Friday (50 page)

“If anyone calls for me by terminal, be careful not to switch on the video pickup—I never do. You’re both of us on anything you can handle, or, if you can’t, I’m asleep. If you start to impersonate me and it gets too sticky, why, you’re just so fogged up with fever and medicine that you’re not coherent.

“You’ll order breakfast for both of us—your usual breakfast for you, and tea and milk toast and juice for the invalid.”

“Friday, I can see that you’re planning on stowing away in a landing boat. But the doors to the landing boats are always locked when not in use. I know.”

“So they are. Not your worry, Til.”

“All right. Not my worry. Okay, I can cover for you after you leave. What do I tell the Captain after you’ve gone?”

“So the Captain
is
in on it. I thought so.”

“He knows about it. But we get our orders from the purser.”

“Makes sense. Suppose I arrange for you to be tied up and gagged and your story is that I jumped you and did it to you. I can’t, of course, because you have to be both of us from very early morning to whatever time the boats leave. But I can arrange to have you tied and gagged. I think.”

“That would certainly improve my alibi! But who is the philanthropist?”

“You remember our first night in the ship? I came in late, with a date. You served us tea and almond cakes.”

“Doctor Madsen. You’re counting on
him?
”

“I think so. With your help. That night he was kind of eager.”

She snorted. “His tongue was dragging on the rug.”

“Yes. It still is. Tomorrow I become ill; he comes to see me, professionally. You are here, as usual. We have the lights turned off in the bedroom end. If Dr. Jerry has the steady nerves I think he has, he’ll take what I’ll offer. Then he’ll cooperate.” I looked at her. “Okay? He comes to see me the next morning—and ties you up. Simple.”

Tilly sat and looked thoughtful for long moments. “No.”

“No?”

“Let’s keep it
really
simple. Don’t let anyone else in on it. Not anybody. I don’t need to be tied up; that would just cause suspicion. Here’s my story: Sometime not very long before the boats go down you decide that you are well; you get up, get dressed, and leave the cabin. You don’t tell me your plans; I’m just the poor dumb maid—you never tell me such things. Or maybe you’ve changed your mind and are going on the ground excursion anyhow. It doesn’t matter either way. I am not charged with keeping you in the ship. My sole responsibility is to keep an eye on you here in the cabin. I don’t think it’s Pete’s responsibility to keep you in the ship, either. If you manage to jump ship, probably the only one who gets burned is the Captain. And I’m not crying over him.”

“Tilly, I think you are right, on all points. I had assumed that you would want an alibi. But you’re better off without one.”

She looked at me and smiled. “Don’t let that keep you from taking Dr. Madsen to bed. Enjoy yourself. One of my jobs was to keep men out of your bed—as I think you know—”

“I figured it out,” I agreed dryly.

“But I am switching sides, so that is no longer the case.” Suddenly she dimpled. “Maybe I should offer Dr. Madsen a bonus. When he calls on his patient the next morning and I tell him that you’re well and have gone to the sauna or something.”

“Don’t offer him that sort of bonus unless you mean business. As I know that
he
means business.” I shivered. “I’m
certain
.”

“If I advertise, I deliver. Are we all straight?” She stood up, I followed.

“All but what I owe you.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Marj, you know your circumstances better than I do. I’ll leave it up to you.”

“But you didn’t quite tell me what you are being paid.”

“I don’t know. My master hasn’t told me.”

“Are you
owned?
” I felt sudden distress. Any AP would.

“No longer. Or not quite. I was sold on a twenty-year indenture. Thirteen years to go. Then I’m free.”

“But—Oh, God, Tilly, let’s get you off the ship, too!”

She put a hand on my arm. “Take it easy. You’ve got me thinking about it. That’s the main reason I don’t want to be tied up. Marj, I’m not on the ship’s rolls as indentured. Consequently I can take a groundside excursion if I can pay for it—and I can. Maybe I’ll see you down there.”

“Yes!” I kissed her.

She pulled me to her strongly, and the kiss gained speed. She was moaning against my tongue and I felt her hand inside my robe.

Presently I broke the kiss and looked into her eyes. “Is that how it is, Tilly?”

“Hell, yes! From the first time I bathed you.”

That evening the migrants leaving the ship at Botany Bay staged a lounge show for the first-class passengers. The Captain told me that such shows were traditional and that the first-class passengers customarily contributed to a purse for the colonists—but that it was not compulsory. He himself went to the lounge that night—also traditional—and I found myself sitting with him. I used the opportunity to mention that I was not feeling well. I added that I might have to cancel my reservations for dirtside excursions. I groused about it a bit.

He told me that, if I did not feel perfectly fit, I certainly should not risk exposing myself on the surface of a strange planet—but not to worry about missing Botany Bay, which wasn’t much at best. The rest of the trip was the wonderful part. So be a goot girl or should I lock you in your room?

I told him that, if my tummy didn’t stop acting up, it wouldn’t be necessary to lock me up. The trip down to Outpost had been horrid—spacesick all the way—and I wouldn’t risk anything like that again. I had laid groundwork for this by pecking at my food at dinner.

The show was amateurish but jolly—some skits but mostly group singing: “Tie Me Kangaroo Down,” “Waltzing Matilda,” “Botany Bay,” and, for an encore, “The Walloping Window Blind.” I enjoyed it but would have thought nothing of it were it not for a man in the second row of the group singers, a man who looked familiar.

I looked at him and thought: Friday, have you become the sort of careless, sloppy slitch who can’t remember whether she’s slept with a man or not?

He reminded me of Professor Federico Farnese. But this man was wearing a full beard, whereas Freddie had been smooth-shaven—which proves nothing as there had been time enough to grow a beard and almost all men get overtaken by the beard mania one time or another. But it did make it impossible for me to be certain by looking at him. This man never sang a solo, so voice did not help.

Body odor—at a range of thirty meters no way to sort it out from dozens of others.

I was greatly tempted not to be a lady—stand up, walk straight across the dance floor, confront him: “Are you Freddie? Didn’t you take me to bed in Auckland last May?”

What if he says no?

I’m a coward. What I did do was tell the Captain that I thought I had spotted an old acquaintance from Sydney among the migrants and how could I check? That resulted in my writing “Federico Farnese” on a program and the Captain passed it to the purser, who passed it to one of his assistants, who went away and came back soon with a report that there were several Eyetalian names among the migrants but no name, Eyetalian or otherwise, even vaguely like “Farnese.”

I thanked him and thanked the purser and thanked the Captain—and thought about asking for a check on “Tormey” and “Perreault,” but decided that it was damfoolishness; I certainly had not seen Betty or Janet—and they didn’t grow beards. I had seen a face behind a full beaver—meaning I hadn’t seen it. Put a full beard on a man and all you see is the shredded wheat.

I decided that all the old wives’ tales about pregnant women were probably true.

It was two hours past midnight, ship’s time. Breakout into normal space had taken place on time, about eleven in the morning, and the figures had been so good that the
Forward
was expected to achieve stationary orbit around Botany Bay at oh-seven-forty-two, several hours better than had been estimated before breakout. I was not pleased because an early morning landing-boat departure increased the hazard (I judged) that people might be prowling around the corridors in the still hours of the night.

No choice. It was rushing at me, no second chance. I finished last-minute adjustments, kissed Tilly good-bye, cautioned her with a finger to make no noise, and let myself out the door of cabin BB.

I had to go far aft and down three decks. Twice I slowed down to avoid night watchmen making their rounds. Once I ducked through a transverse passage to avoid a passenger, continued aft to the next passageway across the ship, then went back to starboard. Eventually I reached the short, dead-end corridor that led to the passenger airlock door for the starboard landing boat.

I found Mac-Pete-Percival waiting there.

I moved quickly to him, smiling, put a finger to my lips for silence, and clipped him under the ear.

I eased him to the deck, pulled him out of my way, and got to work on that combination lock—

—and discovered that it was almost impossible to read the marks on the dial, even with my enhanced night-sight. There was nothing but night-lights in the corridors and this short dead end had none of its own. Twice I muffed the combination.

I stopped and thought about it. Go back to cabin BB for a torchlight? I had none there, but perhaps Tilly had one. If she did not, should I wait until morning lights were turned on? That would be cutting it too fine; people would be stirring. But did I have a choice?

I checked Pete—still out but his heart was strong…and lucky for you, Pete; had I been fully triggered, you would be dead. I searched him.

I found, with no surprise, a pencil light on him—his job (tailing me) could need a torchlight, whereas Miss Rich Bitch does not bother with such things.

A few seconds later I had the door open.

I dragged Pete through, closed and locked the door, spinning the wheel both clockwise and counterclockwise. I turned back, noted that Pete’s eyelids moved a touch—clipped him again.

There followed a bloody awkward chore. Pete masses about eighty-five kilos, not gross for a man. But it’s twenty-five kilos more than I do and he’s much bigger. I knew from Tom that the engineers were holding the artificial gravity at 0.97 gee to match Botany Bay. At that moment I could have wished for free fall or antigrav gear as I could not leave Pete behind, dead or alive.

I managed to get him up into that cross-shoulder carry that some call fireman’s carry, then discovered that the best way for me to see ahead and still have a hand free for dogs on airtight doors and such was to hold Pete’s pencil light in my mouth like a cigar. I really needed that light—but, given a choice, I would have felt my way through in the dark, sans unconscious body.

With only one false turn I arrived at last in that biggest cargo hold which seemed even bigger with only a pencil beam to cut through the total darkness. I had not anticipated total darkness; I had visualized the landing boat as faintly illuminated with nightlights as was the ship proper from midnight to oh-six hundred.

At last I reached the hidey-hole I had picked out the day before: that giant Westinghouse turbogenerator.

I guessed that this big mass was intended to run on gas of some sort, or possibly steam—it certainly was not meant for Shipstones. There is a lot of obsolete engineering that is still useful in the colonies but is no longer used anywhere that Shipstones are readily available. None of it is familiar to me but I was not concerned with how this thing worked; my interest lay in the fact that half of it was somewhat like a frustrum of a giant cone laid on its side—and this formed a space in the middle under the narrow end of the frustrum, a space over a meter high. Big enough for a body. Mine. Even for two, luckily, since I had this unwelcome guest whom I could neither kill nor leave behind.

That space was made downright cozy by the fact that the cargo men had placed a fitted glass tarpaulin over this monster before tying it down. I had to wiggle in, between tiedowns, then I had to strain like the very devil to drag Pete in after me. I made it. Minus some skin.

I checked him again, then peeled him. With any luck I would get a little sleep—impossible had I left one of my guards loose behind me.

Pete was wearing trousers, belt, shirt, shorts, socks, sneakers, and a sweater. I took everything off, then tied his wrists behind him with his shirt, tied his ankles with his trouser legs, fastened his ankles to his wrists with his belt behind his back—this is one hell of an awkward position, taught to me in basic as a way to discourage attempts to escape.

Then I started to gag him, using his shorts and sweater. He said quietly, “No need to do that, Miss Friday. I’ve been awake quite a while. Let’s talk.”

I paused. “I thought you were awake. But I was willing to go along with the pretense as long as you were. I assumed that you would realize that, if you gave me any trouble, I would tear off your gonads and stuff them down your throat.”

“I figured something of the sort. But I didn’t expect you to be quite that drastic.”

“Why not? I’ve run into your gonads before. Not favorably. They are mine to tear off if I wish. Any argument?”