Higher Education

Chapter Fourteen

The two survivors quickly came back to normal health; the bodies of the dead, such as could be found scattered within ten thousand kilometers of CM-31, were given decent space burial; the Vantage continued on at a quarter gee to its original destination; and Rick thought that the whole awful episode was over. He was wrong. The worst was still to come. It began late on the second night, when someone slipped into his cabin without knocking. He was lying awake in his bunk, and he sat up pleased. Alice had told him that she had an evening session scheduled for a review of drive mechanisms with Tom Garcia, and would not be able to pay Rick a visit. Something must have changed.

The person who entered was Deedee Mao. “I have to talk to you,” she said.

“If it’s about—”

“I was told not to talk about this to anyone. But I have to. It’s eating me up inside.”

She sounded desolate and desperate, in a way that Rick had never heard before. He started to say something, decided that it was a bad idea, and made room for her beside him on the narrow bunk. “I’m listening, Deedee. But if you promised not to talk. . .”

“It’s a promise I can’t keep.” She drew in a deep breath. “Do you know what I did when we got to CM-31?”

“I think so.” They had all talked about their roles in the hours that followed. According to Barney French, they had performed better than anyone could have expected. Each of them would receive a note of praise in the record. “You went over near the main cylinder, didn’t you? With Marlene Kotite.”

“That’s right. We were really there to look for bodies. I was picked because I was once in a bad accident myself, and I’ve seen some pretty gruesome stuff.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“There’s a lot we don’t know about each other, Rick. That’s a pity.” She tried to smile at him, and failed. “Anyway, we found one part of the work crew habitat, smashed to pieces by flying jets of molten metal. Seven bodies. They made me feel like throwing up, because they were in pieces. We had to hunt for arms and legs and heads and try to put them together. Two of them were so badly burned I couldn’t tell if they were men or women.”

“That’s terrible, Deedee.” Rick put his arm around her shoulders. “I had it easy, but I didn’t know it. I didn’t have to deal with anything like that.”

“I haven’t got to the bad part. We came to one bit of the habitat that had been smashed open by flying metal, and then somehow sealed itself back together. It was airtight, but molten iron had splashed all over the place. We found a man there. He was alive.”

She paused. Rick, sensing that it was not the time to speak, waited sympathetically.

“He was alive,” she went on at last, “but he had no right to be. The iron had burned him, head and body. He must have actually sat for a while in a pool of molten metal. When we found him he was conscious. I didn’t know what to do, but Marlene crouched down beside him. ‘You’re safe now,’ she said. ‘I’m Marlene Kotite, pilot of the ship Vantage. We’ll have to move you, so I’m going to give you a shot to knock you out first.’

“He turned his head toward her. I can’t say he looked at her, because his eyes had been burned out. They were just black pits in his head. He had no nose.

“ ‘Thanks, Marlene,’ he said. I’m Trustrum Keck, chief mining engineer of CM-31.’ He sounded absolutely calm and rational. They say that bad burns leave you like that, in shock but not in pain. ‘Before you knock me out,’ he said, ‘how about a little damage assessment?’

“She looked at me, as if she wished I wasn’t there, then she said, ‘We met once before, when I was piloting the Vanity. It’s not good, Rusty. Your eyes have gone, and most of your face.’

“ ‘I guessed that,’ he said. ‘And there’s more, isn’t there.’

“ ‘Yes. You’ve lost the flesh of your legs, and your penis and testicles. And most of your right hand.’

“ ‘I noticed,’ he said, ‘when it happened. It doesn’t feel so bad now.’ He was quiet for about half a minute, then he said, ‘No chance of real repairs. I don’t like the look of the future, Marlene. I want to exercise my option.’

“It was her turn to go quiet, but eventually she said, ‘You’re in deep shock, Rusty. This is no time to make that decision.’

“But he just gave a sort of coughing laugh and said, ‘Tell me a better time. You’ve seen me,’ and after a minute she nodded.

“ ‘Hold on a little,’ she said. Til give you a shot, but I’ve got a young apprentice with me. She happened to be on the Vantage when we picked up your Mayday.’ Then she turned to me, and said, ‘Step out for a few minutes. Into the corridor.’

“I did. I was totally confused, but it was an order. After about ten minutes she came out again. She had taken off her suit helmet, and her face was dead white. She told me it was all right, I could come back in. I did. He was lying there. He was dead. When I asked what had happened she just shook her head. Rick, she killed him. I know she did. She murdered him.”

“No.” Rick was suddenly very thankful for the conversation he had had with Jigger Tait, back in the shielded radiation chamber on CM-2. “You can’t look at it that way, Deedee. Would you want to live with no eyes and legs? No genitals, no right hand.”

She flinched against his arm. “I couldn’t bear to!”

“Nor could I. And nor could he. You heard him say it, he wanted to exercise his option—his right to die.”

“But that’s murder!”

“Back on Earth it is. Out here, it’s a fundamental right. Mine, yours, Barney French’s. Nobody can take it away from us. And Marlene Kotite couldn’t take it away from Rusty Keck. She just did what he wanted, and helped him along a little. Wouldn’t you do as much for me, in the same situation?”

“Oh, Rick, don’t say that. Please, don’t ever say that.” Then Deedee was silent for a long time, so long that Rick thought she must be angry. Finally she patted the arm that he had placed around her, and said, “God rest his soul. Thanks, Rick. Thanks an awful lot. I owe you a big one. But I knew I could count on you. I always can.”

She left. Rick lay again on his bunk. He was very glad that he had bitten back what he had wanted to say when she first came in: “Chick Teazle is the one you’re screwing, not me. If you want to talk to somebody, why don’t you go and find him?”

Rick didn’t know the answer to his own question. But he offered up a prayer that he had not asked it.

The final arrival at CM-26, their original target, was a big letdown. It took a while to realize why.

The first few hours were the enjoyable confusion of a new home. The apprentices were assigned living quarters—huge, after the cramped cabins of the Vantage—then left free to roam the interior, alone or in groups, and get used to the layout.

Rick was on the same corridor as Gladys de Witt, Lafe Eklund, Polly Quint, and Goggles Landau. He was annoyed that he had not been placed with people he knew well, until he realized that was surely intentional. Turkey Gossage and Barney French had one thing in common: they both insisted that you had to be able to get along with absolutely anyone and learn to work together.

The five apprentices set out as a group to ramble the corridors and tunnels of the mining facility. Rick noted where Alice’s cabin was located, though it was probably useless information; she always insisted that she come to him. She was right next door to Deedee Mao, which made Rick feel a bit uncomfortable.

The corridors that led deeper into the interior all ended with flashing lights and warning signs: DO NOT PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT. MINING OPERATIONS IN PROGRESS.

The five retreated, somewhat irritated. “I thought mining operations were specifically what we were here to learn,” Polly Quint grumbled. She was a tall, graceful seventeen-year-old, with an oddly large vocabulary and a flashing smile that at the moment was noticeably absent. “And what type of mining operations are being denied to us, anyway?”

They could hear along the forbidden tunnel the near-continuous rumble of explosions.

“Not what we saw on CM-31, that’s for sure,” said Gladys de Witt. “There’s something odd going on here.”

Rick agreed. During their approach to CM-26 he had caught a glimpse of an irregular chunk of rock, with beside it the familiar gleam of a cylinder big enough to enclose it.

But what they had just seen—or rather heard—suggested a traditional mine using ore blasting and excavation equipment.

The mystery remained as they headed in the opposite direction, up toward the outer layers of the mining station. It was compounded when they came to the topmost level and looked out through the transparent bubble of an observation port.

“It’s tiny,” Goggles Landau protested. “Look at the ship next to it!”

They again had a view of the asteroid and cylinder that Rick had seen during final approach. At that time there was no way of judging size, and Rick had assumed that he was looking at something on the same massive scale as the ruined facility of CM-31. Now a maintenance module was floating in space next to the cylinder, and Rick could see that Goggles was right. Instead of the kilometer-plus length and width of CM-31, this cylinder was no more than forty meters in any dimension. The rock next to it was smaller yet, more like a large boulder than a substantial planetoid.

“That’s not a mining facility,” said Lafe Eklund at last. He was one of the quiet apprentices who rarely said anything, but now he sounded exasperated. “Look at that thing! It’s nothing but a toy. ”

No one disagreed. Perplexed, they made their way back to the general living accommodation and ran into two other exploring parties. They had all experienced similar frustrations, of regions denied to them without explanation or mining facilities scaled down to the point where they appeared ludicrous. Without anyone suggesting it, they found themselves moving together to the main dining area.

Chick Teazle, as usual, took the lead. “I think we can all guess what’s happening,” he said. “So far as they are concerned, it’s business as usual. We’re back in the playpen, and we’ll get pushed through the next stage of training as though we’re still babies. But we’re not.”

There was a mutter of agreement.

“What happened at CM-31 changed everything,” Chick continued. “They still want to treat us as Level Three apprentices, but we showed that we are ready to operate at Level Five—the highest level. We’ve grown up faster than anyone expected. They need to recognize that fact.”

“How do we make them?” Alice Klein had been in a fourth group that had just entered the dining area and added itself to the discussion. “It’s easy to say how Vanguard ought to think of us, but how do you persuade them?”

As usual, Alice had quietly placed her finger on the key question. There was a long pause, while everyone stared around at everyone else. Rick tried to catch Alice’s eye, but she looked right through him.

“Only one way,” said Chick Teazle at last. “Barney French is in charge of us. We have to tell her, all of us.”

“All of us?” Vido repeated. He sounded as skeptical as Rick felt. “Forget it. You know what she says about committee decisions.”

Barney had told them often enough: “Work in ones, work in twos, even work in threes. But don’t form a committee, or you’ll never get anything done. A committee is a dead-end street down which ideas are lured and quietly strangled.”

“All right, not all of us,” Chick said defensively. “Not a committee, a deputation. Four people, representing everybody. Who’ll volunteer?”

“You will,” said Goggles Landau, and everyone laughed.

“I guess I have to, if I suggest it.” Chick grimaced. “Who else?”

There was another long pause. “I nominate Rick Luban,” Gladys de Witt said at last, while Rick stared at her in surprise. “He’s one of Barney’s pets, you can tell by the way she talks about him.”

“Hey!” But Rick’s outrage was lost in the buzz of general agreement.

“That’s two,” said Chick.

“Wait a minute! You said volunteer!”

“You’ve been volunteered.” And before Rick could speak again, Chick went on. “Need two more. Who else? Vido Valdez, will you do it?”

“Hold on,” Polly Quint said before Vido could reply. “I have nothing at all against Valdez, but you need balance. Better have two of the quartet females.”

“Agreed.” Vido grinned at her. “Thanks, Polly. Accepted, everyone?”

“Me? I never said me!”

But Chick was already looking around the group. “So it’s agreed on Polly. Just one more. Gladys?”

“Bad choice. Barney says I complain all the time.” Gladys stared around the room. “You need somebody who never bitches. How about Deedee. Will you? You know Barney thinks you walk on water.”

“She does not!” But Deedee bit her lip, then slowly nodded. “All right. If you want me to.”

“Which makes four. Good.” Chick Teazle clapped his hands together briskly. “So there’s only one other question: when?”

“Now,” chorused a dozen voices.

“I was afraid you’d say that. Rick, Polly, Deedee?” Chick looked to each of them in turn. “All right with you? Then let’s get it over with.” He started for the door.

“Give ’em hell, guys,” Skip Chung shouted after them as they left.

Brave words, but Rick felt the steam going out of him as they approached Barney’s office.

She was in. He had rather hoped she would be somewhere else. She greeted them with a raised eyebrow, seated them on uncomfortable chairs made of bare metal struts and mesh, and listened in silence while Chick, with prompting from the other three, explained why they were there.

“I see,” she said when he finished. “Level Five.” She walked over to the inner door to her office and disappeared through it.

Polly and Deedee looked at each other. “Bad news,” Deedee mouthed, and Polly nodded.

“Why?” Rick had seen the exchange.

“Can’t you tell?” Deedee was whispering. “She’s really angry.”

“Or upset.”

“Or both.”

They were talking only to each other. Before Rick could ask how they knew, Barney was back. She was holding two polished metal cylinders about two feet long. One was thin, the other fat.

“So you’re not happy,” she said. Rick could see it now, there was a twisted look to the always-asymmetrical face that was new and frightening. “So you don’t want to be treated as trainees anymore.”

Trainees, not apprentices? They had been demoted, but no one was going to correct her.

“Well,” Barney went on, “I have a question for all of you. What job do you expect to get when all your training is over?”

The four looked at each other. “Mining engineer?” said Chick Teazle at last.

“Mining engineer.” Barney French nodded. “Do you know why you say that? Well, I do. You say it, you overgrown ape, because it’s the only goddamn job any of you can imagine. So let me tell you something about Vanguard Mining. Maybe one person in a hundred makes mining engineer. Before you aspire to that, you have to be a real hot-shot—you have to know math, and mechanics, and physics, and metallurgy, and engineering. Most people don’t make it. I didn’t make it, and I bust my guts trying. Do you think any of you will make it?”

There was a dead silence.

“Well, it’s not my job to tell you that you won’t. In fact, it’s usually my job to tell you that you can. But right now you’re a million miles away from competence.” Barney tossed a sheet of paper across to Chick Teazle. “Read that, and tell me what it says.”

He stared at it and shook his head. “I can’t. I mean, I can read the words, most of’ em. But it’s full of big equations.”

“Damn right it is.” Barney’s face was growing redder. “Those are the equations of motion that describe the stability of a right circular cylinder under forced rotation, with off-axis disturbing forces. In other words, they describe a mining facility like CM-31. Unless you can read that, and maybe write something like it yourself, you’ll never make a top-flight mining engineer. And if you do, you won’t be getting an easy job. Better men than you’ll ever be—and better women—have given their lives for that research.” She glared at them, and her voice rose. “You think you’re ready for Level Five, do you? You don’t know what Level Five means. It means brains and dedication and endless hard work. It means devotion to duty, and sometimes it means sacrifice. The best engineer I ever met, Rusty Keck, was killed in the blow-up of CM-31.”

“I was there when he died,” Deedee said in a very small voice.

It halted the outburst. Barney stared at her. “So you were,” she said at last. “That makes me surprised that you are here.”

She put the two cylinders down on her desk, stood up, and left the room again. This time she was gone for more than five minutes, while her visitors sat and asked each other in hushed tones if the meeting was over and they were supposed to leave.

When she returned her face was unreadable. She picked up the two cylinders from her desk as though they weighed a ton each. “The episode at CM-31 gave you a false idea of your own status,” she said quietly. “You behaved well, and for an hour or two you did act at Level Five. But in terms of real training, you’re still Level Three beginners. Can you tell me why one of these cylinders is stable when it’s rotating about its main axis, and the other one isn’t? No, you can’t. Can you tell me how the stability changes, as the mass distribution changes from being mostly on the central axis to being near the outer curved surface? Again, you can’t. But you will know those things, before you leave here, because we’ll have done a dozen practical experiments with the centrifuge mining test facility that’s waiting outside this station. You’ll know what happens in practice. You’ll also be able to calculate it, so you don’t have to do expensive physical tests before you reach the final design stage. You’ll know and do all these things, or your future jobs in Vanguard Mining will be cleaning toilets and recycling sewage. If you’re lucky.”

She sighed, and tossed one cylinder to Rick and the other to Deedee. “Take these and think about them. I should never have told you that you did well. And I ought not to have lost control of myself. I hope you’ll forget that. I’m going to forget what you said to me. So far as I’m concerned, you never came here, and you never complained about anything. Now get out—before you make me real mad.”

She ushered them out. In the corridor, well away from Barney’s office, Chick stopped. “We-e-ll,” he said. “Well. . . well. . . I guess. . . shit.”

“The mot juste.” Polly Quint tried to laugh, and produced only an ugly snort. “My English teacher told me—before he decided that he was more interested in getting into my pants than into my head—that cussing is the sign of an inferior intellect and an inadequate vocabulary. But in certain circumstances, he said, it fulfills a vital function. I guess this is one.”

“But what are we going to tell the others? They’ll be waiting for us back there, wanting to know how we did.”

“We?” Polly shrugged. “It’s not we, Chick. You are our chosen spokesman and chief representative. What are you proposing to tell them?”

To that question, for one of the few times in his life, Chick Teazle had no ready answer.