“Now I’ve got to do it. Dr. Devereaux tells me I’m the appropriate father image.”
“Yes, sir.”
“ ‘Yes, sir,’ my aching head. This isn’t a ship; it’s a confounded nursery. Are you having any other troubles?”
“No, sir.”
“I wondered. Dusty also complained that the regular communicators call you people ‘freaks.’ “ He eyed me.
I didn’t answer. I felt sheepish about it.
“In any case, they won’t again. I once saw a crewman try to knife another one, just because the other persisted in calling him ‘skin head.’ My people are going to behave like ladies and gentlemen or I’ll bang some heads together.” He frowned. “I’m moving Dusty into the room across from my cabin. If Dusty will leave you alone, you let him alone. If he won’t … well, use your judgment, bearing in mind that you are responsible for your actions-but remember that I don’t expect any man to be a doormat. That’s all. Good-by.”
VIII RELATIVITY
I had been in the Elsie a week when it was decided to operate on Pat. Pat told me they were going to do it, but he did not talk about it much. His attitude was the old iron-man, as if he meant to eat peanuts and read comics while they were chopping on him. I think he was scared stiff … I would have been.
Not that I would have understood if I had known the details; I’m no neural surgeon, nor any sort; removing a splinter is about my speed.
But it meant we would be off the watch list for a while, so I told Commander Frick. He already knew from messages passed between the ship and LRF; he told me to drop off the watch list the day before my brother was operated and to consider myself available for extra duty during his convalescence. It did not make any difference to him; not only were there other telepairs but we were still radio-linked to Earth.
Two weeks after we started spacing and the day before Pat was to be cut on I was sitting in my room, wondering whether to go to the communications office and offer my valuable services in cleaning waste baskets and microfilming files or just sit tight until somebody sent for me.
I had decided on the latter, remembering Uncle Steve’s advice never to volunteer, and was letting down my bunk, when the squawker boomed: “T. P. Bartlett, special communicator, report to the Relativist!”
I hooked my bunk up while wandering if there was an Eye-Spy concealed in my room-taking down my bunk during working hours seemed always to result in my being paged. Dr. Babcock was not in the control room and they chased me out, but not before I took a quick look around-the control room was off limits to anyone who did not work there. I found him down in the computation room across from the communications office, where I would have looked in the first place if I hadn’t wanted to see the control room.
I said, “T. P. Bartlett, communicator tenth grade, reporting to the Relativist as ordered.”
Dr. Babcock swung around in his chair and looked at me. He was a big raw-boned man, all hands and feet, and looked more like a lumberjack than a mathematical physicist. I think he played it up-you know, elbows on the table and bad grammar on purpose. Uncle Steve said Babcock had more honorary degrees than most people had socks.
He stared at me and laughed. “Where did you get that fake military manner, son? Siddown. You’re Bartlett?”
I sat. “Yes, sir.”
“What’s this about you and your twin going off the duty list?”
“Well, my brother is in a hospital, sir. They’re going to do something to his spine tomorrow.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I didn’t answer because it was so unreasonable; I wasn’t even in his department. “Frick never tells me anything, the Captain never tells me anything, now you never tell me anything. I have to bang around the galley and pick up gossip to find out what’s going on. I was planning on working you over tomorrow. You know that don’t you?”
“Uh, no, sir.”