INSANE SECOND MATE: Ready.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ready.
FIRST MATE: Ready.
COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER: Ready.
CAPTAIN: Soup’s on!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ahh.
FIRST MATE: Mmmm.
INSANE SECOND MATE: Yum.
COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER: Yum.
CAPTAIN: Yum.
INSANE SECOND MATE: What about the alien?
CHIEF ENGINEER: I’ll see to the puir wee beastie. Send me another chute of soup, Captain, and I’ll catch it in an oilcan and pour it in through the slot. Aye, that’s it. Now then. Here I am. Are you ready, beastie? Here it comes!
ALIEN : Num, num.
CHIEF ENGINEER: There’s a bonnie beastie. Go to sleep now. Captain, how do you think the beastie got aboard?
CAPTAIN: I’ve been thinking about that.
INSANE SECOND MATE: It didn’t “get” aboard. It’s autochthonous. It’s ours, all ours.
CAPTAIN: It doesn’t happen that way, “Bats.” Not with advanced space ships of our type. At least, not without a Special Dispensation. Personally, I think the only time it could have got into the Crew Recreation Lounge was through the tubes, when we rendezvoused with that cruiser near Deneb. The hatches were open several times, if you recall, during that exchange.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Oh, aye, a lovely ship, that cruiser. Sleek and slim and tapered, and power enough to rattle my pipes.
COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER: Yes, damn it, it kept interfering with my reception. Jammed the radio with a lot of sentimental nonsense for a week. Kept signalling us as “Honey Pot.”
FIRST MATE: Do you mean to imply, Captain, that that cruiser deliberately stowed this monster away aboard our ship? A cruiser of the Fleet?
CAPTAIN: Well, no, not deliberately. Those things simply happen, sometimes, if precautions haven’t been taken. If the Second Mate, for instance, failed to activate the hatch forcefields, and to remind me to go through decontamination procedure—which has happened before—
INSANE SECOND MATE: I hate activating those forcefields. They’re unnatural. They drive me crazy. All those vibrations. And worrying about getting the phases timed just right. They’re not good for the ship, in the long run. “Bolts” will back me up on that.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Aye, they’re a strain on the engines. Besides, why do we have to take all the precautions?
INSANE SECOND MATE: So I forgot to turn them on.
CAPTAIN: There you are.
FIRST MATE: You’re all psychotic—subhuman. You let us be infected, invaded, taken over by this alien. You deliberately invited it to happen, and now that it’s happened, you’re allowing it to go on happening—and it’s sitting there, growing, growing—
CHIEF ENGINEER: There, there, puir wee First Mate. Dinna let it fash ye.
FIRST MATE: Captain Cook! Listen to me! You’ve always listened to me sometimes, you’ve always been superbly rational more or less. Think about it, think about it—the danger, the danger to the ship. It’s taking us over, don’t you see? And we have a mission! How long are you going to let it go on? The sooner we act, the safer and easier it’ll be—
CAPTAIN: Well, how long has it been aboard?
INSANE SECOND MATE: About fifty days (Ship Time). That’s when the cruiser left, anyhow.
CAPTAIN: That leaves, let’s see, wait, fifty from 280—
FIRST MATE: 230.
CAPTAIN: Right. Yes. So. About 230 days (Ship Time) to go. If it follows the usual pattern. This isn’t the first time an alien has got aboard a Ship of the Fleet, you know, Mr. Balls. Nor will it be the last. We know, barring accidents, pretty well what to expect. Perhaps you should glance over the Handbook of Onboard Aliens to freshen up your information on the subject.
FIRST MATE: Captain, aren’t you even scared?
CAPTAIN: Mr. Balls, I am scared shitless. But what can I do?
FIRST MATE: Get rid of it! Now! Quick! While we still can! Before it gets any bigger! Let me stuff it into the Disposal Hatch! Unlock my door—just let me out—it won’t take any time at all—the rest of the Fleet won’t even know—
INSANE SECOND MATE: Listen, little Balls. I am on the Bridge now. And I think I’ll continue to be on the Bridge for the next 230 days (Ship Time). The Captain is needed in the galley. Your door is locked and will remain locked, until you come to terms with the situation. You may not like my being in charge. I know you feel I’m untrustworthy, and useful only in a subordinate position. And in normal conditions and most situations that’s quite true. I am untrustworthy, unpredictable, and devious. I can’t even count on myself. When I leap into a roaring seething ocean of salt, it turns out to be powdered sugar. When I look out the Bridge viewport at the stars, I don’t see the stars. I see dragons, swans, whales, scorpions, bears, huntsmen, chariots, crosses, signs, omens, and writings in huge shining words I cannot read. When I set my finger on the buttons on the Main Control Panel, the buttons turn into a dog’s hind paws, and my finger explodes like a firecracker. When I walk across the Bridge to check the computer readouts, I can’t see the floor; I see an abyss, the dark underpit where pale shapes writhe and shoulder in the gloom, turning vast rudimentary faces, eye spots, mouth holes, up towards me, their country-woman, mincing across the Bridge high above them on my thin wire, clutching at my flying trapeze. I do not belong on the Bridge of a ship of this class, except during the night shift when you and the Captain are asleep—and during certain exceptional situations, such as this. The fact is, granted all my peculiarities, at this point I’m the only one who can bring us through.
FIRST MATE: Captain, Captain Cook, listen to me. Don’t listen to that maniac, that mutineer. Listen to me. Captain, you know I have the utmost faith in you, almost. You’re a fantastically good captain, for a woman. Don’t let the Second Mate take over the Bridge!
CAPTAIN: I can’t stop her, Mr. Balls. It’s the influence of the alien, I suppose. We’ve all changed, don’t you see?
FIRST MATE: Changed?
CAPTAIN: Yes. “Bats” has acquired tremendous strength—as you must have noticed when she hit you with the I Ching—and a driving sense of purpose. “Bolts” isn’t complaining any more about engine malfunctions; she’s happy as a lark down there, singing “Scots Wha Hae wi’ Wallace Bled.” “Sparks” has gone completely out of touch—right, “Sparks”?—“Sparks”?—See? As for myself, I don’t know exactly what the change involves, except that the Second Mate makes better sense to me than she usedto, and you don’t; but I do know that since we’ve had the alien aboard I’ve felt a different person.
FIRST MATE: And I, Captain? I haven’t changed.
CAPTAIN: No. That’s the trouble, Mr. Balls. You haven’t. You aren’t really cut out to cope with this. But it’s not your fault; and in the long run it may be a good thing. It maintains a certain continuity aboard the ship. We don’t want to become totally alienated, after all.
FIRST MATE: Captain, you’re not as civilised as I am, but you are pretty much a product of civilisation—unlike the rest of this crew. And what I don’t understand is how, being a civilised person, you can stand the humiliation of it. The being used—like a bucket, or a Petri dish. We aren’t a mere vehicle, a vessel for aliens to get fat in, a damned yeast culture! We are a ship, a Ship of the Fleet, sailing under our own power, embarked on the Great Journey to the Unknown End.
CAPTAIN: But you know, Mr. Balls, that in fact we probably won’t get there.
FIRST MATE: I know. But there was a chance. Now there isn’t. We won’t get there, we won’t get anywhere, weighted down with this alien, and with all of you paying no more attention to anything outside the ship. I’ll bet, right now, that the Second Mate can’t give us a star fix. What’s our inclination to Arcturus, “Bats”?