Strange and wonderful things. I glance at the opening leading to Ship's Services and wonder if it's the same hole Alice tumbled down. I decide to keep an eye peeled for a talking rabbit with his nose in a wacky watch.
Diekereide has more secrets to share.
The more energy fed to the torus, the "higher" into null a Climber goes. Altitude represents a movement across a range of null wherein the physical constants change at a constant and predictable rate, for reasons as yet unknown.
"Oh, really?"
Diekereide is deep into his mysteries. He only catches the edge of my sarcasm. He gives me one puzzled glance. "Of course."
One of my nastier habits. If I don't understand, I tend to mock. I caution myself again: Observe and report.
Jokingly I ask, "What would happen if you threw the whole thing in reverse?"
"Reverse?"
"Sure. Sucked power out of the torus. Right out of the fabric of the universe."
The man has no sense of humor. He fires up Engineering's main computer and begins pecking out questions.
"I wasn't serious. I was joking. For God's sake, I don't want to know. Tell me more about altitude."
Altitude is important. I know that from my pre-reading. Altitude helps determine how difficult a Climber is to detect. The higher she goes, the smaller her "shadow" or "cross section."
Enter the rabbit. His name is Lieutenant Varese, the Engineering Officer. He indicates that Diekereide is late for a very important date and takes over the explaining. He has a whole different style.
Our paths have never crossed before, in this life or any other. Still, Varese has decided he isn't going to like me. He sends a clear message. It won't help even if I save his life. Diekereide, on the other hand, will remain my comrade and champion simply because I nod and "Uh-huh" in the right places during his monologues.
Varcse's unflattering estimate of my mental capacity is nearer the mark than his assistant's. He gives me a quick PR handout of a lecture.
He says the Effect—by which he means the Climb phenomenon—was first detected aboard overpowered singleships of the unsyncopated rotary-drive type. "The Mark Twelve fusion drive?" I ask brightly.
One sharp nod. "Without governor or Fleet synchronization." Scowl. Fool. You can't buy into the club that easily.
Pilots claimed that sudden, massive applications of power caused their drives to behave strangely, as if stalling, if you think in internal combustion terms, or temporarily flaming out, if you favor jets. Something was going on. External sensors recorded brief lapses of contact with hyper, without making concomitant brushes with norm.
Those reports came out of the first few actions of the war. The problem didn't arise earlier because in peacetime the vessels weren't subjected to such vicious treatment. There were apparent psychological effects, too. The affected pilots claimed that their surroundings became "ghostly."
Physicists immediately posited the existence of a state wherein fusion couldn't take place. The overexcited pilot would jam himself into null, his drive would cease fusing hydrogen, his ship would fall back...
Frenetic research produced the mass annihilation plant. Con-traterrene hydrogen, mixing with terrene in controlled amounts, can bang out one hell of a lot of energy in any reality state.
Demand produced a CT technology almost overnight. The first combat Climber went on patrol thirteen months after the discovery of the Climb phenomenon.
End of PR statement. Thank you very much for your kind interest. Now will you please go away?
We're very busy down here.
Varese doesn't use those exact words but makes his meaning perfectly clear. I don't think I'm going to like him much, either.
My second hour aboard. I've learned a valuable lesson about serving in the Climbers. Don't try to meet everybody and see everything right away. I've made myself odd man out in the hammock race.
I returned to Ops figuring I'd take whatever was left over, once everything was settled down.
There isn't anything. The enlisted men are eyeing me. I don't know if it's apprehension they feel, or if my response will give them some measure of me as a man.
This ship has no Officers' Country. No Petty Officers' Quarters. No Chiefs' Quarters. The wardroom is a meter-long drop table in Ship's Services. It doubles as a cook's bench and ironing board.
Everything has its round-the-clock use.
I work my way through Weapons without finding a home. Feeling foolish, I'm working my way through Ship's Services, to continuous polite negatives, when I notice Bradley watching. "Charlie, this scow is too damned egalitarian."
"I saw your problem coming, Lieutenant. Made you a place. Ship's laundry."
The ship's laundry is a sink-and-drainboard arrangement that doubles as a wash basin and sick bay operating table. Bradley has stretched an extra hammock in the clear space overhead. I up my estimate of the man. This is his first mission. He knows little more about the ship than I, yet he has identified a problem and taken corrective action.
"I won't get much sleep here." Under ship's gravity the nadir of the hammock should dip into the sink.
"Maybe not. It's the only basin aboard. But consider the bright side. You won't have to share with anyone else."
"I'm tempted to throw a tantrum. Only I think I'd get damned unpopular damned fast, throwing my commission around." A couple of Bradley's men are watching me with stony faces, waiting for my reaction.
"True." He's begun whispering. "The Old Man says seeing how much the new officers will take is their favorite sport."
"You and me against the universe, then. Thanks. If there's a next time, I'll know better than to play tourist."
"It's your time outside the Service, I guess. Dulled your instincts. I caught on right away."
He's skirting the edge of a painful subject. I beat the wolf down and reply, "The instincts better come back fast. I don't want to be the poor relation at the feast forever."
The watchers are gone. I've passed the first test.
"The Old Man says first impressions are critical. Half of us are outsiders."
"We'll all know each other better than we want before this's over."
"Hey, Lieutenant," someone shouts through the hatch to Weapons. "The Old Man wants you on the Ohone."
O-l. That's Operations. O-2 is Weapons. And so forth.
I dump my gear into my hammock and hand-over-hand up hooks welded to the keel. When we shift to operational mode, they will become hangers for slinging hammocks and stowing duffel bags.
Getting through the hatches is miserable in parasite mode, even under minimal gravity. The hatches are against the hull, not near the keel. You have to monkey over on bars welded to the overhead.
They'll become a ladder to the keel when the vessel goes operational.
Once at the hatch I have to hoist myself through, then repeat the process getting to Operations.
"The man who designed this monster ought to be impaled."
"An oft-heard suggestion," Yanevich says. "But the son of a bitch has gone over to the other firm."
"What?"
He smiles at my expression. "That's why we're all so gung ho. Didn't you know? We can't lay hands on the bastard till we win the war. Only then we'll have to fight over who gets to do what to him first. You want your shot, you'd better put in your paperwork now. Just don't count on too much being left when your chit comes up."
"There's got to be a better setup."
"No doubt. Actually, it's a computer design. They say the programmers forgot to tell the idiot box there'd be people aboard."
"The Commander sent for me."
"Not a command performance. Just so you can watch departure if you want. We're moving now." He nods toward the cabin. "The Old Man is up there. Here. Take my screen. It's on forward camera.