All part of the Climber game. I understand they have Shore Patrol on hand when a Climber disembarks. Just to keep order.
The Chief remains convinced of our impending doom. His despair retards the growth of optimism. The ship is, he claims, in the hands of an infantile, cat-mannered fate. These glimpses of escape are being allowed us only to make our torment more exquisite.
He may be right.
I'm sure the Commander secretly holds the same view. And Lieutenant Varese would agree if he and the Commander were speaking.
The Engineering Officer is behaving like a five-year-old. How did such a petty man get cleared for Climber duty?
Headed home. Man and machine, everything falling apart. Enemy intervention may not be necessary to our destruction. Home is still a long fly, to be made alone.
Command turned down our request for a mother rendezvous. No explanation. Our request for a CT
tanker was denied, too. Again, no explanation. That's scary. Hard to believe that somebody in Command wants us dead.
Throdahl says, "It stinks like a ten-day corpse at high noon. They could at least give us excuses.
Some pudsucker just doesn't want us to make it." He sings the same song every few hours, like a protective cantrip.
He doesn't stop making plans. They all continue. They have faith in the Old Man.
"Here it is, Commander." Throdahl has been hunched over his board for half an hour, awaiting the response to our latest plea. The Commander asked for a rendezvous with a stores ship—or anyone willing to share their victuals. Is that an unreasonable request? Meals are pretty bleak these days.
"Request denied," the Commander says softly. He takes a deep breath, obviously controlling his temper. I meander over and read the full text. Its tone says we should shut up and leave Command alone.
I smack fist into palm. What the hell is with those people? We're in a bad way.
Fisherman blurts, "It doesn't make sense!" We've had two days of silence from Command. "They always try... now they don't even say, 'Sorry.'" Even he lusts for a solid planet beneath his feet.
The Commander has commenced gravity drills despite the fuel shortage. Regular exercise is mandatory.
I catch Yanevich alone. "Steve, I have an idea. Next in-stelled beacon, report me dead. See how the dominoes fall."
"Sheer genius!" He roars. "Yeah. Probably a ton of stuff published that they wouldn't want you to recant. But shit..."
He pauses thoughtfully. "It won't do. You aren't the reason. Too late for that anyway. They know you're the healthiest son of a bitch aboard." At a hair above a whisper, he adds, "Don't pin tails on devils. Not yet. It's an act the Admiral does. Got to hate somebody in this goddamned war."
"Uhm." Actually, Tannian's system is due only a few complaints. The Admiral is playing on a big chessboard, for stakes more important than any one Climber. How can you fault him? He's managing admirably for a man who started with nothing.
"But how long will I stay healthy?" I'm in my hammock, talking it over with Fearless. Other hammock space is available, but I'll stay where I am. I don't have to share.
Fred seems none the worse for wear, though he's lost weight. Poor Fearless. He doesn't know any better. The Climber is his whole damned universe.
Gaunt he is, but he's not going hungry. He makes out like a bandit. He's the ship's most talented moocher. This is just a diet for him. A dozen soft-hearts slip him nibbles from their rations.
Were it not for the generosity of manned beacons, we'd be subsisting on Kriegshauser's famed water soup.
Hungry days. Hungry days. But we're getting closer to home. Distance can be a balm as soothing as time. Even Throdahl no longer mentions Johnson's Climber.
Can there be a more powerful indictment of the Climber experience? A year ago these boys would've been stricken by any violent death.
What are we making of ourselves?
Sometimes there's a niggling fear. What will become of the survivors?
There will be survivors. And, no matter how bad it looks from here, the fighting won't last forever.
What becomes of those whose entire adult lives have been devoted to war? I've met a few who came in right at the beginning. They know no peacetime service past, can foresee no other future. War is their whole life.
I adapted to civilian life—barely. I didn't have to endure years of life-and-death pressure before I went outside. I think that will be an important factor.
If, as some experts predict, the war lasts a generation, there'll be big trouble when this ends. A
generation will see warfare as the norm.
Kriegshauser draws me back from an imaginary era where whole fleets turn on the worlds they've been defending. "This isn't the fourteenth century," I mutter.
"Found something for Fearless," the cook says. He massages a tube of protein paste with thin, pale fingers.
"Something you had squirreled away?"
Kriegshauser grins. 'The cook knows where to look for the overlooked."
"You traitor, Fred." The cat has deserted me. He's purring around Kriegshauser's ankles. "Judas."
"His only allegiance is to his stomach, sir."
"Only loyalty any of us have when you get to the narrow passage."
"Laramie says we might be home day after tomorrow, sir."
"Haven't heard anything that definite. The Old Man is playing them close to his chest."
"But Laramie would know, sir."
"Maybe. I think it'll be longer than that." I can't raise the subject that brought him to me. He's let it slide a long time. I forgot about it. I have no answers.
Eight men died. I sort of hoped one would be his nemesis.
Like most young men, I've experimented. I find homosexual relationships too alien, too sterile....
I can't picture Kriegshauser being attractive to man or woman. Beyond being unwashed, he's the ugliest man I've ever met. His pursuer must get off on the bizarre.
Beauty is in the eye, and so forth. And the cook has personality, as they say. He's a likable rogue.
"My problem... have you thought about it?"
"A great deal," I lie. "Have you? You know where the leak was?" Kriegshauser is an insecure, dependent-type personality. He wants decisions made for him. He will, if he survives the Climbers and the war, make Navy his career. The Ship's Services assignments draw people who need secure, changeless niches.
While in the bombards I encountered a nonrated laundryman who hadn't been off ship for thirty years. Approaching compulsory retirement, he was a bundle of anxieties. He committed suicide when his waiver request was denied.
Navy was his family, his life. He had nowhere to go and nothing to do when he got there.
Kriegshauser shrugs. He doesn't want the burden of decision.
Why help a man who won't help himself? "You don't seem that interested in getting off. Any special reason you won't tell me who it is?"
"I'd just rather not, sir."
"Don't want to make him mad?"
"I guess."
"What did you expect me to do?"
"I don't know, sir. I just thought..."
"This way I can't do anything. You'll have to work it out yourself. You can cut his throat, give in, or call his bluff."
"But..."
"I'm not a magician. I can't push a button and give you three wishes."
I've had no luck identifying the culprit, though I admit I haven't looked hard. The obvious bisexuals aren't the blackmailing type. (Homosexuals are screened into segregated crews.) Their dalliances are matters of convenience. Eliminating them, the dead, and myself leaves a lot of possibilities.
Not that I care, but it's got to be somebody who wants to stay in the closet. An officer? Piniaz or Varese, maybe?
The first- and second-mission men are out. And anyone who maintains an obvious friendship with the cook. Reasoning the possibilities down to a half-dozen is easy. But the exercise is pointless.
"Look. This guy has something to lose. Everybody does."