Ship of Strangers

CHAPTER FOUR

“Hear these words,” Surgenor said to the quietness of his room.

“I’m listening to you, Dave.”

“Things are getting worse.”

“That statement is too generalized to have any…’

“Aesop!” Surgenor took a deep breath, reminding himself there was no point in getting angry at a computer no matter how articulate the machine might be. “I’m talking about the psychological stress on the survey crews. The signs of strain are becoming more pronounced.”

“I have observed pulse rates going up and skin resistance going down, but only on isolated occasions. There is no cause for alarm.”

“No cause for alarm, he says. Aesop, does it occur to you that I—because I’m a human being—could know more about what goes on inside human beings than you do? I mean, you can never really know what’s going on inside a man’s head.”

“I am more concerned with his actions, but should I need information concerning the mental states of crew members I can refer to the relevant abstracts from Mission Final Reports for the past century. Those of the Cartographical Service alone occupy some eight million words; military records, more extensive because of…’

“Don’t go through all that again.” A new thought struck Surgenor. “Supposing there was cause for alarm, suppose things really started getting out of control—what could you possibly do about it?”

Aesop’s voice was peaceful. “I could do many things, David, but the indications are that adding a simple psychotropic drug to the drinking water would be quite sufficient to restore a stable condition.”

“You’re empowered to tranquillize human beings any time you feel like it?”

“No—only when they feel like it.”

Again, Surgenor was almost certain that the linguistic subtlety built into the computer was being used to mock him. “Even that’s too often for my liking. I wonder how many people know about this.”

“It is impossible to compute how many people know, but I can give a relevant piece of information.”

“Which is…’

“That—no matter how many more you decide to tell—you will not be back on Earth by the twenty-fifth of December.”

Surgenor stared coldly at the speaker grille on the wall of his room. “Read me like a book, did you?”

“Not really, David—I find books quite difficult to read.”

“Aesop, do you know you have a nasty supercilious streak?”

“The adjectives are inapplicable in my…’ Aesop broke off in mid-sentence—something Surgenor had never known him to do before. There was a pause, then the voice returned, more rapid now and charged with designed-in urgency. “There is a fire on the hangar deck.”

“Serious?” Surgenor grabbed for his boots and began pulling them on.

“Moderate concentration of smoke, but I detect only a localized blaze and there are no electrical circuits registering. The situation appears to be well within the capacity of my automatic systems.”

“I’ll go down and have a look,” Surgenor said, relaxing a little as the spectre of a major catastrophe receded. He left the room and ran to the main companionway, slid down it and sprinted to the head of the stair which led below. It was crowded with men who were anxious to find out what had happened. The circular hangar deck was hazed with oily drifting smoke which obscured the outlines of the six survey vehicles in their stalls, but even as Surgenor entered he could see that it was being efficiently drawn into the ceiling grilles. In little more than a minute the smoke had vanished except for stray whiffs arising from a box on one of the workbenches.

“I have turned off the fire-control sonics,” Aesop announced. “Complete the extinction manually.”

“Look at this.” Voysey got to the workbench first and picked up a small laser knife which was lying with its projection head pointing at a smouldering box which contained oily waste. “Somebody left this cutter switched on low power.” He studied the tool curiously. “This thing’s dangerous. The range limit is broken—that’s what started the fire.”

While one of the men broke out a fire-control grenade and fumed it into the box, Surgenor took the cutter from Voysey and examined it. The range-control plate had been twisted completely out of line in a way which, to him, did not look accidental. Another odd fact was that the waste box with the charred hole in its side invariably sat on the floor with clamps securing it to the leg of the bench. It was almost as if somebody had started the fire deliberately, but that was something no sane person would do. A spaceship was a machine for keeping human beings alive against all the dictates of nature, and it was unthinkable that anybody should try to damage the machine…

“I guess we were lucky,” Voysey said. “There’s no harm done.”

Aesop spoke immediately. “That remains to be seen, gentlemen. The hangar deck was in the clean air condition for electronics maintenance on Modules One, Three and Six. All exposed units will have to be inspected for contamination, then cleaned and given function checks. I suggest that you begin work on them now—otherwise there could be delays in the forthcoming survey.”

Groans of protest were heard from a number of men, but Surgenor fancied that most of them were pleased at having some genuinely necessary task to perform. It created a break in the shipboard routine and gave them a comforting sense of being useful. He joined in the work, putting aside his speculations about the origins of the fire, and spent two hours engrossed in checking out electronics packs. The survey modules were designed for repair by replacement to a large extent, so that relatively untrained men could keep them operational, but in spite of that the job of inspecting and changing major components was one which demanded concentration. As always, Aesop assisted in and monitored the various tasks. His long-range diagnostic microscopes, mounted on the ceiling, made sporadic movements as they projected enormously magnified pictures of circuits on to large screens.

By the time the evening meal was supplied by the auto-kitchen Surgenor was deeply but pleasantly tired. He was relieved, therefore, when the meal passed off without any more trouble between Hilliard and Barrow. After they had eaten, most of the complement watched a holoplay. Surgenor had two large whiskies, found himself growing dangerously nostalgic about Earth at Christmas, and went to bed early.

He awoke in the morning, relaxed, filled with the knowledge that it was Saturday and that he would not be going to his office. The design he was producing for the new university auditorium was at a fascinating, mind-devouring stage, but he knew from experience that a weekend of complete rest would enable him to return to the project at an even higher pitch of enthusiasm and efficiency. Contentment filled his mind like the chiming of silver bells as he turned in his bed and reached for Julie.

There was a momentary disappointment as he discovered her place was empty, then he became aware of the aroma of brewing coffee drifting upstairs from the kitchen. He got up, stretched, and padded naked into the bathroom and stood for a moment looking at the tub with its taps in the shape of gold dolphins. He decided against having a bath and turned on the shower in the adjoining smoked-glass unit. Cherry blossoms gleamed like sunlit snow beyond the bathroom windows, and in the distance an enthusiastic gardener was busy with a lawn mower, performing the first rites of spring.

“Dave?” Julie’s voice was faint above the sound of the water. “Are you up? Want some coffee?”

“Not yet.” Surgenor smiled to himself as he stepped into the jetting warmth of the shower cubicle. “There aren’t any towels up here,” he called. “Can you bring me one—’

A minute later Julie came into the bathroom with a towel. She was wearing a yellow robe, loosely tied, and her gold hair was drawn back with a gold ribbon. The beauty of her filled Surgenor’s eyes.

“I was sure…’ Julie stopped speaking as she glanced around the bathroom and saw the plenitude of towels on their rails. “Oh, Dave! What’s the idea of bringing me all the way upstairs?”

Surgenor grinned at her. “Can’t you guess?”

She ran her gaze over his taut body. “The coffee’s ready.”

“Not as ready as I am. Come on in—the water’s lovely.”

“Promise not to get my hair wet?” she said, pretending the reluctance which was only a part of their love games.

“I promise.”

Julie untied her robe, let it slide back from her shoulders and on to the floor. She stepped into the shower with him. Surgenor took her in his arms and in the minutes that followed he purged himself of all the desire, all the loneliness that a spaceflier is fated to accumulate during his wanderings.

Later, as they were seated at the breakfast table, he felt a strange thought growing unbidden in his mind: If I’m an architect, if I really am an architect, how can I know so much about the way a spaceman feels?

He stared at Julie in a kind of sad puzzlement, and became aware of a soft pressure at the back of his neck. It felt exactly like a pillow. He raised his head, blinked uncomprehendingly at the sparse furnishings of his room in the Sarafand’s living quarters, then threw the pillow aside. Underneath was the flat silvery disc of a Trance-Port player.

Surgenor picked the disc up and one part of his mind tried to solve the mystery of its presence, while another part which felt hurt and betrayed thought: Julie, Julie, why couldn’t you have been real?

He dressed as quickly as he could, left his room and had almost reached the companionway down to the mess when he felt himself being pushed aside. Turning back indignantly he saw Victor Voysey, whose face was angry and abnormally pale. Surgenor began to protest, then he noticed the other man was also carrying a Trance-Port tape player.

“What’s the matter, Vic?” he said, his mind still blurred with the images of the night.

“Somebody switched tapes on me, that’s what’s the matter. And I’ll kill the bastard when I find out who he is.” Voysey was breathing heavily.

“Switched tapes on you?”

“That’s what I said. Somebody went into my room and took my own tape and put a different one in the player.”

Surgenor felt the coolness of premonition. “What tape did you get? Could you recognize it?”

“I think it was young Hilliard’s. The girl seemed…’ Voysey stopped speaking as he noticed the disc in Surgenor’s hand. “What’s going on here, Dave? I thought you didn’t use them?”

“I don’t—but the joker slipped one under my pillow anyway.”

“Then it must have been mine.”

“No. It was Hilliard’s.”

Voysey looked baffled. “But there should be only one of each.”

“So I’m told.” Surgenor went down the companionway into the mess room, followed by Voysey. Most of the crew were already there, standing in a knot at the “east’ end of the room, but Surgenor’s gaze was drawn to the scattering of silvery discs on the table. His premonition crystallized into angry certainty.

“Hi, Dave, Victor,” Pollen said. “I see you’ve been done as well—welcome to the club.”

“How did you like the gang bang?” Gillespie asked, chuckling.

Lamereux glared at him, his brown eyes rimmed with white. “This isn’t funny, Al. I don’t use tapes, but somebody went into my room, into my head—and I don’t like it.”

“If everybody got the same tape sequence, then somebody must have taken Bernie Hilliard’s tape from his room and made a dozen or so copies.”

“I thought the cassettes were designed to prevent copying.”

“They are, but a man with the right experience could do it.”

“Who?”

Surgenor glanced around the room. One man had stayed apart from the discussion and was seated at the table, studiously unconcerned, taking a platter of ham and eggs from the dispensing turret. Surgenor went over to him, with the others following.

“You went too far, Barrow,” Surgenor said.

Barrow raised his eyebrows in polite surprise. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, old son.”

“You know, all right. Leaving aside the whole invasion of privacy bit, I’m going to report you for maliciously starting a fire on board ship. You’ll do time for that.”

“Me!” Barrow looked indignant. “I never started any fire. Why should I?”

“To get everybody down in the hangar so that you could steal Bernie’s Trance-Port and copy the tape and slip it into all the rooms.”

“You’re crazy,” Barrow sneered. “I’m going to excuse it this time, but next time you make an accusation like that, get yourself some proof.”

“I’ll get proof this time,” Surgenor told him. “Aesop monitors all our movements, continuously, only it’s written into our contracts that the recordings will never be played unless it’s a matter of ship safety or a criminal investigation—and this comes under both those headings. I’ll call Aesop now.”

“Wait a minute!” Barrow stood up, spread his hands and put on one of his slate-grey smiles. “I’m no criminal, for God’s sake. Can’t you guys take a joke?”

“Joke!” Voysey pushed by Surgenor and grabbed two handfuls of Barrow’s shirt. “What did you do with my tape?”

“I put it away safe for you. Take it easy, will you?” Barrow had begun to look nervous.

“Let him go—that doesn’t solve anything,” Surgenor said, noting with a sense of surprise that Voysey’s main concern seemed to be the safety of his own Trance-Port tape.

Barrow smoothed out his shirt when he was released. “Look, fellows, I’m sorry if I upset you. It was only…’

“What the hell was the idea?” Voysey was not satisfied and his sand-coloured brows were pulled low over his eyes. “Why did you do it?”

“I…’ Barrow stopped speaking and a gleam of triumph was kindled in his eyes as Bernie Hilliard came into the room. Hilliard looked pink, relaxed and happy.

“Sorry I’m late, men,” he said. “I was having such a good time I just didn’t want to wake up this morning. What’s going on here, anyway?” He allowed his gaze to travel curiously around the group.

“Something you ought to know about,” Voysey rumbled. “Our shipmate Barrow, here…’

Surgenor caught his arm. “Wait a minute, Vic.”

Voysey shook himself free impatiently. “…went into your room yesterday, took your Trance-Port, made a dozen copies of it and slipped it under all our pillows. We all got it last night. That’s what’s going on here, Bernie.”

Hilliard flinched as though he had been struck and the colour faded from his cheeks. He stared at Barrow, who was nodding eagerly, and then turned to Surgenor.

“Is this true, Dave?”

“It’s true.” Surgenor looked into the boy’s eyes, thought of Julie as she moved her nakedness against him beneath the warm jets, and turned his gaze away, feeling guilty and embarrassed. Hilliard looked around the rest of the group, shaking his head and moving his lips. The others shuffled their feet, unwilling to face him.

“I did you all a favour,” Barrow said. “A girl like that Julie ought to be public property.”

Voysey stepped behind Barrow and, with an abrupt movement, pinned his arms. “Come on, kid,” he said to Hilliard. “Wreck his face. Get my axle wrench and pulp him up—he deserves it.”

Barrow struggled to get free, but Voysey held him easily while a bleak-eyed Hilliard moved closer and bunched his knuckles. Surgenor knew he should intervene, yet found himself unwilling to do so. Hilliard measured his distance with ritual slowness, drew back his fist, hesitated, and then turned away.

Voysey pleaded with him. “Come on, kid—you’re entitled!”

“Why should I?” Hilliard’s lips stretched into a smile which was anything but a smile. “Tod’s right in what he says—a guy would be real mean if he didn’t want to share a good whore with his friends.”

But Julie’s not like that! The protest was in Surgenor’s mind, and he had almost spoken it, when he realized he was on the verge of making a fool of himself. They were not talking about a real woman, dressed in yellow and gold, who had sat with him at breakfast and smiled with the sharing of memories. The subject under discussion was only a complex of patterns on a magnetic tape.

“Let the man go,” Hilliard said, taking a seat at the table. “Now, what’s for breakfast? After the night I had I need some solid nourishment inside me. Know what I mean?” He winked at the man nearest to him. Surgenor looked at Hilliard with a sudden and irrational dislike, then turned back to Barrow.

“You’re not getting away with this,” Surgenor said, and—filled with a rage he did not want to acknowledge or understand—walked away from the mess table and headed for the solitude of his room.

“Hear these words.”

“I’m listening to you, David.”

Surgenor lay still on his bed, trying to marshal his thoughts. “I’m reporting to you, officially, that the fire on the hangar deck yesterday was started by Tod Barrow. Deliberately. He has just admitted to doing it.” Surgenor went on to describe the subjective events as objectively as he could.

“I see,” Aesop commented when he had finished. “Do you think there will be more trouble between Barrow and Hilliard?”

“I…’ Surgenor considered building another case for aborting the mission, but similar arguments had always failed with Aesop. “I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble. It seems to me they’ve burned themselves out.”

“Thank you, David.” There was a brief silence, then Aesop said, “You will be interested to learn that I have decided to terminate the mission. That means you can be back on Earth before the twenty-fifth of December, as you wished.”

“What?”

“You will be interested to learn that I have…’

“Don’t go over it again—I got you.” Surgenor sat up on the bed, almost afraid to believe what he had heard. “What made you change your mind?”

“The circumstances have changed.”

“In what way?”

There was another silence. “Barrow is more unpredictable than you think, David.”

“Go on.”

“He has interfered with my memory and logic. In my judgement it is necessary for me to return to the nearest regional HQ so that certain readjustments, which are beyond my capabilities, can be carried out as soon as possible.”

“Aesop, I don’t understand you.” Surgenor stared at the speaker grille on the wall. “What did Barrow actually do?”

“He made an extra copy of Hilliard’s Trance-Port tape and fed it into one of my data inputs.”

The words were almost an obscenity to Surgenor. “But…I didn’t think that sort of thing was possible.”

“It is possible to a properly qualified man. In the future the Cartographical Service will place an upper limit on the amount of experience survey crew members have in certain fields. Also, they will probably discontinue the Trance-Port experiment.”

“This is weird,” Surgenor said, still trying to grasp the full implications of what he had been told. “I mean, was the tape even compatible with your internal languages?”

“To a large extent. I am very versatile, which in this case represents an area of vulnerability. For example, I have decided to abort this mission…but I am not entirely certain that my decision is based on pure logic.”

“It seems perfectly logical to me—somebody as dangerous as Barrow needs treatment as soon as possible.”

“Correct, but the fact that I am alert to him vastly reduces his potential for harm. It may be that I now understand your desire to return to your home, and that I am being influenced by it in a non-logical manner.”

“That’s highly unlikely, Aesop. Believe me, this is one subject on which I’m better informed than you.” Surgenor got to his feet and walked to the door of his room. “Do you mind if I break the news to the men before you speak to them?”

“I have no objection, as long as you do not discuss the real reasons for the decision.”

“I won’t.” Surgenor was opening the door when Aesop spoke again. “David, before you go…’ the disembodied voice was strangely hesitant “…the data on Hilliard’s tape…is it an accurate portrayal of the human male–female relationship?”

“It is highly idealized,” Surgenor said slowly, “but it can be like that.”

“I see. Do you think Julie really exists somewhere?”

“No. Only on tape.”

“David, to me everything exists only on tape.”

“I can’t help you, Aesop.” Surgenor looked around the metal walls, behind every one of which were the myriad copper skeins of Aesop’s nervous system, and he felt a curious emotion. Pity compounded with distaste. He tried to think of something relevant and meaningful to say, but the words which emerged were trite and utterly incongruous.

“You had better forget her.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Aesop said, “but I have the perfect memory.”

That’s tough, Surgenor thought as he closed the door of his room behind him and hurried in the direction of the mess with the good news. Already, as is the way with human beings, the images of Julie Cornwallis were fading from his mind, to be replaced by pleasurable thoughts about the precious fleeting afternoons of winter on Earth, about football matches and cigar stores and women at supper tables, and about the deep comforts of families drawing together at Christmas.