Dark Star

2

THEY CONTINUED ON that way through space—the Dark Star’s drive engines eating up the light-years, each man occupied in his own thoughts. So no one monitored the detection instruments, no one saw the thing appear.

Talby was intent on the stars behind them, and his three fellow crewmembers concentrated on the music inside them. So they didn’t see the initially faint, still incredibly distant luminosity that had appeared in the path of the ship. Didn’t see the twister of free energy that danced and leaped and frolicked among a million-kilometer-long cluster of uneven fragments. Fragments of a long-dead world in a long-forgotten system, perhaps even a system set in a galaxy other than this one.

Some of these fragments carried a strong negative charge, others positive. Some were neutral, and some possessed electrical properties that would have driven an energy engineer to hysterics. Gigantic discharges of brilliantly colored energy played about the millions of solid components that formed the vortex.

It was the sixth member of the Dark Star’s crew, the one immune both to astrophysical daydreaming and to electric rock mesmerism, who finally noticed the rapidly approaching threat. And it was this sixth member who cut off the music to the control room.

Pinback, Boiler, and Doolittle slowed, stopped their in-place dancing. At first Doolittle thought that it was just another of the seemingly endless series of mechanical malfunctions. A soft female voice corrected him moments later.

“Attention, attention, ship’s computer calling all personnel. I have been required to disengage your recreational music. Repeat. Ship’s computer to all personnel, this is an emergency override. All systems must stand by for emergency directive. Information for procedure will follow.”

“What the hell?” muttered Doolittle.

Pinback looked over at him wide-eyed, questioning. Boiler just sat and muttered. “Better be something damned important to break into my music.”

“Extrasolar concatenation of solid matter of uncertain properties is approaching at point nine-five light-speed on collision course. Predictions indicate that the body of matter is fairly dense, yet still spread too widely for us to avoid it without risking permanent structural damage to all noninorganic personnel on board.”

“Why can’t you call it an asteroid storm like I asked you to?” Doolittle complained.

“For the same reason,” the computer voice shot back, a little peevishly, “that I cannot refer to you as Grand Admiral Doolittle of His Majesty’s Terran Imperial Fleet Forces, Lieutenant. Both are nonscientific, inaccurate, imaginary references concocted by you while acting under the influence of juvenile literary material and—”

“Call it an asteroid storm,” Doolittle warned, having totally forgotten that something important was about to happen, “or I’ll see your primary circuit disconnected.”

“You cannot do that, Lieutenant,” said Pinback, shocked.

“You cannot do that, Lieutenant,” confirmed the computer. “My primary circuit cannot be disengaged while outside of Earth Base’s broadcast influence, and only under the direct supervision of…” There was a pause while hidden instruments monitored the lieutenant’s internal configuration of the moment.

“However, I will take your current mental state into account. The… asteroid storm…”

“That’s better,” grinned a satisfied Doolittle.

“… is approaching the ship on collision course.”

“Doesn’t mean a thing,” Doolittle said smugly to the others. “We’ll slip through even the densest storm without meeting anything bigger than a pebble, and our deflectors will handle any oddball-sized chunks.”

“Very true, Lieutenant,” the computer continued dryly. “However, this particular storm appears to be bound together by an electromagnetic energy vortex like the one we ran into two years ago. Is that sufficiently descriptive, Lieutenant Doolittle?”

But Doolittle had become momentarily speechless with shock, as had Pinback and Boiler. All remembered that first encounter, and what it had almost done to them.

“I see that it is,” the computer went on. “Normally I wouldn’t bother you boys with this problem, but as you recall, my defensive circuits controlling our prime external force screens were destroyed in that other storm. Therefore, you now have left approximately thirty—”

“Move,” some voice was screaming inside Doolittle, “move, move,” but he was frozen helpless in his seat, unable to reach for a single control, unable even to question the computer.

“— -five seconds left in which to manually activate all defensive systems. I would urge some speed at this point, gentlemen, as you now have only…”

Time, or rather the lack of it, finally shocked Doolittle into action. Pinback and Boiler came out of stasis a split second later.

“Lock gravity systems!” an urgent, nervous voice—his—was saying.

“Artificial gravity locked,” came Pinback’s efficient response. The three men were extensions of the ship now, each working at maximum capability.

“Activate HR-three,” Doolittle continued.

“Activated.” This from Boiler, as he smoothly checked gauges and adjusted controls.

“Lock air pressure.”

“Air-pressure lock activated,” responded Pinback.

“Four. All systems activated. All screens powered up,” Doolittle told them.

“Roger… count four,” agreed Pinback.

“Lock all defensive systems,” finished Doolittle. “And pray,” he added under his breath. He’d have to hope Boiler and Pinback picked up on that thought by themselves—he had no time to lead them in a formal service.

Another duty he had somehow lost track of over the months, years. He was also supposed to serve as ship’s minister. Maybe he could get Talby to take that over

The Dark Star took on a pale red aura as the defensive screens came up to full readiness.

“Defensive systems locked in!” Pinback shouted as the chronometer ticked off the last seconds. Doolittle took a second to admire him. The sergeant would make a good officer some day if… if…

It seemed to Doolittle that there was some important, critical reason why Pinback would never be able to make a good officer someday, and it had nothing to do with his ability. It was something else, something more basic. It escaped him at the moment, but…

“Lock final force field,” he instructed the others.

Again he felt the familiar tingle, the sensation of having his whole body fall lightly asleep, as the internal force field took hold. Not to protect them this time from a jump through hyperspace, but from any damage the storm might inflict.

Of course, if it was as severe as the last one of its kind they had ridden out, there was always the chance that the ship wouldn’t survive in one piece. In that case the three men would remain in-field until the generating machinery broke down or was destroyed. If the machinery and engines remained intact, they would stay in the force field forever, unable to move, slowly aging away, helpless to repair the damaged circuitry.

The vortex was on the screen now, visible to the naked eye. It looked bigger than the first one Doolittle remembered. A writhing, spinning mass of energy, leaping from particle to solid particle in gigantic discharges.

Of the solid material itself nothing could be seen at such a distance. Instrumentation revealed it to be a typical mixture, from microscopic dust to occasional chunks larger than the Dark Star itself. Now and then one of the larger pieces of cosmic debris came close enough to impact on the ship’s defensive screens and was gently jostled aside.

The danger was from the billions of volts of free energy playing haphazardly in free space, not from any loose hunk of rock, however impressive it might look on the screens. Doolittle winced every time the field light over the screen flared, indicating that the defensive screens were drawing energy.

Not everyone viewed the approaching storm with alarm. Up in the observation dome, Talby was ecstatic. The iridescent holocaust was overwhelmingly beautiful. The dazzling discharges of energy exploded across his field of vision in complex patterns of their own, only slightly distorted by the protective shielding of dome.

He’d swung his observation chair 180 degrees so that the storm was pouring directly at him and past. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion—an effect of the force field, which concurrent with protecting them also dropped body function time to the minimum necessary to support life.

In normal time the eruptions of color would have flowed past in a blur of unrecognizable shapes. But in the slowed-down universe of the force field, the colossal bolts took on definite shape and form, reduced them to visions his dazed mind could comprehend.

Magnificent, glorious, incomparable—the astronomer was drunk on the beauty. That it might at any moment shred the ship and himself like foil bothered him not a whit.

The load on the screens was tremendous, but they held… held while the storm passed over and around the enveloped Dark Star, held till it was safely past—almost.

A huge chunk of charged material drifted close in the rear of the storm. The Dark Star was the nearest body of comparable mass, and the bolt that leaped the distance between matter and ship was of truly prodigious size.

It penetrated the force screen and struck the ship lightly, almost caressingly, at the lowest point of the craft, just below the emergency airlock. Although the untiring screens still absorbed most of the blow, events followed which were not normal.

A tiny, insignificant portion of the energy that had impacted on the ship traveled through the outer, then inner walls, and reached a particular circuit. A particularly vital circuit. Several internal fluid-state controls were activated, and a sign appeared unexpectedly on the main screen in the computer room:

BOMB BAY SYSTEMS ACTIVATED

As the last of the storm passed the ship, the huge doors in its belly separated and a rectangular object moved smoothly downward. A large number 20 was inscribed on its side.

Within the computer itself, cross-references were rapidly checked, the cause of the malfunction traced, and results, if any, compared. The conclusion that something had happened which shouldn’t have was quickly reached.

“Computer to bomb number twenty,” the computer said, using human speech since it was impossible for numbers to be misinterpreted in verbal form. “Return to the bomb bay immediately.” The last solid particles, final residue of the storm, bounced off the still-activated force field, extended now to encompass the bomb as well as the ship.

There was a pause, then the bomb objected mildly, “But I have received the operational signal. It came through normal channels and was processed accordingly.

Not expecting an argument, the central computer hesitated briefly. It finally decided on direct contradiction as the most effective—and safest—method of remonstration.

“The signal was given due to a temporary malfunction in the activating mechanism. This is not a bomb run. Cancel all drop programming immediately.” The computer tried to inject a note of insistence into its voice.

“Nevertheless, I’ve received the signal to prepare for a drop and shall continue…”

“Emergency override,” came the ultimate command from the computer. “Return to the bay.”

“Very well, then,” bomb number twenty responded. It slid obediently back up on its shaft. The bay doors closed beneath it. As they did so the last vestiges of the storm receded into the distance.

The force field lapsed, and Talby turned quickly to watch the mass of flickering color and ceaseless energy retreat, heading for uncharted reaches. He waved it a mental goodbye. After all, danger or no, the storm seemed very much alive. Maybe it was a strange kind of organism, contained within itself, forever unable to make safe contact with another creature except one of its own kind.

Ah, there you go, anthropomorphizing again, Talby. He chastised himself. The storm was a manifestation of purely physical phenomena, he instructed himself firmly. Nothing more nor less. He turned and resumed his quiet study of the fore starfield.

The force field and the ship’s defensive screens automatically shut down with the passing of the danger. Doolittle, Pinback, and Boiler slumped heavily in their seats, letting the tension flow out of theme

Pinback forced a slight grin as he removed his head set. “Well, we made it again.”

“Yeah,” agreed Doolittle. “I wonder why we did. There was enough power in that vortex to melt this tin triangle to slag. I didn’t think anything on it worked that well anymore.” He noticed a red light winking steadily on his console.

“And maybe it doesn’t.” At Pinback’s curious glance, he nodded toward the indicator.

“Now what?” Then, louder, “Go ahead, computer, we’re out of stasis and recovered.”

“Attention, attention,” the computer began, ignoring the fact that Doolittle and Pinback were already hanging on every coming word. “Ship’s computer to bridge. There was a malfunction aboard ship during the final passage of the concatenation of… during the final passage of the asteroid storm.”

Pinback and Doolittle exchanged tired glances. It couldn’t be very serious or the operation of the ship would have been noticeably affected by now. Doolittle groaned.

“All right, computer… what is it?”

“Tracing.”

While Doolittle waited irritably—they would never get their music back on until the damned machine had finished its report—smoke drifted from a small hole in the wall of the emergency airlock.

Needless to say, neither the hole nor the drifting smoke was a normal component of the silent airlock. It drifted out from behind a panel that covered a small chamber. Within that chamber rested an operating Iaser that occasionally now flashed in a sequence not programmed for it. It was an especially important laser. It was the center of the malfunction. But the reason the computer couldn’t locate it was because that last, parting bolt from the storm had burned out its connections with the computer.

“I have not yet identified the nature of the problem,” was all the machine voice said to Doolittle. “Shall I contact you when I find out what this malfunction is?”

“Yeah,” put in the heretofore silent Boiler. “Do that… but meantime, shut up, huh?” The computer didn’t reply, but became silent.

Boiler was up, unstrapping himself from his seat. Doolittle was ahead of him, and Pinback hurrying to catch up.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I need to look at something besides these damned controls for a while. Let’s get out of here.”

“I could use a rest, too,” added Boiler. “Good thing we weren’t resting when that storm hit.” They were leaving the control room now, heading down the corridor leading back toward one of the converted storage rooms—the one they’d converted for their own use.

Boiler was in an unusually talkative mood. “I remember the last time we were in an asteroid storm. I was down in the ‘A’ food locker getting a sandwich when I heard the damn sleeping quarters blow out.”

“Yeah, me too,” chirped Pinback. “Boy, you wouldn’t think just a little escaping air could make such a racket!” Doolittle gave him a tired look but the sergeant continued on enthusiastically.

“Say, you know, you guys,” he began as they turned a bend the corridor, “if we really wanted to, really decided to put in a little work, we could fix up the sleeping quarters like they were before. Then we could sleep on real pneumatic bunks again. Hey, guys,” he said pleadingly, “why don’t we fix up the sleeping quarters so we can have a decent place to sleep again? Huh? Why don’t we? It wouldn’t be too hard.

“All we’d have to do is patch up the hole in the ship and pump some air back in. We could even do most of it from inside, I bet. Hey, guys…”

“Shut up, Pinback,” Doolittle muttered. Then the thought that had been bothering him clicked and he glanced back at Boiler.

“What do you mean you were getting a sandwich? There’s not supposed to be any real food on this ship. All we’re supposed to have on board are these nutritious and wholesome concentrates. Not any real food. You couldn’t make a sandwich out of concentrates. Where’d you get the stuff?”

Boiler looked slightly apologetic as they approached the door marked FOOD LOCKER NO. 2. Even a mite embarrassed. His voice was unnaturally defensive.

“Well, you remember that each of us was allowed four crates of personal stuff for the trip?”

“Yeah, so?” pressed Doolittle.

Boiler hesitated slightly, then asked, “You remember the two marked Books? They were supposed to be full of astrophysics manuals and good stuff I was to study and comment on while we were traveling?”

Doolittle nodded; he was beginning to make connections. It was just that he’d never suspect Boiler—plain, unimaginative, stolid Boiler—of such daring duplicity. Evidentally, neither had the inspectors who had passed the crates.

“The night before we transferred from Earth Orbital Station to the ship,” the corporal continued, “I threw ’em all out the station disposal lock.”

“So the two crates were full of bread,” guessed Doolittle, “and what else?”

“Bread,” Boiler nodded in a mournful way it was sad to see, “and peanut butter and jelly… all kinds of jelly. Also swiss cheese, kosher salami, sardines, mayonnaise, pickle relish, corned beef, pastrami, lettuce, and knockwurst.” He shook his head. “I really miss that knockwurst.”

“And you were holding out on us,” accused Doolittle softly, “while we were masticating that colored crap concentrate? You were eating salami, and corned beef, and… and…” he tried to say pastrami, but his mouth was so full of saliva at the thought that he couldn’t.

“You could have done the same thing,” Boiler protested, drawing himself up with a modicum of dignity. “Anyhow, I’d just about broken down and decided to share it with you guys when the first storm hit.

“Most of our personal stuff was up in the room with the rest of our things. It was insulated pretty good. I used to sneak it out and take it down to the food locker to eat because it was the only place I could get rid of the scraps and not have to worry about the odors.” His expression grew even sadder.

“When the sleeping quarters went, so did the crate full of real food. I just hope if there is any intelligent life out there, that they find that floating mass of gunk first. Then they’ll know we’re civilized.”

There was a moment of silence, in memorium. Doolittle said a silent prayer for the now-space-petrified pastrami and looked at Boiler with new respect The shock he had been concealing must have been terrible.

“I’m sorry, Boiler. I really am.”

“Ah, that’s all right, Lieutenant. I’ve pretty much gotten over it. I’m only sorry I didn’t get to share it with you guys after all.”

“That shouldn’t keep us from fixing up the sleeping quarters again,” put in Pinback, whose tone showed no feeling for Boiler’s state of mind. He opened the door and preceded them into the converted food locker.

Pinback’s urgent desire to repair the formal sleeping quarters took on added weight with the actual sight of their present abode. Three highly unpneumatic bunks lay scattered against the thick walls. They were emergency-grade only, and a far cry from the zero-gee sleeping cots of pre-explosion days.

Assorted debris of the kind commonly cast off by the bachelor human male covered bunks and floor and walls with fine impartiality—a liberal coating of useless flotsam composed of worn-out objects of every conceivable shape and former function.

Only one bunk lay neat and spotless. The blanket across it was drawn taut enough to bounce a coin on. Dress insignia and medals were laid out across it in order preparatory to donning.

It was Talby’s bunk, of course. Talby’s bunk, which hadn’t been used in… Doolittle couldn’t remember how long. Couldn’t remember when the astronomer had begun sleeping in his observation chair up in the dome. He didn’t like it, but nothing in the regulations said any member of the crew couldn’t sleep wherever he wished.

But Doolittle didn’t think it was healthy.

Three of the walls were bare, the locker shelving having been completely removed when the men decided to move in. The fourth wall was covered from ceiling to floor with glossy color photos of female-type humans. There were several hundred photos, blown up from microfilm. Some of them were intact, others were cut to show off some particular portion of the subject’s anatomy. They had one thing in common, and that was that artificial clothing figured in none of them.

“It wouldn’t take but a day or two to fix it up, Doolittle, Boiler. Aw, c’mon, fellas. We could do it in—”

“Shut up, Pinback,” Doolittle yelled.

“Oh, have it your own way, then. Sleep on a lumpy bunk—see if I care.” Pinback flopped down on his own mattress. Quick fumbling at his own supplies produced a cigarette.

Doolittle relaxed on his bunk and produced a packet of cards, began laying them out for yet another game of solitaire. Boiler sat down on his bed and stared at one of the blank wails.

“For your enjoyment,” came the soothing voice of the computer, which in addition to running the ship constantly monitored what it believed to be their needs, “we now present some moonlight melodies of Martin Segundo and his Scintilla Strings.

“Our first selection is the perennial favorite, ‘When Twilight Falls on NGC Eight Nine One’.” Soft music filled the untidy alcove. No one bothered to object. The computer’s arguments about the importance of mood music as opposed to violent rock could be maddening. Only when its choices grew extremely puerile did they bother to fight it

Boiler had shuffled about in his own locker, came up with a fat cigar. The computer voice drifted in over the music.

“I must remind both Corporal Boiler and Sergeant Pinback that more than one person smoking at a time puts an unwholesome strain upon the air-purification system.”

“What air-purification system?” Boiler snorted derisively. “I can still smell last week’s smoke.” The computer didn’t deign to reply.

Boiler lit up disdainfully, began blowing extremely neat smoke rings. At times the presence of full artificial gravity on the Dark Star was to be regretted. Sleeping hours were among them, especially since their special bunks had been ruined. Now was another of them, as Boiler contemplated his nebula-like creations and considered the possible reactions of smoke rings in zero-gee.

Pinback was staring at the picture-covered wall, the cigarette still grasped unlit in one hand, the virgin match in the other. Abruptly he let them both drop to the floor. His face took on a decidedly sly expression.

There was a lively gleam in his eyes as he picked up a large box and set it on his bed. Watching Boiler and Doolittle for signs of reaction, he began fumbling through its contents. Boiler blew contented smoke rings.

The corporal rolled over, selected another cigar, and lit it. He seemed surprised to discover then that he had another already in his mouth. Without seeming the least bit embarrassed, he put out the second one by pinching the tip into suffocation.

A moment later he had exchanged it for a switch blade knife—an odd item to bring on board, and one which the mission directors would have banned if they had known about it. But the one thing the psychometricians had insisted on was that every man’s four crates of personal effects, barring actual explosives or something equally dangerous, were absolutely private.

This was why Boiler had had such success in bringing along such unorthodox but decidedly nonexplosive items as his real-sandwich components and the switchblade. The latter snicked open with a wicked metallic whisper.

Holding the knife in one hand, he used the other to clear everything from the upturned crate alongside his bed. It made a nice makeshift table. This was one of his own, personal, surviving crates. It was made of good solid homey wood, not plastic or free-formed metal.

Spreading his fingers flat on the surface, he took the knife and began mumblety-pegging with it, jabbing between the closely spaced fingers into the firm wood. He started outside the thumb and worked over to the outside of the little finger. Then he repeated the journey.

Back and forth, forth and back, and back—and the knife sliced down just outside one of his fingers. He stopped, held up his nicked hand, and stared blankly at it.

All the attributes and faults that the psyche people had agreed were present in Boiler were apparent right then: that he had ice water in his veins; that he was likely to be the least communicative member of the Dark Star crew; that he would be the one least likely to crack in a pressure situation—except for Powell.

They had told him all that before they had left for Earth Orbital Station, at the final psyche briefing. He studied the finger, remembered what they had told him, and smiled.

Since he had only ice water in his veins, then of course there could be only ice water leaking out. And that would stop quickly enough. Indeed, while the knife had been driven into the finger with some force, anyone could see for himself that there was no blood dripping out. That this was due to Boiler’s unnatural control of his own body was the explanation of the psychometricians who had first observed the quality in him.

Of course, the distinct possibility existed that he was imagining his own lack of bleeding, that he was in actuality spurting gore all over the room, and that he had better seek treatment quickly or else bleed to death. In which case he was mad.

His smile grew broader, then vanished. But he wasn’t at all mad. Only Talby was mad, and he was harmless. Boiler wondered if Talby, mad Talby, would bleed.

One of these days, maybe he’d find out.

Pinback was having trouble concealing a smile of his own as he removed a strange object from the colorless box. It was a pair of eyeglasses of unusual properties. Possibly two people on Earth would have found it amusing. Despite this, somewhat more than two of these objects had been manufactured on that benighted planet. Pinback put on the glasses.

They consisted of a cheap plastic frame on which were mounted a pair of grossly bloodshot half-eyeballs made of cheaper plastic and attached to the glasses by means of metal springs.

Bending his head and carefully concealing the device from view, he moved slowly toward Boiler. The corporal had concluded the extensive examination of his invulnerable finger and was now leaning against the wall and blowing his perfect smoke rings once more. Pinback slowly leaned over and toward him—ever so slowly. He knelt slightly and bent his head, removing his hand at just the right time, and the eyeballs flopped out of their frames to bob wildly on the springs.

Boiler turned with equal patience and calmly blew a fresh smoke ring into Pinback’s waiting face. There was a moment of nonreaction. Then Pinback turned and made his way back to his own bunk, his smile gone. Dejectedly, he removed the glasses and dropped them back into the box.

Boiler’s crazy, the poor slob, he thought. Cuts his own finger and doesn’t say a thing. Crazy, but he won’t let me help.

Boiler stared evenly at Pinback, then went back to introspective contemplation of his seemingly uninjured finger. Nuts, the sergeant was certifiably nuts! They were all nuts, except maybe Doolittle—and Doolittle had other problems.

The silence was getting to Pinback, as it always did. There must be something he could do for the poor guys. Something he could do… His gaze left the floor and settled on the nearby form of Doolittle.

The lieutenant was once again deep into a game of solitaire. Pinback’s mouth started to curl mischievously at the corners. He started rummaging through the bottomless box.

Doolittle, meanwhile, had searched through the deck card by card until he had found a red jack to put on the vacant queen. He was oblivious to Pinback, to Boiler, to the room, and to the ship.

The voice inside his head was admonishing him again. Most of the time he could shut it out, but sometimes it got so insistent that no wall could dampen it fully.

“You’re cheating again, Doolittle,” it claimed angrily, beating at him relentlessly. “You’ve always cheated, you know that, Doolittle?

“You cheated to get into flight school, and then you cheated on your astronaut physical when you couldn’t pass the pull-ups. They said that was impossible, but you did it, Doolittle. You cheated on the oral exam when you wanted to get on the Dark Star mission to impress your girl friend, and you cheated with the psychiatrist, giving him all the carefully prepared right answers instead of the truthful ones.

“You cheated your way all the way through your short, miserable, successful life, Lieutenant Doolittle—and you’re paying for it, in triplicate. Because right now"—he put a red ten on the jack—"right now you’d like to cheat yourself back home, wouldn’t you?

“But you can’t, because now there’s nobody left to cheat here but yourself. If you go home without the computer confirming that you’ve properly utilized all twenty of those expensive little toys in the bomb bay, they’ll turn you to powder. And if you try and dump the last one in no particular place, the computer will record it and they won’t be complimentary when you get home, will they?

“No, Doolittle. They’ll most likely toss you in the can for observation. Then they’ll find out about your other cheating and despite all your successes they’ll be most displeased. Your only out was to fool the computer, and you can’t do that, can you? So it looks like you’re stuck with doing a good job in spite of yourself, hey?

“You could never fool Commander Powell, either—but then, at least he understood.”

He jerked sharply. Someone was standing next to him.

The moment of fright passed quickly, turned to anger. It wasn’t the long-dead Powell. It was only Pinback. He went back to his game.

Pinback reached stealthily inside his flight suit, whipped out an object of uncertain shape, and dangled it jerkily in front of Doolittle’s face. It was a rubber chicken. Doolittle was not impressed.

He put a black eight on a red eight: an impossibility to resolve, even for an accomplished cheater. Taking the rest of the cards, he threw them down on top of the pile.

“Damn it!” He glared briefly at Pinback, who recoiled under that momentary unaccustomed blast of intense hatred, and left the room.

He was furious at himself. Furious for putting the wrong card on the wrong card. Furious at Pinback and his idiotic rubber fowl. Furious at the universe that mocked him, and worse—ignored him.

A badly confused Pinback let the rubber chicken hang loosely at his side and looked dazedly over at Boiler.

“Now what do you suppose is the matter with him?”

He had to calm down, Doolittle told himself. Had to. The others were depending on him. He couldn’t continue to fly off the handle at poor Pinback like that. Of course, the sergeant only invited it with his infantile attempts at humor, but Doolittle ought to be able to cope with that by now. Pinback wasn’t responsible for his childish activities.

In fact, it seemed for a moment to Doolittle that Pinback wasn’t even responsible for being on this mission. But that was a ridiculous thought!

Got to relax, got to take it easy, he instructed himself.

The music room. That was it, he’d go to the music room. He walked faster. It wasn’t far.