Takeoff. Part 20

Dumbrowski was playing cribbage with MacDonald. "Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, pair six, pair eight,"

he said, pegging his hand. He looked up as Drake entered. "h.e.l.lo, Doc. How're the eggs?" His voice was carefully modulated.

"They hatch day after tomorrow, captain. I'll need some room for the brooders. They're all knocked down for s.h.i.+pment, and I'll have to put them together."

"I see." Dumbrowski shuffled the cards slowly. "About how much room will you need?"

"There's fifty of 'em," Drake said. "They're square, two meters on a side."

"I see." He tamped the cards on the table, cut the deck, and shuffled again-slowly. "That's two hundred square meters of floor s.p.a.ce."

"A little more," Drake said. "They can't be crowded together too much."

Dumbrowski sighed gustily. "Well, I reckon we can find s.p.a.ce here and there in different sections.

It'll take a little moving around, but I guess it can be done."

"I'm afraid that won't do, captain. You see, those ducks have to be raised under one point five gees, at high pressure and high temperature and high humidity-just like the rest of the ducks."

Dumbrowski stopped shuffling. "I see," he said at last. "They're going to hatch in two days and we have to s.h.i.+ft the cargo around so that you can have another section. Then we have to reset the paragravity units under the floor. And set up the heaters and the humidifiers and the pressurizers. I see."

He put the cards down carefully on the table and looked up at Drake. "All right, Doc. MacDonald and I will tend to it. Meanwhile, I'd appreciate it if you'd stay out of my sight for a while."

Drake swallowed and said nothing for a moment. Then: "You hate my guts, don't you, Dumbrowski?"

"I would if you had any," the captain said evenly. "You get 'em; I'll hate 'em."

That evening, Drake went up to the navigation dome. Devris was punching figures into a small computer, so the doctor sat down and waited quietly until he was through.

After several minutes, a relay clicked, a typer rattled a little, and a white sheet covered with figures slid out. Devris took it, stared at it, and snarled four words.

"Is that what's known as a 'deep s.p.a.ce oath'?" Drake asked mildly.

"Huh? Oh, h.e.l.lo, Doc. Didn't see you come in." He looked back at the paper. "If you mean an oath directed towards s.p.a.ce, yes. So far, I can't pin our exact position down without an error of plus or minus one light-month. That's a little over four minutes' flight time."

"That sounds pretty good."

"Oh, it is; but I want it better. My ambition is to be able to get it down plus or minus an inch, but I think the noise level is a bit too high."

"Hm-m-m. Where's Dumbrowski and MacDonald?"

Devris looked up from his paper. "Didn't you know? They're working on Section Six."

"Oh?" Drake blinked. "I'd have thought they'd have that cleared out hours ago."

Devris let his mouth hang open for a second, then snapped it shut. "Oh, joy, joy. What you know about a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p could be printed in newsface headline print on half-inch osmium plate and it would consist entirely of the fifteenth letter of the alphabet."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the paragravity units under the floor have to be completely reblocked. You don't just wave your hand to get an extra half gee out of 'em."

Drake swallowed-hard. "Why...why, I thought all you had to do was turn a dial or something, like a thermostat."

"You did? Is that why you waited until two days before the hatching to tell Dumbrowski? He'll be up all night and all day tomorrow, he and MacDonald. I'd be down there herping them, except there isn't room between the deck plates for three men."

Drake buried his face in his hands. "This is horrible! No. Nononono!"

Devris looked a little alarmed. "Oh, now, Doc, it isn't as bad as all that. You didn't know." The doctor looked up. "It's worse than that! I need that little bitty s.p.a.ce for ducklings-ducklings, mind you! But do you realize that those birds will be adult ducks by the time the rescue s.h.i.+p gets here?

An adult duck needs eight thousand square centimeters of s.p.a.ce; those ducks will need four thousand square meters of floor area by the time they grow up!"

"Four thousand square meters," Devris said in a thoughtful tone. "That's pretty nearly the whole deck area of the s.h.i.+p. Interesting." He got up and went over to the bottle marked "Lens Cleaner" and began mixing a stiff drink.

He was humming to himself, and it took Drake a second or two to recognize the tune.

I heard one day A gentleman say That criminals who Are cut in two Can hardly feel The fatal steel And so are slain Without much pain.

If this is true, It's jolly for you; Your courage screw To bid us adieu- Devris stirred the drink vigorously and handed it to the doctor. "You'd better go down and tell Dumbrowski now, before he gets too much more done on that section. Drink that-you'll need it."

Drake finished the gla.s.s in short order and headed for Section Six.

The stairway to Section Six was closed, and a big sign glowed on its surface.

DANGER! THE P-G UNIT IN THIS SECTION IS OFF! USE EXTREME CAUTION!.

Drake opened the door carefully and peered down the stairway. The lights were on, and everything looked normal. He started down the stairs.

Halfway down, something tugged at his insides and sudden nausea hit him. He stumbled down two more steps, and the s.h.i.+p seemed to do a prodigious loop. There seemed to be a pull from above. He was falling up the stairs! He lurched out and grabbed at the railing. He missed, and the s.h.i.+p whirled about him. He did a queer somersault, while his stomach flipped in the opposite direction. He twisted frantically, trying to regain his balance and his sense of orientation. His stomach flipped back in place, twisted around, joggled, gave up in despair, and emptied itself of its contents in one t.i.tanic upheaval.

Drake pa.s.sed out, colder than a fritter.

He was being shaken. A voice was saying: "Come on, Doc; snap out of it. You're all right, Doc; come on."

In the background, he could hear Dumbrowski's bellowing laughter.

As if in a dream, he opened his eyes blearily. "What happened?" Then: "Where am I?"

"You're in Section Seven, Doc," said MacDonald. "You stepped across the barrier field into no-gee, and went haywire."

"Boy!" said Dumbrowski, "did you look funny!" And again he burst into laughter.

Drake found himself lying on the floor. His clothes were a mess, and his head still felt dizzy.

"But I've stepped across barrier fields hundreds of times," he protested feebly. "It never did that before."

"Sure," MacDonald said. "You've gone from one and a half gees to one gee and vice versa. But all you felt was a weight s.h.i.+ft. But total absence of pull is the limit; you lose all your orientation."

"You flipped, man; you really flipped!" Dumbrowski had subsided to a rumbling chuckle, punctuated by gasps.

"How do you feel?" asked MacDonald with a broad grin. "I feel fine." Drake's voice was cold. He sat up, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began dabbing at his face. His stomach still felt a little queasy, but otherwise he was all right.

"Didn't you know the Olympics were being held in Madagascar this year?" Dumbrowski asked.

"Or did you have some other purpose than trying to win the fancy-diving champions.h.i.+p?"

"I came down to tell you something." The ice in the words almost liquefied the air, but Dumbrowski didn't seem to notice.

"Really? Well, I must say you attracted my attention. What was it?"

Drake told him. He told him in detail and with precision. And, inside himself, he enjoyed every second of watching Dumbrowski's expression change. Laugh at me, will you? Laugh now.

Go ahead and laugh.

Dumbrowski didn't laugh. His face darkened a little, and he said: "You don't think very far ahead, do you, Doctor? You're supposed to take care of those ducks, not me. You wanted 'em hatched; my orders are to co-operate. Well, you haven't told me a thing. I don't know what kind of orders you think you're giving, but I've had just about enough of 'em. I'm tired of walking around blind on my own s.h.i.+p, wondering when you're going to come up with another half-baked idea."

It had the effect of an emotional thermite bomb. In a phenomenal energy gain, Drake's nerves went from frigid to boiling. "Now, listen here, you thickheaded ape...you...you dumb lowbrow ski! You haven't even offered to co-operate! You haven't even asked any questions! How am I supposed to know everything when you don't tell me and don't ask me?"

"Me?" bellowed the captain. "Me?" How am I supposed to know what kind of questions to ask about ducks? Who ever heard of raising ducks on a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p, anyway? You and your eggs, you egghead! You and your filthy rotten eggs!"

They were on their feet now, glaring at each other. MacDonald was looking from one to the other apprehensively, wondering what was going to happen and when.

"My eggs are cleaner than your filthy stories!" Drake snarled. "At least r don't bore everybody to death with imaginary tales."

That was enough for Dumbrowski. He snarled back at Drake, then, with a bellow of mingled rage and pain, he came at him.

He was heavier than Drake, but they were more evenly matched than might be supposed. The doctor had been working with his ducks in a one-point-five gee field for several years, at least an hour a day. His muscles were harder and tougher than they looked.

Drake stepped aside, and the captain's blow missed. But his other arm, flailing out, caught Drake in the ribs. The doctor grunted and drove a fist into Dumbrowski's abdomen at short range. The s.p.a.ceman's hard-muscled middle gave a little, and his arms went around Drake. They went down together, rolling over and over on the tough plastic covering that sheathed the steel deck.

MacDonald ran forward to break up the battle, but one of the combatants swung out a leg at just the wrong moment and caught the engineer across the s.h.i.+n. He staggered back, off balance, and dropped, landing hard. He got up and limped toward the intercom while the Battle of Section Seven went on.

He jabbed the general call b.u.t.ton and bawled: "Pete! Come down to Seven! These two blockheads are tryna kill each other! On the double!"

Devris barreled down the stairway and tried to help MacDonald break up the tussle-without noticeable success. Both of them got punches for their pains.

Finally, Devris ran over to the wall and pulled out the emergency fire hose. He almost turned it on before MacDonald yelled: "Hey! Pete! Water-not carbon tet!"

Devris looked at the selector dial. It pointed at CCl

4.

. He twisted it past CO2 to H2 O and flipped the switch. A high-velocity stream of water splattered into the tangled bodies on the floor .

They broke up, sputtering.

"Now both of you stop," Devris commanded, "or I will use the carbon tet!"

But it wasn't needed; the water had done the job.

"How's your nose?" Devris asked.

Drake stood before the mirror in his room and surveyed himself. One eye was bruised a little and his nose was badly swollen. "Id hurds," he said, "bud I thig ids gwid bleedig. I'll dage the pagging oud."

He pulled the packing from his nostrils and reached into his kit for a little spray gun. He directed the cloud of mist into his nostrils for a second.

"There; that's better."

MacDonald stuck his head in the door. "You all right, doc? Anything broken?"

"I'm O.K.," Drake told him. "For a while I though I'd busted a hand on Dumbrowski's head, but I took a look at it under the transparency, and it's only bruised."

"Well...uh...You sure you feel, O.K.?" MacDonald's tone was hesitant. "Oh...the...uh ...the captain has a pretty bad eye. I wonder if you'd take a look at it."

Drake hesitated. "I doubt it he'd let me in the room."

MacDonald grinned and relaxed a little. "He said that if you didn't come, I was to tell you that you caused the damage and you had better get up there and fix it or the skipper will confiscate your med kit, report you to the TMA, and personally come down here and beat you in a fair fight." He shrugged. "I'm quoting, you understand."

In spite of the fact that it hurt his lip, Drake grinned. "I'll be right up. And you tell him that if he gives me any trouble I have a hypo here that will put him to sleep for a week."

"Righto!" MacDonald vanished.

As the doctor packed his kit, Devris said: "I see you've learned one thing about Dumbrowski."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"That he doesn't expect anybody to believe what he says when he exaggerates."

Drake paused to let that sink in. "You mean-"

"Yeah. Those stories of his. They bore me, but he and MacDonald have a lot of fun with them.

Everybody doesn't have the same tastes, Doc."

Drake closed his kit slowly. "You're right; they don't." He picked up his kit and headed toward the captain's room, wondering what he was going to say.

When he went in, Dumbrowski was sitting in a chair with his s.h.i.+rt off, scratching his hairy chest. His face was a mess. He'd obviously washed it once, but there was still blood pouring from a cut under his eye. With his free hand-the one that wasn't scratching-he was holding a gauze pad to the cut, but it had already become blood-soaked.