Starman Jones Page 22

  Max pulled himself together, the wavering figures came into focus. “Mr. Walther?”

  “Yes?”

  “But I’m not an astrogator. I’m just a probationary apprentice.”

  Chief Engineer Compagnon answered him. “Kelly says you’re an astrogator,” he growled.

  “Kelly is more of an astrogator than I am!”

  Compagnon shook his head. “You can’t pass judgment on yourself.” Samuels nodded agreement.

  “Let’s dispose of that,” Walther added. “There is no question of the Chief Computerman becoming captain. Nor does your rank in your guild matter. Line of command, underway, necessarily is limited to astrogators. You are senior in that line, no matter how junior you feel. At this moment, I hold command—until I pass it on. But I can’t take a ship into space. If you refuse…well, I don’t know what we will have to do. I don’t know.”

  Max gulped and said, “Look, sir, I’m not refusing duty. I’ll astrogate—shucks, I suppose it’s all right to call me the astrogator, under the circumstances. But there is no reason to pretend that I’m captain. You stay in command while I conn the ship. That’s best, sir—I wouldn’t know how to act like a captain.”

  Walther shook his head. “Not legally possible.”

  Compagnon added, “I don’t care about the legalities. But I know that responsibility can’t be divided. Frankly, young fellow, I’d rather have Dutch as skipper than you—but he can’t astrogate. I’d be delighted to have Doc Hendrix—but he’s gone. I’d rather hold the sack myself than load it on you—but I’m a physicist and I know just enough of the math of astrogation to know that I couldn’t in a lifetime acquire the speed that an astrogator has to have. Not my temperament. Kelly says you’ve got it already. I’ve shipped with Kelly a good many years, I trust him. So it’s your pidgin, son; you’ve got to take it—and the authority that goes with it. Dutch will help—we’ll all help—but you can’t duck out and hand him the sack.”

  Mr. Samuels said quietly, “I don’t agree with the Chief Engineer about the unimportance of legal aspects; most of these laws have wise reasons behind them. But I agree with what else he says. Mr. Jones, a ship is not just steel, it is a delicate political entity. Its laws and customs cannot be disregarded without inviting disaster. It will be far easier to maintain morale and discipline in this ship with a young captain—with all his officers behind him—than it would be to let passengers and crew suspect that the man who must make the crucial decisions, those life-and-death matters involving the handling of the ship, that this all-powerful man nevertheless can’t be trusted to command the ship. No, sir, such a situation would frighten me; that is how mutinies are born.”

  Max felt his heart pounding, his head was aching steadily. Walther looked at him grimly and said, “Well?”

  “I’ll take it.” He added, “I don’t see what else I can do.”

  Walther stood up. “What are your orders, Captain?”

  Max sat still and tried to slow his heart. He pressed his fingers to throbbing temples and looked frightened. “Uh, continue with routine. Make preparations to raise ship.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Walther paused, then added, “May I ask when the Captain plans to raise ship?”

  He was having trouble focusing again. “When? Not before tomorrow—tomorrow at noon. I’ve got to have a night’s sleep.” He thought to himself that Kelly and he could throw it into a parking orbit, which would get them away from the centaurs—then stop to figure out his next move.

  “I think that’s wise, sir. We need the time.”

  Compagnon stood up. “If the Captain will excuse me, sir, I’ll get my department started.”

  Samuels joined him. “Your cabin is ready, sir—I’ll have your personal effects moved in in a few minutes.”

  Max stared at him. He had not yet assimilated the side implications of his new office. Use Captain Blaine’s holy of holies? Sleep in his bed? “Uh, I don’t think that’s necessary. I’m comfortable where I am.”

  Samuels glanced at the First Officer, then said, “If you please, Captain, this is one of the things I was talking about when I said that a ship is a delicate political entity.”

  “Eh?” Max thought about it, then suddenly felt both the burden descend on him and the strength to meet it. “Very well,” he answered, his voice deepening. “Do it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Samuels looked at him. “Also, Captain—if you wish it—I’ll have Lopez stop in and trim your hair.”

  Max pushed locks back of his ear. “It is shaggy, isn’t it? Very well.”

  The Purser and the Chief Engineer left. Max stood for a moment uncertainly, not sure what his next cue was in this new role. Walther said, “Captain? Can you spare me a few more minutes?”

  “Oh, certainly.” They sat down and Walther poured more coffee. Max said, “Mr. Walther? Do you suppose we could ring the pantry and get some toast? I haven’t eaten today.”

  “Why, surely! Sorry, sir.” Instead of ringing, the First Officer phoned and ordered a high tea. Then he turned to Max. “Captain, I didn’t give you all the story—nor did I wish to until we were alone.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t misunderstand me. My turning over command to you did not depend on these other matters—nor is it necessary for your officers to know everything that the Captain knows…even your department heads.”

  “Uh, I suppose not.”

  Walther stared at his coffee. “Have you heard how Mr. Simes happened to die?”

  Max told him what little he had learned from Sam. Walther nodded. “That is essentially correct. Mmmm… It is not good to speak ill of the dead, but Simes was an unstable character. When Captain Blaine passed on, he took it for granted that he was immediately captain of this ship.”

  “Well—I suppose it looked that way to him, from the legal standpoint.”

  “Not at all! Sorry to correct you, Captain, but that is one hundred percent wrong.”

  Max frowned. “I guess I’m dumb—but I thought that was the argument that was used on me?”

  “No, sir. The ship being on the ground, command devolved on me, the senior. I am not required to turn command over to an astrogator until—and unless—the ship goes into space. Even then it is not automatically a matter of turning it over to the senior astrogating officer. I have a clearly defined responsibility, with numerous adjudicated cases in point: I must turn command over only to a man I believe can handle it.

  “Now I have long had doubts about Mr. Simes, his temperament, I mean. Nevertheless, in this emergency, I would have found it terribly hard not to turn command over to him, once it was decided to raise ship. But before we lost the Captain I had had occasion to dig into Mr. Simes’ ability as an astrogator—partly as a result of a conversation with you. I talked with Kelly—as you have gathered, Kelly is very well thought of. I believe I know now how that last transition went sour; Kelly took pains to show me. That and the fact that Kelly told me bluntly that there wasn’t a member of the Worry gang willing to go into space under Mr. Simes made me decide that, if it ever came up, I’d let this ship sit here forever before I would let Simes be captain. That was just thinking ahead; the Captain was sick and prudence forced me to consider possibilities.

  “Then the Captain did die—and Simes announced that he was captain. The fool even moved into the cabin and sent for me. I told him he was not in command and never would be. Then I left, got witnesses and took my chief of police along to eject him. You know what happened. Your life isn’t the only one that Anderson saved; I owe him mine, too.”

  Walther abruptly changed the subject. “That phenomenal trick of memory you do—computing without tables or reference books. Can you do it all the time?”

  “Uh? Why, yes.”

  “Do you know all the tables? Or just some of them?”

  “I know all the standard tables and manuals that are what an astrogator calls his ‘working tools.’” Max started to tell about his uncle, Walther interrupted gently.

 
; “If you please, sir. I’m glad to hear it. I’m very glad to hear it. Because the only such books in this ship are the ones in your head.”

  Kelly had missed the books, of course—not Walther. When he disclosed his suspicions to Walther, the two conducted a search. When that failed, it was announced that one (but only one) set was missing; Walther had offered a reward, and the ship had been combed from stern to astrodome—no manuals.

  “I suppose he ditched them dirtside,” Walther finished. “You know where that leaves us—we’re in a state of seige. And we’d find them only by accident if we weren’t. So I’m very glad you have the same confidence in your memory that Kelly has.”

  Max was beginning to have misgivings—it is one thing to do something as a stunt, quite another to do it of necessity. “It isn’t that bad,” he answered. “Perhaps Kelly never thought of it, but logarithms and binary translation tables can probably be borrowed from engineering—with those we could fudge up methods for any straight hop. The others are needed mostly for anomalous transitions.”

  “Kelly thought of that, too. Tell me, Captain, how does a survey ship go back after it penetrates a newly located congruency?”

  “Huh? So that is what you want me to do with the ship?”

  “It is not for me,” Walther said formally, “to tell the Captain where to take his ship.”

  Max said slowly, “I’ve thought about it. I’ve had a lot of time to think lately.” He did not add that he had dwelt on it nights in captivity to save his reason. “Of course, we don’t have the instruments that survey ships carry, nor does applied astrogation go much into the theory of calculating congruencies. And even some survey ships don’t come back.

  “But…” They were interrupted by a knock on the door. A steward’s mate came in and loaded the table with food. Max felt himself starting to drool.

  He spread a slice of toast with butter and jam, and took a big bite. “My, this is good!”

  “I should have realized. Have a banana, sir? They look quite good—I believe hydroponics has had to thin them out lately.”

  Max shuddered. “I don’t think I’ll ever eat bananas again. Or pawpaws.”

  “Allergic, Captain?”

  “Not exactly. Well…yes.”

  He finished the toast and said, “About that possibility. I’ll let you know later.”

  “Very well, Captain.”

  Shortly before the dinner hour, Max stood in front of the long mirror in the Captain’s bedroom and looked at himself. His hair was short again and two hours sleep had killed some of his fatigue. He settled a cap on his head at the proper angle—the name in the sweat band was “Hendrix”; he had found it laid out with one of his own uniforms to which captain’s insignia had been added. The sunburst on his chest bothered him—that he was indeed captain he conceded, even though it seemed like a wild dream, but he had felt that he was not entitled to anything but the smaller sunburst and circle, despite his four stripes.

  Walther and Samuels had been respectful but firm, with Samuels citing precedents that Max could not check on. Max had given in.

  He looked at himself, braced his shoulders, and sighed. He might as well go face them. As he walked down the companionway to the lounge he heard the speakers repeating, “All hands! All passengers! Report to Bifrost Lounge!”

  The crowd made way for him silently. He went to the Captain’s table—his table!—and sat down at its head. Walther was standing by the chair. “Good evening, Captain.”

  “Evening, Mr. Walther.”

  Ellie was seated across from him. She caught his eye and smiled. “Hello, Ellie.” He felt himself blushing.

  “Good evening, Captain,” she said firmly. She was dressed in the same high style she had worn the first time he had ever seen her in the lounge; it did not seem possible that this lady could be the same girl whose dirty face had looked at him over three-dee boards scratched in dirt.

  “Uh, how are your feet?”

  “Bandages and bedroom slippers. But the Surgeon did a fine job. I’ll be dancing tomorrow.”

  “Don’t rush it.”

  She looked at his stripes and his chest. “You should talk.”

  Before he could answer the unanswerable Walther leaned over and said quietly, “We’re ready, Captain.”

  “Oh. Go ahead.” Walther tapped on a water glass.

  The First Officer explained the situation in calm tones that made it seem reasonable, inevitable. He concluded by saying, “…and so, in accordance with law and the custom of space, I have relinquished my temporary command to your new captain. Captain Jones.”

  Max stood up. He looked around, swallowed, tried to speak, and couldn’t. Then, as effectively as if it had been a dramatic pause and not desperation, he picked up his water tumbler and took a sip. “Guests and fellow crewmen,” he said, “we can’t stay here. You know that. I have been told that our Surgeon calls the system we are up against here ‘symbiotic enslavement’—like dog to man, only more so, and apparently covering the whole animal kingdom on this planet. Well, men aren’t meant for slavery, symbiotic or any sort, but we are too few to win out now, so we must leave.”

  He stopped for another sip and Ellie caught his eye, encouraging him. “Perhaps someday other men will come back—better prepared. As for us, I am going to try to take the Asgard back through the…uh, ‘hole’ you might call it, where we came out. It’s a chancy thing. No one is forced to come along—but it is the only possible way to get home. Anyone who’s afraid to chance it will be landed on the north pole of planet number three—the evening star we have been calling ‘Aphrodite.’ You may be able to survive there, although it is pretty hot even at the poles. If you prefer that alternative, turn your names in this evening to the Purser. The rest of us will try to get home.” He stopped, then said suddenly, “That’s all,” and sat down.

  There was no applause and he felt glumly that he had muffed his first appearance. Conversation started up around the room, crewmen left, and steward’s mates quickly started serving. Ellie looked at him and nodded quietly. Mrs. Mendoza was on his left; she said, “Ma—I mean ‘Captain’—is it really so dangerous? I hardly like the thought of trying anything risky. Isn’t there something else we can do?”

  “No.”

  “But surely there must be?”

  “No. I’d rather not discuss it at the table.”

  “But…” He went on firmly spooning soup, trying not to tremble. When he looked up he was caught by a glittering eye across the table, a Mrs. Montefiore, who preferred to be called “Principessa”—a dubious title. “Dolores, don’t bother him. We want to hear about his adventures—don’t we, Captain?”

  “No.”

  “Come now! I hear that it was terribly romantic.” She drawled the word and gave Ellie a sly, sidelong look. She looked back at Max with the eye of a predatory bird and showed her teeth. She seemed to have more teeth than was possible. “Tell us all about it!”

  “No.”

  “But you simply can’t refuse!”

  Eldreth smiled at her and said, “Princess darling—your mouth is showing.”

  Mrs. Montefiore shut up.

  After dinner Max caught Walther alone. “Mr. Walther?”

  “Oh yes, Captain?”

  “Am I correct in thinking that it is my privilege to pick the persons who sit at my table?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In that case—that Montefiore female. Will you have her moved, please? Before breakfast?”

  Walther smiled faintly. “Aye aye, sir.”

  21

  THE CAPTAIN OF THE ASGARD

  They took Sam down and buried him where he had fallen. Max limited it to himself and Walther and Giordano, sending word to Ellie not to come. There was a guard of honor, but it was armed to kill and remained spread out around the grave, eyes on the hills. Max read the service in a voice almost too low to be heard—the best he could manage.

  Engineering had hurriedly prepared the marker, a pointed slab of
stainless metal. Max looked at it before he placed it and thought about the inscription. “Greater love hath no man”?—no, he had decided that Sam wouldn’t like that, with his cynical contempt of all sentimentality. He had considered, “He played the cards he was dealt”—but that didn’t fit Sam either; if Sam didn’t like the cards, he sometimes slipped in a whole new deck. No, this was more Sam’s style; he shoved it into the ground and read it:

  IN MEMORY OF

  SERGEANT SAM ANDERSON

  LATE OF THE

  IMPERIAL MARINES

  “He ate what was set before him.”

  Walther saw the marker for the first time. “So that’s how it was? Somehow I thought so.”

  “Yes. I never did know his right name. Richards. Or maybe Roberts.”

  “Oh.” Walther thought over the implication. “We could get him reinstated, sir, posthumously. His prints will identify him.”

  “I think Sam would like that.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir, when we get back.”

  “If we get back.”

  “If you please, Captain—when we get back.”

  Max went straight to the control room. He had been up the evening before and had gotten the first shock of being treated as captain in the Worry Hole over with. When Kelly greeted him with, “Good morning, Captain,” he was able to be almost casual.

  “Morning, Chief. Morning, Lundy.”

  “Coffee, sir?”

  “Thanks. About that parking orbit—is it set up?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Then forget it. I’ve decided to head straight back. We can plan it as we go. Got the films?”

  “I picked them up earlier.” They referred to the films cached in Max’s stateroom. Simes had managed to do away with the first set at the time of Captain Blaine’s death; the reserve set was the only record of when and where the Asgard had emerged into this space, including records of routine sights taken immediately after transition.