I couldn't eat anything.
Nuts. Know how you feel...felt that way sometimes myself. Food is just the ticket.
The Master-at-Arms settled the issue by coming up and prodding Wingate in the ribs with his truncheon.
What d'yuh think this is sickbay, or first class? Get those bunks hooked up.
Easy, mate, easy, Wingate's new acquaintance conciliated, our pal's not himself this morning. As he spoke he dragged Wingate to his feet with one massive hand, then with the other shoved the tier of bunks up and against the wall. Hooks clicked into their sockets, and the tier stayed up, flat to the wall.
He'll be a damn sight less himself if he interferes with my routine, the petty officer predicted. But he moved on. Wingate stood barefooted on the floorplates, immobile and overcome by a feeling of helpless indecision which was reinforced by the fact that he was dressed only in his underwear. His champion studied him.
You forgot your pillow. Here He reached down into the pocket formed by the lowest bunk and the wall and hauled out a flat package covered with transparent plastic. He broke the seal and shook out the contents, a single coverall garment of heavy denim. Wingate put it on gratefully. You can get the squeezer to issue you a pair of slippers after breakfast, his friend added. Right now we gotta eat.
The last of the queue had left the galley window by the time they reached it and the window was closed. Wingate's companion pounded on it. Open up in there!
It slammed open. No seconds, a face announced.
The stranger prevented the descent of the window with his hand. We don't want seconds, shipmate, we want firsts.
Why the devil can't you show up on time? the galley functionary groused. But he slapped two ration cartons down on the broad sill of the issuing window. The big fellow handed one to Wingate, and sat down on the floorplates, his back supported by the galley bulkhead.
What's your name, bud? he inquired, as he skinned the cover off his ration. Mine's Hartley 'Satchel' Hartley.
Mine is Humphrey Wingate.
Okay, Hump. Pleased to meet 'cha. Now what's all this song and dance you been giving me? He spooned up an impossible bite of baked eggs and sucked coffee from the end of his carton.
Well, said Wingate, his face twisted with worry, I guess I've been shanghaied. He tried to emulate Hartley's method of drinking, and got the brown liquid over his face.
Here that's no way to do, Hartley said hastily. Put the nipple in your mouth, then don't squeeze any harder than you suck. Like this. He illustrated. Your theory don't seem very sound to me. The company don't need crimps when there's plenty of guys standing in line for a chance to sign up. What happened? Can't you remember?
Wingate tried. The last thing I recall, he said, is arguing with a gyro driver over his fare.
Hartley nodded. They'll gyp you every time. D'you think he put the slug on you?
Well...no, I guess not. I seem to be all right, except for the damndest hangover you can imagine.
You'll feel better. You ought to be glad the Evening Star is a high-gravity ship instead of a trajectory job. Then you'd really be sick, and no foolin'.
How's that?
I mean that she accelerates or decelerates her whole run. Has to, because she carries cabin passengers. If we had been sent by a freighter, it'd be a different story. They gun 'em into the right trajectory, then go weightless for the rest of the trip. Man, how the new chums do suffer! He chuckled.
Wingate was in no condition to dwell on the hardships of space sickness. What I can't figure out, he said, is how I landed here. Do you suppose they could have brought me aboard by mistake, thinking I was somebody else?
Can't say. Say, aren't you going to finish your breakfast?
I've had all I want. Hartley took his statement as an invitation and quickly finished off Wingate's ration. Then he stood up, crumpled the two cartons into a ball, stuffed them down a disposal chute, and said,
What are you going to do about it?
What am I going to do about it? A look of decision came over Wingate's face. I'm going to march right straight up to the Captain and demand an explanation, that's what I'm going to do!
I'd take that by easy stages, Hump, Hartley commented doubtfully.
Easy stages, hell! He stood up quickly. Ow! My head!
The Master-at-Arms referred them to the Chief Master-at-Arms in order to get rid of them. Hartley waited with Wingate outside the stateroom of the Chief Master-at-Arms to keep him company. Better sell 'em your bill of goods pretty pronto, he advised.
Why?
We'll ground on the Moon in a few hours. The stop to refuel at Luna City for deep space will be your last chance to get out, unless you want to walk back.
I hadn't thought of that, Wingate agreed delightedly. I thought I'd have to make the round trip in any case.
Shouldn't be surprised but what you could pick up the Morning Star in a week or two. If it's their mistake, they'll have to return you.
I can beat that, said Wingate eagerly. I'll go right straight to the bank at Luna City, have them arrange a letter of credit with my bank, and buy a ticket on the Earth-Moon shuttle.
Hartley's manner underwent a subtle change. He had never in his life arranged a letter of credit. Perhaps such a man could walk up to the Captain and lay down the law.
The Chief Master-at-Arms listened to Wingate's story with obvious impatience, and interrupted him in the middle of it to consult his roster of emigrants. He thumbed through it to the Ws, and pointed to a line. Wingate read it with a sinking feeling. There was his own name, correctly spelled. Now get out, ordered the official, and quit wasting my time.
But Wingate stood up to him. You have no authority in this matter none whatsoever. I insist that you take me to the Captain.
Why, you
Wingate thought momentarily that the man was going to strike him. He interrupted.
Be careful what you do. You are apparently the victim of an honest mistake but your legal position will be very shaky indeed, if you disregard the requirements of spacewise law under which this vessel is licensed. I don't think your Captain would be pleased to have to explain such actions on your part in federal court.
That he had gotten the man angry was evident. But a man does not get to be chief police officer of a major transport by jeopardizing his superior officers. His jaw muscles twitched but he pressed a button, saying nothing. A junior master-at-arms appeared. Take this man to the Purser. He turned his back in dismissal and dialed a number on the ship's intercommunication system.
Wingate was let in to see the Purser, ex-officio company business agent, after only a short wait. What's this all about? that officer demanded. If you have a complaint, why can't you present it at the morning hearings in the regular order?
Wingate explained his predicament as clearly, convincingly, and persuasively as he knew how. And so you see, he concluded, I want to be put aground at Luna City. I've no desire to cause the company any embarrassment over what was undoubtedly an unintentional mishap particularly as I am forced to admit that I had been celebrating rather freely and, perhaps, in some manner, contributed to the mistake.
The Purser, who had listened noncommittally to his recital, made no answer. He shuffled through a high stack of file folders which rested on one corner of his desk, selected one, and opened it. It contained a sheaf of legal-size papers clipped together at the top. These he studied leisurely for several minutes, while Wingate stood waiting.
The Purser breathed with an asthmatic noisiness while he read, and, from time to time, drummed on his bared teeth with his fingernails. Wingate had about decided, in his none too steady nervous condition, that if the man approached his hand to his mouth just once more that he, Wingate, would scream and start throwing things. At this point the Purser chucked the dossier across the desk toward Wingate. Better have a look at these, he said.