“Please” and “Thank you” weren’t in his vocabulary. He never made his bed unless someone in authority stood over him, and I was likely as not to come in and find him lying on mine, wrinkling it and getting the cover dirty. He never hung up his clothes, he always left our wash basin filthy, and his best mood was complete silence.
Besides that, he didn’t bathe often enough. Aboard ship that is a crime.
First I was nice to him, then I bawled him out, then I threatened him. Finally I told him that the next thing of his I found on my bed was going straight into the mass converter. He just sneered and the next day I found his camera on my bed and his dirty socks on my pillow.
I tossed the socks into the wash basin, which he had left filled with dirty water, and locked his camera in my wardrobe, intending to let him stew before I gave it back.
He didn’t squawk. Presently I found his camera gone from my wardrobe, in spite of the fact that it was locked with a combination which Messrs. Yale & Towne had light-heartedly described as “Invulnerable.” My clean shirts were gone, too … that is, they weren’t clean; somebody had carefully dirtied every one of them.
I had not complained about him. It had become a point of pride to work it out myself; the idea that I could not cope with somebody half my size and years my junior did not appeal to me.
But I looked at the mess he had made of my clothes and I said to myself, “Thomas Paine, you had better admit that you are licked and holler for help-else your only chance will be to plead justifiable homicide.”
But I did not have to complain. The Captain sent for me; Dusty had complained about me instead.
“Bartlett, young Rhodes tells me you are picking on him. What’s the situation from your point of view?”
I started to swell up and explode. Then I let out my breath and tried to calm down; the Captain really wanted to know.
“I don’t think so, sir, though it is true that we have not been getting along.”
“Have you laid hands on him?”
“Uh … I haven’t smacked him, sir. I’ve jerked him off my bed more than once-and I wasn’t gentle about it.”
He sighed. “Maybe you should have smacked him. Out of my sight, of course. Well, tell me about it. Try to tell it straight-and complete.”
So I told him. It sounded trivial and I began to be ashamed of myself … the Captain had more important things to worry about than whether or not I had to scrub out a hand basin before I could wash my face. But he listened.
Instead of commenting, maybe telling me that I should be able to handle a younger kid better, the Captain changed the subject.
“Bartlett, you saw that illustration Dusty had in the ship’s paper this morning?”
“Yes, sir. A real beauty,” I admitted. It was a picture of the big earthquake in Santiago, which had happened after we left Earth.
“Mmm… we have to allow you special-talent people a little leeway. Young Dusty is along because he was the only m-r available who could receive and transmit pictures.”
“Uh, is that important, sir?”
“It could be. We won’t know until we need it. But it could be crucially important. Otherwise I would never have permitted a spoiled brat to come aboard this ship.” He frowned. “However, Dr. Devereaux is of the opinion that Dusty is not a pathological ease.”
“Uh, I never said he was, sir.”
“Listen, please. He says that the boy has an unbalanced personality-a brain that would do credit to a grown man but with greatly retarded social development. His attitudes and evaluations would suit a boy of five, combined with this clever brain. Furthermore Dr. Devereaux says that he will force the childish part of Dusty’s personality to grow up, or he’ll turn in his sheepskin.”
“So? I mean, “Yes, sir?’ “
“So you should have smacked him. The only thing wrong with that boy is that his parents should have walloped him, instead of telling him how bright he was.” He sighed again.