The chair lurched. The dome of rust rocked beneath his feet and already he could sense the tightening pull of the star's gravity field.
The Belt had changed too, he mused… and for the worse. The miners seemed coarsened, brutalized, the Belt itself shabbier and less well maintained. He had learned that deliveries from the Raft had grown less and less frequent. As supplies failed to arrive a vicious circle had set in. Increasing illness and malnutrition and, in the longer term, higher mortality were making it ever harder for the miners to meet their quotas, and without iron to trade even less food could be bought from the Raft — which worsened the miners' conditions still further.
In such a situation, surely something had to give. But what? Even his old acquaintances — like Sheen — were reluctant to talk, as if there was some shameful secret they were hiding. Were the miners making some new arrangements, finding some other, darker, way to break out of the food trap? If so, what?
The wheels of his chair impacted the surface of the star and a full five gees descended on his chest, making him gasp. With a heavy hand he released the cable lock and allowed the chair to roll toward the nearest mine entrance.
"Late again, you feckless bastard." The rumbling voice had issued from the gloom of the mine mouth.
"No, I'm not, Roch; and you know it," Rees said calmly. He brought his chair to a halt at the head of the ramp leading down into the mine.
A chair came whirring up from the gloom. Despite the recent privations the miner Roch was still a huge man. His beard merged with the fur and sweat plastered across his chest; a stomach like a sack slumped over his belt. White showed around his eyes, and when he opened his mouth Rees could see stumps of teeth like burnt bones. "Don't talk back, Raft man." Spittle sprayed his chest in tight parabolae. "What's to stop me putting you all on triple shifts? Eh?"
Rees found the breath escaping from him in a slow sigh. He knew Roch of old. Roch, who you always avoided in the Quartermaster's, whether he was drunk or not. Roch, the half-mad troublemaker who had only been allowed to grow past boyhood, Rees suspected, because of the size of his muscles.
Roch, The obvious choice as the Scientists' shift supervisor.
He was still staring at Rees. "Well? Nothing to say? Eh?"
Rees held his tongue, but the other's fury increased regardless.
"What's the matter, Raftshit? Scared of a little work? Eh? I'll show you the meaning of work…" Roch gripped the arms of his chair with fingers like lengths of rope; with separate, massive movements, he hauled his feet off their support plates and planted them on the rust.
"Oh, by the Bones, Roch, you've made your point," Rees protested. "You'll kill yourself—"
"Not me, Raftshit." Now Roch's biceps tightened so that Rees could see the structure of the muscles through the sweat-streaked skin. Slowly, grunting, Roch lifted his bulk from the chair, knees and calves shaking under the load. At last he stood, swaying minutely, arms raised for balance. Five gees hauled at his stomach so that it looked like a sack of mercury slung over his belt; Rees almost cringed as he imagined how the belt must be biting into Roch's flesh.
A grin cracked Roch's purpling face. "Well, Raft man?" Now his tongue protruded from his lips. With slow deliberation he raised his left foot a few inches from the surface and shoved it forward; then the right, then the left again; and so, like a huge, grotesque child, Roch walked on the surface of the star.
Rees watched, not trusting himself to speak.
At length Roch was satisfied. He grabbed the chair arms and lowered himself into the seat. He stared at Rees challengingly, his humor apparently restored by his feat. "Well, come on, Raftshit,
there's work to do. Eh?"
And he turned his chair and led the way into the interior of the star.
Most of the Scientists' work assignments were inside the star mine. For some imagined misdemeanor Roch had long since put them all on double shift. They were allowed an hour's break between shifts — even Roch had not denied them that yet — and when the break came Rees met Cipse beneath the glow of a globe lamp.
The Scientists sat in companionable silence for a while. They were in one of the porous kernel's larger chambers; lamps were scattered over its roof like trapped stars, casting light over piles of worked metal and the sullen forms of Moles.
The Navigator looked like a pool of fat in his wheelchair, his small features and short, weak limbs mere addenda to his crushed bulk. Rees, with some effort, helped him raise a tube of water to his lips. The Navigator dribbled; the water scattered over the ruin of his coverall and droplets hit the iron floor like bullets. Cipse smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry," he said, wheezing.
Rees shook his head. "Don't worry about it."
"You know," Cipse said at length, "the physical conditions down here are poor enough; but what makes it unendurable is… the sheer boredom."
Rees nodded. "There has never been much to do save supervise the Moles. They can make their own decisions, mostly, with occasional human intervention. Frankly, though, one or two experienced miners can run the whole kernel. There's no need for so many of us to be down here. It's just Roch's petty way of hurting us."
"Not so petty." Cipse's breath seemed to be labored; his words were punctuated by pauses. "I'm quite concerned about the… health of some of the others, you know. And I suspect… suspect that we would actually be of more use in some other role."
Rees grimaced. ' Of course. But try telling Rock"
"You know I've no wish to appear insulting, Rees, but you clearly have more in… common with these people than the… the rest of us." He coughed and clutched his chest. "After all, you are one of them. Can't you… say something?"
Rees laughed softly. "Cipse, I ran out of here, remember. They hate me more than the rest of you. Look, things will get better, I'm sure of that; the miners aren't barbarians. They're just angry. We must be patient."
Cipse fell silent, his breath shallow.
Rees stared at the Navigator in the dim light. Cipse's round face was white and slick with sweat. "You say you're concerned about the well-being of the others, Navigator, but what about yourself?"
Cipse massaged the flesh of his chest. "I can't admit to feeling wonderful," he wheezed. "Of course, just the fact of our presence down here — in this gravity field — places a terrible strain on our hearts. Human beings weren't designed, it seems, to function in… such conditions."
"How are you feeling? Do you have any specific pain?"
"Don't fuss, boy," Cipse snapped with the ghost of his old tetchiness. "I'm perfectly all right. And I am the most senior of us, you know. The others… rely on me…" His words were lost in a fit of coughing.
"I'm sorry," Rees said carefully. "You're the best judge, of course. But — ah — since your well-being is so vital to our morale, let me help you, for this one shift. Just stay here; I think I can handle the work of both of us. And I can keep Roch occupied. I'm afraid there's no way he'll let you off the star before the end of the shift, but perhaps if you sit still — try to sleep even—"
Cipse thought it over, then said weakly, "Yes. It would feel rather good to sleep." He closed his eyes. "Perhaps that would be for the best. Thank you, Rees…"
"No, I don't know what's wrong with him," Rees said. "You're the one with bio training, Grye. He hardly woke up when it came time to return him to the surface. Maybe his heart can't stand up to the gravity down there. But what do I know?"
Cipse lay strapped loosely to a pallet, his face a bowl of perspiration. Grye hovered over the still form of the Navigator, his hands fluttering against each other. "I don't know; I really don't know," he repeated.