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7: The Blaster Acquires a Crew
Cloud, returning to his cruiser, found that most of his shipwrecked passengers had departed. Five of them, however—the two Chickladorians, the Manarkan, the squatty, and the Vegian —were still on board. Thlaskin, now back to normal, came to attention and saluted crisply; the women bowed or nodded and looked at him with varying degrees of interrogation.
‘How come, Thlaskin? I thought all the passengers were going back with the task-force.”
‘They are, boss. They’ve gone. We followed your orders, boss—chivied ’em off. I checked with the flagship about more crew besides us, and he says QX. Just tell me how many you want of what, and I’ll get ’em.’
‘I don’t want anybody!’ Cloud snapped. ‘Not even you. Not any of you.’
‘Jet back, boss!’ Spaceal was a simple language, and inherently slangy and profane, but there was no doubt as to the intensity of the pilot’s feelings. ‘I don’t know why you were running this heap alone, or how long, but I got a couple questions to ask. Do you know just how many million ways these goddam automatics can go haywire in? Do you know what to do about half of ’em when they do? Or are you just simply completely nuts?’
‘No. Not too much. I don’t think so.’ As he answered the three questions in order Cloud’s mind flashed back to what Phil Strong and several other men had tried so heatedly to impress upon him—the stupidity, the lunacy, the sheer, stark idiocy of a man of his training trying to go it solo in deep space. How did one say ‘You have a point there, but before I make such a momentous decision we should explore the various possibilities of what is a completely unexpected development’ in spaceal? One didn’t! Instead:
‘Maybe QX, maybe not. We’ll talk it over. Tell the Manarkan to try to work me direct—maybe I can receive her now, after working the boneheads.’
She could. Communication was not, perhaps, as clear as between two Manarkans or two Lensmen, but it was clear enough.
‘You wish to know why I have included myself in your crew,’
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the white-swathed girl began, as soon as communication was established. ‘It is the law. This vessel, the Vortex Blaster I, of Earth registry, belonging to the Galactic Patrol, is of a tonnage which obligates it to carry a medical doctor; or, in and for the duration of an emergency only, a registered graduate nurse. I am both R.N. and M.D. If you prefer to employ some other nursing doctor or doctor and nurse that is of course your right; but I can not and will not leave this ship until I am replaced by competent personnel. If I did such a thing I would be disgraced for life.’
‘But I haven’t got a payroll—I never have had one!’ Cloud protested.
‘Don’t quibble, please. It is also the law that any master or acting master of any ship of this tonnage is authorized to employ for his owner—in this case the Galactic Patrol—whatever personnel is necessary, whenever necessary, at his discretion. With or without pay, however, I stay on until replaced.’ ‘But I don’t need a doctor—or a nurse, either!’ ‘Personally, now, no,’ she conceded, equably enough. ‘I checked into that. As the chief of your great laboratory quoted to you, “This too, shall pass.” It is passing. But you must have a crew; and any member of it, or you yourself, may require medical or surgical attention at any time. The only question, then, is whether or not you wish to replace me. Would you like to examine my credentials?’
‘No. Having been en rapport with your mind, it is not necessary. But are you, after your position aboard the ship which was lost, interested in such a small job as this?’ ‘I would like it very much, I’m sure.’
‘Very well. If any of them stay, you can—at the same pay you were getting.’
‘Now, Thlaskin, the Vegian. No, hold it! We’ve got to have something better than spaceal, and a lot of Vegians go in for languages in a big way. She may know English or Spanish, since Vegia is one of Tellus’ next-door neighbors. I’ll try her myself.’
Then, to the girl, ‘Do you speak English, miss?’ ‘No, eggzept in glimzzez only,’ came the startling reply. ‘Two Galactic Zdandard yearzz be pazz—come? Go?—’ere I mazzter zhe, zo perverze mood and tenze. Zhe izz zo difficult and abzdruze.’
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Switching to Galactic Spanish, which language was threatening to become the common tongue of Galactic Civilization, she went on:
‘But I heard you say “Zbanidge.” I know Galactic Spanish very well. I speak it well, too, except for the sounds of “ezz” and “zeta,” which all we Vegians must make too hard—z-z-z, zo. One hears that nearly all educated Tellurians have the Spanish, and you are educated, of a certainty. You speak it, no?’
‘Practically as well as I do English.’ Cloud made relieved reply. ‘You have very little accent, and that little is charming. My name is Neal Cloud. May I ask yours?’
‘Neelcloud? I greet you. Mine is Vezzptkn … but no, you couldn’t pronounce it. “Vezzta,” it would have to be in your tongue.’
‘QX. We have a name very close to that—Vesta.’
‘That’s exactly what I said—Vezz-ta.’
‘Oh—excuse me, please. You were talking to this lady— Tomingan, she said? What language were you using?’
‘Fourth-continent Tomingan, Middle Plateau dialect. Hers. She was an engineer in a big power plant on Manarka, is how she came to learn their sign language. Tomingans don’t go in for linguistics much.’
‘And you very evidently do. How many languages do you know, young lady?’
‘Only fifty so far—plus their dialects, of course. I’m only halfway to my Master of Languages degree. Fifty more to learn yet, including your cursed Englidge. P-f-z-t-k.’ Vesta wrinkled her nose, bared her teeth, and emitted a noise very similar to that made by an alley cat upon meeting a strange dog. ‘I don’t know whether spaceal will count for credit or not, but I’m going to learn it anyway.’
‘Nice going, Vesta. Now, why did you appoint yourself a member of this party?’
‘I wanted to go, and since I can’t pay fare …’
‘You wouldn’t have had to!’ Cloud interrupted. ‘If you lost your money aboard that ship, the Patrol would take you anywhere …’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that? She dipped into her belt-bag and held out for the man’s inspection a book of Travelers’ Cheques good for fifty thousand G-P credits! ‘I wanted to continue with you, and I knew this wasn’t a passenger ship. I can be useful—
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who do you think lined up that translation relay?—and besides, I can work. I can cook—keep house—and I can learn any other job fast. You believe me?’
Cloud looked at her. She was as tall as he was, and heavier; stronger and faster. ‘Yes, you can work, if you want to, and I think you would. But you haven’t said why you want to go along.’
‘Mostly because it’s the best chance I’ll ever have to learn English. I went to Tellus once before to learn it—but there are too many Vegians there. Young Vegians, like me, like to play too much. You know?’
‘I’ve heard so. But teachers, courses …?’
‘I need neither teachers nor courses. What I need is what you have in your library—solid English.’
‘QX. I’ll reserve judgment on you, too. Now let’s hear what the Tomingan has to say What’s her name’}’
‘You’d be surprised!’ Vesta giggled in glee. ‘Literally translated, it’s “Little flower of spring, dwelling bashfully by the brook’s damply sweet brink.” And that’s an exact transliteration, so help me—believe it or not!’
‘I’ll take your word for it. What shall we call her?’
‘Urn … m … “Tommie” would be as good as anything, I guess.’
‘QX. Tommie of Tominga. Ask her why she thinks she has to be a member of our crew.’
‘Who else do you have who can repair one of your big atomic engines if it lets go?’ came the answering question, in Vesta’s flawlessly idiomatic Galactic Spanish.
Cloud was amazed at Tommie’s changed appearance. She was powdered, perfumed, and painted: and made up to the gills. Her heavy blonde hair was elaborately waved. If it wasn’t for her diesel-truck build, Cloud thought—and for the long black Venerian cigar she was smoking with such evident relish —she’d be a knockout on anybody’s tri-di screen!
‘I can.’ The profoundly deep, but pleasantly and musically resonant voice went on; the fluent translation continued. ‘What I don’t know about atomic engines hasn’t been found out yet. I don’t know much about Bergenholms and a couple of other things pertaining solely to flight, and I don’t know anything about communicators or detectors, which aren’t engineers’ business. I’ve laid in a complete supply of atomic service manuals
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for class S-C ships, and I tell you this—if anything with a motor or an engine in it aboard this vessel ever has run, I can take it apart and put it back together so it’ll run again. And by the way, you didn’t have half enough spare parts aboard, but you have now. Besides, you might need somebody to really swing that axe of yours, some day.’