The Escape Orbit

Chapter 4

It wasn’t that he was being forced to do anything. Warren thought dourly as he mounted to the roof of the administration hut and began the long climb to the main observation platform; there wasn’t a single Committeeman on the post who wouldn’t jump to his bidding. Yet for the past three weeks he had done all the things which had been required of him. Or was it perhaps that he was doing all of the things which Kelso required of him…?

His interrogation during the de-briefing had been long and painfully thorough. After Peters’ remarks on the subject Warren had expected Kelso to waive, or at least tone down, that part of the business. But the Lieutenant had told him that they had no wish to make a liar out of the Fleet Commander, and that the data gathered during de-briefing was really of vital importance—so much so that they would risk the displeasure of even a Sector Marshal rather than omit a single hour of questioning.

And with the others of his party he had submitted to wearing fatigues. There had been no direct pressure involved in this—it was simply that the climate made wearing them more comfortable, especially during drills and weapon practice when the kilt gave complete freedom of movement. But the Committeemen’s reason for wearing fatigues, they had told him, was to keep the lightweight spacesuits in operable condition against the time when they would be needed to take the Bug guardship.

When they took the guardship, Warren had noted, never if…

From all over the Post the sound of voices drifted up to him as he climbed. Some were quiet, some excited and many of them were interspersed with shouts of laughter. The merriment was probably coming from the group receiving instruction in the handling of the cross-bow, and another sound like a flock of woodpeckers laboring not quite in unison originated from the group doing elementary Communications on sticks and tree trunks before being turned loose on the signal drums.

He had submitted to and accepted many things, one of the most difficult being his replacement of Peters as senior camp officer. Because of his rank Warren had no choice in the matter, but it had shaken him a little to find himself the supreme authority on a planet containing upwards of half a million prisoners a few hours after landing on it. But not seriously, because Warren was accustomed to wielding such authority. What did bother him was Kelso’s assumption that he would automatically head the Escape Committee. The Lieutenant was forcing matters by putting Warren in the position of heading a project which he had not yet finally agreed to join, and he wanted to give it long and hard consideration before the meeting of the Inner Committee which Kelso had called for that afternoon.

And while he was thinking he did not want eager young Committeemen jogging his mental elbow, which was his reason for climbing to the highest observation platform on the Post. That was why, when he was negotiating the final ladder and the sound of voices drifted down to him, he felt considerably annoyed.

“… At night or during overcast conditions,” one of the voices was saying, “we use signal drums. A big drum slung at this height, provided the wind is in the right direction, has about the same range as the heliograph, which is this contraption here. The sighting arrangement is accurate although we haven’t had much luck with silvering our mirrors.”

“How about the telescope?” a female voice asked, and Warren recognized it as Ruth Fielding’s. “Big for a refractor, isn’t it?”

“That’s for keeping tabs on the guardship,” the first voice replied. “The clockwork mechanism is mostly wood, and provided a breeze isn’t moving the whole tree-top through several degrees of arc and seeing is good, we can keep it centered pretty well. But the chromatic aberration is fierce—most of the time the ship looks like some sort of Christmas tree. There’s enough definition, though, to let us know when another ship joins it in orbit or the shuttle leaves to land more prisoners.”

The words were apologetic but the tone was not, Warren thought. It was the voice of a person justifiably proud of having accomplished much with practically nothing. It went on, “The glass comes from the coast fifty miles north of here. Maybe it’s the wrong kind of sand, or maybe we’re just lousy glassmakers, but we’re experimenting with—”

The voice stopped suddenly and a Committeeman with a Major’s insignia picked out on his harness was looking down at Warren. The Major gave him a hand up, saluted and stood to attention.

“Thank you,” said Warren; then, “I want to speak to Major Fielding. Alone, if you don’t mind.”

That removed the Committeeman from the scene, but telling Fielding to scat would have to be managed a little more tactfully—if he decided to send her away at all. It might be a good idea to discuss some of the aspects of his problem with a psychologist.

“Well, Ruth,” he said, ducking under the mass of cordage which radiated from the telescope mount and coming to within a comfortable talking distance. “What’s your opinion of this place? Personal and professional, that is.”

His use of the first name signified just two things, that the officer currently being addressed was not in his bad books and that he wished to conduct the ensuing conversation without the usual hampering load of “Yes, sir”s.

“Good morning, sir,” said Fielding. She had been about to salute but on realizing that this was to be an informal discussion she smoothly grabbed an overhanging rope instead. The rope gave with her and high above them a branch heavy with leaves moved aside, allowing a shaft of sunlight to strike the heliograph mounting behind her. Fielding took her hand away quickly and the leafy camouflage rustled back into place. She laughed.

“Personally I like it,” she said enthusiastically. “I think we all like it, and a lot of us have had much worse times and enjoyed ourselves a whole lot less when home on leave—although that isn’t saying much since our home planets are pretty grim places these days. And since that battleship on legs tried to climb the stockade last week, nobody objects to being confined to the Post until they learn how to use a cross-bow properly.

“But there I do have an objection,” Fielding went on seriously. “Just look at me…!”

Fatigues for the use of female officers consisted of a sleeveless hide shirt without shape and shorts which were too baggy and too long. Wearing them Fielding was still a good-looking girl, but after the manner of a Cinderella before the transformation scene. Warren smiled.

“This is a professional objection?” he asked drily.

“Yes, sir,” said Fielding, still seriously. “It points up the fact that this is a man’s world. Oh, I know that the Committeemen could not be more polite in their treatment of us. But there’s a tenseness about it—they act almost as if they were boys out on their first date, which is ridiculous since there must be as many female officers on the planet as there are males. Also, they never discuss anything of real importance with any of the girls, and the jobs we’re given are all in the third leg category—mere time passers! So far none of our girls have noticed this, but it seems obvious to me that female officers are not wanted on the Escape Committee!”

“Go on,” said Warren quietly.

Fielding looked surprised, as if she had expected a more violent reaction than this, then she continued, “From a few things I’ve heard and from data I’ve gathered from the files—I was on a paper-cutting detail for a week—the situation appears to me to be something like this…”

According to Fielding the Committee considered women to be a bad risk. Their basic drives—the maternal instinct, the need for security and so on—predisposed them towards the Civilian philosophy, this being proved by the fact that practically every unattached female officer went civilian during the first six months, and that even the husband-and-wife combinations rarely lasted longer. This caused a heavy surplus of women in the Civilian camp, so that the ones who had not been fortunate enough to find Civilian husbands had to do their best to snare, and convert to civilian ideas, one of the Committeemen.

This was encouraged in every way possible by the Fleet Commander, and the result was a further erosion of the Committee ranks in addition to the losses caused by the usual propaganda methods. As things were, Peters would have been statistically certain of getting two thirds of the newly arrived officers if one of them had not happened to outrank him. Peters was winning, and without having to work really hard at it.

“… But the ones who stay on the Committee are tough,” Fielding went on. “They are not misogynists exactly, but their urges in that direction have been pretty thoroughly sublimated to the idea of Escape. They have found that, generally speaking, females can’t be trusted. That the few who do honestly want to stay and work for the Committee only cause trouble anyway, and that it’s better to discourage them gently from the start.

“And I do mean gently,” she added quickly. “We couldn’t possibly take offense at anything they’ve said or done. But the situation here—on the planet as a whole, not just in the Post—is psychologically unstable. Dangerous even.”

“Professionally,” she ended, “I don’t like it!”

In the silence which followed, Warren thought very hard. Fielding’s outline of what, to her, seemed a dangerous and unstable situation was fairly accurate, but the truth was that it was much more serious than she realized. Warren also had access to files, the files restricted to members of the Inner Committee, and he did not like the situation either. And he was aware, too, that Kelso was pushing him. Warren did not mind that so long as he was being pushed in the direction he wanted to go, and he had climbed up here to try to decide exactly which direction it was that he intended to take. But now, and without him having the chance to hear Peters’ side of it, the decision was being forced upon him.

A burst of laughter drifted up to him, followed by the sound of someone getting a good-natured bawling out for missing the target and losing cross-bow bolts in the long grass. It was very hard just then for him to think of these pleasant, efficient and enthusiastic young Committeemen as being a threat.

“Would you like to help found a dynasty?” he asked Fielding suddenly.

Fielding’s face went red. “Are you serious?” she said. Then, realizing that her tone could have given offense on several levels of meaning, she altered it subtly so that the question sounded mildly improbably instead of utterly ridiculous, and repeated, “Are you serious, sir?”

Warren did not reply at once. He was thinking that the Committee as it now stood was something of an elite corps, that the officers who had remained in it had survived in spite of extreme psychological pressures, and that to do so they must be little short of fanatical in their devotion to what they considered was their duty. It had also occurred to Warren that out of a prison population of half a million widely scattered and disorganized farmers they represented a well-disciplined and relatively mobile force of something like twenty thousand, and that if Peters had his own way much longer and succeeded in trimming their numbers even further so that they themselves realized that an escape was no longer possible, then the Fleet Commander and the Civilians he represented would be in very serious trouble indeed.

At present they were something less than respectful towards senior officers who did not share their ideas, and it would only be a short step to the point where a further reduced and hence even more fanatical ex-Escape Committee took over the place by force.

Such a military dictatorship might not be too bad, Warren thought, except that civil war must follow inevitably and soon. Far too many of the Committee officers were of equal rank, and there was bound to be furious disagreement as to who would be Boss. All these things, although distant in time, were not only probable but virtual certainties, and Warren had been trying for more than a week to devise a plan which would put this probability into the impossible class. Founding a dynasty—remaining in the present position, consolidating it and passing his ideas as well as his supreme authority on to his descendants—was a nice if rather fanciful idea. But even the stability of a monarchy was not always certain and judging by Fielding’s first reaction to the suggestion and bearing in mind the fact that she was a doctor as well as a psychologist, the idea might be physiologically impossible anyway.

Of one thing he was sure, however; the Fleet Commander was ultimately on the losing side no matter which choice Warren made. Even if he should side with Peters and use his considerable weight of authority against the Committee, he would succeed in further reducing their numbers but at the cost of making them a more-closely knit and fanatical group. No matter how he looked at it the situation was a potentially dangerous one which must sooner or later lead to a shooting war.

Warren sighed, bringing his mind back from a probably disastrous future to a present that was, literally, full of laughter, sunshine and excitement. Smiling, he said, “Relax, Doctor. The question was purely rhetorical.”

So far as Warren could see there was only one solution to his problem. He must join the Escape Committee.

And escape.