Mini-jumps when we can get away with them. Into the inner belt first. Some emergency stations there they haven't found yet."
"It's going to take a while, then."
"Yeah." He looks bleak. He's begun to realize what it means to be Commander. "A while. Look. Tell that cat-loving cook to turn loose if he doesn't want to be on the menu himself."
It's getting to him. He's changing. "You hear that, Fearless?" The cat followed me here. "Fang him on the ankle." To Yanevich, "I really think he has. Scraped bottom, I mean. He's talking about water soup."
"He's always talking about water soup. Tell him I'm talking cat soup."
"Change the subject." I'm hungry. Generally, food is fuel to me. But there're limits. Water soup!
Throdahl and Rose—O Wonder of Wonders—have found a new subject. The feast they're going to have before cutting their swath through the splittail.
"Looks like our probability coming up, Commander," Westhause says. "Good for a program three."
I glance at the tank. Just one red blip, moving away fast. There're no dots on the sphere's boundary, indicating known enemies beyond its scope.
Program three, I assume, will bite a big chunk off the road home.
The Old Man says, "Give me one-gee acceleration. Stand by for hyper." He turns, growls, "Anything shows, I want to know yesterday. Capiche, Junghaus? Berberian?"
Evidently we're slipping through a picket zone.
"Steve, you going to use your seat?" Yanevich shakes his head. I seat myself. Fearless occupies my lap. The Commander arrests my attention. Amid the disrepair, stench, and slovenliness he nevertheless stands out. His apparel is dirtier, more tattered, and hangs worse than anyone else's. He's a haggard, emaciated, aged young man. His wild shapeless beard conceals his hollow cheeks, but not the hollow eyes that make him look like a corpse of twenty-six haunted by a century-old soul.
Maybe twenty-seven. I've lost track of the date. His birthday is sometime around now.
His eighth patrol. He has to survive two more, each with Squadron Leader's added cares. Pray for him----- He won't be able to handle it. Not unless this next leave is a long one. He has to put Humpty together again. Maybe I'll stay awhile. Maybe he can talk off the ship.
I don't think he's been eating. He's more gaunt than the rest of us, more dry and sallow of skin.
We all sport psoriasis-like patches. He has a splash creeping up his throat. Scurvy may turn up soon, too.
The veins in his temples stand out. His forehead is compressed in pain. His hands are shaky. He keeps them in his pockets now.
He's on the brink, going on guts alone. Because he has to. He has a family to lead safely home.
I understand him just a little better. This patrol has been the thing too much, the burden too great to bear. And still he drives himself. He's a slave to his duty.
And Yanevich? The shoulders being measured for the mantle? He knows. He sees, understands, and knows. In Weapons much of the time, I've missed many of the turning points in his growth, in his descent into a terror of his own future.
But he's young. He's fresh. He possesses a soul as yet unconsumed. He's good for a few missions.
If the Commander breaks, he'll step in. He has enough left.
"Time, Commander."
"Jump, Mr. Westhause." The Old Man's voice hasn't the resonance or strength it once had, but is cool enough.
Westhause. Our infant-genius. Silent, competent, imperturbable. A few more patrols and he'll be First Watch Officer aboard some moldering, homecoming Climber, staring at a burned-out Commander, into the burning eyes of his own tomorrow. But not now. Now he sees nothing but his special task.
Throdahl has enlisted in the conspiracy of silence. At long last he has exhausted his stock of jocular denials of loneliness and fear.
Chief Nicastro clings to a structural member, his eyes closed tight. He remains convinced of his fate.
Laramie's insult bag has come up empty.
The computermen mutter on, making magic passes over their fetish, communing with the gods of technology.
Berberian, Carmon, the others—they wait.
In his gentle way, Fisherman is trying to intercede with his god, on behalf of his friends. He prays quietly but often.
Only Fearless is living up to his name and the reputation of the Climbers.
That cat is the all-time grand champion. He's done more Climber time than any other creature living. It bores him now. He wriggles onto his back, athwart my lap, thrusting his legs into the air, letting his head dangle off my leg. From his half-open mouth he trails a soft, gurgling feline snore.
A complete fatalist, Fearless Fred. Que serd, serd. Till it does, he'll take a nap.
What's happening below? Yanevich has sealed the hatches.
"Contact," Fisherman says. "Bearing..."
"Drop hyper. Secure drives, Mr. Varese."
I'm becoming a fatalist myself. I can do nothing to control my future. It's just a ride I have to take, hoping the luck will go my way.
What point to the Old Man's tactics? The ship has gone her limit. Soon we won't be able to take hyper for fear of not having enough fuel to make it home.
"Commander, we've gone below one percent available hydrogen," Varese reports. "It'll take a lot to fire her up again."
"Understood. Proceed as instructed, Mr. Varese."
The Engineering Officer no longer argues. He's given up. The Commander won't be swayed.
Even he has to admit that we're past the point where protecting a reserve makes sense.
What's the meaning of one percent? Fuel for two days at maximum economy? After that, what? How long till emergency and accumulator power fail? Fisherman's history suggests weeks. But his was a healthy vessel before being stricken.
The whole business has become disgusting. There has to be a limit!
The only real limit is human endurance, my friend.
Berberian and Fisherman warble contacts like songbirds in mating season. Galactic clusters of red and green blips fill the display tank.
"Goddamned!" Throdahl swears. "So goddamned close----- We could walk it from here." If they'd let us.
I glance at the tank again. There are gold pips in there now. We've reached the asteroid belt. One of the asteroid belts, I should say. Canaan's system has two. The inner belt is slightly more than one A.U. outside Canaan's orbit. The other lies in roughly the same range as that of Sol System.
Rose has to respond to his friend. "We're going to get mugged first."
"Can the chatter!" the Commander snaps. "Throdahl, signal Command. Homecoming. Idents. Status Red." He turns to Westhause. "Astrogator, into the belt. Find an emergency base."
The signal will tell Command we're here and hurting, that we need help in a hurry.
I toyjvith the viewscreen, locate Canaan. The camera is erratic. Hard to keep in train. The planet shows as a fingernail clipping of silver. TerVeen is invisible. Maybe it's behind its primary. The larger moon is a needle scratch near the planet's invisible limb.
A lousy 170 million klicks.
I don't think we're going to make it.
Throdahl, who has been talking with Westhause, says, "Commander, got a response on station Alpha Niner Zero. Automatic signal. Looks like they've pulled the live crew."
"Mr. Westhause?"
"It's two million klicks off our base course, Commander."
"Rose, see what it can do besides life support."
Rose has the data up already. "Emergency water and food stores, Commander. Enough till this blows over if it's fully provisioned."
"This" is my earlier and correct guess. Rathgeber or the mauling of the convoy was the last straw.
The gentlemen of the other firm have halted their assault on the Inner Worlds till they carve this Canaan-cancer out of their backtrail.