Citizen of the Galaxy (15 page)

Thorby grinned feebly. “I'll try.”

“That's better. We're going to play a game.” Jeri pulled a boxlike contrivance out of a pocket, snapped it open.

“What is that?”

“A 'killjoy.' It fits here.” Jeri slipped it over the switch that determined which console was in command. “Can you see the switch?”

“Huh? No.”

“Hand the man the prize.” Jeri fiddled with the switch behind the screen. “Which of us is in control in case we have to launch a bomb now?”

“How can I tell? Take that off, Jeri; it makes me nervous.”

“That's the game. Maybe I'm controlling and you are just going through motions; maybe you are the man at the trigger and I'm asleep in my chair. Every so often I'll fiddle with the switch -- but you won't know how I've left it. So when a flap comes -- and one will; I feel it in my bones -- you can't assume that good old Jeri, the man with the micrometer fingers, has the situation under control. You might have to save the firm. You.”

Thorby had a queasy vision of waiting men and bombs in the missile room below -- waiting for him to solve precisely an impossible problem of life and death, of warped space and shifting vectors and complex geometry. “You're kidding,” he said feebly. “You wouldn't leave me in control. Why, the Captain would skin you alive.”

“Ah, that's where you're wrong. There always comes a day when a trainee makes his first real run. After that, he's a controlman . . . or an angel. But we don't let you worry at the time. Oh no! we just keep you worried all the time. Now here's the game. Any time I say, 'Now!' you guess who has control. You guess right, I owe you one dessert; you guess wrong, you owe me one. Now!”

Thorby thought quickly. “I guess I've got it.”

“Wrong.” Jeri lifted the killjoy. “You owe me one dessert -- and it's berry tart tonight; my mouth is watering. But faster; you're supposed to make quick decisions. Now!”

“You've still got it!”

“So I have. Even. Now!”

“You!”

“Nope. See? And I eat your tart -- I ought to quit while I'm ahead. Love that juice! Now!”

When Mata relieved them, Jeri owned Thorby's desserts for the next four days. “We start again with that score,” Jeri said, “except that I'm going to collect that berry tart. But I forgot to tell you the big prize.”

“Which is?”

“Comes the real thing, we bet three desserts. After ifs over, you guess and we settle. Always bet more on real ones.”

Mata sniffed. “Bud, are you trying to make him nervous?”

“Are you nervous, Thorby?”

“Nope!”

“Quit fretting, Sis. Got it firmly in your grubby little hands?”

“I relieve you, sir.”

“Come on, Thorby; let's eat. Berry tarts -- aaah!”

Three days later the score stood even, but only because Thorby had missed most of his desserts. Sisu was enormously slowed, almost to planetary speeds, and Losian's sun loomed large on the screens. Thorby decided, with mildest regret, that his ability to fight would not be tested this jump.

Then the general alarm made him rear up against safety belts. Jeri had been talking; his head jerked around, he looked at displays, and his hands moved to his controls. “Get on it!” he yelped. “This one's real.”

Thorby snapped out of shock and bent over his board. The analog globe was pouring data to them; the ballistic situation had built up. Good heavens, it was close! And matching in fast! How had anything moved in so close without being detected? Then he quit thinking and started investigating answers . . . no, not yet . . . before long though . . . could the bandit turn a little at that boost and reduce his approach? . . . try a projection at an assumed six gravities of turning . . . would a missile reach him? . . . would it still reach him if he did not --

He hardly felt Mata's gentle touch on his shoulder. But he heard Jeri snap, “Stay out, Sis! We're on it, we're on it!”

A light blinked on Thorby's board; the squawk horn sounded, “Friendly craft, friendly craft! Losian planetary patrol, identified. Return to watch-and-watch.”

Thorby took a deep breath, felt a great load lift.

“Continue your run!” screamed Jeri.

“Huh?”

“Finish your run! That's no Losian craft; that's a raider! Losian's can't maneuver that way! You've got it, boy, you've got it! Nail him!”

Thorby heard Mata's frightened gasp, but he was again at his problem. Change anything? Could he reach him? Could he still reach him in the cone of possible maneuver? Now! He armed Ms board and let the computer give the order, on projection.

He heard Jeri's voice faintly; Jeri seemed to be talking very slowly. “Missile away. I think you got him . . . but you were eager. Get off another one before their beam hits us.”

Automatically Thorby complied. Time was too short to try another solution; he ordered the machine to send another missile according to projection. He then saw by his board that the target was no longer under power and decided with a curiously empty feeling that his first missile had destroyed it.

“That's all!” Jeri announced. “Now!”

“What?”

“Who had it? You or me? Three desserts.”

“I had it,” Thorby said with certainty. In another level he decided that he would never really be a Trader -- to Jeri that target had been -- just fraki. Or three desserts.

“Wrong. That puts me three up. I turned coward and kept control myself. Of course the bombs were disarmed and the launchers locked as soon as the Captain gave the word . . . but I didn't have the nerve to risk an accident with a friendly ship.”

“Friendly ship!”

“Of course. But for you, Assistant Junior Controlman, it was your first real one . . . as I intended.”

Thorby's head floated. Mata said, “Bud, you're mean to collect. You cheated.”

“Sure I cheated. But he's a blooded controlman now, just the same. And I'm going to collect, just the very same. Ice cream tonight!”

Thorby did not stay an assistant junior firecontrolman; Jeri moved up to astrogation trainee; Mata took charge of the starboard room, and Thorby was officially posted as the new Starboard Junior Firecontrolman, with life and death in his forefinger. He was not sure that he liked it.

Then that arrangement tumbled almost as quickly.

Losian is a “safe” planet. Inhabited by civilized non-humans, it is a port safe from ground raids; no dirtside defensive watches were necessary. Men could leave the ship for pleasure and even women could do so. (Some of the women aboard had not left the ship, save at Gatherings of the People, since being exchanged to Sisu as girls.)

Losian was to Thorby his “first” foreign land, Jubbul being the only planet clear in his memory. So he was very eager to see it. But work came first. When he was confirmed as a firecontrolman, he was transferred from hydroponics into the junior vacancy among the Supercargo's clerks. It increased Thorby's status; business carried more prestige than housekeeping. Theoretically he was now qualified to check cargo; in fact a senior clerk did that while Thorby sweated, along with junior male relatives from every department. Cargo was an all-hands operation, as Sisu never permitted stevedores inside, even if it meant paying for featherbedding.

The Losians have never invented tariff; crated bales of verga leaves were turned over to purchaser right outside the ship. In spite of blowers the hold reeked of their spicy, narcotic fragrance and reminded Thorby of months past and light-years away when he had huddled, a fugitive in danger of being shortened, into a hole in one crate while a friendly stranger smuggled him through the Sargon's police.

It didn't seem possible. Sisu was home. Even as he mused, he thought in the Family's language.

He realized with sudden guilt that he had not thought about Pop very often lately. Was he forgetting Pop? No, no! He could never forget, not anything . . . Pop's tones of voice, the detached look when he was about to comment unfavorably, his creaking movements on chilly mornings, his unfailing patience no matter what -- why, in all those years Pop had never been angry with him -- yes, he had, once.

“ 'I am not your master!' “

Pop had been angry that once. It had scared Thorby; he hadn't understood.

Now, across long space and time, Thorby suddenly understood. Only one thing could make Pop angry: Pop had been explosively insulted at the assertion that Baslim the Cripple was master to a slave. Pop, who maintained that a wise man could not be insulted, since truth could not insult and untruth was not worthy of notice.

Yet Pop had been insulted by the truth, for certainly Pop had been his master; Pop had bought him off the block. No, that was nonsense! He hadn't been Pop's slave; he had been Pop's son . . . Pop was never his master, even the times he had given him a quick one across the behind for goofing. Pop . . . was just 'Pop.'

Thorby knew then that the one thing that Pop hated was slavery.

Thorby was not sure why he was sure, but he was. He could not recall that Pop had ever said a word about slavery, as such; all Thorby could remember Pop saying was that a man need never be other than free in his own mind.

“Hey!”

The Supercargo was looking at him. “Sir?”

“Are you moving that crate, or making a bed of it?”

Three local days later Thorby had finished showering, about to hit dirt with Fritz, when the deckmaster stuck his head in the washroom, spotted him, and said, “Captain's compliments and Clerk Thorby Baslim-Krausa will attend him.”

“Aye aye, Deckmaster,” Thorby answered and added something under his breath. He hurried into clothes, stuck his head into his bunkie, gave the sad word to Fritz and rushed to the Cabin, hoping that the Deckmaster had told the Captain that Thorby had been showering.

The door was open. Thorby started to report formally when the Captain looked up. “Hello, Son. Come in.”

Thorby shifted gears from Ship to Family. “Yes, Father.”

“I'm about to hit dirt. Want to come along?”

“Sir? I mean, 'Yes, Father!' that 'ud be swell!”

“Good. I see you're ready. Let's go.” He reached in a drawer and handed Thorby some twisted bits of wire. “Here's pocket money; you may want a souvenir.”

Thorby examined it. “What's this stuff worth. Father?”

“Nothing -- once we're off Losian. So give me back what you have left so I can turn it in for credit. They pay us off in thorium and goods.”

“Yes, but how will I know how much to pay for a thing?”

“Take their word for it. They won't cheat and won't bargain. Odd ones. Not like Lotarf . . . on Lotarf, if you buy a beer without an hour's dickering you're ahead.”

Thorby felt that he understood Lotarfi better than he did Losians. There was something indecent about a purchase without a polite amount of dickering. But fraki had barbaric customs; you had to cater to them -- Sisu prided herself on never having trouble with fraki.

“Come along. We can talk as we go.”

As they were being lowered Thorby looked at the ship nearest them, Free Trader El Nido, Garcia clan. “Father, are we going to visit with them?”

“No, I exchanged calls the first day.”

“I didn't mean that. Will there be any parties?”

“Oh. Captain Garcia and I agreed to dispense with hospitality; he's anxious to jump. No reason why you shouldn't visit them though, subject to your duties.” He added, “Hardly worth it; she's like Sisu, only not as modern.”

“Thought I might look at her computer rooms.”

They hit ground and stepped off. “Doubt if they'd let you. They're a superstitious lot.” As they stepped clear of the hoist a baby Losian came streaking up, circled and sniffed their legs. Captain Krausa let the little thing investigate him, then said mildly, “That's enough,” and gently pushed it away. Its mother whistled it back, picked it up and spanked it Captain Krausa waved to her, called out, “Hello, friend!”

“Hello, Trader Man,” she answered in Interlingua shrill and sibilant. She was two-thirds Thorby's height, on four legs with forelimbs elevated -- the baby had been on all six. Both were sleek and pretty and sharp-eyed. Thorby was amused by them and only slightly put off by the double mouth arrangement -- one for eating, one for breathing and talking.

Captain Krausa continued talking. “That was a nice run you made on that Losian craft.”

Thorby blushed. “You knew about that, Father?”

“What kind of a captain am I if I don't? Oh, I know what's worrying you. Forget it. If I give you a target, you burn it. It's up to me to kill your circuits if we make friendly identification. If I slap the God-be-thanked switch, you can't get your computer to fire, the bombs are disarmed, the launching gear is locked, the Chief can't move the suicide switch. So even if you hear me call off the action -- or you get excited and don't hear -- it doesn't matter. Finish your run; it's good practice.”

“Oh. I didn't know, Father.”

“Didn't Jeri tell you? You must have noticed the switch; it's the big red one, under my right hand.”

“Uh, I've never been in the Control Room, Father.”

“Eh? I must correct that; it might belong to you someday. Remind me . . . right after we go irrational.”