“Shaddap, I said.”
Fats shut up. I never did find out what had happened, because Fats seldom gave the same explanation twice. The older man never spoke except for that tiresome order to shut up, or in monosyllables even less helpful. But one thing was clear: they had lost their jobs as assistant gangsters, or fifth columnists, or whatever you call a human being who would stooge against his own race. Once Fats said, “Matter of fact, it’s your fault.”
“Mine?” I dropped my hand to my tin-can knife.
“Yours. If you hadn’t butted in, he wouldn’t have got sore.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Says you. You swiped his two best prizes, that’s all, and held him up when he planned to high-tail it back here.” “Oh. But that wasn’t your fault.”
“So I told him. You try telling him. Take your hand away from that silly nail file.” Fats shrugged. “Like I always say, let bygones be bygones.”
I finally learned the thing I wanted most to know. About the fifth time I brought up the matter of Peewee, Fats said, “What d’you want to know about the brat for?”
“I just want to know whether she’s alive or dead.”
“Oh, she’s alive. Leastwise she was last time I seen her.”
“When was that?”
“You ask too many questions. Right here.”
“She’s here?” I said eagerly.
“That’s what I said, wasn’t it? Around everywhere and always underfoot. Living like a princess, if you ask me.” Fats picked his teeth and frowned. “Why he should make a pet out of her and treat us the way he did, beats me. It ain’t right.”
I didn’t think so, either, but for another reason. The idea that gallant little Peewee was the spoiled darling of Wormface I found impossible to believe. There was some explanation-or Fats was lying. “You mean he doesn’t have her locked up?”
“What’s it get him? Where’s she gonna go?”
I pondered that myself. Where could you go?-when to step outdoors was suicide. Even if Peewee had her space suit (and that, at least, was probably locked up), even if a ship was at hand and empty when she got outside, even if she could get into it, she still wouldn’t have a “ship’s brain,” the little gadget that served as a lock. “What happened to the Mother Thing?”
“The what?”
“The-” I hesitated. “Uh, the non-human who was in my space suit with me. You must know, you were there. Is she alive? Is she here?”
But Fats was brooding. “Them bugs don’t interest me none,” he said sourly and I could get no more out of him.
But Peewee was alive (and a hard lump in me was suddenly gone). She was here! Her chances, even as a prisoner, had been enormously better on the Moon; nevertheless I felt almost ecstatic to know that she was near. I began thinking about ways to get a message to her.
As for Fats’ insinuation that she was playing footy with Wormface, it bothered me not at all. Peewee was unpredictable and sometimes a brat and often exasperating, as well as conceited, supercilious, and downright childish. But she would be burned alive rather than turn traitor. Joan of Arc had not been made of sterner stuff.
We three kept uneasy truce. I avoided them, slept with one eye open, and tried not to sleep unless they were asleep first, and I always kept my dagger at hand. I did not bathe after they joined me; it would have put me at a disadvantage. The older one ignored me, Fats was almost friendly. I pretended not to be afraid of my puny weapon, but I think he was. The reason I think so comes from the first time we were fed. Three cans dropped from the ceiling; Skinny picked up one, Fats got one, but when I circled around to take the third, Fats snatched it.
I said, “Give me that, please.”
Fats grinned. “What makes you think this is for you, sonny boy?”
“Uh, three cans, three people.”
“So what? I’m feeling a mite hungry. I don’t hardly think I can spare it.”
“I’m hungry, too. Be reasonable.”
“Mmmm-” He seemed to consider it. “Tell you what. I’ll sell it to you.”