Walter Miller - Dark Benediction

“What can he do? What can—migawd, Joe!” Suds choked.

“Well?”

“He can get that ship out of here, he can have those women interned.”

“How? Suppose they refuse to budge. Who appointed Parkeson king of creation? Hell, he’s only our boss, Suds. The moon’s open to any nation that wants to send a ship, or to any corporation that can get a clearance. The W.P. decided that a long time ago.”

“But it’s illegal—those women, I mean!”

“How do you know? Maybe their racket’s legal in Algiers. That’s where you told me they had clearance from, didn’t you? And if you’re thinking about the Schneider-Volkov Act, it just applies to the Integrated Projects, not wildcat teams.”

Brodanovitch sat silent for a few moments, his throat working. He passed a shaky hand over his eyes. “Joe, we’ve got to keep discipline. Why can’t I ever make the men understand that? On a moon project, it’s discipline or die. You know that, Joe.”

“Sure I know it. You know it. Parkeson knows it. The First Minister of the Space Ministry knows it. But the men don’t know it, and they never will. They don’t know what the word ‘discipline’ means, and it’s no good trying to tell them. It’s an overseer’s word. It means your outfit’s working for you like your own arms and legs. One brain and one body. When it cracks, you’ve just got a loose handful of stray men. No coordination. You can see it, but they can’t see it. ‘Discipline’ is just a dirty word in the ranks, Suds.”

“Joe, what’ll I do?”

“It’s your baby, not mine. Give it first aid. Then talk to Parkeson later, if you want to.”

Suds sat silent for half a minute, then: “Drive back to the main wagon.”

Novotny started the motors. “What are you going to do?”

“Announce Code Red, place the ship off limits, put an armed guard on it, and hope the Crater City crew gets that telephone circuit patched up quick. That’s all I can do.”

“Then let me get a safe distance away from you before you do it.”

“You think it’ll cause trouble?”

“Good Lord, Suds, use your head. You’ve got a campful of men who haven’t been close to a dame in months and years, even to talk to. They’re sick, they’re scared, they’re fed-up, they want to go home. The Party’s got them bitter, agitated. I’d hate to be the guy who puts those women off limits.”

“What would you do?”

“I’d put the screws on the shift that’s on duty. I’d work hell out of the crews that are supposed to be on the job. I’d make a horrible example out of the first man to goof off. But first I’d tell the off-duty team-pushers they can take their crews over to that ship, one crew at a time, and in an orderly manner.”

“What? And be an accomplice? Hell, no!”

“Then do it your own way. Don’t ask me.”

Novotny parked the runabout next to the boss-wagon. “Mind if I use your buggy for awhile, Suds?” he asked. “I left mine back there, and I’ve got to pick up my men.”

“Go ahead, but get them back here—fast.”

“Sure, Suds.”

He backed the runabout out again and drove down to B-shift’s sleep-wagon. He parked again and used the air-lock phone. “Beasley, Benet, the rest of you—come on outside.”

Five minutes later they trooped out through the lock. “What’s the score, Joe?”

“The red belts are ahead, that’s all I know.”

“Come on, you’ll find out.”

“Sleep! I haven’t had no sleep since— Say! You takin’ us over to that ship, Joe?”

“That’s the idea.”

“YAYHOO!” Beasley danced up and down. “Joe, we love ya!”

“Cut it. This is once-and-once-only. You’re going once, and you’re not going again.”

“Who says?”

“Novotny says.”

“But why?” Benet wailed.

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘why!’”

“OK. I’ll tell you why. Brodanovitch is going to put the ship off limits. If I get you guys in under the wire, you’ve got no gripe later on—when Suds hangs out the big No.”

“Joe, that’s chicken.”

Novotny put on the brakes. “Get out and walk back, Benet.”

“Joe—!”

“Benet!”

“Look, I didn’t mean anything—”

Novotny paused. If Brodanovitch was going to try to do things the hard way, he’d lose control of his own men unless he gave them loose rein for a while first—keeping them reminded that he still had the reins. But Benet was getting out of hand lately. He had to decide. Now.

“Look at me, Benet.”

Benet looked up. Joe smacked him. Benet sat back, looking surprised. He wiped his nose on the back of a glove and looked at the red smear. He wiped it again. The smear was bigger.

“You can stay, Benet, but if you do, I’ll bust your hump after we get back. You want it that way?”

Benet looked at the rocket; he looked at Joe; he looked at the rocket. “Yeah. We’ll see who does the busting. Let’s go.”

“All right, but do you see any other guys taking their teams over?”

“No.”

“But you think you’re getting a chicken deal.”

“Yeah.”

The pusher drove on, humming to himself. As long as he could keep them alternately loving him and hating him, everything was secure. Then he was Mother. Then they didn’t stop to think or rationalize. They just reacted to Mother. It was easy to handle men reacting, but it wasn’t so easy to handle men thinking. Novotny liked it the easy way, especially during a heavy meteor fall.

“It is of no importance to me,” said Madame d’Annecy, “if you are the commandant of the whole of space, M’sieur. You wish entrance, I must ask you to contribute thees small fee. It is not in my nature to become unpleasant like thees, but you have bawl in my face, M’sieur.”

“Look,” said Brodanovitch, “I didn’t come over here for… for what you think I came over here for.” His ears reddened. “I don’t want a girl, that is.”

The madame’s prim mouth made a small pink O of sudden understanding. “Ah, M’sieur, I begin to see. You are one of those. But in that I cannot help you. I have only girls.”

The engineer choked. He started toward the hatch. A man with a gun slid into his path.

“Permit yourself to be restrained, M’sieur.”

“There are four men in there that are supposed to be on the job, and I intend to get them. And the others too, while I’m at it.”

“Is it that you have lost your boy friend, perhaps?”

Brodanovitch croaked incomprehensibly for a moment, then collapsed onto a seat beside the radar table that Madame d’Annecy was using for an accounting desk. “I’m no fairy,” he said.

“I am pleased to hear it, M’sieur. I was beginning to pity you. Now if you will please sign the sight draft, so that we may telecast it—”

“I am not paying twelve hundred dollars just to get my men out of there!”

“I do not haggle, M’sieur. The price is fixed.”

“Call them down here!”

“It cannot be done. They pay for two hours, for two hours they stay. Undisturbed.”

“All right, let’s see the draft.”

Madame d’Annecy produced a set of forms from the map case and a small gold fountain pen from her ample bosom. “Your next of kin, M’sieur?” She handed him a blank draft.

“Wait a minute! How did you know where my ac-count—”

“Is it not the correct firm?”

“Yes, but how did you know?” He looked at the serial number on the form, then looked up accusingly. “This is a telecopy form. You have a teletransmitter on board?”

“But of course! We could not risk having payment stopped after services rendered. The funds will be transferred to our account before you leave this ship. I assure you, we are well protected.”