Zach Hughes: Closed System

"Coward," she'd said.

"You bet," he had told her.

She was tired. She admitted that the strain ofbeing in command of half the fleet drained her.She told him she was pleased that he'd be in com­mand during the final training exercise. She was,he thought wryly, willing to give him all the battleglory, so long as she had her throne, her worlds,with him beside her.

He walked her to her apartment, kissed her, justonce, and pushed her inside. Then, back on the Skimmer,he searched among the spare parts andtools stored in the mate's cabin until he found asmall hand-held cutting tool. Time was runningout, and the only plan he'd been able to come up with was a far-fetched, hare-brained one which, ifit succeeded, would have some drastic effects thathe didn't even want to think about. He didn't thinkhe'd have to worry about it working, however,because it depended upon his setting the scene properly and then getting a chance to speak privately with Gorben, and if he was lucky with a fewof the other Dorchlunters.

He didn't know exactly how he'd be able tomanage that, but there was a step which had to becompleted before he'd be in a position to talk withGorben and the others anyhow, and if he gotthrough that one alive he'd worry about the restlater.

TWELVE

Pat set a wake-up alarm for three a.m. He'd thoughthe'd have difficulty falling asleep, but he didn'teven finish his drink before his eyes became heavy,and then the soft bell of the wake-up was in hisears and he was dressing.

The temple doors were never locked. He went inthrough the back door and made his way towardthe interior. The corridors were well lit, but allwas quiet. Within five minutes he stood in frontof the golden door to the priests' inner sanctuary,the most secret of places, the sanctuary of the god whose name was so sacred it could not be spoken,except within the confines of the sanctuary itself.

The door had an old-fashioned lock which re­quired a mechanical key. He used a more modernkey, the small cutter he'd brought from the Skim­ mer,slicing the bolt neatly as he played the cut­ting beam into the small crack between door andjamb.

The priests had done all right for themselves.The sanctuary was a storehouse of treasures, of artand gold and incongruous mechanical items fromthe old colony ship. What he was looking for stoodon a dais at the far end of the room.

There must have been, he thought, some pretty good artists aboard that old ship, for the statues inthe main entry to the temple were realistic andvery well done, and the statue of the god whosename couldn't be spoken aloud was still morerealistic.

He stood there as if alive, in the gaudy uniformof a Zede admiral of the fleet. His name was en­graved in stone on the pedestal on which he stood,Admiral Torga Bluntz.

Luck was with Pat. There were no priests in thesanctuary, no warning sensors. Strict, theocrati­cally applied discipline had, for a thousand years,made good citizens of the Dorchlunters. There wasno need to set guards, except for ceremony, asguards were used in front of the temple. His luckcontinued as he climbed onto the dais. The statueof the fleet admiral was life-size, and was within ahalf inch of Pat's height. Torga Bluntz had been aman of personal discipline, too, for, although hisface, painted in lifelike color, showed the wrinklesof age, he had kept himself in condition.

The uniform in which the statue was dressedhad, evidently, been renewed in the recent past.Although the material was the homespun of Dorch­lunt, the insignia were of ancient metal. Thecoat and high-necked shirt came off the statueeasily. The trousers were another matter. The statuewas carved from native stone. There was no wayto slip the trousers off the statue's feet. However, abit of study showed Pat how the trousers had beenput on. The back seams of the legs and pants of thetrousers were basted loosely together. Pat took hisfingernail trimmer and cut the threads, and then,the uniform folded neatly, made his way back tothe Skimmer.

A bachelor is forced to develop some odd skills.Pat could handle an automatic hand-held stitcher.The seams may not have been exactly straightwhen he finished, but the trousers were in onepiece, the legs sewn into tubes, and the flat of the seat closed, and they fit him fairly well. The high-necked shirt was a bit tight, but the coat fit com­fortably. The ornate gold-braided cap fit after he put some folds of cloth at the back to make it a bitsmaller. He examined himself in the mirror in hiscabin and was satisfied.

He locked the uniform in his personal locker andwent to sleep. The final parade of the gunners was scheduled for midday. He wouldn't have any op­portunity to talk to Gorben, or any of the Dorchlunter gunners, until after the dress review. Hedidn't know exactly how he'd accomplish it after the review, other than by going into the villages toseek Gorben out. He'd have to find an excuse forthat, without arousing Corinne's suspicions. He hoped that she'd be busy with whatever last-minutepreparations a woman makes before going out to conquer a galaxy.

He was awakened by the ship's communicator.It sent a persistent melodic summons which, thetimer told him, had been sounding for almost halfa minute. He'd have to be a bit more alert thanthat if he ever got back into space.

The Brenden was on. "I thought maybe I'd calledthe wrong place," Brenden said with a chuckle. "Iwas just going to call Cory's apartment."

"I was sleeping in," Pat said.

"Pat, have Cory find you a uniform. You two aregoing to have to review the troops today. I justhad a ship come in from home, and there are somedetails I have to handle. I should be finished byearly evening. We'll all get together for a celebra­tion before the big day."

He was gone. When he was dealing with busi­ness, the Brenden could be curt.

Pat thought about that. It was good that Brendenwasn't going to be planetside. Now all he'd haveto do was sneak away from Corinne.

The review would begin in two hours. Pat had aquick snack for breakfast, then went into the tem­ple. The priests were going about their duties, what­ever they were, calmly. Apparently they had not discovered that the lock on the door of the admi­ral's sanctuary had been cut open and then fused back together.

He was near the corridor which led to the prac­tice range for gunners. He wondered if any of themwere there. Probably not, but he went through theworking area, where priests were still trying to dowonders like make a thorn vine bear potatoes. Thepractice range was dark and inactive. On the wayback through the work area he saw a priest pack­aging the tablets he recognized as the food supple­ments and preventive medicine given to the Dorch­lunters. He paused to watch a moment.

"Good morning, sir," the priest said. He was oneof the oldest Dorchlunters Pat had seen, perhapsover fifty.

"How's it going?" Pat asked.

"Well, well. The young men must have their prayer tablets when they soar away to glory."

"And is it your job to dispense the prayertablets?"

"I have the honor to be the temple healer," thepriest said.

A sneaky idea came to Pat. That the idea wasnot original to him made for a certain sense ofjustice.

"Healer," he said, "you are fortunately met." The Old Earth language made for a formality of phrase. "As

it happens, I have difficulty sleeping. Perhapsyou have something to help?"

"My pleasure, sir," the healer said. He walked toa cabinet and came back with a small box. "Thereis a measuring spoon inside, sir. For a man ofyour size and weight, I recommend one scoop. Ifthat is not

enough, try two, and by no meansshould you ever ingest more than five scoops inone night."

"Is the powder quick-acting?"

"Very quick-acting sir." He chuckled. "It mightbe best if you are prepared for bed before you takethe