Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  “The Synod of Cathau—” Nestir began.

  “Plague take it, Father! Really, now, I must say. The Synod of Cathau! Certainly you’ve misinterpreted that. Anticipation can be a joy, y’know: almost equal to the very Reward. Anticipation should spur man in duty. It’s all noble and self sacrificing.” He scratched the back of his right hand.

  The second mate had been trying to get a word in edgewise for several minutes; he finally succeeded by utilizing the temporary silence following the captain’s outburst.

  “You don’t need to worry about your Casting Off, Captain. You can leave that to me. I assure you, I have in mind a most ingenious method.”

  THE captain was not visibly cheered; he was still brooding about the sad absence of a sense of duty on the part of Nestir. “I will welcome it,” he said, “at the proper time, sir. And I certainly hope—” His eyes swept the table. “I certainly hope to be Cast Off by an officer. It would be very humiliating, y’know, to have a crew member do it.”

  “Oh, very,” said the steward.

  “I don’t know,” the second mate’s wife said, “whether you better count on my husband or not. I have my own plans for him.”

  “This problem of Carstar interests me,” the third mate said. “Did I ever tell you about my wife? She strangled our second baby.”

  “He was a very annoying child,” his wife said.

  “He probably wouldn’t have lived, anyway,” the third mate said. “Puny baby.”

  “That,” said Nestir, “is not at all like the Carstar case. Not at all. Yours is a question of saliex y cuminzund.”

  The first mate nodded.

  “It seems to me that the whole thing would depend on the intent of the strangler.”

  “Captain,” the steward said, “you really must let me give you some of that salve.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I . . .”

  “No bother at all,” the steward said.

  “As I see it,” Nestir said, “if the intent was the natural maternal instinct of the mother to release her child from its duty, then . . .”

  “Oh, not at all,” the third mate’s wife said. “I did it to make him stop crying.”

  “Well, in that case, I see no reason why he shouldn’t get his Reward.”

  “I certainly hope so,” the third mate said. “Jane worries about it all the time.”

  “I do not,” Jane contradicted.

  “Now, honey, you know you do so.”

  At that moment, he lost interest in his wife and leaned across the table toward the captain, “Well?” he asked.

  The captain rolled the wine over his tongue. “You were right, of course.”

  The third mate turned triumphantly to the first mate. “There, I told you so.”

  The first mate shrugged. “I never do say nothin’ right,” he said. “I hain’t got no luck. I’ve spent more years un all ya, carpenterin’ up a duty log that’s better un even th’ captain’s. An’ hit’s Martha an’ me that gotta wait an’ help th’ next crew. Lord above knows how long time hit’ll be afore we uns’ll got ta have a Festival.”

  “Oh, really, now. Now. Duty, duty,” the captain reprimanded him mildly.

  “Duty! Duty! Duty! You all ur in a conspiracy. You all want me ta die uv old age.”

  “Nonsense,” said the steward. “We don’t want anything of the sort. After all, someone has to orient the new crew.”

  “Quite right,” said the captain. “You ought to be proud.”

  THE first mate slammed his napkin in the middle of his food and stalked out of the mess hall.

  “Quite touchy today,” Nestir observed.

  “By the way,” the third mate said. “Wanda gave me a petition to give to you, Father.”

  “Wanda?”

  “Yes. She’s sixteen, now.”

  “Wanda who?” the steward asked.

  “Wanda Miller, the bosun’s daughter.”

  “I know her,” Helen said.

  “She’s the oldest child on the ship, and she wants you to sign her adult petition so she can be in the Festival, Father.”

  “She’s so young . . .”

  “Sixteen, Father.”

  “After all, one must have done some duty,” the captain said.

  “He wants you to sign it so he can take her in the Changing of the Wives,” Jane said.

  Nestir fidgeted uncomfortably. “Well, I’ll look at her record,” he said.

  “It’s an idea,” the second mate said. “Otherwise, we’ll be short one woman.”

  “There wouldn’t be one short if he had brought a wife,” the first mate’s wife said, looking squarely at the captain.

  “Now, Martha. I place duty above pleasure. You’re just angry, y’know, because you have to stay with your husband.”

  “All right, so I am. But it’s true. And if Carstar hadn’t been killed, there would have been two short.” She shot a wicked glance at Nestir. “Why don’t you and him share a woman—”

  “Martha!”

  “Although the Prophet knows what woman in her right mind would consent to . . .”

  “Well,” said Nestir hesitantly.

  “Listen,” the third mate said, “the second’s right. If you don’t sign it, someone will have to do without a woman.”

  Nestir blushed. “I’ll look it over very carefully, but you must realize that the priestcraft . . .”

  “Actually, in a way, it would be her duty to, you see. Think of it like that: as her way to do her duty.”

  “She’s too young for you, dear,” Jane said to her husband.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” the steward said. “Sometimes they’re the best, I hear.”

  III

  THE third mate, whose name was Harry, stood before the mirror combing his hair. He had been combing his hair for the last fifteen minutes.

  “I suppose the crew is celebrating?” his wife said.

  “I suppose.”

  She stood up and walked over to the dresser. Absently she began to finger the articles on it.

  “You really shouldn’t have told them about little Glenn tonight.”

  “Pish-tush.”

  “No, Harry. I mean it. Helen looked at me strangely all through dinner. She has three children, you know.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “But she does have three children.”

  “I mean about her looking at you.”

  “Oh.”

  Harry fiddled with his tie without speaking.

  “I mean, as much as to say: ‘Well, I raised all of mine.’ ”

  “But honey, about little Glenn. That was an accident, almost. You didn’t really mean to choke him that hard.”

  “But still . . . it . . . I mean, there was Helen, looking at me like I wasn’t doing my duty. You know.”

  “No,” he said. “That’s nonsense, Jane. Sheer nonsense. You know what the priest said.”

  He polished one of his brass buttons with the sleeve of his coat.

  “Harry?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think all that is necessary just to go on duty.”

  “Probably not.”

  She walked to the bed and sat down. “Harry?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Don’t you really think she’s awful young?”

  “Huh-uh.”

  “I mean, why don’t you pick someone else? Like Mary? She’s awful sweet. I’ll bet she’d be better.”

  “Probably.”

  “She’s a lot of fun.”

  He brushed at his hair again. “Who do you want, Jane?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She looked down at her legs, raised them up from the floor and held them out in front of her. “I think I’d kind of like Nestir. With his funny bald head. I hope he asks me.”

  “I’ll mention it to him.”

  “Would you really, Harry? That would be sweet.”

  “Sure, honey.” He looked down at his watch.

  “Harry? Are you going
to meet Wanda in the control room?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I thought so. Well, remember this, dear: It isn’t the day of the Changing of the Wives yet. Don’t forget.”

  “Honey! You don’t think for a minute that . . .”

  “No, dear. I know you wouldn’t. But just don’t, I mean.”

  HE walked over and kissed her forehead and patted her cheek. “Course not,” he said, comfortingly.

  He left her sitting on the bed and strolled down the officers’ corridor, whistling.

  He made a mental note to have the bosun send some of the crew in tomorrow to wash down these bulkheads. They needed it. In one corner a spider spun its silver web.

  He jogged up the companionway, turned left and felt the air as fresh as spring when he stepped under the great ventilator.

  And beneath it lay one of the crew.

  He kicked the man several times in the ribs until he came to consciousness.

  “Can’t sleep here, my man,” Harry explained.

  “Awww. Go way an’ le’ me ‘lone, huh?”

  “Here. Here.” He pulled the fellow erect and slapped him in the face briskly. “This is the officers’ corridor.”

  “Oh? Ish it? Schorry. Shore schorry, shir. So schorry.”

  Harry assisted him to the crew’s corridor where he sank to the floor and relapsed once more into a profound slumber.

  Harry continued on to the control room.

  When he entered it, the second mate was yawning.

  “Hi, John. Sleepy?”

  “Uh-huh. You’re early.”

  “Don’t mind, do you?”

  “No . . . Quiet tonight. Had to cut the motors an hour ago. Control technician passed out.”

  “Oh?”

  The second mate took out a cigarette and lit it. “Can’t blow the ship up, you know. Look like hell on the record. Hope the captain don’t find out about it, though. He’ll figure the man was neglecting his duty.”

  He blew a smoke ring.

  “Might even bar him from the Festival.”

  “Yeah,” said Harry, “the captain’s funny that way.”

  The second mate blew another smoke ring.

  “Well,” Harry said.

  “Uh. Harry? Are you really going to take that Wanda girl?”

  “If Nestir lets me.”

  “Say. Harry. Do you suppose your wife would . . .?”

  HARRY crossed to the second mate and put a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, old fellow. She’s got it in her head to take Nestir.” He shrugged. “I don’t exactly approve, of course, but . . . I’m sure if he doesn’t want her, she’d be glad to hear your offer.”

  “Aw, that’s all right,” John said. “Don’t really matter. Say. By the way. Have I told you what I intend to do to the captain? I’ve got it all thought out. You know that saber I picked up on Queglat? Well . . .”

  “Look. How about telling me another time?”

  “Uh, Sure. If you say so. Uh?”

  “I’m kind of expecting Wanda.”

  “Oh. Sure. I should have known you weren’t here early for nothing. In that case, I better be shoving off. Luck.”

  “Thanks. See you at breakfast.”

  “Right-o.”

  After the second mate left, Harry walked over to the control panel. The jet lights were dead. He picked up the intercom and switched over the engine call bell. “ ’Lo,” he said into the microphone. “This is the bridge . . . Oh, hi, Barney. Harry . . . Have you got a sober control technician down there yet . . .? Fine. We’ll start the jets again. If the captain comes in now—well, you know how he is . . . Okay, thanks. Night.”

  He replaced the microphone. He reached over and threw the forward firing lever. The jet lights came on and the ship began to brake acceleration again.

  Having done that, he switched on the space viewer. The steady buzz of the equipment warming sounded in his ears. Wanda would be sure to want to look at the stars. She was simple minded.

  “Hello.”

  He swiveled around. “Oh, hello, Wanda, honey.”

  “Hello, Haireee. Are you glad little ol’ me could come, huh?”

  “Sure am.”

  “Me, too. Can I look at the—oh. It’s already on.”

  “Uh-huh. Look. Wanda.”

  “Hum?”

  “I talked to Nestir today.”

  “Goody. What did he say, huh? I can be an adult and get to play in the Festival, can I?”

  “I don’t know, yet. He’s thinking about it. That’s why I want to see you. He’s going to check your record. And Wanda?”

  “Them stars shore are purty.”

  “Wanda, listen to me.”

  “I’m a-listenin’, Haireee.”

  “You’re simply going to have to stop carrying that doll around with you if you want to be an adult.”

  IN Nestir’s cabin the next morning, the captain and the priest held a conference.

  “No, Captain. I’m afraid I can’t agree to that,” Nestir said.

  The captain said, “Oh, don’t be unreasonable, Father. After all, this is a ship, y’know. And I am, after all, the captain.”

  Nestir shook his head. “The crew and the officers will participate together in the Festival. I will not put the officers’ corridor off limits, and—Oh! Yes? Come in!”

  The door opened. “Father?”

  “Yes, my son? Come in.”

  “Thank you, Father. Good morning, Captain, sir.”

  “Sit down, my son. Now, Captain, as I was saying: no segregation. It’s contrary to the spirit, if not the wording, of the Jarcon.”

  “But Father! A crewman! In the officers’ corridor! Think!”

  “Before the Prophet, we are all equal. I’m sorry, Captain. Now on Koltah, we practiced it with very good results, and . . .”

  “I say, really—”

  “Father?” said the crewman who had just entered.

  “Yes, my son. In one moment. Now, Captain. As I have been explaining: The arena method has advantages. In Koltah we always used it. But here—due to the—ah—exigencies of deep space—I feel convinced that a departure from normal procedure is warranted. It is not without precedent. Such things were fairly common, in astoli tavoro, up until centralization, three hundred years before Allth. Indeed, in my home city—Koltah—in the year of the seventh plague, a most unusual expedient was adopted. It seems . . .”

  “You’re perfectly correct, of course,” the captain said.

  “That’s just what I wanted to see you about, Father,” the crewman said. “Now, in my city state of Ni, for the Festivals, we . . .”

  “Shut up,” said the captain softly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, as I was saying, Captain, when the methods used in . . .”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Father, I really should return to duty,” said the crewman.

  “Quite all right, my son. Close the door after you.”

  “I must say, fellow, your sense of duty is commendable.”

  “Well, uh, thank you, sir. And thank you, Father, for your time.”

  “Quite all right, my son. That’s what I’m here for. Come in as often as you like.”

  The crewman closed the door after him.

  HE had been gone only a moment, scarcely time for Nestir to get properly launched on his account, when Harry, the third mate, knocked on the door and was admitted.

  “Oh? Good morning, Captain. I didn’t know you were here.” Then, to the priest: “I’ll come back later, Father.”

  “Nonsense,” said the captain. “Come in.”

  “Well, I had hoped to see the Father for a minute on . . . private business.”

  “I have to be toddling along,” said the captain.

  “But Captain! I haven’t finished telling you about . . .”

  “I’ll just go down and get a cup of coffee,” the captain said.

  “I’ll call you when I’m through,” said Harry.

  The captain left the room.
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br />   “It’s about Wanda, Father,” said the third mate.

  The priest studied the table top. He rearranged some papers. “Ah, yes. The young girl.”

  “Well, I mean, it’s not only about Wanda,” said Harry. “You see, my wife, Jane, that is . . .”

  “Yes?” said the priest. He took his pen out of the holder.

  “I think, with the proper . . . ah . . . you know. What I mean is, I think she might look with favor on you in the Changing of the Wives, if I said a few well chosen words in your behalf.”

  “That is very flattering, my son.” He returned the pen to the holder. “Such bounty, as it says in the Jarcon, is cull tensio.”

  “And with your permission, Father . . .”

  “Ah . . .”

  “She’s a very pretty woman.”

  “Ah . . . Quite so.”

  “Well, about Wanda. I really shouldn’t mention this. But Father, if we are short one woman . . .”

  “Hummmm.”

  “I mean, the girls might think a man gets rusty.”

  “I see what you mean.” Nestir blinked his eyes. “It wouldn’t be fair, all things considered.”

  He stood up.

  “I may tell you, my son, that, in thinking this matter over last night, I decided that Wanda—ah—Miller, yes, has had sufficient duty to merit participation in the Festival.”

  “Justice is a priestly virtue,” Harry said.

  “And you really think your wife would . . .?”

  “Oh, yes, Father.”

  “Well, ahem. But . . .”

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Ad dulce verboten.”

  “Uh?”

  “That is to say, in order for a woman to join in the ritual of the Changing of the Wives, she must, ahem, be married.”

  “I never thought of that,” said the third mate disconsolately.

  “I think that can be arranged, however,” said Nestir. “If you go by the mess hall on your way out, please tell the captain we can continue our discussion at his pleasure.”

  IV

  “SIT down, Captain,” said Nestir, when the captain entered. “No. Over there, in the comfortable chair. There. Are you comfortable, Captain?”