That—was enough to advise keeping one’s mouth shut. And not to say No.
Couldn’t tell Bird. Bird wasn’t good at secrets. Damn sure not Ben.
What had the Shepherd said? The problem’s major? The problem’s gone major?
Something had shifted. Ben’s charts? Something the company had done?
The dumbasses in the fire zone didn’t get that kind of information.
Turn in the re-cert application, Ben had said. Move on it. Way Out was headed for soon-as-possible launch, dock time cost, Ben swore he had friends who could get the test scheduled within the week, and Dekker decided, in Bird’s lack of comment, that Ben might be telling the truth.
So it was a good idea to do that, Dekker supposed: and found himself sitting in a Trans car between Bird and Ben, nervous as a kid headed for the dentist—only beginning to calm down and accept the idea of taking an ops test before he’d gotten the shakes out of his knees. Ten days was soon enough, Bird said. Give him a little time. Ten days to get his nerves together, ten days til he had to prove to BM that he still had it—that was still time enough to get the class 3 license pushed through, Ben said, which he had to have before he could count any time at Way Out’s boards.
God, he couldn’t blow this.
Bird said: “After we get this done, we thought we’d take you up to the docks, show you the ship, all right?”
“All right,” he said, in the same numb panic, asking himself what they were up to—show you the ship…
Maybe they wanted to see if he could take it. Maybe they were pushing him to find out if he would go off the edge—
Sudden memory of that fouled, cold interior, the suit drifting against the counter—the arm moving. He’d waked in the near-dark and imagined it was Cory beckoning to him.
Bird talked into his ear, talked about some of the damage on the ship, talked about what they’d done—
But the ship in his mind was the one he remembered. The stink, and the cold, and the fear—
“Admin,” Ben said as the Trans pulled into a stop. “Here we are.”
He got up, he got off with them into an office zone, all beige and gray, with the musty cold electronics smell offices had. They went into the one that said ECSAA Certifications, and Ben and Bird walked up to the counter with him.
“I want to apply for a license,” he said.
“Recertification,” Ben said, leaning his elbows on the desk beside him.
“Just let me do it.” He couldn’t think with Ben putting words in his mouth; he felt shivers coming on—he’d caught a chill in the Trans—and he didn’t want to be filling in applications with his hands shaking. Fine impression that was in this office.
The clerk went away, came back with a datacard, directed him to a side table and a reader.
He went over to it and his entourage came with him, one on either side as he put the card in the slot and made three mistakes entering his name.
“Look, you’re making me nervous.”
“That’s all right,” Ben said. And when he tried to answer the next question, about reason for revocation: “Uh-uh,” Ben said. “Neg. Say, ‘Hospitalization.’ ”
“Look, the reason is a damned stupid doctor—”
“They don’t want the detail.” Ben reached over and moved the cursor back. “Don’t explain. The only answer any department wants in its blanks is the wording in its rule books. Don’t volunteer anything, don’t get helpful, and if you don’t know, N/A the bastard or shade it in your favor. Remember it’s clerks you’re talking to, not pilots. Say: ‘Hospitalization.’ ”
That made clear sense to him. He only wished it hadn’t come from Ben.
“ ‘Reason for application’?” Ben read off the form, and pointed: “Say: ‘Change in medical status.’ ”
He hadn’t thought of having to pass the physical again. The idea of doctors upset his stomach. But he typed what Ben said.
“Sign it,” Ben said. “Put your card in. That’s all there is to it.”
It left a lot of blank lines. “What about ‘Are there any other circumstances…?’ ”
“This is a 839-RC,” Ben said, and tapped the top of the display, where it had that number. “An 839-RC applies, that’s all it does. It doesn’t explain. It’s not a part of the exam. Just send it.”
“Have you ever filled out one of these?”
“Doesn’t matter. I worked in Assay. Answer by catch-phrases. Don’t pose the clerks a problem or it’ll go right to the bottom to the Do Pile. Don’t be a problem. Send the bastard.”
“Do it,” Bird said.
He keyed Send. In a moment the screen blinked, notified him his account had been debited 250.00 for the application and told him he had to pass the basic operationals within sixty days, after which he had to log 200 hours in the sims or at the main boards of a working ship, by sworn affidavit of a class 1 pilot—
And take a written exam.
Someone had as well have hit him in the gut. He stood there staring at the message til Bird laid a hand on his shoulder and said they’d go on to the core now.
He was down to 95 dollars in his account, he hadn’t yet paid his bill at The Hole, and he’d never taken the writtens, he’d come up from the cargo pushers to the short-hop beam haulers to a miner-craft; but he’d never had to take the written exams.
Ben elbowed him in the back. “Come on, moonbeam. Don’t forget your card.”
He took it out of the slate, he walked out of the offices with them, in a complete haze. They got to the Transstation as the Trans pulled in and the doors opened.
“Come on,” Ben said, and Ben taking his arm was the last straw. He snarled, “Let go of me,” and shook free, wanting just to go on around the helldeck, wanting to go back to his room, lock the door, take a pill and not give a damn for the rest of the day; or maybe three or four days.
“Come on.” Bird got his arm and pulled at him. The Trans doors were about to close in their faces, the robot voice was advising them to get clear. “Oh, hell,” he said; and let them pull him aboard, because otherwise they were going to miss their ride and stand there til the next Trans came, asking him why he was a darned fool.
They fell into seats as the doors shut and the Trans started moving. “What in hell’s the matter with you?” Ben asked. “Are you being a spook again, Dekker?”
“No,” he said, and slouched down into the seat, staring at a point between them.
“You have some trouble about going onto the ship?” Bird asked him.
“No.” He set his jaw and got mad, lifelong habit when people who ran his life crowded him.
Ben said: “You’re being a spook, Dekker.”
Probably he was, he thought. And a kid might keep his mouth shut, but a grown man in debt up to his ears and about to end up on a heavyside job had finally to realize who he owed, and how much. He swallowed against the knot in his throat and muttered, “I can’t pass tests.”
Bird tilted an ear and said, louder: “What?”
So he had to repeat it: “I can’t take tests.”
“What do you mean you can’t take tests?” Ben objected, loudly enough for people around them to hear. “You had a license, didn’t you?”
Screw you, he wanted to yell at Ben. Let me alone! But he said quietly: “I had a license.”