Sylla licked his vibrissae, “our primates are regarded as quite palatable. Braised, naturally, with just a Hen of celery. Amusing, is it not, First Officer Quent?”
Quent exhaled carefully.
“If you feel so, Mr. Sylla.” He stretched his mouth sideways in a lifelike smile. “Excuse me, I believe I’ll lie down.”
The silence behind him lasted so long he almost wondered about it.
The next fortnight was spent laboriously servicing beacons along Route Leo. The beacons were elderly M20s, which Quent had cursed while navigating from the Adastra. Now he found their trouble lay in the bulky shielding which attracted dust, thus building up electrostatic imbalances that distorted the beacon’s spectrum and eventually its orbit. They had to be periodically cleaned and neutralized. The job required long hours and close cooperation among crewmen. By the fourth and last beacon Quent’s jaw had developed a permanent ache.
“Have you not yet finished, First Officer?”
Quent was clinging awkwardly to the far end of the slippery kinetic bleeder. Above him Sylla wriggled through the beacon grids with the agility of his otter forbears, warping his vacuum line expertly as he went.
“It is clear that the Academy does not contemplate its graduates shall endure the indignity of labor,” Sylla jibed.
“I admit I’m inexperienced in this and not as fast as you are,” Quent said mildly. “Mr. Svensk. Where are you casting that sweep line?”
“As per your request, down,” said Svensk from the far side. “Although it seems senseless.”
“I meant down here—toward me.” Quent took a deep breath. “Not toward the center of gravity of the beacon-ship system. A loose way of speaking, I’m afraid.”
“Lieutenant Quent, sir,” said Pomeroy’s voice from the ship.
“If you wouldn’t mind sir, could you turn your volume down a bit? There seems to be some sort of grinding sound in your speaker and the Greenhill signal is awful weak, sir.”
Greenhill, a colony ship out of Midbase, was running a check on the beacon calibrations as it went by.
Quent swore and snapped off his helmet speaker. A moment later he felt a jerk on his lines and found himself revolving in space two meters from the end of the bleeder. His line had no tension. When he stopped his tumble he saw that Svensk had fouled him with the sweep and was departing over the limb of the beacon. Sylla was nowhere in sight.
“Do you want your life to depend on an octopus?” Quent muttered under his breath. He reached for the speaker switch, then paused. His orbit was decaying. He straightened out and began to breathe measuredly.
The others had gone inboard and unsuited when Quent finally finished clearing the bleeder shaft. In the wardroom he stumbled into Miss Appleby taking a server of food to Imray’s cubicle.
“I want you to know I’m trying,” he told her wearily.
“That’s the spirit, Lieutenant.”
She would make a super admiral’s wife, Quent realized.
The Greenhill confirmed the beacon calibrations and the Rosenkrantz headed out to the Chung Complex. When they came out of drive their screens lit up in glory. The Chung was a cluster of colored suns, warm and inviting after the bleakness of Route Leo.
“Don’t you believe it, sir.” Pomeroy broke the thread of his crochet work against his stained frontals. “I dread this place, I do.” His eyes rolled as he reached for his bulb. “All en-aitches here. Under water, too, most of ‘em, the slimy things. Even Mr. Sylla hates them.”
Despite Pomeroy’s forebodings the first calls passed off with only routine problems of mail and message exchange. The little man continued to follow Quent about, mumbling gloomily. He was also dosing himself with increasing quantities of Leo Lightning whenever he could sneak off the bridge.
“Let Pomeroy tell you, sir,” he grumbled in the night watches, “They’re devils down there. We oughtn’t have any dealings with things like them.
Quent exhaled carefully.
“If you feel so, Mr. Sylla.” He stretched his mouth sideways in a lifelike smile. “Excuse me, I believe I’ll lie down.”
The silence behind him lasted so long he almost wondered about it.
The next fortnight was spent laboriously servicing beacons along Route Leo. The beacons were elderly M20s, which Quent had cursed while navigating from the Adastra. Now he found their trouble lay in the bulky shielding which attracted dust, thus building up electrostatic imbalances that distorted the beacon’s spectrum and eventually its orbit. They had to be periodically cleaned and neutralized. The job required long hours and close cooperation among crewmen. By the fourth and last beacon Quent’s jaw had developed a permanent ache.
“Have you not yet finished, First Officer?”
Quent was clinging awkwardly to the far end of the slippery kinetic bleeder. Above him Sylla wriggled through the beacon grids with the agility of his otter forbears, warping his vacuum line expertly as he went.
“It is clear that the Academy does not contemplate its graduates shall endure the indignity of labor,” Sylla jibed.
“I admit I’m inexperienced in this and not as fast as you are,” Quent said mildly. “Mr. Svensk. Where are you casting that sweep line?”
“As per your request, down,” said Svensk from the far side. “Although it seems senseless.”
“I meant down here—toward me.” Quent took a deep breath. “Not toward the center of gravity of the beacon-ship system. A loose way of speaking, I’m afraid.”
“Lieutenant Quent, sir,” said Pomeroy’s voice from the ship.
“If you wouldn’t mind sir, could you turn your volume down a bit? There seems to be some sort of grinding sound in your speaker and the Greenhill signal is awful weak, sir.”
Greenhill, a colony ship out of Midbase, was running a check on the beacon calibrations as it went by.
Quent swore and snapped off his helmet speaker. A moment later he felt a jerk on his lines and found himself revolving in space two meters from the end of the bleeder. His line had no tension. When he stopped his tumble he saw that Svensk had fouled him with the sweep and was departing over the limb of the beacon. Sylla was nowhere in sight.
“Do you want your life to depend on an octopus?” Quent muttered under his breath. He reached for the speaker switch, then paused. His orbit was decaying. He straightened out and began to breathe measuredly.
The others had gone inboard and unsuited when Quent finally finished clearing the bleeder shaft. In the wardroom he stumbled into Miss Appleby taking a server of food to Imray’s cubicle.
“I want you to know I’m trying,” he told her wearily.
“That’s the spirit, Lieutenant.”
She would make a super admiral’s wife, Quent realized.
The Greenhill confirmed the beacon calibrations and the Rosenkrantz headed out to the Chung Complex. When they came out of drive their screens lit up in glory. The Chung was a cluster of colored suns, warm and inviting after the bleakness of Route Leo.
“Don’t you believe it, sir.” Pomeroy broke the thread of his crochet work against his stained frontals. “I dread this place, I do.” His eyes rolled as he reached for his bulb. “All en-aitches here. Under water, too, most of ‘em, the slimy things. Even Mr. Sylla hates them.”
Despite Pomeroy’s forebodings the first calls passed off with only routine problems of mail and message exchange. The little man continued to follow Quent about, mumbling gloomily. He was also dosing himself with increasing quantities of Leo Lightning whenever he could sneak off the bridge.
“Let Pomeroy tell you, sir,” he grumbled in the night watches, “They’re devils down there. We oughtn’t have any dealings with things like them.
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