"Huh?"
"In view of the circumstances, sir, I insist on the letter of the rules and ask you to log it."
Simes swore under his breath, then grabbed the stylus and wrote quickly. He swung the log book around. There!"
Max read: "M. Jones is considered qualified to stand a top watch in space, not involving anomaly. (s) R. Simes, Astrogator."
Max noted the reservation, the exception that would allow Simes to keep him from ever reaching permanent status. But Simes had stayed within the law. Besides, he admitted to himself, he didn't want to leave the Worry gang. He comforted himself with the thought that since they were all lost together it might never matter what Simes recommended.
"Quite satisfactory, sir."
Simes grabbed the book. "Now get out. See that you're back here on time."
"Aye aye, sir." Max could not refrain from having the last word, standing up to Simes had gone to his head. "Which reminds me, sir: will you please relieve me on time after this?"
"_What?_"
"Under the law a man can't be worked more than four hours out of eight, except for a logged emergency."
"Go below!"
Max went below, feeling both exultant and sick. He had no taste for fights, never had; they left him with a twisted lump inside. He burst into his room, and almost fell over Sam.
"Sam!"
"The same. What's eating you, boy? You look like the goblins had been chasing you."
Max flopped on his bunk and sighed. "I feel that way, too." He told Sam about the row with Simes.
Sam nodded approval. "That's the way to deal with a jerk like that--insult him until he apologizes. Give him lumps enough times and he'll eat out of your hand."
Max shook his head dolefully. "Today was fun, but he'll find some way to take it out on me. Oh, well!"
"Not so, my lad. Keep your nose clean and wait for the breaks. If a man is stupid and bad-tempered-- which he is, I sized him up long ago--if you are smart and keep _your_ temper, eventually he leaves himself wide open. That's a law of nature."
"Maybe." Max swung around and sat up. "Sam-- you're wearing your shield again."
Sam stuck his thumb under the badge of office of Chief Master-at-Arms. "Didn't you notice?"
"I guess I was spinning too fast. Tell me about it-- did the First decide to forgive and forget?"
"Not precisely. You know about that little excitement last night?"
"Well, yes. But I understand that officially nothing happened?"
"Correct. Mr. Walther knows when to pull his punches."
"What did happen? I heard you cracked some skulls together."
"Nothing much. And not very hard. I've seen ships where it would have been regarded as healthy exercise to settle your dinner. Some of the lads got scared and that made them lap up happy water. Then a couple with big mouths and no forehead got the inspiration that it was their right to talk to the Captain about it. Being sheep, they had to go in a flock. If they had run into an officer, he could have sent them back to bed with no trouble. But my unfortunate predecessor happened to run into them and told them to disperse. Which they didn't. He's not the diplomatic type, I'm afraid. So he hollered, 'Hey, Rube!' in his quaint idiom and the fun began."
"But where do you figure? You came to help him?"
"Hardly. I was standing at a safe distance, enjoying the festivities, when I noticed Mr. Walther's bedroom slippers coming down the ladder. Whereupon I waded in and was prominent in the ending. The way to win a medal, Max, is to make sure the general is watching, then act."
Max grinned. "Somehow I hadn't figured you for the hero type."
"Heaven forbid! But it worked out. Mr. Walther sent for me, ate me out, told me that I was a scoundrel and a thief and a nogoodnick--then offered me my shield back if I could keep order below decks. I looked him in the eye, a sincere type look, and told him I would do my best. So here I am."
"I'm mighty pleased, Sam."
"Thanks. Then he looked me in the eye and told me that he had reason to suspect--as if he didn't know!-- that there might be a still somewhere in the ship. He ordered me to find it, and then destroy any liquor I found."
"So? How did Mr. Gee take that?"
"Why, Fats and I disassembled his still and took the pieces back to stores, then we locked up his stock in trade. I pleaded with him not to touch it until the ship was out of its mess. I explained that I would break both his arms if he did."
Max chuckled. "Well, I'm glad you're back in good graces. And it was nice of you to come tell me about it." He yawned. "Sorry. I'm dead for sleep."
"I'll vamoose. But I didn't come to tell you, I came to ask a question."
"Huh? What?"
"Have you seen the Skipper lately?"
Max thought back. "Not since transition. Why?"
"Nor has anyone else. I thought he might be spending his time in the Worry Hole."
"No. Come to think, he hasn't been at his table either--at least when I've been in the lounge."
"He's been eating in his cabin." Sam stood up. "Very, very interesting. Mmm ... I wouldn't talk about it, Max."
Simes was monosyllabic when Max relieved him. Thereafter they had no more words; Simes acted as if Max did not exist except for the brief formalities in relieving. The Captain did not show up in the control room. Several times Max was on the point of asking Kelly about it, but each time decided not to. But there were rumors around the ship--the Captain was sick, the Captain was in a coma, Walther and the Surgeon had relieved him of duty, the Captain was constantly at his desk, working out a new and remarkable way to get the ship back to where it belonged.
By now it was accepted that the ship was lost, but the time for hysteria had passed; passengers and crew were calm and there seemed to be general consent that the decision to put down around the solar-type star toward which they were headed was the only reasonable decision. They were close enough now that it had been determined that the star did have planets-- no G-class star had ever been found to be without planets, but to pick them up on a stereoplate was consoling.
It came to a choice between planet #3 and planet #4. Bolometric readings showed the star to have a surface temperature slightly over 6000° Kelvin, consistent with its spectrum; it was not much larger than Father Sol; calculated surface temperatures for the third and fourth planets gave a probability that the third might be uncomfortably hot whereas number four might be frigid. Both had atmospheres.
A fast hyperboloid swing past both settled the matter. The bolometer showed number three to be too hot and even number four to be tropical. Number four had a moon which the third did not--another advantage for four, for it permitted, by examining the satellite's period, an easy calculation of its mass; from that and its visible diameter its surface gravity was a matter of substitution in classic Newtonian formula ... ninety-three percent of Earth-normal, comfortable and rather low in view of its over ten-thousand-mile diameter. Absorption spectra showed oxygen and several inert gases.
Simes assisted by Kelly placed the _Asgard_ in a pole-to-pole orbit to permit easy examination--Max, as usual, was left to chew his nails.
The Captain did not come to the control room even to watch this maneuver.
They hung in parking orbit while their possible future home was examined from the control room and stared at endlessly from the lounge. It was in the lounge that Ellie tracked Max down. He had hardly seen her during the approach, being too busy and too tired with a continuous heel-and-toe watch and in the second place with much on his mind that he did not want to have wormed out of him. But, once the orbit was established and power was off, under standard doctrine Simes could permit the watch to be taken by crewmen--which he did and again told Max to stay out of the control room.