“We all need some inner peace,” Nansen said. “Tomorrow we’ll organize. Establish an exercise program, for one thing. Now we should try to rest.”
They had not thought to ask for night clothes, other changes of garb, towels, toothbrushes, or anything else, nor did anyone now feel like putting in the request. Tomorrow would do. There was barely enough unoccupied space on the wardroom deck, if mattresses were laid side to side and end to end. With illumination quenched, though light streamed relentless in through the hole, bodies stretched out and strained to lie quietly Nansen heard Dayan breathing on his right. He stole a look. Her eyes were shut, her countenance quiet amidst the loosened red mane, but he wondered if she really slept. Himself, aching with weariness, skull filled with grit, he could not. These, his crew, his trusty folk who trusted him, how might he help them endure? How keep them what they were? Confinement as cramped and hopeless as this bred cancers of the spirit, rage, spite, selfishness, at last hatred. . . . Lovers, what about them? And those who had no lovers. . . . Mokoena, if she kept her jollity, perhaps could provide a little fun. Sundaram’s serenity might help more persons than Ruszek. Given the screen, they could hold classes, learn from each other. . . . But always they would be gnawing on the dream of escape. . . . He had to get to sleep. He had to say alert and capable. It was his duty.
The servitors had set up a table in the common room. Until another galley was constructed, food must be prepared in the reserve unit on the gimbals, and would be uninspired. Nanotechnic recycling produced first-class materials but did not cook them. However, the victors were no gourmets; and first-class champagne remained unlimited.
In this triumphal hour, on the evenwatch after the coup, two bottles stood in their cooling jackets before Brent. Beethoven’s “Eroica” soared from the player, on whose screen a color abstraction leaped and whirled in time with the music. An ozone tang livened the air, as if a rainstorm were drawing near.
Cleland shambled in. Brent, who sat crisply uniformed, cast him a hard glance. The planetologist was unkempt, his garments rumpled and not very clean. A smell of sour sweat hung around him.
“Attention!” Brent barked.
Cleland halted. “What?”
“You’ve gone slovenly again. It won’t do. We’re two men on the most important expedition ever made, with nine desperate prisoners to keep and a starship to bring home. We won’t survive without discipline. That begins with self-discipline.”
“Sorry,” Cleland mumbled.
“And don’t take that sullen tone, either. Nansen was right about the necessity of maintaining form, rank, respect. I am your captain, Cleland.”
“Yes, . . . sir.”
Brent cased. “Okay, enough. A word to the wise. We do need a little shakedown time. You don’t have to go back and clean up.” He smiled. “We’ll pretend you did. Sit down, help me celebrate, drink to our future.”
Cleland obeyed, filling a goblet, clinking it against Brent’s, and sipping without enthusiasm.
“What have you been doing today, anyhow?” Brent asked.
“Wandering around,” said Cleland dully. “Trying to rest. Trying to think. I didn’t sleep a blink’s worth after we, uh, after we’d secured them.”
Brent frowned. “I’m going to have you take medication.”
Cleland stared. “Can you prescribe it?”
“I can read a medical database and use a medical computer program, same as any other kind.” Brent spoke sternly. “I’ve begun studying — plans, operating instructions, the captain’s and chief engineer’s logs. You should have. You will tomorrow. I’ll prepare assignments for you. Yes, the ship can run entirely robotic, if no surprises hit along the way. We’ve got to be prepared. You’ve got to get into shape.”
A servitor entered bearing a tray. It deposited the dishes between the place settings and rolled back out. The men helped themselves. Brent took a hefty bite of pork loin. Cleland picked at his vegetables.
“Eat, man,” Brent said. “Keep up your strength. You’ll be wanting it, and wanting your brains in working order.”
Cleland drank before chewing further. Brent savored the symphony. After a while Cleland ventured, “Uh, I did call on the Tahirians. To see how they’re doing. They aren’t happy.”