Fiction Complete, page 14
Bill gaped carpwise for a few seconds longer before he got a couple of words out.
“Excuse me, sir, but . . . what did I do?”
“What. Did. You. DO?” Willoughby took a deep breath and held it in an effort to calm himself. “The status of our mission is extremely delicate, as even you must be aware. The natives have shown great reluctance to cooperate with us. Proper diplomatic motions have not yet been established, and we are obliged to proceed with the utmost discretion until such time as Dr. Elphinstone and World Coordinator Zletz shall have been able to come to an arrangement and we can carry out our function in a more normal manner. It should hardly be necessary to point out to you that under these circumstances we must take the greatest pains to avoid antagonizing the natives. Yet you ask me what you did. You went outside and put both your big, flat, Thygnan feet in it—that’s what you did. Fortunately for you and for the rest of us, Dr. Elphinstone succeeded in conciliating Coordinator Zletz, and the Government of Irdra has been prevailed upon to file no complaint or formal charges against you. Matters have been so arranged that the whole disastrous affair need have no diplomatic repercussions. You are probably too stupid to appreciate that only the fact that we have no official recognized relations with the Irdrans makes this possible.”
“I blacked out,” Bill mused, more to himself than to Willoughby. “Could it be something I did while I was unconscious? I can’t remember anything out of the way.”
“You did a great many things which I consider out of the way,” Willoughby said acidly, “but I’m not going to go into the disgusting manner in which you behaved yourself except to say that your conduct reflects very seriously on the dignity of this mission and cannot help but lower the esteem in which we are held by the Irdrans. After seeing you in such revolting action, what kind of opinion can they have of the rest of us? You got drunk! You were loopy-dancing! You started a fight and got thrown out of a bar like a common herodlum!”
“Is that all?” Bill asked, relieved. “I thought maybe I’d murdered somebody.”
Willoughby purpled, his eyes bulged, he swelled like the frog in the fable until it seemed he must surely burst.
“GET OUT!” he screamed, his voice rising two octaves higher with rage. “Get out, get out, get out! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”
He charged around the desk. Bill zipped out the door, slammed it behind him, whizzed through the halls, flew into his room, and locked the door.
X
He pressed his ear against the panel, listening for the enraged Administrator’s hoofbeats; but all was silence. If Willoughby had attempted pursuit, he must have given up early, recognizing that capture was impossible. Bill threw himself down on the bed and waited for the turmoil within him to subside. As his heart stopped pounding and he ceased gulping for air, it crept upon him that his terminal remark had been somewhat thoughtless, the kind of dumb remark one can neither apologize for nor explain. It was true that from his point of view, the catalogue of his misdeeds contained nothing particularly serious; but years of experience ought to have taught him that his point of view was not that of Authority. From Authority’s angle, he was unquestionably irresponsible and immature. . . . Could it be that Authority was right?
This possibility had not occurred to him. It shook him, and he considered it.
As a representative of the Galactic Union, he was forced to admit that his behavior had been undignified, disgraceful, and all the unpleasant things Willoughby said it was. But he hadn’t been out there as a representative of the Galactic Union, and the zaps hadn’t acted as if they considered him one. The zaps had accepted him as simply Bill Judson, out to see the sights. If you considered what had happened in Copta’s as a normal event and not from Willoughby’s point of view—he chuckled, recalling the party. He hadn’t had so much fun since his first year in quaternary.
And having a rousing good time was all he could fairly be accused of! He sprang up, overcome by indignation. Willoughby was a pompous ass, a bony old sheep with a brain stuffed so full of nitpicking regulations that, if you hit him over the head, red tape would squirt out of his ears. The zaps had not been mad at him, they had not disapproved or thought he was getting out of line, they’d been having a zorchy time right along with him. He’d have known it if they hadn’t, no matter how crocked he was. He was sensitive to atmospheres.
. . . But suppose Willoughby was right? Suppose the zaps actually had interpreted his behavior as the mission Chief claimed they did? Their president or whatever he was, Coordinator Zletz, had reported his actions to Elphinstone. That might not have been mere friendly gossip. Maybe the zaps he had encountered were irresponsible types like himself, and the sober citizens of Irdra were as shocked and disgusted by his conduct as Willoughby. Maybe it wasn’t merely a matter of Peerless Leader having it in for him.
His outlook on life became morose in the ensuing days as he was tossed from horn to horn of this dilemma. He took to slinking into the public rooms at off hours when he wasn’t likely to meet anyone, or moping in his room with the “Do Not Disturb” light on.
Not that anyone was likely to disturb him. Judson seemed to have become anathema. SciCom people he tried to approach for a little friendly social intercourse shied away from him as if he had psychic halitosis, apparently under the impression that he had permanently queered their chances of establishing contact with the natives. AdminComs, never his favorite types to begin with, were under Willoughby’s immediate jurisdiction and, of course, considered him a moral leper. To the mechs, he was SciCom, automatically a narrow-chested, stoop-shouldered, myopic esthete, and on top of that a mere inexperienced child; certainly not a man among hairy-chested, virile, roistering men.
That left Jerry Misner, who followed a rugged schedule of being out with his creeper crews all the Irdran day and plowed under with hypnophane all the Irdran night; and, oddly enough, Lucas D. Elphinstone, D. Juris., etc. Fat Elphinstone, balancing through the corridors like an elephant in toe slippers, seemed always to have a shiny smile and a pat on the head for the transgressor. He would toss off a few banalities, looking at Bill with the expression the witch must have worn while pinching Hansel’s arm to assess his edibility, then teeter off with, “Drop in for a chat when you get bored,” or some similar remark. Bill did not expect ever to get that bored.
Elphinstone, however, had ideas of his own, which, inexplicably, involved William Nagy Judson. When it became obvious that the youth would never seek him out, he barged into Bill’s room one fine day, ignoring the “Do Not Disturb” sign and not waiting for an answer to his knock.
Bill was not pleased to see him.
“Well, now, young man!” Elphinstone boomed, offensively jovial. “Seems to me you’ve been sulking about the place quite long enough, haven’t you? Getting bored?”
“Not really,” Bill muttered.
“You shouldn’t take “Peerless Leader” so much to heart. He was pretty hard on you, but he’s getting over it. You don’t have to hide out like this, you know. You should get out, talk to people, find something to do.”
“Uh,” Bill replied. It was the most cordial remark he could muster.
“Oh, come now! Cheer up! None of this has gone on the record. The incident can be forgotten. You were very fortunate, you know. Coordinator Zletz wasn’t aware that he was in a position to file a formal complaint with the mission and have charges brought against you.”
“And you told him?” Bill sat up, aghast.
“Of course. My job isn’t only to learn the zaps’ legal procedures; it’s to teach them what they should know about ours.”
“You told him he could bring charges, and then you talked him out of doing it?”
“It wasn’t too difficult,” the Elf disclaimed modestly. “He was quite willing to regard your acts as mere boyish high spirits. Such conduct apparently isn’t too unusual in the—ah—sort of dive you were in.”
“And after he agreed to forget it, you told Willoughby about it. What for? Were you trying to get me in trouble on purpose?”
“Me get you in trouble? What do you mean? The facts are as they are, and it was my duty to report them to the head of the mission. Now that you are in trouble, I’m the one who can get you out of it. If you’re willing to cooperate, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll take you on as my assistant. Then, if there’s some project you’d like to work on, some little investigation you want to undertake on your own, I can see to it that facilities and equipment are made available to you. You should keep busy. Languishing in your all-purpose like this is unhealthy.”
“But this incident is already on the record,” Bill objected. “Willoughby said he was going to use it to get me transferred out of here.”
“Don’t worry; it’s not in your file—yet,” Elphinstone said airily. “I’ve persuaded him to let the matter drop and keep it off the record if you go to work for me.”
“That’s kind of you,” Bill said, wondering why the offer had aroused his suspicions, “but political science is a field I’ve never had much interest in. If Willoughby gets over his mad, maybe I can find something I’d like better.”
This answer was not well received by the Elf. In the depths of his beady black eyes a spark snapped and was quickly, consciously extinguished. His face jelled into an expressionless mask more sinister than an openly hostile or threatening look, and the mechanical smile he produced showed his teeth in a semi-snarl.
“If you’re a prog,” he said with poisonous sweetness, “you’re still only a tadpole. AMPAC should have waited a while before sending you out on assignment. Irdra may be only a Class C project, but we’re not all stupid. As for what Administrator Willoughby will do about you—you may have heard rumors that I run this station. Believe them. I won’t assume yet that you’ve turned my offer down. As I see it, you’re boxed. When you’ve had time to think it over, I’m sure you’ll change your mind. Let me know when you’re ready to cooperate. Until then—happy ratiocination!”
He flipped a derisive salute, and left.
XI
This conversation left Bill with an uneasy sense of wheels within wheels. Was he boxed? Why would Elphinstone go to such pains to box him, as he seemed to have done? He badly wanted to discuss this with someone older and wiser, and was lucky enough to reach Jerry Misner before he left for the construction site. He went to the lounge to meet the engineer and slouched into a lounger in the corner, effectively concealed from the handful of people who entered shortly after. Noticing Elphinstone among them, he made no effort to draw attention to himself even when they sat down in the group of chairs immediately behind him. He had no qualms about eavesdropping, and was rewarded as eavesdroppers often are: Fie heard no good of himself.
“Haven’t seen the infant prodigy around lately,” someone remarked. “Has he been transferred off, or is Willoughby keeping him in irons?”
“He’s taken to avoiding people, thank heaven. He is excessively callow. . . . Why hasn’t he been transferred, anyway? What reason could there possibly be for keeping him here?”
“AMPAC hath its reasons, which reason knoweth not,” someone said sententiously. “Machines don’t make mistakes. Maybe he’s for laughs. God knows we could use a few.”
“He was assigned to Irdra by a Sentient Component.” (Bill recognized Elphinstone’s voice.) “I’ve heard some pretty weird stories about canned brains, but I don’t think he was sent here as a joke. He may be more than we think.”
“How could he be? His whole life history is on his data sheet. Irma’s seen it. Willoughby even crosschecked it with Galaxy Center, and it’s all correct. Even if a SeCo wanted to transmit false information, how could it? Would AMPAC permit it?”
“AMPAC is the most highly sophisticated machine any intelligence we know of has ever constructed,” Elphinstone replied, “but it’s only a machine, and it can be fooled. Maybe it doesn’t transmit statements contrary to fact—though I don’t know why it shouldn’t—but why couldn’t it edit and select the facts it transmits if instructed to do so? How can we be sure that his data sheet contains all there is to know about him? How do we know that his ostensible purpose here, which is ridiculous on the face of it, is the only one he has? Think about it: a quaternary education, no more than an ordinary mech; no special training in any field; no LA; ATX clearance; and he’s shipped to a world where primary investigation is being done, and—let’s not evade the fact, gentlemen—not very well done. Now, what would you imagine he was here for?”
“You mean he’s a spy? AMPAC is snooping on us?”
“I don’t mean anything.” Bill heard the chair creak as Elphinstone pushed himself up out of it. “All I know is, I’m keeping as close a watch on him as I can, and I’d advise the rest of you to do the same. He’s supposed to make reports the same as all of us; but his go direct to Thyg-F-3.”
When the poliscientist had left, there was a thoughtful silence for a moment, then somebody said, “Knowing our esteemed colleague, he’s probably got his own ax to grind, but all the same, when you think about it. . . . Maybe we’d better spread the word. We’ve got our records to think of, and getting busted off a Class C world—man, that last step down is a lulu!”
They hurried out, and Bill had a few minutes to brood on the Elf’s duplicity before Misner arrived.
“Are you willing to associate with me, or haven’t you been warned yet?” Bill greeted him sourly.
“Warned? About what?”
“You mean you haven’t been tipped off to beware of Bill Judson, Boy Spy and Apprentice Pariah?”
“Have you gone para? What’s this all about?”
Bill told him.
“Spy, eh? Well, so what? It’s no skin off my nose—Hey! Who are you spying for?”
“I’m not spying!”
“I’m not responsible to Willoughby, remember that.” Misner seemed surprisingly hot under the collar. “He has no control over what I do, and neither has SciCom. I’m with the Bureau of Construction. My orders are to get the job done, and I’m required to use native labor whenever and wherever possible, even if I have to buy slaves. You can’t get me in real trouble, but Willoughby could make it rough for me if he felt like it, and he would. It’s the kind of thing Peerless Leader uses to justify his existence. I don’t have time to waste combing him out of my hair, so if any little scraps of information about me get to him through you, I’ll pound you around a little before I start on him. Is that clear?”
“You’ve got a guilty secret?” Bill was round-eyed. “I thought you were, like the all-purpose good guy. Are your creeper crews really slaves?”
“Don’t be stupid. Of course not. Slavery is as alien to zaps as anything could possibly be.”
“What, then? . . . Okay, don’t talk. I’ll take a few guesses. Let’s see: Nobody could get the zaps to work before you came, but they do work for you, so it must be connected with that. Not higher wages . . . they’re not slaves . . . you’re not using force. . . . Are you bribing them with something? Ha! Got it! I saw your face change. You might as well confess. If I snoop around and find out on my own, you can’t make me promise not to tell.”
“You’d better promise not to tell, or I’ll nail your hide to the wall,” Misner warned. “Though it’s nothing so bad, really. It’s just that we can’t pay them to work for us, they won’t take our money. By their standards GS credits are worthless—so I pay ’em off in chocolate.”
“Chocolate? But how can you keep that a secret? You must have to order mountains of it. Doesn’t anybody wonder?”
“There’s a small mountain of it in Storage—it’s part of the Space Emergency Supplies—and I only give them small pieces. It’s the only thing I found that they wanted enough to work for. I don’t know how it affects their metabolism, though, and that’s where I could get in trouble: letting them have it without proper testing to make sure it isn’t harmful to them; but they won’t let the Bio boys touch them, and even if they did, you can guess how long it would be before a clearance came through, assuming it was all right.”
“You mean you don’t know whether it’s good for them or not, and you give it to them just the same?” Bill was shocked.
“The amount they get doesn’t do them any harm. They get a little high on it, that’s all. I guess if I gave them as much as the wages they’re supposed to be getting are worth, it could kill off half the planet. Why are you looking at me like that? I’m not poisoning them! Think about alcohol. Put away enough of it fast enough, you’ll go into a coma and die. Well? You giving up beer?”
“But doesn’t anybody notice your creepers aren’t getting paid? Your pay vouchers have to go through Admin, and you get money for them, don’t you?”
“Right. I’m keeping the cash in my quarters for the time being. . . . Oh, come on! What else can I do with it? It’s not going out of style, and if the zaps ever find something they want to use it for, we have all the records of how much has been “paid” to whom. You couldn’t seriously have thought I was keeping it for my very own. You know how much I make a year for doing jobs nobody else can get done? I won’t tell you, because you won’t believe it, but I will tell you that Willoughby’s annual salary would barely pay my taxes. And I’ve got a good accountant.”
