James White: The Escape Orbit

“… Wondering why a Fleet Commander was out looking for you,” Peters was saying in a quiet, urgent voice, “and our siding with him was partly due to your feeling of sympathy for the underdog. But Lieutenant Kelso is not an underdog. He leads the Committee just as surely as I lead the so-called Civilians. Six years on the Inner Committee have given him lots of practice in giving orders which sound like polite questions, and similar forms of verbal sleight-of-hand. He uses his superior officers and he’ll use you…”

Across the room Kelso had ended his conversation with a Committeeman and was pushing his way back through the crowd towards Warren. Peters went on quickly, “The Committee is in bad shape. It has been steadily losing officers to me for years—its highest ranking officers, which should prove something if you’ll stop and think about it. Kelso desperately needs a big stick to wave at me. All he had is a few Flight-Colonels and a Flotilla-Leader long past retirement, and none of them have the rank or temperament to oppose me directly. I’ve eaten Colonels before breakfast and—”

Irritated suddenly, Warren said sharply, “When I’ve heard the Lieutenant’s version I’ll listen to yours. Without interruptions and for as long as you like. That’s a promise.”

The Fleet Commander seemed to droop, and Warren realized that, despite his powerful physique and hair that was more lack than gray, Peters was close to retirement age. His voice sounded hurt rather than angry as he said, “I expect a certain amount of impertinence and insubordination from Committeemen, but new arrivals usually show me the respect of my rank…”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake! I didn’t mean to sound … Yes, Lieutenant?”

“As I was saying, sir,” said Kelso, rejoining them, “we would like to list the names, ranks, and ships of origin of your people. Beginning with yourself, sir.”

“They all came from my ship,” began Warren, then stopped.

“Please go on, Captain,” said Kelso. It was plain that he had already calculated the size of Warren’s ship, based on the number of survivors added to the much higher figure of those who had not survived, and the result impressed him. Doubtless he had already calculated the rank of such a ship’s commanding officer.

“I wasn’t the Captain,” Warren went on, and saw Kelso look slightly less impressed. But the Lieutenant was still jumping to the wrong conclusions, he thought as he turned to face Peters. Almost apologetically he said, “The ship was the battlecruiser Victorious . My flagship. I am Sector Marshal Warren…”

He had done his best to soften the blow, but Peters’ expression simply proved to him once again that there was no painless way of telling a man that he is no longer the Boss. Warren turned back to the Lieutenant.

Kelso no longer gave the impression of being an intelligent, efficient, eager young officer. His mouth had gone slack and his eyes had an odd, unfocused look as if he were contemplating some glorious inner vision.

Perhaps it was the vision of a big stick.

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.”