Дэймон Найт - Orbit 4

Tatja frowned. “You know, I’ve always wondered why they tilt the studding sails like that.”

Hedrigs grinned broadly and gave her an explanation of Dertham’s pressure theories, complete with an analogy to tacking. Grimm’s eyes showed scarcely concealed admiration. “You know, Svir, that’s the first clear explanation I’ve ever heard of that. You ought to try writing it up. I could use some decent articles.”

Hedrigs’ collar shrank about three sizes.

Then he noticed Ancho. “He’s glazing over,” he said, indicating the animal’s eyes.

Tatja agreed, “So I see. We’d better cut things short. It’s almost suppertime anyway. We’ll just take a short look at the print deck, and leave the typeset and editorial offices for another time.”

They went up another stair and entered a low room filled with whirling gears. Hedrigs wondered if all vessels were this crowded. It destroyed the romantic air he had always associated with sailing. He noticed that Tatja kept a close hold on the dorfox and petted him comfortingly. This was no place for Ancho to run about unprotected.

There were two machines in the room, but only one of them was in operation. At one end of the printer, a yardwide roll of sea-paper unwound. The paper slid between two rotating drums. The upper one was inked and with every swift revolution it pressed at least twelve feet of print on the flowing paper. Beyond this first pair of drums, a second pair did the same for the underside of the sheet. The paper finally moved under a whirling glass flywheel that cut it into neat, yard-square sheets that landed in a small dolly, ready to be taken to the cutting and binding section. The machine was driven by a spinning shaft connected to the windmills on the main deck.

One of the print men looked up angrily and started toward them. Then he recognized Tatja Grimm, and his manner changed. Up close, Hedrigs saw that the ink-stained face belonged to Brailly Tounse. “Day, ma’am,” Tounse shouted over the din. “Anything we can do for you?”

“Well, if you have a couple minutes, could you describe your operation, Brailly?”

Tounse seemed momentarily surprised, but agreed. He took them down the print line and traced the progress of the paper through the machine. “Right now we’re doing almost five thousand impressions an hour—that’s about one hundred thousand pages after cutting. Sometimes we go for months with hardly a breeze, but when we move into the Drag we have to make up for it. I’m pushing these machines at their physical limit right now. If you could get us just twenty ounces of steel, Miss /Grimm, we could make some decent bearings, and run these things as fast as the wind can blow—about twelve thousand impressions an hour.” He looked at Tatja expectantly.

Grimm smiled, and shouted back. “Brailly, I’ll bet there isn’t fifty ounces of steel in the whole Barge.”

Hedrigs was confused. Since when does a Chief Proofreader ask a Science Editor for mechanical help—and for something as ridiculous as steel! Perhaps the fellow was just teasing, though he certainly looked serious enough.

Tounse grimaced, wiped his greasy hand over his bald head, leaving a broad black streak. The man was obviously exhausted. “Well,” he said, “you might as well stick around and see them install a new print board on the other machine.” He indicated the idle printer.

Several crewmen brought in four yard-square sheets of rubbery printboard. The elastic base made it possible for them to stretch the type across the drum and fasten down the edges. The ironwood-sap type-pieces gleamed dully in the light. In a few moments they would be black with ink. When the first four sheets were properly tied down, the workers moved down the line and tacked four more on the underside printer. Then they handfed twenty feet of roll paper through the machine.

Tounse nodded to the man at the clutch. The gearing engaged. Perhaps the fellow released the clutch too fast. Or perhaps the gearing was fatigued. Svir never knew the exact cause, but the machine was transformed into a juggernaut. Gears splintered and paper billowed wildly about him. The first print-drum precessed madly and then flew off its spindle, knocking all three of them against the first machine. The glass blade at the far end of the room shattered and slivers flew about the room. Even though declutched, the machinery took seconds to slow and stop.

Hedrigs picked himself up carefully. Tounse was all right, though he seemed on the verge of breaking down himself—printing machines just weren’t supposed to behave like this! Svir dragged Tatja from beneath the drums. She sat up and looked at him, dazed.

“Svir, are you all—-where’s Ancho!”

The dorfox was gone. Tatja swore in a most unladylike manner. She picked herself up and declutched the first machine. “Tounse! Forget your damn machines. We’ve got to find that animal.” Soon Tounse and his whole work gang were searching the print rooms for Ancho. Hedrigs wondered briefly if the dorfox could be deceiving them all with an I’m-not-here signal. Ancho hadn’t pulled a trick like that in five years. If he had not been killed in the mangle, he was probably scared witless. His panic combined with his general fear of the sea, had probably driven him outside and to some higher deck.

Svir left the others and ran outside. He glanced quickly about and ran up to the next level. Soon he had reached the mast deck. He stopped, gasping for breath. The wind was much stronger here. From the sails and rigging above him came a continuous, singing hum. He was alone except for a single sailor in a short semi-skirt. She was climbing a rope ladder that stretched down from the mainmast. Svir wondered what she was doing—the rigging was adjustable from down in the navigation section. Besides, it was too windy to climb safely. Then he looked up past the girl. Almost forty feet above her, he saw Ancho’s furry form. Hedrigs ran across the deck, toward the mainmast. The dorfox moved awkwardly up the rope. Dorfoxes are, at best, only fair climbers. He was trying to retreat from all the things that frightened him, and going up was the only direction left. Svir debated whether he should follow the sailor, then saw that it would just upset her precarious balance. The wind blew the ladder into a clean catenary form. As the sailor rose higher, she was forced to climb with her back to the ground and the rope above her. Ancho was radiating helpless distress—even down on the deck it made Hedrigs faint with fear. Its effect on the sailor must have been nearly intolerable. For a heart-stopping instant it looked as if she were going to fall. Her feet slipped from the rope and she hung by her hands from the ladder. Then she hooked her leg around the ladder and inched forward. She was no longer climbing. One hundred fifty feet above the deck, the ladder was blown nearly horizontal.

Finally she reached Ancho. She seemed to coax him. The dorfox clutched at her neck, or the top of her shirt. The two came slowly down the long, curving ladder.

The girl collapsed at the base of the mast. Ancho released his tight hold on her and scuttled over to Svir. Hedrigs held the whimpering animal and helped the sailor to her feet. She was a bit taller than average, with black hair cut in short bangs. At the moment her face was very pale. “That was a brave thing you did,” said Svir. Without doubt, she had saved the animal’s life,. “You really know how to handle those ropes.”

The girl laughed weakly. “Not me. I’m an apprentice proofreader.” She spoke in brief, anguished spurts. Her mind knew she was safe now, but her body did not. “That’s the first time I ever climbed them. Oh God! Every time I looked down, I wanted to throw up. Everything looked so far away and hard.”

She sat back down on the deck. She was shaking as much as Ancho. Svir put his hand on her shoulder.