“So what’d you tell ‘em?” Peters wanted to know.
“Hunh?”
“The Marines,” Peters said patiently. “What did you tell the Marines to tell Chief Warnocki? That the ship is made of?”
“Oh, that,” said Todd. “I remembered an old nature vid. The center of the Earth is iron. I can’t imagine making a machine out of iron, it’s too weak and brittle, so I told the Marine to tell Warnocki it was steel.”
Peters grunted. “Hunh. That’ll please him.”
“Not that I give a damn. Come on, let’s cut the yak and get out of here. I’ve got a date with a bunk mattress.”
Gell was in his seat, idly fingering the flight control, when they got to the cockpit and flopped into the black chairs. The pilot gave them a toothy grin, and Peters was too tired to realize that he’d recognized the expression, just replied the same way, fingered the seat control to full recline, and went promptly to sleep. The next thing he knew Gell was shaking him awake, and they were sitting in the ops bay, with the sun shining brightly on the ceiling. That last failed to matter. They stumbled up to their quarters, tossed the paperwork on the desks, folded their uniforms and tucked them away out of sheer inertia of habit, and flopped into their bunks.
When they’d come aboard the first time, by chance the Grallt schedule was more or less in sync with theirs, and they had adjusted fairly quickly. Now they had been forced back into Earth time, which was nearly in opposite phase, and had to begin adjustment all over again. They managed to nap during the ande after their return and make the next meal, but were really dragging when the fifth ande rolled around and they were finally able to hit their bunks again.
Dee and Dreelig were shuttling up and down to Washington on Earth time schedule, and weren’t available except for a few words at an occasional meal. Unfortunately, they were also the only Grallt other than Znereda the instructor who spoke English well. Peters physically dragged the steward called Peer, who seemed to be more or less in charge, to Znereda’s office and spent some time sketching and handwaving. After that they had a couple of buffers, which didn’t look at all remarkable, some pads, and a supply of cleaner and wax, in metal tins instead of plastic bottles. The stewards all thought they were nuts, but they got not only the officers’ living quarters but the spaces intended for operations offices clean and the decks gleaming.
When officer’s country was done they started on the enlisted berthing spaces. Peters didn’t ask, just collected the crew, led them over, and started handing out assignments. A confident bearing and “follow me, men!” seemed to work just as well on Grallt as it did on humans. They didn’t do a thorough job, just dusted the corridors, cleaned the decks, and laid down wax, but the place looked a hundred percent better, and they could do the individual rooms when the other enlisted got on board. After meeting Chief Joshua, neither Peters nor Todd was eager to leave much scope for apologies.
They did manage one more session with Znereda, this one devoted to numbers, writing, and emergency calls. Those last weren’t of much use, since according to the instructor Todd had heard right: the shipwide PA system hadn’t worked in years. Peters felt sure that a handful of electronics types would be able to fix it easily, but there wasn’t any way to let Chief Joshua know they needed the supplies.
When they headed for their bunks after fifthmeal they found a surprise. Lying on the study desk was a square white envelope. Inside was a thin sheaf of square pieces of something thin and tough, with noticeable fibers in a random pattern, like the plastic material some courier envelopes were made of but with a smoother surface. Each was about ten centimeters on a side, one face printed with a complicated design of swirls and Grallt writing in blue and bluish gray, the other quartered in blue and white squares. He counted them: eight.
What the Hell is this? he thought, then realized that Todd had come through the head and said the same thing. They didn’t normally do that. As a rule, they met in the head but didn’t invade one another’s quarters. “You have any idea what this is all about?” Todd demanded, waving a similar sheaf of—whatever.
“Fuck if I know,” Peters growled. “Whatever it is, I got eight of them. How about you?”
“The same,” said Todd.
“Well, shit.” The long days had left both sailors grumpy and irritable, and they had figured out that there wasn’t much point in trying to think or communicate just before bedtime. “Fuck it,” Peters decided, fingering the slips. “I dunno, and I ain’t gonna try to figure it out now. Me for the rack, an’ I suggest you do the same. We gotta be fresh as a daisy for Commander Harlan Shithead Bolton in a few hours.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Todd. “See you later.” He pushed the head door shut, and Peters tossed the slips back on the desk and started squirming out of the suit. He wanted that shower.
They didn’t know if the mess room would be operating that early, but set off across the bay anyway, somewhat rested, dressed, but hungry and hoping. It was open, but there were only a few Grallt around, none of them looking very alert, and the waiters were moving slower than usual.
Along with their meals came another surprise: each was handed a slip of paper. At the top was a scrawl of Grallt; Todd mumbled to himself, looked up at Peters. “It’s my name,” he said. “See, t—o—d.” Peters’s slip had his name on it, too. It was the first time either of them had seen their names written out in Grallt letters.
Below the names were tally marks, Grallt style, three horizontals and a vertical cross each, a one-stroke-at-a-time version of the character for “four,” which looked like a reversed capital E. At the bottom was a number. Todd’s was thirteen; Peters had twelve, a slash, and four, which was a fraction. “Four and eight, and a half,” he said. “What do you suppose this is about?”
Todd had been counting tallies. “You’ve got twenty-five tally marks, and I’ve got twenty-six. You reckon it’s a count of meals? I had one more than you did, sixmeal once, remember?”
“So what the Hell’s this? The bill?”
“Can’t be anything but,” Todd told him. “Look, if each meal is half a whatever, it comes out right, see? I had twenty-six meals, so my bill’s thirteen, and you had one less.”
“Yeah, I reckon so.” Peters looked at the slip. “I guess I was just assumin’ that food came with the duty, like at home.”
“Apparently not.”
“So what do we pay it with? Dimes? Dollars? Shirt buttons? If it’s much more than that, I can’t cover it.”
“I’ve got a hunch.” Todd ran his thumbnail down a thin line on his suit, pulled open the resulting pocket, and extracted his sheaf of puzzling blue-and-white squares. “We each got eight of these things, right? There’s eight days in a week, and today and tomorrow are supposed to be free days.”
“Payday. Well I be go to Hell,” Peters observed. “I didn’t bring mine, though.”
“If I’m right, no problem, you can pay me back. Let’s try it.” Todd signaled to the waiter, handed him the two slips and all but one of the squares. The Grallt nodded and inspected the slips, lips moving in calculation, then clicked a gadget on his belt and handed Todd three bits of metal. Two of the bits were just alike, squares about an inch on a side, copper colored, and the third was a little smaller and silvery.