Starman Jones

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Easy watches for everyone but Max—he was placed on watch-and-watch for instruction, four hours on followed by four hours off in which he must eat, keep himself clean, relax, and—if he found time—sleep.

  But he thrived on it, arriving early and sometimes having to be ordered out of the Worry Hole. Not until much later did he find out that this stiff regime was Kelly’s way of trying to break him, discover his weakness and get rid of him promptly if he failed to measure up.

  Not all watches were pleasant. Max’s very first watch was under Mr. Simes. He crawled up the hatch into the control room and looked around him in wonderment. On four sides were the wonderfully delicate parallax cameras. Between two of them Lundy sat at the saddle of the main computer; he looked up and nodded but did not speak. Mr. Simes sat at the control console, facing the hatch; he must have seen Max but gave no sign of it.

  There were other instruments crowded around the walls, some of which Max recognized from reading and from seeing pictures, some of which were strange—tell-tales and gauges from each of the ship’s compartments, a screen to reproduce the view aft or “below,” microphone and controls for the ship’s announcing system, the “tank” or vernier stereograph in which plates from the parallax cameras could be compared with charts, spectrostellograph, dopplerscope, multipoint skin temperature recorder, radar repeater for landing, too many things to take in at once.

  Overhead through the astrogation dome was the starry universe. He stared at it, mouth agape. Living as he had been, inside a steel cave, he had hardly seen the stars; the firmament had been more with him back home on the farm.

  “Hey! You!”

  Max shook his head and found Mr. Simes looking at him. “Come here.” Max did so, the assistant astrogator went on, “Don’t you know enough to report to the watch officer when you come on duty?”

  “Uh—sorry, sir.”

  “Besides that, you’re late.” Max slid his eyes to the chronometer in the console; it still lacked five minutes of the hour. Simes continued, “A sorry state of affairs when crewmen relieve the watch later than the watch officer. What’s your name?”

  “Jones, sir.”

  Mr. Simes sniffed. He was a red-faced young man with thin, carroty hair and a sniff was his usual conversational embellishment, at least with juniors. “Make a fresh pot of coffee.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Max started to ask where and how, but Mr. Simes had gone back to his reading. Max looked helplessly at Lundy, who indicated a direction with his eyes. Behind the chart safe Max found a coffee maker and under it cups, saucers, sugar, and tins of cream.

  He burned himself before getting the hang of gear’s idiosyncrasies. Mr. Simes accepted the brew without looking at him. Max wondered what to do next, decided to offer a cup to Lundy. The computerman thanked him quietly and Max decided to risk having one himself, since it seemed to be accepted. He took it over beside the computer to drink it.

  He was still doing so when the watch officer spoke up. “What is this? A tea party? Jones!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get the place policed up. Looks as if a herd of chucks had been wallowing in it.”

  The room seemed clean, but Max found a few scraps of paper to pick up and stuff down the chute, after which he wiped already-gleaming brightwork. He had started to go over things a second time when Lundy motioned him over. Max then helped Lundy change plates in the parallax cameras and watched him while he adjusted the electronic timer. Mr. Simes pushed the ready button himself, which seemed to be his sole work during the watch.

  Lundy removed the plates and set them up in the tank for chart comparison, took the readings and logged them. Max gave him nominal help and gathered some notion of how it was done, after which he again wiped brightwork.

  It was a long watch. He went to his bunk drained of the elation he had felt.

  But watches with Dr. Hendrix and with Chief Kelly were quite different. The Worry Hole was a jolly place under Kelly; he ruled as a benevolent tyrant, shouting, cursing, slandering the coffee, slurring his juniors and being sassed back. Max never touched a polish rag when Kelly was at control; he was kept too busy not merely helping but systematically studying everything in the room. “We haven’t a condemned thing to do,” Kelly shouted at him, “until we hit Garson’s Folly. Nothing to do but to ride this groove down until we hit dirt. So you, my laddy buck, are going to do plenty. When we get there you are going to know this condemned hole better than your mother knew your father—or you can spend your time there learning what you’ve missed while your mates are dirtside getting blind. Get out the instruction manual for the main computer, take off the back plate and get lost in them wires. I don’t want to see anything but your ugly behind the rest of this watch.”

  Within ten minutes, Kelly was down on his knees with him, helping him trace the intricate circuits.

  Max learned, greatly assisted by his photographic memory and still more by the sound grounding in theory he had gotten from his uncle. Kelly was pleased. “I reckon you exaggerated a mite when you said you hadn’t learned anything in the Thule.”

  “Well, not much.”

  “Johansen have the Worry Hole when you were striking?”

  “Uh, yes.” Max hoped frantically that Kelly would not ask other names.

  “I thought so. That squarehead wouldn’t tell his own mother how old he was.”

  There came a watch when Kelly trusted him to do a dry run for a transition approach on the computer, with Noguchi handling the tables and Kelly substituting for the astrogator by following records of the actual transition the ship had last made. The programming was done orally, as is the case when the astrogator is working under extreme pressure from latest data, just before giving the crucial signal to boost past the speed of light.

  Kelly took it much more slowly than would happen in practice, while Noguchi consulted tables and called out figures to Max. He was nervous at first, his fingers trembling so that it was hard to punch the right keys—then he settled down and enjoyed it, feeling as if he and the machine had been born for each other.

  Kelly was saying, “—times the binary natural logarithm of zero point eight seven oh nine two.” Max heard Noguchi’s voice call back the datum while he thumbed for the page—but in his mind Max saw the page in front of his eyes long before Noguchi located it; without conscious thought he depressed the right keys.

  “Correction!” sang out Kelly. “Look, meathead, you don’t put in them figures; you wait for translation by Noggy here. How many times I have to tell you?”

  “But I did—” Max started, then stopped. Thus far, he had managed to keep anyone aboard the Asgard from learning of his embarrassingly odd memory.

  “You did what?” Kelly started to clear the last datum from the board, then hesitated. “Come to think of it, you can’t possibly feed decimal figures into that spaghetti mill. Just what did you do?”

  Max knew he was right and hated to appear not to know how to set up a problem. “Why, I put in the figures Noguchi was about to give me.”

  “How’s that again?” Kelly stared at him. “You a mind reader?”

  “No. But I put in the right figures.”

  “Hmm…” Kelly bent over the keyboard. “Call ’em off, Noggy.” The computerman reeled off a string of ones and zeroes, the binary equivalent of the decimal expression Kelly had given him; Kelly checked the depressed keys, his lips moving in concentration. He straightened up. “I once saw a man roll thirteen sevens with honest dice. Was it fool luck, Max?”

  “No.”

  “Well! Noggy, gimme that book.” Kelly went through the rest of the problem, giving Max raw data and the operations to be performed, but not translating the figures into the binary notation the computer required. He kept thumbing the book and glancing over Max’s shoulder. Max fought off stage fright and punched the keys, while sweat poured into his eyes.

  At last Kelly said, “Okay. Twist its tail.” Max flipped the switch which allowed the computer to swallow the pro
gram and worry it for an instant; the answer popped out in lights, off or on—the machine’s equivalent of binary figures.

  Kelly translated the lights back into decimal notation, using the manual. He then glanced at the recorded problem. He closed the record book and handed it to Noguchi. “I think I’ll have a cup of coffee,” he said quietly and walked away.

  Noguchi reopened it, looked at the lights shining on the board and consulted the manual, after which he looked at Max very oddly. Max saw Kelly staring at him over a cup with the same expression. Max reached up and cleared the board entirely; the lights went out. He got down out of the computerman’s saddle. No body said anything.

  Max’s next watch was with Dr. Hendrix. He enjoyed watches with the Astrogator almost as much as those with Kelly; Dr. Hendrix was a friendly and soft-spoken gentleman and gave as much attention to training Max as Kelly did. But this time, Kelly lingered on after being relieved—in itself nothing, as the Chief Computerman frequently consulted with, or simply visited with, the Astrogator at such times. But today, after relieving the watch, Dr. Hendrix said pleasantly, “Kelly tells me that you are learning to use the computer, Jones?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.”

  “Very well, let’s have a drill.” Dr. Hendrix dug out an old astrogation log and selected a transition-approach problem similar to the one Max had set up earlier. Kelly took the manual, ready to act as his “numbers boy—” but did not call the translations. Max waited for the first one; when it did not come, he read the figures from the page shining in his mind and punched them in.

  It continued that way. Kelly said nothing, but wet his lips and checked what Max did each time the doctor offered a bit of the problem. Kovak watched from nearby, his eyes moving from actor to actor.

  At last, Dr. Hendrix closed the book. “I see,” he agreed, as if it were an everyday occurrence. “Jones, that is an extremely interesting talent. I’ve read of such cases, but you are the first I have met. You’ve heard of Blind Tom?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Perhaps the ship’s library has an account of him.” The Astrogator was silent for a moment. “I don’t mean to belittle your talent, but you are not to use it during an actual maneuver. You understand why?”

  “Yes, sir. I guess I do.”

  “Better say that you are not to use it unless you think an error has been made—in which case you will speak up at once. But the printed tables remain the final authority.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Good. See me, please, in my room when you come off watch.”

  It was “day time” by the ship’s clocks when he went off watch. He went to the passageway outside Dr. Hendrix’s room and waited; there Ellie came across him. “Max!”

  “Oh. Hello, Ellie.” He realized uncomfortably that he had not seen her since his tentative promotion.

  “Hello he says!” She planted herself in front of him. “You’re a pretty sight—with your bloodshot eyes matching the piping on your shirt. Where have you been? Too good for your old friends? You haven’t even been to see Chipsie.”

  He had been, once, although he had not run into Ellie. He had not repeated the visit because the shipmate who had replaced him had not liked being assigned as chambermaid to cows, sheep, llamas, et al; he had seemed to feel that it was Max’s fault. “I’m sorry,” Max said humbly, “but I haven’t had time.”

  “A feeble excuse. Know what you are going to do now? You’re going straight to the lounge and I am going to trim your ears—I’ve figured out a way to box your favorite gambit that will leave you gasping.”

  Max opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “No.”

  “Speak louder. You used a word I don’t understand.”

  “Look, Ellie, be reasonable. I’m waiting for Dr. Hendrix and as soon as he lets me go I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m about ten hours minus.”

  “You can sleep any time.”

  “Not when you’re standing four hours on and four off. You nap anytime you get a chance.”

  She looked perplexed. “You don’t mean you work every other watch? Why, that’s criminal.”

  “Maybe so but that’s how it is.”

  “But—I’ll fix that! I’ll speak to the Captain.”

  “Ellie! Don’t you dare!”

  “Why not? Captain Blaine is old sugar pie. Never you mind, I’ll fix it.”

  Max took a deep breath, then spoke carefully. “Ellie, don’t say anything to the Captain, not anything. It’s a big opportunity for me and I don’t mind. If you go tampering with things you don’t understand, you’ll ruin my chances. I’ll be sent back to the stables.”

  “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 ac
curately 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.”