Saturn Run

28.

Francois Peneski, a biochemist known for research into the possibilities of non-carbon-based life-forms, finished dinner in the cafeteria/commons. He took his tray and empty dishes to the dirty-dishes corral, dumped the dishes, then carried the tray back to where Don Larson, a mathematician, was chatting with friends, and used the hard-plastic tray to smash Larson in the face, breaking several blood vessels in Larson’s nose and knocking him off his chair.

Larson knew precisely why this had occurred, and though the nose pain was nearly blinding, and blood was running down his chin, he got up off the floor and swung wildly at Peneski, connecting, more by luck than anything else, with the other man’s left eye.

Then it was on: flailing fists and feet, several bites, screaming crew members. A woman named Rosalind Aster, a mechanical engineer, ripped at Peneski’s face with her fingernails. Peneski elbowed her in the mouth, and she fell backwards, hard, taking a table full of dishes down with her.

(After the fight, several of the numbers people and one of the physicists tried to work out the optimum tactics for a low-gravity fistfight. The problem proved to be surprisingly difficult, given the number of variables involved; the actual fight, however, was carried out with some efficiency.)

Francisco, the ship’s executive officer, was in the cafeteria at the time, as was Ang, the wrestling, violin-playing shrink, and between the two of them, they managed to pry the fighters apart. There were three empty reinforced cabins designed to be used either as hospital rooms or as cells, as need be. The exec ordered the three fighters confined to the cells, and to be attended by a ship’s doctor, while he talked with Fang-Castro about the next step.

The next step was to interview the fighters.

Fang-Castro appeared at Peneski’s cell, with Francisco, Crow, and Ang in tow. Peneski was sitting on the floor—the room had no furniture—and when the door opened, he stood as Fang-Castro walked in.

Fang-Castro said, “Mr. Peneski: What in God’s name was that about? My executive officer tells me that you launched an unprovoked attack on Mr. Larson. Mr. Larson has a bloody nose, and Ms. Aster has several loosened teeth, which will require braces. Your face looks like a raw steak. Can you give me a good reason why you shouldn’t remain locked up?”

“I’m sorry,” Peneski said. “It won’t happen again. And it wasn’t unprovoked.”

“Then give me an explanation to consider.”

“Roz and I had developed a… relationship,” Peneski said.

“A sexual relationship,” Fang-Castro said.

“Yes. She was… she was really a good thing for me. I have difficulty with relationships. But then, she joined Larson’s orgy club and she didn’t want to be with me anymore. I couldn’t—”

Fang-Castro: “The what club?”

“The orgy club. Larson started an orgy club. There are six members, four men and two women. Roz invited me to get in, but I didn’t want to, I wanted to be exclusive. She started avoiding me and finally I said I’d do it, but then she said it was too late, they’d recruited a fifth guy, and I couldn’t get in until they got another woman, unless I was bi, and maybe not even then, because I was a stick-in-the-mud, and they didn’t want any stick-in-the-muds.”

The exec said, “Ah, Jesus.”

By the time Peneski spoke with Fang-Castro, the well-lubricated rumor mill was already in overdrive. Not only was the reason for the fight well known, but the details of the Larson orgies were also revealed. Not only revealed, but extensively embroidered upon.

Larson was quoted as having said, “Women are basically recreational areas, with several separate facilities available at any given time.”

The quotation was completely fabricated, but people were entirely unamused. And, of course, then the jokes started, often based on Peneski’s occupation: “Is that a silicon-based life-form in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

“What would you recommend?” Fang-Castro asked Francisco, Crow, and Ang, in the hallway outside the cell where Peneski remained confined.

Crow said, “There was a violent attack. It’s not something you can ignore, even if there’s no danger of another one. There has to be some kind of punishment. Since you’re the captain, you have to decide on what it should be.”

Ang said, “Peneski doesn’t seem irrational—he managed to work himself into a momentary rage, watching them sit at their table, laughing. He says it won’t happen again and I tend to believe him. Whatever the punishment is, I don’t think we should shame him. He’s already shamed enough. And Larson was provoked, beyond question. I’d suggest a monetary fine, a couple of weeks’ pay, for both of them. I would also find out who the other members of the orgy club are, and I would peel the skin off them. It’s not so much the group sex that worries me, it’s the exclusionary attitude—Peneski couldn’t qualify for membership.”

The exec said, “Ah, Jesus.”

Crow: “Ma’am, I would also recommend that you address the situation directly. Call a crew meeting and broadcast it. Be very clear about the limits of what you’ll tolerate.”

“I should say it’s okay to have orgies, but you have to invite everybody? I don’t think so,” Fang-Castro said. “The President would be the teensiest bit annoyed.”

Crow actually smiled at the thought. “That’s not quite what I meant. You outline the damaging effects that this kind of thing has on ship morale, tell them that you won’t put up with it. Tell them to behave like adults on a deadly serious mission, and that while sex is their own affair, morale is your affair. That if they do anything that will impair morale—and indiscreet sexual liaisons might well qualify—you will lock the offenders in the restraint cells with nothing but a TV set and three meals a day, for the duration of the mission. That you will not allow any behavior, even if legal on Earth, that will impair the mission: this ship is not a democracy, and you are the Queen.”

“I can do that,” Fang-Castro said. “I will also make it clear that assaults, for any reason, are not tolerable and no provocation will be considered an acceptable excuse. Don’t look at me like that, Dr. Ang—regardless of the bizarre circumstances, shipboard discipline requires this.”

Ang waved a finger. “If I may make a suggestion? Remind them that shipboard, libido is a privilege. A privilege that can be revoked. I have the necessary drugs. Would you support that?”

Crow interjected, “I can tell you the President would. Hell, she’d likely have them spaced.”

“Which is why she doesn’t get to command a spaceship,” said Fang-Castro. To Ang, she said, “I’ll mention the drugs.”

The exec said, “Ah, Jesus.”