Heller let loose a piercing whistle, the way they do on battleships. All work ceased abruptly within and outside the ship. In that distance-defying Fleet officer voice he said, "Attention all. If this ship passes a Fleet-type inspection, totally clean, by four o'clock this afternoon, you will all have a tup party!" Heads, incredulous, poked out of openings in the ship. People turned and stared. And there was the makeshift bar and there flowed the bright banners and there in cases was the tup!
A concerted yell of enthusiasm went up from all over the place. And if there had been action before, there was a blur now! Nothing like this had ever happened before in thishangar.
The voice of the hangar chief rumbled behind me and I turned, half-expecting to be attacked. But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking with awe at the busy Heller. "Who is that guy? He's a Royal officer, I can tell that. But I got the feeling I've seen his face before." Without thinking – I wasn't being very bright that day – I said, "Jettero Heller."
"No!" said the battered old hangar chief. "Jettero Heller the famous race driver! Oh, wait until I tell my wife and kids I've actually met theJettero Heller." Oh, my Gods! If this got to the Grand Council we hadn't left . . . I had an impulse to seize him by the tunic and drag him close and snarl. But he was too tough. Instead, I said, "He is on a mission that is totally secret. No word that he is here is to be spread around!" I had a vision of Crown inspectors swarming in to find out why we were still here and not on Earth! "You'll forget his name! That's an order!" I might as well not have opened my mouth for all the attention he gave me. He was still looking at Heller. "My, but he's a grand fellow! So efficient, so friendly." And then and only then did his eyes shift to me. He looked me up and down. "Wish we had some in the Apparatus like that!" And walked off.
It didn't help my morale. But looking at Tug Onefurther depressed it. I slumped down on an old fuel rod case and looked at her. Lying on her belly as she was now, she was about forty feet high and about sixty feet wide, all out of proportion for her hundred and ten feet of length. And the massive arms that stuck out on either side of her bow looked silly.
The trundle dolly operator was preparing to move the machine: he was nearby, lifting the chock levers. I said to him, "What are those arms sticking out from her bow?" He looked at her. "Those are to butt with. That's a space tug. They butt into the sides of battleships and things and if they didn't have those wide arms, they'd buckle the hull plates of what they were trying to move. Her stern is big enough to use, too. They butt and bump and push things around. I never seen that exact type before, she looks more powerful than the usual run; and that's saying a lot, fellow. Even the auxiliary drives on those tugs are the same as they put in battleships today. Gods know what her main power is. And she'd have traction beam towing, too. You have to be careful of traction beam towing: one careless yank and it'd pull a battleship in half. A tug is all engines. I heard a few years ago one blew up: lost everybody aboard. Awful thing: you wouldn't catch me serving on no tug. What are we doing with that thing in here anyway?" I wished I knew! But one thing I did know: it was the ugliest spacevessel I had ever laid eyes on.
Heller seemed to have everything organized and going now. I saw him entering the hangar administration offices over on the other side. Even at that distance I could see he had some notebook out, consulting it as he walked. In a surge of fear, I realized he was heading for the communication control cubicle: he was about to personally place outside calls! With his in security, he could blow us apart! I raced after him.
There he stood, red racing cap on the back of his head, blond hair escaping around it, a totally composed look on his face. He was regarding the usual lengthy list of civilian contractors they place in hangar offices; in this case it was a smudgy, tattered list, augmented by little cards the contractors themselves stick on and around it to advertise their names. He was already reaching for the brush levers to register a call number when I stayed his hand.
"That's an out-security action you're doing," I said.
He looked at me a bit languidly, his mind on his open notebook, "You know as well as I do that any of these contractors is totally secure. They handle all sorts of sensitive installations. And they well know that one leak from one of them would cause an instant cancellation of all future business." He freed his hand and reached toward the brush levers again.
But I had gotten a glimpse of the lengthy list of items he had jotted down. "We've only got three million credits. We've already spent half a million for that tug. If we run over allocation . . ."
"This list total is under half a million," he said.
But I had gotten a further look at the list. "I don't see any note here to do something to shed the excess energy that makes these things blow up."
"Oh, that," he said. "I haven't gotten around to inventing how to do it yet. It's never been possible, you know." He freed his hand once more and hit the brush lever plate.
He got his connection. "Hello, hello. Alpy? Hey, old boy, this is me, Jet. . . . Glad to hear your voice, too. How's your father? . . . I got Tug Onehere! . . . No, I'm not kidding. She's beautiful! . . . Now, Alpy, I want you to bring a design and estimation group down here tomorrow morning. . . . No, it's just a job on the controls. . . . Will be good to see you, too." He brushed off.
I tried to find some other objection. Heller was looking at the list on the wall. More brush levers. "Hello, hello. Let me talk to Petalv. . . . Enii? That you? . . . Yes, you're right: Jet here. Enii, could you bring a design and estimation group down to the Apparatus spacebase hangar one? . . . Tomorrow morning . . . Ha, ha. No, I didn't lose my wits and transfer to the Apparatus. . . . Just a general engine-maintenance checkup . . . Good. Will look forward to it." Another call. And another call. All first name, old pal calls. Gyro specialists. Cable renewals. Viewscreen refurbishing. Gravity coil reintensifying. Antisurveillance hull work. On and on and on. He was almost exhausting the contractor list.
Finally, between calls, I could stand it no longer. "Heller!" I wailed, "you're planning work that will take months!"
"Weeks, unfortunately." The specter of Lombar began to loom over me. "Heller," I said in desperation, "we've got to get out of here! We've got to get started on this mission!" He looked at me in surprise. "I know! You were going to take a freighter. It takes a freighter weeks and weeks and weeks to get to Blito-P3. If we started right this minute on a freighter or if we started weeks from now in Tug One,we'd still get to Earth faster my way. I'm saving us time!" And threatening us with being blown up, I snarled to myself. Oh, I thought, I could wring your neck! And instantly I was too sick at my stomach to stay in there.
I went and found a corner out of everybody's way and wrapped myself in solid gloom.
After a while, I saw the irony of it. He was actually perfectly safe here, in reach of friends. Danger for him began when we hit Earth. But I certainly could not tell him that.Somehow, some way, I had to get him off this planet. And I couldn't even understand why just thinking about it made me feel so ill.