Dark Star (7 page)

"The signal was given due to a temporary malfunction in the activating mechanism. This is not a bomb run. Cancel all drop programming immediately." The computer tried to inject a note of insistence into its voice.

"Nevertheless, I've received the signal to prepare for a drop and shall continue . . ."

"Emergency override," came the ultimate command from the computer. "Return to the bay."

"Very well, then," bomb number twenty responded. It slid obediently back up on its shaft. The bay doors closed beneath it. As they did so the last vestiges of the storm receded into the distance.

The force field lapsed, and Talby turned quickly to watch the mass of flickering color and ceaseless energy retreat, heading for uncharted reaches. He waved it a mental goodbye. After all, danger or no, the storm seemed very much alive. Maybe it was a strange kind of organism, contained within itself, forever unable to make safe contact with another creature except one of its own kind.

Ah, there you go, anthropomorphizing again, Talby. He chastised himself. The storm was a manifestation of purely physical phenomena, he instructed himself firmly. Nothing more nor less. He turned and resumed his quiet study of the fore starfield.

The force field and the ship's defensive screens automatically shut down with the passing of the danger. Doolittle, Pinback, and Boiler slumped heavily in their seats, letting the tension flow out of theme

Pinback forced a slight grin as he removed his head set. "Well, we made it again."

"Yeah," agreed Doolittle. "I wonder why we did. There was enough power in that vortex to melt this tin triangle to slag. I didn't think anything on it worked that well anymore." He noticed a red light winking steadily on his console.

"And maybe it doesn't." At Pinback's curious glance, he nodded toward the indicator.

"Now what?" Then, louder, "Go ahead, computer, we're out of stasis and recovered."

"Attention, attention," the computer began, ignoring the fact that Doolittle and Pinback were already hanging on every coming word. "Ship's computer to bridge. There was a malfunction aboard ship during the final passage of the concatenation of . . . during the final passage of the asteroid storm."

Pinback and Doolittle exchanged tired glances. It couldn't be very serious or the operation of the ship would have been noticeably affected by now. Doolittle groaned.

"All right, computer . . . what is it?"

"Tracing."

While Doolittle waited irritably—they would never get their music back on until the damned machine had finished its report—smoke drifted from a small hole in the wall of the emergency airlock.

Needless to say, neither the hole nor the drifting smoke was a normal component of the silent airlock. It drifted out from behind a panel that covered a small chamber. Within that chamber rested an operating Iaser that occasionally now flashed in a sequence not programmed for it. It was an especially important laser. It was the center of the malfunction. But the reason the computer couldn't locate it was because that last, parting bolt from the storm had burned out its connections with the computer.

"I have not yet identified the nature of the problem," was all the machine voice said to Doolittle. "Shall I contact you when I find out what this malfunction is?"

"Yeah," put in the heretofore silent Boiler. "Do that . . . but meantime, shut up, huh?" The computer didn't reply, but became silent.

Boiler was up, unstrapping himself from his seat. Doolittle was ahead of him, and Pinback hurrying to catch up.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but I need to look at something besides these damned controls for a while. Let's get out of here."

"I could use a rest, too," added Boiler. "Good thing we weren't resting when that storm hit." They were leaving the control room now, heading down the corridor leading back toward one of the converted storage rooms—the one they'd converted for their own use.

Boiler was in an unusually talkative mood. "I remember the last time we were in an asteroid storm. I was down in the 'A' food locker getting a sandwich when I heard the damn sleeping quarters blow out."

"Yeah, me too," chirped Pinback. "Boy, you wouldn't think just a little escaping air could make such a racket!" Doolittle gave him a tired look but the sergeant continued on enthusiastically.

"Say, you know, you guys," he began as they turned a bend the corridor, "if we really wanted to, really decided to put in a little work, we could fix up the sleeping quarters like they were before. Then we could sleep on real pneumatic bunks again. Hey, guys," he said pleadingly, "why don't we fix up the sleeping quarters so we can have a decent place to sleep again? Huh? Why don't we? It wouldn't be too hard.

"All we'd have to do is patch up the hole in the ship and pump some air back in. We could even do most of it from inside, I bet. Hey, guys . . ."

"Shut up, Pinback," Doolittle muttered. Then the thought that had been bothering him clicked and he glanced back at Boiler.

"What do you mean you were getting a sandwich? There's not supposed to be any real food on this ship. All we're supposed to have on board are these nutritious and wholesome concentrates. Not any real food. You couldn't make a sandwich out of concentrates. Where'd you get the stuff?"

Boiler looked slightly apologetic as they approached the door marked
FOOD LOCKER NO.
2. Even a mite embarrassed. His voice was unnaturally defensive.

"Well, you remember that each of us was allowed four crates of personal stuff for the trip?"

"Yeah, so?" pressed Doolittle.

Boiler hesitated slightly, then asked, "You remember the two marked
Books
? They were supposed to be full of astrophysics manuals and good stuff I was to study and comment on while we were traveling?"

Doolittle nodded; he was beginning to make connections. It was just that he'd never suspect Boiler—plain, unimaginative, stolid Boiler—of such daring duplicity. Evidentally, neither had the inspectors who had passed the crates.

"The night before we transferred from Earth Orbital Station to the ship," the corporal continued, "I threw 'em all out the station disposal lock."

"So the two crates were full of bread," guessed Doolittle, "and what else?"

"Bread," Boiler nodded in a mournful way it was sad to see, "and peanut butter and jelly . . . all kinds of jelly. Also swiss cheese, kosher salami, sardines, mayonnaise, pickle relish, corned beef, pastrami, lettuce, and knockwurst." He shook his head. "I really miss that knockwurst."

"And you were holding out on us," accused Doolittle softly, "while we were masticating that colored crap concentrate? You were eating salami, and corned beef, and . . . and . . ." he tried to say pastrami, but his mouth was so full of saliva at the thought that he couldn't.

"You could have done the same thing," Boiler protested, drawing himself up with a modicum of dignity. "Anyhow, I'd just about broken down and decided to share it with you guys when the first storm hit.

"Most of our personal stuff was up in the room with the rest of our things. It was insulated pretty good. I used to sneak it out and take it down to the food locker to eat because it was the only place I could get rid of the scraps and not have to worry about the odors." His expression grew even sadder.

"When the sleeping quarters went, so did the crate full of real food. I just hope if there
is
any intelligent life out there, that they find that floating mass of gunk first. Then they'll know we're civilized."

There was a moment of silence, in memorium. Doolittle said a silent prayer for the now-space-petrified pastrami and looked at Boiler with new respect The shock he had been concealing must have been terrible.

"I'm sorry, Boiler. I really am."

"Ah, that's all right, Lieutenant. I've pretty much gotten over it. I'm only sorry I didn't get to share it with you guys after all."

"That shouldn't keep us from fixing up the sleeping quarters again," put in Pinback, whose tone showed no feeling for Boiler's state of mind. He opened the door and preceded them into the converted food locker.

Pinback's urgent desire to repair the formal sleeping quarters took on added weight with the actual sight of their present abode. Three highly unpneumatic bunks lay scattered against the thick walls. They were emergency-grade only, and a far cry from the zero-gee sleeping cots of pre-explosion days.

Assorted debris of the kind commonly cast off by the bachelor human male covered bunks and floor and walls with fine impartiality—a liberal coating of useless flotsam composed of worn-out objects of every conceivable shape and former function.

Only one bunk lay neat and spotless. The blanket across it was drawn taut enough to bounce a coin on. Dress insignia and medals were laid out across it in order preparatory to donning.

It was Talby's bunk, of course. Talby's bunk, which hadn't been used in . . . Doolittle couldn't remember how long. Couldn't remember when the astronomer had begun sleeping in his observation chair up in the dome. He didn't like it, but nothing in the regulations said any member of the crew couldn't sleep wherever he wished.

But Doolittle didn't think it was healthy.

Three of the walls were bare, the locker shelving having been completely removed when the men decided to move in. The fourth wall was covered from ceiling to floor with glossy color photos of female-type humans. There were several hundred photos, blown up from microfilm. Some of them were intact, others were cut to show off some particular portion of the subject's anatomy. They had one thing in common, and that was that artificial clothing figured in none of them.

"It wouldn't take but a day or two to fix it up, Doolittle, Boiler. Aw, c'mon, fellas. We could do it in—"

"Shut up, Pinback," Doolittle yelled.

"Oh, have it your own way, then. Sleep on a lumpy bunk—see if I care." Pinback flopped down on his own mattress. Quick fumbling at his own supplies produced a cigarette.

Doolittle relaxed on his bunk and produced a packet of cards, began laying them out for yet another game of solitaire. Boiler sat down on his bed and stared at one of the blank wails.

"For your enjoyment," came the soothing voice of the computer, which in addition to running the ship constantly monitored what it believed to be their needs, "we now present some moonlight melodies of Martin Segundo and his Scintilla Strings.

"Our first selection is the perennial favorite, 'When Twilight Falls on NGC Eight Nine One'." Soft music filled the untidy alcove. No one bothered to object. The computer's arguments about the importance of mood music as opposed to violent rock could be maddening. Only when its choices grew extremely puerile did they bother to fight it

Boiler had shuffled about in his own locker, came up with a fat cigar. The computer voice drifted in over the music.

"I must remind both Corporal Boiler and Sergeant Pinback that more than one person smoking at a time puts an unwholesome strain upon the air-purification system."

"What air-purification system?" Boiler snorted derisively. "I can still smell last week's smoke." The computer didn't deign to reply.

Boiler lit up disdainfully, began blowing extremely neat smoke rings. At times the presence of full artificial gravity on the
Dark Star
was to be regretted. Sleeping hours were among them, especially since their special bunks had been ruined. Now was another of them, as Boiler contemplated his nebula-like creations and considered the possible reactions of smoke rings in zero-gee.

Pinback was staring at the picture-covered wall, the cigarette still grasped unlit in one hand, the virgin match in the other. Abruptly he let them both drop to the floor. His face took on a decidedly sly expression.

There was a lively gleam in his eyes as he picked up a large box and set it on his bed. Watching Boiler and Doolittle for signs of reaction, he began fumbling through its contents. Boiler blew contented smoke rings.

The corporal rolled over, selected another cigar, and lit it. He seemed surprised to discover then that he had another already in his mouth. Without seeming the least bit embarrassed, he put out the second one by pinching the tip into suffocation.

A moment later he had exchanged it for a switch blade knife—an odd item to bring on board, and one which the mission directors would have banned if they had known about it. But the one thing the psychometricians had insisted on was that every man's four crates of personal effects, barring actual explosives or something equally dangerous, were absolutely private.

This was why Boiler had had such success in bringing along such unorthodox but decidedly nonexplosive items as his real-sandwich components and the switchblade. The latter snicked open with a wicked metallic whisper.

Holding the knife in one hand, he used the other to clear everything from the upturned crate alongside his bed. It made a nice makeshift table. This was one of his own, personal, surviving crates. It was made of good solid homey wood, not plastic or free-formed metal.

Spreading his fingers flat on the surface, he took the knife and began mumblety-pegging with it, jabbing between the closely spaced fingers into the firm wood. He started outside the thumb and worked over to the outside of the little finger. Then he repeated the journey.

Back and forth, forth and back, and back—and the knife sliced down just outside one of his fingers. He stopped, held up his nicked hand, and stared blankly at it.

All the attributes and faults that the psyche people had agreed were present in Boiler were apparent right then: that he had ice water in his veins; that he was likely to be the least communicative member of the
Dark Star
crew; that he would be the one least likely to crack in a pressure situation—except for Powell.

They had told him all that before they had left for Earth Orbital Station, at the final psyche briefing. He studied the finger, remembered what they had told him, and smiled.

Since he had only ice water in his veins, then of course there could be only ice water leaking out. And that would stop quickly enough. Indeed, while the knife had been driven into the finger with some force, anyone could see for himself that there was no blood dripping out. That this was due to Boiler's unnatural control of his own body was the explanation of the psychometricians who had first observed the quality in him.