Starman Jones by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Okay. Let’s get busy. Kovak can punch for me.”

  The others were drifting in, well ahead of time, as was customary in Kelly’s gang. “If you wish, sir. I’d be glad to compute for the Captain.”

  “Kovak can do it. You might help Noguchi and Lundy with the films.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Data flowed to him presently. He had awakened twice in the night in cold fright that he had lost his unique memory. But when the data started coming, he programmed without effort, appropriate pages opening in his mind. The problem was a short departure to rid themselves of the planet’s influence, an adjustment of position to leave the local sun “behind” for simpler treatment of its field, then a long, straight boost for the neighborhood in which they had first appeared in this space. It need not be precise, for transition would not be attempted on the first pass; they must explore the area, taking many more photographic sights and computing from them, to establish a survey that had never been made.

  Departure was computed and impressed on tape for the autopilot and the tape placed in the console long before noon. The ship had been keeping house on local time, about fifty-five standard minutes to the hour; now the ship would return to Greenwich, the time always kept in the control room—dinner would be late and some of the “beasts” would as usual reset their watches the wrong way and blame it on the government.

  They synchronized with the power room, the tape started running; there remained nothing to do but press the button a few seconds before preset time and thereby allow the autopilot to raise ship. The phone rang, Smythe took it and looked at Max. “For you, Captain. The Purser.”

  “Captain?” Samuels sounded worried. “I dislike to disturb you in the control room.”

  “No matter. What is it?”

  “Mrs. Montefiore. She wants to be landed on Aphrodite.”

  Max thought a moment, “Anybody else change his mind?”

  “No, sir.”

  “They were all notified to turn in their names last night.”

  “I pointed that out to her, sir. Her answers were not entirely logical.”

  “Nothing would please me more than to dump her there. But after all, we are responsible for her. Tell her no.”

  “Aye aye, sir. May I have a little leeway in how I express it?”

  “Certainly. Just keep her out of my hair.”

  Max flipped off the phone, found Kelly at his elbow. “Getting close, sir. Perhaps you will take the console now and check the set up? Before you raise?”

  “Eh? No, you take her up, Chief. You’ll have the first watch.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.” Kelly sat down at the console, Max took the Captain’s seat, feeling self-conscious. He wished that he had learned to smoke a pipe—it looked right to have the Captain sit back, relaxed and smoking his pipe, while the ship maneuvered.

  He felt a slight pulsation and was pressed more firmly into the chair cushions; the Asgard was again on her own private gravity, independent of true accelerations. Moments later, the ship raised, but with nothing to show it but the change out the astrodome from blue sky to star-studded ebony of space.

  Max got up and found that he was still holding an imaginary pipe, he hastily dropped it. “I’m going below, Chief. Call me when the departure sights are ready to compute. By the way, what rotation of watches do you plan on?”

  Kelly locked the board, got up and joined him. “Well, Captain, I had figured on Kovak and me heel-and-toe, with the boys on one in three. We’ll double up later.”

  Max shook his head. “No. You and me and Kovak. And we’ll stay on one in three as long as possible. No telling how long we’ll fiddle around out there before we take a stab at it.”

  Kelly lowered his voice. “Captain, may I express an opinion?”

  “Kelly, any time you stop being frank with me, I won’t have a chance of swinging this. You know that.”

  “Thank you, sir. The Captain should not wear himself out. You have to do all the computing as it is.” Kelly added quietly, “The safety of your ship is more important than—well, perhaps ‘pride’ is the word.”

  Max took a long time to reply. He was learning, without the benefit of indoctrination, that a commanding officer is not permitted foibles commonplace in any other role; he himself is ruled more strongly by the powers vested in him than is anyone else. The Captain’s privileges—such as chucking a tiresome female from his table—were minor, while the penalties of the inhuman job had unexpected ramifications.

  “Chief,” he said slowly, “is there room to move the coffee mess over behind the computer?”

  Kelly measured the space with his eye. “Yes, sir. Why?”

  “I was thinking that would leave room over here to install a cot.”

  “You intend to sleep up here, sir?”

  “Sometimes. But I was thinking of all of us—you shave up here half the time, as it is. The watches for the next few weeks do not actually require the O.W. to be awake most of the time, so we’ll all doss off when we can. What do you think?”

  “It’s against regulations, sir. A bad precedent…and a bad example.” He glanced over at Noguchi and Smythe.

  “You would write it up formal and proper, for my signature, citing the regulation and suspending it on an emergency basis ‘for the safety of the ship.’”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “You don’t sound convinced, so maybe I’m wrong. Think it over and let me know.”

  The cot appeared and the order was posted, but Max never saw either Kelly or Kovak stretched out on the cot. As for himself, had he not used it, he would have had little sleep.

  He usually ate in the control room as well. Although there was little to do on their way out to rendezvous with nothingness but take sights to determine the relations of that nothingness with surrounding sky, Max found that when he was not computing he was worrying, or discussing his worries with Kelly.

  How did a survey ship find its way back through a newly calculated congruency? And what had gone wrong with those that failed to come back? Perhaps Dr. Hendrix could have figured the other side of an uncharted congruency using only standard ship’s equipment—or perhaps not. Max decided that Dr. Hendrix could have done it; the man had been a fanatic about his profession, with a wide knowledge of the theoretical physics behind the routine numerical computations—much wider, Max was sure, than most astrogators.

  Max knew that survey ships calculated congruencies from both sides, applying to gravitational field theory data gathered on the previously unknown side. He made attempts to rough out such a calculation, then gave up, having no confidence in his results—he was sure of his mathematical operations but unsure of theory and acutely aware of the roughness of his data. There was simply no way to measure accurately the masses of stars light-years away with the instruments in the Asgard.

  Kelly seemed relieved at his decision. After that, they both gave all their time to an attempt to lay out a “groove” to the unmarked point in the heavens where their photosights said that they had come out—in order that they might eventually scoot down that groove, arriving at the locus just below the speed of light, then kick her over and hope.

  A similar maneuver on a planet’s surface would be easy—but there is no true parallel with the situation in the sky. The “fixed” stars move at high speeds and there are no other landmarks; to decide what piece of featureless space corresponds with where one was at another time requires a complicated series of calculations having no “elegant” theoretical solutions. For each charted congruency, an astrogator has handed to him a table of precalculated solutions—the “Critical Tables for Charted Anomalies.” Max and Kelly had to fudge up their own.

  Max spent so much time in the control room that the First Officer finally suggested that passenger morale would be better if he could show himself in the lounge occasionally. Walther did not add that Max should wear a smile and a look of quiet confidence, but he implied it. Thereafter, Max endeavored to dine with his officers and passengers
.

  He had of course seen very little of Eldreth. When he saw her at the first dinner after Walther’s gentle suggestion, she seemed friendly but distant. He decided that she was treating him with respect, which made him wonder if she were ill. He recalled that she had originally come aboard in a stretcher, perhaps she was not as rugged as she pretended to be. He made a mental note to ask the Surgeon—indirectly, of course!

  They were dawdling over coffee and Max was beginning to fidget with a desire to get back to the Worry Hole. He reminded himself sharply that Walther expected him not to show anxiety—then looked around and said loudly, “This place is like a morgue. Doesn’t anyone dance here these days? Dumont!”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Let’s have some dance music. Mrs. Mendoza, would you honor me?”

  Mrs. Mendoza tittered and accepted. She turned out to be a disgrace to Argentina, no sense of rhythm. But he piloted her around with only minor collisions and got her back to her chair, so timed that he could bow out gracefully. He then exercised the privilege of rank by cutting in on Mrs. Daigler. Maggie’s hair was still short but her splendor otherwise restored.

  “We’ve missed you, Captain.”

  “I’ve been working. Short-handed, you know.”

  “I suppose so. Er… Captain, is it pretty soon now?”

  “Before we transit? Not long. It has taken this long because we have had to do an enormous number of fiddlin’ calculations—to be safe, you know.”

  “Are we really going home?”

  He gave what he hoped was a confident smile. “Absolutely. Don’t start any long book from the ship’s library; the Purser won’t let you take it dirtside.”

  She sighed. “I feel better.”

  He thanked her for the waltz, looked around, saw Mrs. Montefiore and decided that his obligation to maintain morale did not extend that far. Eldreth was seated, so he went to her. “Feet still bothering you, Ellie?”

  “No, Captain. Thank you for asking.”

  “Then will you dance with me?”

  She opened her eyes wide. “You mean the Captain has time for po’ li’l ole me?”

  He leaned closer. “One more crack like that, dirty face, and you’ll be tossed into irons.”

  She giggled and wrinkled her nose. “Aye aye, Captain, sir.”

  For awhile, they danced without talking, with Max a little overpowered by her nearness and wondering why he had not done this sooner. Finally she said, “Max? Have you given up three-dee permanently?”

  “Huh? Not at all. After we make this transit I’ll have time to play—if you’ll spot me two starships.”

  “I’m sorry I ever told you about that. But I do wish you would say hello to Chipsie sometimes. She was asking this morning, “Where Maxie?”

  “Oh, I am sorry. I’d take her up to the control room with me occasionally, except that she might push a button and lose us a month’s work. Go fetch her.”

  “The crowd would make her nervous. We’ll go see her.”

  He shook his head. “Not to your room.”

  “Huh? Don’t be silly. I’ve got no reputation left anyhow, and a captain can do as he pleases.”

  “That shows you’ve never been a captain. See that vulture watching us?” He indicated Mrs. Montefiore with his eyes. “Now go get Chipsie and no more of your back talk.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  He scratched Chipsie’s chin, fed her sugar cubes, and assured her that she was the finest spider puppy in that part of the sky. He then excused himself.

  He was feeling exhilarated and oddly reassured. Seeing Mr. Walther disappearing into his room, he paused at the companionway and on impulse followed him. A matter had been worrying him, this was as good a time as any.

  “Dutch? Are you busy?”

  The First Officer turned. “Oh. No, Captain. Come in.”

  Max waited during the ceremonial coffee, then broached it. “Something on my mind, Mr. Walther—a personal matter.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “I don’t think so. But you’re a lot more experienced than I am; I’d like to tell you about it.”

  “If the Captain wishes.”

  “Look, Dutch, this is a ‘Max’ matter, not a ‘Captain’ matter.”

  Walther smiled. “All right. But don’t ask me to change my form of address. I might pick up a bad habit.”

  “Okay, okay.” Max had intended to sound out Walther about his phony record: had Dr. Hendrix reported it? Or hadn’t he?

  But he found it impossible to follow that line; being a captain had forced him into a different mold. “I want to tell you how I got into this ship.” He told it all, not suppressing Sam’s part now that it no longer could hurt Sam. Walther listened gravely.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to mention this, Captain,” he said at last. “Dr. Hendrix reported it to me, in less detail, when he put you up for apprentice astrogator. We agreed that it was a matter that need not be raised inside the ship.”

  “It’s what happens after we get back that frets me. If we get back.”

  “When we get back. Are you asking for advice? Or help? Or what?”

  “I don’t know. I just wanted to tell you.”

  “Mmmm…there are two alternatives. One we could handle here, by altering a not very important report. In which…”

  “No, Dutch. I won’t have phony reports going out of the Asgard.”

  “I was fairly certain you would say that. I feel the same way, except that I would feel obligated for—well, various reasons—to cover up for you if you asked it.”

  “I once intended to arrange a phony on it. I even felt justified. But I can’t do it now.”

  “I understand. The remaining alternative is to report it and face the music. In which case I’ll see it through with you—and so will the Chief Engineer and the Purser, I feel sure.”

  Max sat back, feeling warm and happy. “Thanks, Dutch. I don’t care what they do to me…just as long as it doesn’t keep me out of space.”

  “I don’t think they’ll try to do that, not if you bring this ship in. But if they do—well, they’ll know they’ve been in a fight. Meantime, try to forget it.”

  “I’ll try.” Max frowned. “Dutch? Tell me the truth, what do you think about the stunt I pulled?”

  “That’s a hard question, Captain. More important is how do you feel about it?”

  “Me? I don’t know. I know how I used to feel—I felt belligerent.”

  “Eh?”

  “I was always explaining—in my mind of course, why I did it, justifying myself, pointing out that the system was at fault, not me. Now I don’t want to justify myself. Not that I regret it, not when I think what I would have missed. But I don’t want to duck out of paying for it, either.”

  Walther nodded. “That sounds like a healthy attitude. Captain, no code is perfect. A man must conform with judgment and commonsense, not with blind obedience. I’ve broken rules; some violations I paid for, some I didn’t. This mistake you made could have turned you into a moralistic prig, a ‘Regulation Charlie’ determined to walk the straight and narrow and to see that everyone else obeyed the letter of the law. Or it could have made you a permanent infant who thinks rules are for everyone but him. It doesn’t seem to have had either effect; I think it has matured you.”

  Max grinned. “Well, thanks, Dutch.” He stood up. “I’ll get back up to the Hole and mess up a few figures.”

  “Captain? Are you getting enough sleep?”

  “Me? Oh, sure, I get a nap almost every watch.”

  “Minus four hours, Captain.” Max sat up on the cot in the control room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. The Asgard was in the groove, had been boosting along it for days, working up to that final burst that would squeeze them out of this space and into another—one they knew or some other, depending on how well their “fudging” had conformed to the true structure of the universe.

  Max blinked at Kelly. “How long have you been up here?”


  “Not long, Captain.”

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Well, now, Captain…”

  “Forget it, you’re incorrigible. Got one ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Shoot.” Max sat on the cot while they passed data to him, eyes closed while he programmed the problem and translated it into the binary numbers the computer understood. He had not been out of the Hole more than a few minutes at a time for days. He would doze between sights, wake up and process one, then he went down again.

  He had kept Kelly and Kovak on watch-and-watch as long as possible—although it was hard to get Kelly to rest. Lundy, Smythe, and Noguchi had continued to rotate, overlapping when the going got faster in order to help each other with plate changing and readings. For Max there could be no relief; he must process each sight, supplying from his card-file memory the information in the missing manuals.

  All the Worry gang were there but Lundy. He came up as Max finished and ordered the correction. “Compliments of cookie,” he announced, setting down a gallon of ice cream.

  “What flavor?” asked Max.

  “Chocolate chip, sir.”

  “My favorite. Just remember when you are dishing it that efficiency marks will be coming up one of these days.”

  “Now, Captain, that’s not fair. The Chief has a lot more mass to feed than you have.”

  “And I have a very high metabolic rate,” announced Noguchi. “I need more.”

  “Noggy, you have a built-in space warp in each leg. We’ll let Kelly dish it and hope that pride will restrain him.” Max turned to Kelly. “What schedule are we on?”

  “Twenty minutes, Captain.”

  “Think we need that so soon?”

  “Just to be safe, sir.”

  “Okay.” They ran another sight and ate the ice cream, after which Max shifted them to transition stations. Kelly did not take the computer. A key punched by Kovak gave the same answer as one punched by Kelly, and Max wanted Kelly on the vernier stereograph where his long experience could make the best of poor data. Lundy assisted Kelly, with Smythe and Noguchi shooting and running.