I was speechless. Then I remembered something Uncle Steve had told me. “Hey, wait a minute!”
“Eh?”
“Oh, go ahead and rewire it, I don’t care. But I won’t stand any watches.”
He straightened up and looked worried. “Don’t talk like that, Tom, You’re in enough trouble now; don’t make it worse. Let’s pretend you never said it. Okay?”
Mr. Eastman was a decent sort and the only one of the electronics people who had never called us freaks. I think he was really concerned about me. But I said, “I don’t see how it can be worse. You tell the Captain that I said he could take his watches and-” I stopped. That wasn’t what Uncle Steve would say. “Sorry. Please tell him this: ‘Communicator Bartlett’s respects to the Captain and he regrets that he cannot perform duty while under arrest’ Got it?”
“Now look here, Tom, that’s not the proper attitude. Surely, there is something in what you say from a standpoint of regulations. But we are shorthanded; everybody has to pitch in and help. You can’t stand on the letter of the law; it isn’t fair to the rest.”
“Can’t I?” I was breathing hard and exulting in the chance to hit back. “The Captain can’t have his cake and eat it too. A man under arrest doesn’t perform duty. It’s always been that way end it always will be. You just tell him what I said.”
He silently finished the reconnection with quick precision.
“You’re sure that’s what you want me to tell him?”
“Quite sure.”
“All right. Hooked the way that thing is now”-he added, pointing a thumb at the recorder-”you can reach me on if you change your mind. So long.”
“One more thing-”
“Eh?”
“Maybe the Captain hasn’t thought about it, since his cabin has a bathroom, but I’ve been in here some hours. Who takes me down the passageway and when? Even a prisoner is entitled to regular policing.”
“Oh. I guess I do. Come along.”
That was the high point of the morning. I expected Captain Urqhardt to show up five minutes after Mr. Eastman had left me at my room-breathing fire and spitting cinders. So I rehearsed a couple of speeches in my head, carefully phrased to keep me inside the law and quite respectful. I knew I had him.
But nothing happened. The Captain did not show up; nobody showed up. It got to be close to noon. When no word was passed about standing by for boost, I got in my bunk with five minutes to spare and waited.
It was a long five minutes.
About a quarter past twelve I gave up and got up. No lunch either. I heard the gong at twelve-thirty, but still nothing and nobody. I finally decided that I would skip one meal before I complained, because I didn’t want to give him the chance to change the subject by pointing out that I had broken arrest. It occurred to me that I could call Unc and tell him about the failure in the beans department, then I decided that the longer I waited, the more wrong the Captain would be.
About an hour after everybody else had finished eating Mr. Krishnamurti showed up with a tray. The fact that he brought it himself instead of sending whoever had pantry duty convinced me that I must be a Very Important Prisoner-particularly as Kris was unanxious to talk to me and even seemed scared of being near me. He just shoved it in and said, “Put it in the passageway when you are through.”
“Thanks, Kris.”
But buried in the food on the tray was a note: “Bully for you! Don’t weaken and we’ll trim this bird’s wings. Everybody is pulling for you.” It was unsigned and I did not recognize the handwriting. It wasn’t Krishnamurti’s; I knew his from the time when I was fouling up his farm. Nor was it either of the Travers’s, and certainly not Harry’s.
Finally I decided that I didn’t want to guess whose it was and tore it in pieces and chewed it up, just like the Man in the Iron Mask or the Count of Monte Cristo. I don’t really qualify as a romantic hero, however, as I didn’t swallow it; I just chewed it up and spat it out. But I made darn sure that note was destroyed, for I not only did not want to know who had sent it, I didn’t want anybody ever to know.