Garner growled at him. Space, free fall, paralysis, and defeat were all wearing away at his self-control.
"Hey," he whispered suddenly.
"What?" The word came in an exaggerated stage whisper.
"I can wiggle my index fingers," Garner snapped. "This hex may be wearing off. And mind your manners."
Smoky was back late the next day. He had inserted the pointed nose of his ship into Masney's drive tube to push Masney's ship. When he turned off his own drive the two ships tumbled freely. Smoky moved between ships with a jet pack in the small of his back. By this time Atwood had joined the little group, and was helping Smoky, for it would have been foolish to suspect trickery after finding Masney.
Not because Masney was still hypnotized. He wasn't. Kzanol had freed him from hypnosis in the process of taking him over, and had, kindly or thoughtlessly, left him with no orders when he departed for Pluto. But Masney was near starvation. His face bore deep wrinkles of excess skin, and the skin of his torso was a loose, floppy, folded tent over his ribcage. Kzanol/Greenberg had repeatedly forgotten to feed him, remembering only when hunger seemed about to break him out of hypnosis. Kzanol would never have treated a slave that way; but Kzanol, the real Kzanol, was far more telepathic than the false. And Kzanol/Greenberg hadn't learned to think of daily food intake as a necessity. So much food was a luxury, and a foolish one.
Masney had started an eating spree as soon as the Golden Circle was gone, but it would be some time before he was «stocky» again. His ship's fuel was gone, and he was found drifting in a highly eccentric orbit about Triton, an orbit which was gradually narrowing.
"Couldn't possibly be faked," Smoky said when he called the Belt fleet. "A little bit better fakery, and Masney would be dead. As it is, he's only very sick."
Now the four ships fell near Nereid.
"We've got to refuel all these ships," said Garner. "And there's a way to do it." He began to tell them.
Smoky howled. "I won't leave my ship!"
"Sorry, Smoky. See if you can follow this. We've got three pilots, right? You, Woody, Masney. Me and Anderson can't move. But we've got four ships to pilot. We have to leave one."
"Sure, but why mine?"
"Five men to carry in three ships. That means we keep both two-man ships. Right?"
"Right."
"We give up your ship, or we give up a radar proof ship. Which would you leave?"
"You don't think we'll get to Pluto in time for the war?"
"We might as well try. Want to go home?"
"All right, all right."
The fleet moved to Triton without Number Four, and with half of Number Four's fuel transferred to Masney's ship, the Iwo Jima. Garner was Masney's passenger, and Smoky was in the Heinlein with Anderson. The three ships hovered over the big moon's icy surface while their drives melted through layer after layer of frozen gases, nitrogen and oxygen and carbon dioxide, until they reached the thick water ice layer. They landed on water ice, each in its own shallow cone. Then Woody and Smoky went after Number Four.
Smoky brought the singleship down with its tank nearly empty. They drained what was left into the Iwo Jima, and followed it with the Heinlein's supply. Woody turned off the cooling unit in the singleship's hydrogen tank, dismantled the heater in the cabin and moved it into the tank. He had to cut a hole in the wall to get in.
The next few hours were spent cutting blocks of water ice. Masney was still convalescing, so the Belters had to do all the work. When they broke off they were exhausted, and two laser cutting tools were near death; but Number Four's fuel tank was filled with warm, not very clean water.
They hooked up the battery from Number Six to electrolyze the melted ice. Hydrogen and oxygen, mixed, poured into the Heinlein's tank. They set the thermostat above the condensation point of hydrogen; but the oxygen fell as snow, and Smoky and Woody alternated positions in the bottom of the tank, shoveling the snow out. Once they had to take Number Six up and fly her around to recharge her batteries. Always there was the flavor of time passing, of the «war» leaving them further behind with each passing minute.
In two days they had fueled all three ships. The tanks were not full, but they would carry the little secondary fleet to Pluto, driving all the way, with fuel to spare. Number Four was useless, her tank clogged with dirt.
"We'll be three days late for whatever happens," Woody said glumly. "Why go at all?"
"We can stay close enough for radio contact," Smoky argued. "I'd like to have Garner close enough to tell the fleet what to do. He knows more about these Bug Eyed Monsters than any of us."
Luke said, "Main argument is that it may take the fleet three days to lose. Then we get there and save the day. Or we don't. Let's go."
Woody Atwood masered the fleet immediately, knowing that the others could not intercept the conversation. If they had moved into the maser beam their radio would have blown sky high.
"Matchsticks!" Kzanol's voice dripped with Thrintun contempt. "We might just as well be playing Patience." It was a strange thing to say, considering that he was losing.
"Tell you what," Kzanol/Greenberg suggested. "We could divide the Earth up now and play for people. We'd get about eight billion each to play with, with a few left over. In fact, we could agree right now that the Earth should be divided by two north-south great circle lines, leave it at that 'til we get back with the amplifier, and play with eight billion apiece."
"Sounds all right. Why north-south?"
"So we each get all the choices of climate there are. Why not?"
"Agreed." Kzanol dealt two cards face down and one up.
"Seven stud," announced the pilot.
"Fold," said Kzanol/Greenberg, and watched Kzanol snarl and rake in the antes. "We should have brought Masney," he said. "It might be dangerous, not having a pilot."
"So? Assume I'd brought Masney. How would you feel, watching me operate your former slave?"
"Lousy." In point of fact, he now saw that Kzanol had shown rare tact in leaving Masney behind. Lloyd was a used slave, one who had been owned by another. Tradition almost demanded his death, and certainly decreed that he must never be owned by a self-respecting thrint, though he might be given to a beggar.
"Five stud," said the pilot. He sat where he could see neither hand, ready to wrap his human tongue around human, untranslatable poker slang when Kzanol wished to speak, and ready to translate for Kzanol/Greenberg. Kzanol dealt one up, one down.
'That's funny," said Kzanol/Greenberg. "I almost remembered something, but then it slipped away."
"Open your mind and I'll tell you what it was."
"No. It's in English anyway. From the Greenberg memories." He clutched his head. "What is it? It seems so damned appropriate. Something about Masney."
"Play."
"Nine people."
"Raise five."
"Up ten."
"Call. Greenberg, why is it that you. win more than I do, even though you fold more often?"
Kzanol/Greenberg snapped his fingers. "Got it! 'When I am grown to man's estate I shall be very proud and great. And tell the other girls and boys Not to meddle with my toys. Stevenson." He laughed. "Now what made me…"
"Deuce for you, queen for me," said the pilot. Kzanol continued in Thrintun: "If men had telepathic recorders they wouldn't have to meddle with sounds that way. It has a nice beat, though."
"Sure," Kzanol/Greenberg said absently. He lost that hand, betting almost two hundred on a pair of fours.