make a run for home. This, she explained, was a normal indication of increased tension and emotional pressure, but the computer responses in terms of rapid mode-variability were forming a peculiar pattern, as confirmed by her verbal sessions with many of the men.
"So in spite of unconsidered allusions to prurient interest in male sexual habits," she said almost heatedly, "the factor under consideration here is related to psychological stability and morale. What is rapidly emerging is a trend toward cynicism, confused perspectives, and a general sense of futility."
"Balls!" said Fitzjames angrily. "Medical authority my ass, Doctor! You shrinks have no right to invade personal privacy like that!"
Frederica's girlish chin tightened stubbornly. "For your information, Mr. Gogarty–"
"Aw, come on, for God's sake! You meds are screwing around with theory, and we're the guinea pigs. The point is, nobody asked us for authorization."
"Security override," she snapped back at him. "Charter provision one hundred fourteen, paragraph–"
"Don't quote me the book, Doc!" Fitz said. He paused, however, as the speakers crackled.
"...thirty ... twenty-nine ... twenty-eight..." intoned the autotape, giving the final countdown.
"Take it easy, Fitz," said Danny. "She's only–"
"What do you mean, take it easy, man? And while we're on the subject, maybe this answers an old locker-room question. There are only three women on board. Maybe they don't need the Pits because they've got themselves a good thing going, reading our tapes. How's that for futility, baby?"
"Fitz, you're flipping," said Boozie, showing an edge to his usually subdued temperament.
"...nineteen ... eighteen ... seventeen..." said the autotape.
Frederica jumped to her feet indignantly. "I don't have to take insults," she said coldly. "You know nothing of the importance of psychoanalysis at this critical stage of the expedition!" She stood there aiming her ire particularly at Fitz, apparently determined to humble him with the clinical facts: dangers of repression and depression as revealed in the Pit feedbacks, image and object shiftings under libido tensions, fantasizing patterns. "And as for yourself, there are neurotic conflicts in psycho-sexuality, such as infantile aggressions."
That was when the laser engines shut down, and the main section of the star ship swung on its giant gimbals. Everybody tensed as the room swayed. Frederica lost her balance and toppled onto Danny. He felt sudden pain as her weight fell against him, but the treatments and the blanket pad helped. He co
uld sense that she was conscious of his burns, reluctant to move, for fear of injuring him. Her face was pressed tightly against his left cheek, and he caught a subtle scent of perfume. As his arms moved to support her, he was aware of a warmly supple female body that was far from being simulated.
When she started to move from him cautiously, he whispered to her on a sudden impulse, "It's all right, honey. We're with you!" She pulled back slightly to look at him. The glasses were gone, and her tawny gold eyes were gleamingly alive, momentarily unveiled. A shield had fallen away, inadvertently, but it came back immediately. She stiffened. He caught her arm. "Don't go," he said. "No role playing, remember?"
Boozie and Fitz were helping her up. Lalille Sardou was moving toward them, looking lissome in her green-gold Mediterranean caftah, which complemented her blond braids and long-lashed, azure eyes. She was followed more slowly by her holy man, who was wary of the low-traction artificial gravity field that had been turned on. Charmingly flushed, accepting her glasses from Foxy and putting them on again, Frederica cautiously sat down.
"The meeting is on!" said one of the other visitors.
Somebody was activating the large panel of monitor screens.
"Now maybe you'll find out something else," said Freddie, checking her chignon.
As Lalille joined the group and indicated a chair nearby for the swami, Mabuse followed up her remark.
"Do you mean about the S-link question?"
"No." She glanced furtively at Danny as though in new appraisal, then she looked ahead defensively at the brightening screens. "The ratio between the Homers and the Jumpers has changed remarkably. Perhaps the futility factor–"
"What?" said Fitz. "You mean we're outnumbered? That's impossible! The majority is for heading home!"
"You're forgetting," said Danny, "that the spare S-link is gone. This is where we get off."
Getting off of a ship, a dream, or a fantasy? As he looked into the steady, dark brown eyes of Sam the holy man, Danny seemed to know, but it was something apart from words. He couldn't define it.
CHAPTER III
The larger central screen revealed the entire staff room and its important occupants: representatives of Flight Command, Project Administration, and subordinate departments. This was possibly the Earth's most far-flung outpost of World Council Authority, since the fate of other star ships was unknown. Some of the smaller screens picked up individuals and isolated groups who were located elsewhere on board but who were also members of the decision panel. The remaining monitors were for close pickups of the various spokesmen.
Commander Alex Lyshenko presided initially, as chief of the Flight Command. He sat prominently at one end of the conference table, heavy, broad-chested, and stocky, looking very much like a Mongolian tyrant except for his brilliant yellow uniform and medals and ribbons of merit. His short-cropped black hair, the wide, swarthy Tatar features and narrow oriental eyes under brooding hirsute brows, the puffed eyelids, the flat, wide nose and aggressive chin and moustache were all part of a khan-type personality, at least in outward appearance. He was, however, a true representative of the New World Order, a competent ship commander and a fanatic for rules as well as official ideology. He exuded an unusual animal vitality and an air of sure decision that was stabilizing to many at this critical time of image shiftings and fantasizing patterns.
At the opposite end of the table, appropriately, was Alonso Madrazo, the equal authority in charge of Project Administration. The aristocratic doctor had put on a formal dark suit which was worthy of an ambassador or president. A jewel-encrusted sunburst medal on his right breast pocket was his single insignia of rank.
Seated along the table between these two were the main department heads who served a function similar to that of a cabinet. Danny noted the presence of the third woman on board, Dr. Tallulah Marsh. Here again was an obvious aura of animal vitality and sure decision like that of the commander. In her early or mid forties, the brainy anthropologist was broad of face and shoulders and matronly in style and mannerism. Her copious dark hair, shot with distinguishing streaks of premature gray, was pinned up in an old-fashioned, Gibson-girl style. Incongruously, with the possible exception of lacking a corset or its equivalent, she might have stepped from the pages of an old Harper's Bazaar, for certainly the deep-bosomed decollete was there. In her sharp gray eyes was a gleam of fiery intelligence that seemed ready to challenge the centuries or the millenia, learnedly embracing the entire Cenozoic if need be.
At each end of the luxurious room, stationed strategically behind the two presiding chiefs, were supporting staff members, aides, and security men. Danny noted the small fidgety figure of adjutant P.Q. Bates at the commander's left elbow. He was busy with his ever-present recorder-transmitter which tied in to the electronic ship's log.
Conspicuous by his absence was First Officer Pike. This was no doubt a begrudged concession to Danny's present state of convalescence. Somebody had to keep an eye on the bridge, even in free-fall. With the gimball action that had just occurred, an entire deck-watch period might be consumed in simply running a checklist on tube disconnects and servo contacts with the main-frame systems. Danny reflected that Adolf's forced assignment to knob-and-button duty at such a crucial moment was not doing much for his already soured disposition.
"This meeting is now in session," said Lyshenko. His somewhat rasping deep voice was gruff; his words were functional as usual. At his left, P.Q. dutifully transmitted his statement to the log. "I'm turning the agenda over to Dr. Madrazo, but before we open on that I have a message for all officers and crewmen." His narrowed eyes darted a warning signal toward Alonso. "I'll assume that Project will concur and cooperate because there isn't any choice in the matter. We're facing a survival decision, and we have to keep our heads on. The point is, I'm getting a lot of static both from the crew and the theorists on board. In view of the present situation, we are in a mode-one emergency, effective now." His hamlike fist thudded down on the tabletop. "That means this is not a country club, and it's not an asylum. The Sirius III is a star ship, duly commissioned by World Council Authority to perform an important mission. The crisis we face is no different than a battle situation in the old days. You don't loose your heads under fire."
He rattled papers before him impatiently. "I have reports here of a supposedly technical and clinical nature, mostly a lot of big words about psycho-phasing and phobia syndromes, but I'm going to translate them for you." Now came the Mongolian glare of the apparent tyrant. "We have some screws loose, and those screws are going to be tightened. This ship is an extension of World Authority under law!" The heavy-lidded eyes opened enough to reveal a threatening glare. "I don't give a damn about medical or psychological theories just now. We have our mission orders. We're intelligent members of an advanced civilization backed by the highest technology and scientific brain trust in history. For you men out there who are listening to this, I'm not trying to explain something to you, I'm telling you. You know the regulations under mode one: toe the line and follow orders. That's your only handle! Any infractions will be handled by security."
He paused as if wondering how to boost the morale in the middle of an ultimatum. There was a muscular twitch of his lips, probably meant to be a conciliatory smile, but it was as brief as a whiplash. "If you want some kindly philosophy you can identify yourselves with the ship. When we hit a dust bank or a magnetic storm, we don't come through it if all the tie downs are loose. So batten the hatches, bolt yourselves down. That means the only solid deck you've got under you is discipline. If you forget it, there's a definite backup. You'll answer to me!" With a wave of his hand, he turned the meeting over to Alonso.
"Hell!" muttered Fitz.
"Or bile," said Foxy with a snicker.
A crewman behind them said, "Mode one allows executions."
"Not to mention putting roborgs on riot duty," said somebody else.
Lalille smiled softly at Frederica in a signal of encouragement, since it was largely he
r own reports Lyshenko had almost scuttled. However, Freddie gave everyone a no-comment look and watched Alonso expectantly.
"Don't knock it," said Boozie. "With all our alleged infantilism, what's wrong with a father image?"
To Danny, it looked like a go for the Jumper plan. He thought of commenting on the commander's apparent commitment, but Alonso had opened the agenda.
Although more eloquent and polished than the Skipper, the Duke was nevertheless efficient. Diplomatically sidestepping Lyshenko's discipline issue, he focused directly on the prime decision before them. In a very few words he reviewed their situation and then flatly stated the problem.
"Without an S-link there are no alternatives. I regret to say it, but our only recourse is to make an attempt to survive on the nearest habitable planet. Fortunately, this latter opportunity has been presented to us."
"Dr. Madrazo," said Tallullah Marsh, "before we examine the biophysical feasibility of planetary survival–"
"My dear, you're out of order," said Alonso patiently.
"I'd like to get some order here," she said in her husky contralto. "You just did away with the S-link, which does eliminate the alternatives. Before we get to that stage, the missing spare part would seem to be the primary question here."
"Right on, Big M," said Fitz approvingly, and all present agreed except that Freddie and the Lily pretended not to hear him. The crew-given nickname for Tallullah apparently alluded to Marsh, Mother, or even Matriarch, but everybody knew it was a covert reference to her mammary endowments.
Alonso assured her that the S-link matter was on the agenda. He was already into item one, having called upon Chief Engineer Stanis Bruno to give a report of other damages caused by the explosion. For this purpose, a block of remote monitors had lowered from a ceiling well over the conference table, and the intense, dark-eyed Italian appeared on one of the screens. He had barely begun his report before Lyshenko cut him off.
"If the water reserves aren't damaged, the rest is immaterial to the discussion. Next item, Doctor!"
Star Quest Page 3