At least Mother, hard as she had been, had never asked the impossible. But Rhoda . . . well, Wife was new to the job. He said tensely, "Chief Officer, this injunction was laid on me personally, not on Sisu. I have no choice."
"So? Very well, Captain—we'll speak of it later. And now, with all respect to you, sir, I have work to do."
Thorby had a wonderful time at the Gathering but not as much fun as he expected; repeatedly Mother required him to help entertain chief officers of other ships. Often a visitor brought a daughter or granddaughter along and Thorby had to keep the girl busy while the elders talked. He did his best and even acquired facility in the half-insulting small talk of his age group. He learned something that he called dancing which would have done credit to any man with two left feet and knees that bent backwards. He could now put his arm around a girl when music called for it without chills and fever.
Mother's visitors quizzed him about Pop. He tried to be polite but it annoyed him that everyone knew more about Pop than he did—except the things that were important.
But it did seem that duty could be shared. Thorby realized that he was junior son, but Fritz was unmarried, too. He suggested that if Fritz were to volunteer, the favor could be returned later.
Fritz gave a raucous laugh. "What can you offer that can repay me for dirtside time at Gathering?"
"Well . . ."
"Precisely. Seriously, old knucklehead, Mother wouldn't listen, even if I were insane enough to offer. She says you, she means you." Fritz yawned. "Man, am I dead! Little red-head off the Saint Louis wanted to dance all night. Get out and let me sleep before the banquet."
"Can you spare a dress jacket?"
"Do your own laundry. And cut the noise."
But on this morning one month after grounding Thorby was hitting dirt with Father, with no chance that Mother would change their minds; she was out of the ship. It was the Day of Remembrance. Services did not start until noon but Mother left early for something to do with the election tomorrow.
Thorby's mind was filled with other matters. The services would end with a memorial to Pop. Father had told him that he would coach him in what to do, but it worried him, and his nerves were not soothed by the fact that Spirit of Sisu would be staged that evening.
His nerves over the play had increased when he discovered that Fritz had a copy and was studying it. Fritz had said gruffly, "Sure, I'm learning your part! Father thought it would be a good idea in case you fainted or broke your leg. I'm not trying to steal your glory; it's intended to let you relax—if you can relax with thousands staring while you smooch Loeen."
"Well, could you?"
Fritz looked thoughtful. "I could try. Loeen looks cuddly. Maybe I should break your leg myself."
"Bare hands?"
"Don't tempt me. Thorby, this is just precaution, like having two trackers. But nothing less than a broken leg can excuse you from strutting your stuff."
Thorby and his Father left Sisu two hours before the services. Captain Krausa said, "We might as well enjoy ourselves. Remembrance is a happy occasion if you think of it the right way—but those seats are hard and it's going to be a long day."
"Uh, Father . . . just what is it I'll have to do when it comes time for Pop—for Baslim?"
"Nothing much. You sit up front during the sermon and give responses in the Prayer for the Dead. You know how, don't you?"
"I'm not sure."
"I'll write it out for you. As for the rest . . . well, you'll see me do the same for my Mother—your Grandmother. You watch and when it comes your turn, you do the same."
"All right, Father."
"Now let's relax."
To Thorby's surprise Captain Krausa took a slide-way outside the Gathering, then whistled down a ground car. It seemed faster than those Thorby had seen on Jubbul and almost as frantic as the Losians. They reached the rail station with nothing more than an exchange of compliments between their driver and another, but the ride was so exciting that Thorby saw little of the City of Artemis.
He was again surprised when Father bought tickets. "Where are we going?"
"A ride in the country." The Captain glanced at his watch. "Plenty of time."
The monorail gave a fine sensation of speed. "How fast are we going, Father?"
"Two hundred kilometers an hour, at a guess." Krausa had to raise his voice.
"It seems faster."
"Fast enough to break your neck. That's as fast as a speed can be."
They rode for half an hour. The countryside was torn up by steel mills and factories for the great yards, but it was new and different; Thorby stared and decided that the Sargon's reserve was a puny enterprise compared with this. The station where they got off lay outside a long, high wall; Thorby could see space ships beyond it. "Where are we?"
"Military field. I have to see a man—and today there is just time." They walked toward a gate. Krausa stopped, looked around; they were alone. "Thorby—"
"Yes, Father?"
"Do you remember the message from Baslim you delivered to me?"
"Sir?"
"Can you repeat it?"
"Huh? Why, I don't know, Father. It's been a long time."
"Try it. Start in: 'To Captain Fjalar Krausa, master of Starship Sisu, from Baslim the Cripple: Greetings, old friend!—' "
" ' "Greetings, old friend," ' " Thorby repeated. " 'Greetings to your family, clan, and sib, and'—why, I understand it!"
"Of course," the Krausa said gently, "this is the Day of Remembrance. Go on."
Thorby went on. Tears started down his cheeks as he heard Pop's voice coming from his own throat: " '—and my humblest respects to your revered mother. I am speaking to you through the mouth of my adopted son. He does not understand Suomic'—oh, but I do!"
"Go on."
When Thorby reached: " 'I am already dead—' " he broke down. Krausa blew his nose vigorously, told him to proceed. Thorby managed to get to the end, though his voice was shaking. Then Krausa let him cry a moment before telling him sternly to wipe his face and brace up. "Son . . . you heard the middle part? You understood it?"
"Yes . . . uh, yes. I guess so."
"Then you know what I have to do."
"You mean ... I have to leave Sisu?"
"What did Baslim say? 'When opportunity presents—' This is the first opportunity I've had . . . and I've had to squeeze to get it. It's almost certainly the last. Baslim didn't make me a gift of you, Son—just a loan. And now I must pay back the loan. You see that, don't you?"
"Uh . . . I guess so."
"Then let's get on with it." Krausa reached inside his jacket, pulled out a sheaf of bills and shoved them at Thorby. "Put this in your pocket. I would have made it more, but it was all I could draw without attracting your Mother's suspicions. Perhaps I can send you more before you jump."
Thorby held it without looking at it, although it was more money than he had ever touched before. "Father . . . you mean I've already left Sisu?"
Krausa had turned. He stopped. "Better so, Son. Good-bys are not comfort; only remembrance is a comfort. Besides, it has to be this way."
Thorby swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"Let's go."
They walked quickly toward the guarded gate. They were almost there when Thorby stopped. "Father . . . I don't want to go!"
Krausa looked at him without expression. "You don't have to."
"I thought you said I did have to?"
"No. The injunction laid on me was to deliver you and to pass on the message Baslim sent to me. But there my duty ends, my debt is paid. I won't order you to leave the Family. The rest was Baslim's idea . . . conceived, I am sure, with the best of intentions for your welfare. But whether or not you are obligated to carry out his wishes is something between you and Baslim. I can't decide it for you. Whatever debt you may or may not owe Baslim, it is separate from the debt the People owed to him."
Krausa waited while Thorby stood mute, trying to think. What had Pop expected of him? What had
he told him to do? "Can I depend on you? You won't goof off and forget it?" Yes, but what, Pop? "Don't burn any offerings . . . just deliver a message, and then one thing more: do whatever this man suggests." Yes, Pop, but the man won't tell me!
Krausa said urgently, "We haven't much time. I have to get back. But, Son, whatever you decide, it's final. If you don't leave Sisu today, you won't get a second chance. I'm sure of that."
"It's the very last thing that I want from you, son . . . can I depend on you?" Pop said urgently, inside his head.
Thorby sighed. "I guess I have to, Father."
"I think so, too. Now let's hurry."
The gate pass office could not be hurried, especially as Captain Krausa, although identifying himself and son by ship's papers, declined to state his business with the commander of Guard Cruiser Hydra other than to say that it was "urgent and official."
But eventually they were escorted by a smart, armed fraki to the cruiser's hoist and turned over to another. They were handed along inside the ship and reached an office marked "Ship's Secretary—Enter Without Knocking." Thorby concluded that Sisu was smaller than he had thought and he had never seen so much polished metal in his fife. He was rapidly regretting his decision.
The Ship's Secretary was a polite, scrubbed young man with the lace orbits of a lieutenant. He was also very firm. "I'm sorry, Captain, but you will have to tell me your business . . . if you expect to see the Commanding Officer."
Captain Krausa said nothing and sat tight.
The nice young man colored, drummed on his desk. He got up. "Excuse me a moment."
He came back and said tonelessly, "The Commanding Officer can give you five minutes." He led them into a larger office and left them. An older man was there, seated at a paper-heaped desk. He had his blouse off and showed no insignia of rank. He got up, put out his hand, and said, "Captain Krausa? Of Free Trader . . . Seezoo, is it? I'm Colonel Brisby, commanding."
"Glad to be aboard, Skipper."
"Glad to have you. How's business?" He glanced at Thorby. "One of your officers?"
"Yes and no."
"Eh?"
"Colonel? May I ask in what class you graduated?"
"What? Oh-Eight. Why do you ask?"
"I think you can answer that. This lad is Thorby Baslim, adopted son of Colonel Richard Baslim. The Colonel asked me to deliver him to you."
CHAPTER 15
"What?"
"The name means something to you?"
"Of course it does." He stared at Thorby. "There's no resemblance."
" 'Adopted' I said. The Colonel adopted him on Jubbul."
Colonel Brisby closed the door. Then he said to Krausa, "Colonel Baslim is dead. Or 'missing and presumed dead,' these past two years."
"I know. The boy has been with me. I can report some details of the Colonel's death, if they are not known."
"You were one of his couriers?"
"Yes."
"You can prove it?"
"X three oh seven nine code FT."
"That can be checked. We'll assume it is for the moment. By what means do you identify . . . Thorby Baslim?"
Thorby did not follow the conversation. There was a buzzing in his ears, as if the tracker was being fed too much power, and the room was swelling and then growing smaller. He did figure out that this officer knew Pop, which was good . . . but what was this about Pop being a colonel? Pop was Baslim the Cripple, licensed mendicant under the mercy of . . . under the mercy . . .
Colonel Brisby told him sharply to sit down, which he was glad to do. Then the Colonel speeded up the air blower. He turned to Captain Krausa. "All right, I'm sold. I don't know what regulation I'm authorized to do it under . . . we are required to give assistance to 'X' Corps people, but this is not quite that. But I can't let Colonel Baslim down."
" 'Distressed citizen,' " suggested Krausa.
"Eh? I don't see how that can be stretched to fit a person on a planet under the Hegemony, who is obviously not distressed—other than a little white around the gills, I mean. But I'll do it."
"Thank you, Skipper." Krausa glanced at his watch. "May I go? In fact I must."
"Just a second. You're simply leaving him with me?"
"I'm afraid that's the way it must be."
Brisby shrugged. "As you say. But stay for lunch. I want to find out more about Colonel Baslim."
"I'm sorry, I can't. You can reach me at the Gathering, if you need to."
"I will. Well, coffee at least." The ship commander reached for a button.
"Skipper," Krausa said with distress, looking again at his watch, "I must leave now. Today is our Remembrance . . . and my Mother's funeral is in fifty minutes."
"What? Why didn't you say so? Goodness, man! You'll never make it."
"I'm very much afraid so . . . but I had to do this."
"We'll fix that." The Colonel snatched open the door. "Eddie! An air car for Captain Krausa. Speed run. Take him off the top and put him down where he says. Crash!"
"Aye aye, Skipper!"
Brisby turned back, raised his eyebrows, then stepped into the outer office. Krausa was facing Thorby, his mouth working painfully. "Come here, Son."
"Yes, Father."
"I have to go now. Maybe you can manage to be at a Gathering . . . some day."
"I'll try, Father!"
"If not . . . well, the blood stays in the steel, the steel stays in the blood. You're still Sisu."
" 'The steel stays in the blood.' "
"Good business, Son. Be a good boy."
"Good . . . business! Oh, Father!"
"Stop it! You'll have me doing it. Listen, I'll take your responses this afternoon. You must not show up."
"Yes, sir."
"Your Mother loves you . . . and so do I."
Brisby tapped on the open door. "Your car is waiting, Captain."
"Coming, Skipper." Krausa kissed Thorby on both cheeks and turned suddenly away, so that all Thorby saw was his broad back.
Colonel Brisby returned presently, sat down, looked at Thorby and said, "I don't know quite what to do with you. But we'll manage." He touched a switch. "Have some one dig up the berthing master-at-arms, Eddie." He turned to Thorby. "We'll make out, if you're not too fussy. You traders live pretty luxuriously, I understand."
"Sir?"
"Yes?"
"Baslim was a colonel? Of your service?"
"Well . . . yes."
Thorby had now had a few minutes to think—and old memories had been stirred mightily. He said hesitantly, "I have a message for you—I think."
"From Colonel Baslim?"
"Yes, sir. I'm supposed to be in a light trance. But I think I can start it." Carefully, Thorby recited a few code groups. "Is this for you?"
Colonel Brisby again hastily closed the door. Then he said earnestly, "Don't ever use that code unless you are certain everyone in earshot is cleared for it and the room has been debugged."
"I'm sorry, sir."
"No harm done. But anything in that code is hot. I just hope that it hasn't cooled off in two years." He touched the talker switch again. "Eddie, cancel the master-at-arms. Get me the psych officer. If he's out of the ship, have him chased down." He looked at Thorby. "I still don't know what to do with you. I ought to lock you in the safe."
The long message was squeezed out of Thorby in the presence only of Colonel Brisby, his Executive Officer Vice Colonel "Stinky" Stancke, and the ship's psychologist Medical-Captain Isadore Krishnamurti. The session went slowly; Dr. Kris did not often use hypnotherapy. Thorby was so tense that he resisted, and the Exec had a blasphemous time with recording equipment. But at last the psychologist straightened up and wiped his face. "That's all, I think," he said wearily. "But what is it?"
"Forget you heard it, Doc," advised Brisby. "Better yet, cut your throat."
"Gee, thanks, Boss."
Stancke said, "Pappy, let's run him through again. I've got this mad scientist's dream working better. His accent may have garbled it."
"Nonsense. The kid speaks pure Terran."
"Okay, so it's my ears. I've been exposed to bad influences—been aboard too long."
"If," Brisby answered calmly, "that is a slur on your commanding officer's pure speech, I consider the source. Stinkpot, is it true that you Riffs write down anything you want understood?"
"Only with Araleshi . . . sir. Nothing personal, you asked. Well, how about it? I've got the noise filtered out."
"Doc?"
"Hmm . . . The subject is fatigued. Is this your only opportunity?"
"Eh? He'll be with us quite a while. All right, wake him."
Shortly Thorby was handed over to the berthing P.O. Several liters of coffee, a tray of sandwiches, and one skipped meal later the Colonel and his second in command had recorded in clear the thousands of words of old Baslim the Beggar's final report. Stancke sat back and whistled. "You can relax, Pappy. This stuff didn't cool off—a half-life of a century, on a guess."
Brisby answered soberly, "Yes, and a lot of good boys will die before it does."
"You ain't foolin'. What gets me is that trader kid—running around the Galaxy with all that 'burn-before-reading' between his ears. Shall I slide down and poison him?"
"What, and have to fill out all those copies?"
"Well, maybe Kris can wipe it out of his tender grey matter without resorting to a trans-orbital."
"Anybody touches that kid and Colonel Baslim will rise up out of his grave and strangle him, is my guess. Did you know Baslim, Stinky?"
"One course under him in psychological weapons, my last year at the Academy. Just before he went 'X' Corps. Most brilliant mind I've ever met—except yours, of course, Pappy, sir, boss."
"Don't strain yourself. No doubt he was a brilliant teacher—he would be tops at anything. But you should have known him before he was on limited duty. I was privileged to serve under him. Now that I have a ship of my own I just ask myself: 'What would Baslim do?' He was the best commanding officer a ship ever had. It was during his second crack at colonel—he had been up to wing marshal and put in for reduction to have a ship again, to get away from a desk."
Stancke shook his head. "I can't wait for a nice cushy desk, where I can write recommendations nobody will read."
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