Dark Star (17 page)

"Sure, sounds good, Talby."

"Just wanted to let you know, Lieutenant."

"Yeah, fine. Doolittle out." He slipped the mike back under the playback grid.

Now what had Talby been talking about? Some sort of malfunction? Well, it didn't matter. If it were really important, he would see that Doolittle knew about it.

"Why doesn't Talby ever eat down here with the rest of us?" Boiler asked.

Doolittle looked over at the corporal, surprised. It wasn't like Boiler to show concern for anyone. He shrugged. "He just likes it up in the dome, that's all. You know . . . astronomers."

As if that were the final word on the subject, both he and Boiler became quiet. Doolittle finished off the last of the packet of ham and went to his final drops of mint tea. That was the best thing about the food computer, as far as he was concerned, and the best parts of their meals. With no effort, the computer could produce packets of any tea known to man—Darjeeling to Lipton. Sometimes the new flavors were all that kept Doolittle going.

If Doolittle had his teas, Boiler had his reconstituted cigars. Now he reached into a tunic pocket and extracted one of the long smokes. Pity their reconstructed food didn't taste as good as the cigars smoked.

Lighting up, he took a couple of long, satisfied puffs. His brow wrinkled at a sudden thought.

"Hey, Talby—Talby who?" His confusion deepened, but he didn't let it get to him. You couldn't let anything get to you now or you were sure to go off the deep end. "What's Talby's first name?"

Doolittle looked up casually, started to say something, and suddenly appeared absorbed in an entirely different thought. A mild hint of worry crept into his voice.

"Hey, Boiler . . . what's
my
first name?"

Boiler opened his mouth to reply, hesitated, closed it.

"So anyway," Pinback went on as if they had been entranced by his reminiscences all along, "after they discovered the bits and pieces of this . . ."

Doolittle got up and dropped the remnants of plastic and metal into the proper disposal slot.

"I'm going to the music room."

"So anyway," Pinback began again, shifting to face Boiler.

Boiler didn't even look at him, didn't even say anything. He simply rose and tossed his used utensils into the same slot and left the eating area.

And Pinback—Pinback was mad. Here he'd just saved the whole damn ship and no one was the least bit interested in how he had come to be aboard to do it. But if that were the case, then he hadn't been talking about saving the ship, had he? He'd been talking about saving someone else. An astronaut, yeah, like himself. Or was it? He wasn't sure.

Getting up, he properly disposed of his own garbage and thoughtfully pressed the recycle button—something Doolittle and Boiler, typically, had neglected to do.

There was a hum from the disposal as he left the room, thinking hard. Saved. Astronaut. Himself, Pinback. Alien. Tranquilizer. Beachball.

He was definitely confused and worried, and at times when he was confused and worried there was only one way he could find solace.

Each of them had their own place. Boiler could do it anywhere, with occasional bursts of barely controlled violence. Doolittle did it in the music room. Talby did it . . . Boiler's last words came back to him and he suddenly wondered what the hell Talby's first name
was
, anyway.

As usual, the recording alcove in the library was unoccupied, but he took the precaution of checking the corridor before he closed the door and sat down. Privacy was essential here. It wouldn't do for Boiler, or even Doolittle, to see what he was up to.

He removed the precious, unmarked tape from his shirt. The legend
My Diary
was scrawled across the otherwise blank label. Gently he slipped it into the machine and turned his attention to the screen in front of the compact console.

A muted hum indicated that the audio was activated, and then the words
FOR OFFICIAL PURPOSES, THIS RECORDING INSTRUMENT AUTOMATICALLY DELETES ALL OFFENSIVE LANGUAGE AND
/
OR GESTURES
appeared on the screen.

There was a last pop, indicating that the visual was focused and in synch with the sound, and then the words disappeared. They were replaced by a portrait of a young man, staring back at him. A stranger.

The stranger looked very much like himself. The differences were quite superficial. The stranger was neatly clad in a finely pressed uniform. His hair was closely trimmed on top and sides and the burgeoning beard carefully shaped. He wore a silly smile and a generally immature expression.

Beep
. "This statement's for posterity," the stranger declaimed vigorously. Pinback sat perfectly motionless, watching him.

"I just wanna say that I am not Sergeant Pinback. My real name is Bill Frug. Frug. F-R-U-G. I'm a field maintenance technician. Specifically, I work with the KG liquid fuel tanks for the starship launch pad chemical boosters.

"I've been on this mission now for about fourteen years, Earth time. Or about . . ." he paused a moment to figure, ". . . two years shiptime.

"That's a long time, two years shiptime, Fourteen years I've been on this mission and I just wanna tell you that Pinback's uniforms do not fit me, and the underwear is too loose, and I've been trying to make up my own nametag to replace Sergeant Pinback's, but I can't seem to get his nametags off any of these jumpsuits without ripping the suit and besides, the sewing machine in the recreation room doesn't work anymore, and I only know how to do hemstitching anyway.

"I do not belong on this mission, though so far I have been . . . an exemplary member of the crew and have tried to fulfill Sergeant Pinback's duties to the best of my ability and . . . and . . . I want to go home."

The picture changed. The stranger still looked like Pinback, only now his hair and beard were longer, much longer, and so was his expression.

"Ah, Commander Powell died today," the stranger intoned solemnly. "We were coming out of hyperdrive after a successful bomb run and, well, he sits right next to me and, well, something went wrong with the force-field mechanism when we came out into normal space and it triggered a defective circuit in his seat and it blew up and—"

The figure on the screen gave a half-shrug, "—and he was dead, just like that. Doolittle said his brain was still functioning, sort of, so instead of giving him a burial in space we put him into the freezer in the hopes that when we get back to Earth, the bio boys can reconstruct a body for him.

"Personally, I think Doolittle is unduly optimistic, but then he always was kind of close to the commander and so I understand his actions."

Yet again the video metamorphosis, and an even more disheveled Pinback-type stared forlornly out at Pinback.

"Doolittle says that he's assuming formal command of the ship," the figure said, "and I, I say . . ." The word
DELETED
momentarily replaced the figure on the screen, and the audio went silent.

". . . that he's exceeding his authority because I'm the only one with any objectivity left on this ship and therefore I should be the one to assume command. Doolittle says that I'm not really Sergeant Pinback, which shows how far gone he is, and so I couldn't possibly assume command.

"Then he said that if I wanted to take over he would be perfectly happy to let me. And he asked what my first order was and that stupid ape Boiler just stood there and snickered at me and I didn't think it was very funny. Or fair. I mean, I should have some time to prepare for something like taking command.

"Now, I'm filing an official report on this to Earth Base headquarters 'cause I think this is a lot of . . ." and the word
DELETED
appeared again—several times, in fact.

The view changed again. Now it was a smiling, happy Pinback-type who appeared, with slightly trimmed beard and hair. A Pinback who looked very much, if not exactly, like the Pinback sitting in the recorder chair, staring at his mirror image on the screen.

This time the audio came only in uneven bursts, with the now familiar slogan
DELETED
appearing almost constantly on the screen. Very few real sounds escaped the recorder's inbuilt censors, and these were mostly snickers and nervous half-giggles instead of words.

"I went up to Doolittle in the hall today," the image giggled, "and I
DELETED
Doolittle." Snicker. "He said
DELETED
" . . . grin, chuckle, snort . . . "and he didn't . . ." This time the words
GESTURE DELETED
appeared. "Then he," . . . laugh,
DELETED
, chuckle . . . "and I said, well, and he
still
didn't get it, and . . ."

The beep changed the screen yet again, to reveal now a nervous, irritated Pinback who in addition to looking very unhappy also revealed a slight twitch at the corner of the right eye.

"This mission has fallen apart since Commander Powell died. Doolittle treats me like an idiot. Talby, he thinks he's so smart, up in his dome, and Boiler punches me in the arm when no one is looking.

"I'm tired of being treated like an old washrag. I'm tired of being treated like I'm an intruder and don't belong. I'm tired of not being given due credit for the job I'm doing. I'm tired of . . . of not being treated like I should be treated.

"After all, I outrank both Talby and Boiler, and I've reported their disrespect back to headquarters. But for some reason headquarters hasn't responded. I wonder what's wrong with those people down there. Don't they realize the importance of maintaining discipline up here? If rank means nothing anymore then we might as well give up on the whole mission. It's enough to make someone resign his commission.

"I would relinquish my post and duties except that my sense of loyalty to the program runs too high. Besides, it would endanger everyone on the ship, myself included. If this is selfish self-preservation, then so be it."

That was the last speech. The tape froze and the in formation
AWAITING TAPING
flashed on the screen.

Pinback let out a deep sigh. He adjusted his tunic slightly, smoothed back some free-flying hairs, and brushed a little congealed liquid ham out of his beard. Sitting up straight and clearing his throat, he flicked another switch on the console and spoke toward the machine, staring straight ahead. His tone was even, well modulated, controlled—maybe a touch overcontrolled.

"I do not like the men on this spaceship. They are uncouth and fail to appreciate my better qualities. I have something of value to contribute to this mission, if they would only take a little of their so-precious time to recognize it.

"Today, over lunch, I attempted to improve morale and build a sense of camaraderie among the men by holding a humorous round-robin discussion of the early days of the mission. My overtures were brutally rejected.

"These men do not want a happy ship. They are deeply sick and try to compensate for their own mental misfortunes by making me feel miserable."

He was dimly aware that he was sniffling and that this was wrong. Also unmilitary. It should not be going on the tape. But he couldn't stop himself, and besides, it felt good. The words continued to flow.

"Last week was my birthday. Not only didn't I get any presents but nobody ever said 'happy birthday' to me. And there was no cake, either. When I asked about it Boiler suggested I go stick my head in the reactor core and blow myself out."

He sniffled again.

"Someday this tape will be played, and then they'll be sorry."

That seemed to be everything. Anyhow, he was sniffling too hard to make much sense, and there was no point in clogging up the tape with too much emotion, however honest or heartfelt. It wasn't dignified.

Reaching out, he flipped down the activate switch and the Pinback on the screen disappeared. Pinback carefully removed the tape from the recorder and slipped it back into his tunic. Then he got up and headed for the sleeping area.

There were a few hours left in overdrive before they reached the target planet. Sitting down on his bunk, he methodically turned off the intercom, warning controls, everything. He didn't want to be disturbed. He still had some time to sulk, and he didn't want Doolittle, or Boiler, breaking in on him,

So he didn't hear it. And Doolittle, deep into his makeshift organ, didn't hear it either, because he turned off everything when he was playing. Everything except the plink and bang and clonk of crude hammers striking water jars and old metal containers and the rank on rank of huge pipes blasting out the Franck
Grande Pièce Symphonique
.

And Boiler, deep, deep in his fading girlie magazine, didn't hear it either, not with the earmuffs on. Didn't hear the insistent voice of the computer . . .

"A
TTENTION, ATTENTION, ALL
personnel. I have finally identified the malfunction." This would have been of some import to Talby, but he was asleep. He shouldn't have been, but no one could dictate sleep periods to Talby any longer. Besides, there would always be someone else awake if he chose to dose off at an odd moment.

They were awake, all right, but they weren't listening.

"Communications laser number seventeen has been damaged," the voice continued. "This damage was apparently incurred during the passage through the electromagnetic energy vortex we recently encountered.

"As you will note, this laser monitors the jettison primer on the bomb-drop mechanism. Communications laser number seventeen is located in the emergency airlock. It is crucial to attend to this malfunction before engaging primer for the next bomb-run sequence. Thank you for observing all safety precautions."

And Boiler slept on innocently under his girlie mag and Pinback was asleep under his thoughts and Doolittle played on and on and on and Talby lay asleep thinking about tomorrow's stars . . .

Talby was musing on his new sky. Waking up in the dome was the usual exhilarating experience. A beautiful morning.

What a joke that was. He hadn't seen a morning in twenty years, except for the false tint of a sun coming up over a soon-to-be-destroyed unstable world. Morning, indeed.