"I'm afraid so," Rod sighed. "That's an heirloom, too. I cured him of it when he talks to me, but I forgot to tell him to hold off with other people."
"Don't bother." Muldoon grinned. "I kinda like it."
She turned away, heading back toward the workbench. Rod ventured. "You seem to know a bit about robots, sir."
Muldoon shrugged. "A machine's a machine. If it moves and has bolts, I can talk to it."
"Yeah, that's what I was wondering about. A robot's part mechanics, but it's mostly computer."
"And can I write a program?" Muldoon gave him a condescending smile. "An engineer these days has to know all the parts of a system, swabbie—including each type of subsystem. To be a specialist, you have to be a generalist."
Rod stood still, looking off into space. "You know, that's a very good way of putting it.''
Muldoon said, "My first professor in college told us that. It stuck with me all the way through."
Rod focused on her again. "That's where you learned your engineering, then?"
Muldoon snorted. "The ideas and facts, or what to do with the wrench and the keyboard?"
"Both."
"I learned the book-knowledge in college, swabbie—but I learned how to do the job right here."
"You've got a bachelor's?"
"Only the degree."
"But if you've got those kind of qualifications, what're you doing aboard a little freighter like this?"
"Don't knock the Murray Rain," Muldoon snapped, "she's a good ship! And we all have to start someplace. I had your job, five years ago. Now I'm chief."
Which hadn't meant anything, Rod noted, until he had signed on. "But you could have moved on to a bigger ship."
A strange expression crossed Muldoon's face. "It's good enough here."
Rod glanced at her eyes, glanced away, and kept silent. For the first time, he began to understand what it meant to be adult, but insecure.
A chime rang; Muldoon looked up. "Chow time. Excuse me a second." She ducked into a closet and closed the door.
Rod suppressed a sudden urge to call out to Fess. If he'd been near the robot, he would have had a quick discussion of the day's events—but he couldn't bring himself to do it by yelling. Also, he'd been awake twenty hours now, and was beginning to feel it.
The door opened, and Muldoon came out wearing an officer's uniform with the same rank insignia as Weiser's. Rod goggled; the jacket was cut loose, but not loosely enough. Neither were the trousers. Also, the net was gone, and her hair floated in a cloud around her face.
She smiled at his surprise. "Well, thank you. Don't think it's a habit, though—we only dress up for dinner on this ship."
Rod glanced down at his own clothes, and his greasy hands.
"Don't worry, you're excepted until you're issued your uniform. You can wash up on the way." Muldoon set her cap on and tucked the strap under her chin. "Come on, meet your mates."
"Mates" had an unpleasant sound, suddenly. "Doesn't somebody have to stand watch?"
"The computer will, bucko. You wouldn't know what to look for yet, anyway." She turned away, and Rod couldn't help but follow—in uniform, her glide was even more a magnet.
As he passed Fess, the robot murmured, "Remember, Rod—swabbies should be seen, and not heard."
"Oh, don't worry, I won't make you ashamed of me," Rod grumbled. Just the same, he found himself making a mental note not to talk.
Apparently, he was the only one who didn't. Now he knew why they called it a "mess." He did think of adding his two cents' worth now and then, but every time he opened his mouth, Weiser caught his eye and, for some reason, Rod found himself shutting up.
They were gathered around the table. Rod started to sit, but a tall man with captain's bars cleared his throat, and Rod realized that the others were still standing. He pulled himself back up, surprised that he wasn't going to have to act proletarian to fit in, then remembered to salute. The captain returned it, then looked around at the others. "I hope you're all making our new crewman feel welcome." It was a remark certain to make Rod uncomfortable.
"Oh, yes, Captain! I've given him the full tour of the engine room, and checked his background." Muldoon was standing straight, shoulders back, eyes bright (maybe a little feverish), smiling. She seemed more reticent, somehow; the brassy lady projected shyness.
"Good, good. Well, let's see he meets everyone else, then. I'm Captain Donough." He was broad-shouldered, lean, handsome, and well-groomed. "The gentleman on my right is First Officer Jonas Whelk."
The first officer smiled and returned Rod's salute. He was skinny, balding, and sharp-featured.
"And I believe you've met Mr. Weiser, our second officer."
Rod saluted. Weiser returned it, narrow-eyed.
"Ah, you might ask to be excused, Albie," Donough murmured, and gave him the eye while he ran a finger over his own cheek.
Weiser's face darkened, but he muttered, "Asking the Captain's pardon."
"Of course."
Weiser left.
Rod wondered what all that had been about—but Donough was going on. "And this is Third Officer Noah McCracken."
Rod saluted. "A pleasure, sir."
McCracken returned it. His profile showed what free-fall could do for the figure—he was round as a ball from hip to shoulder, with another globe on top. No sagging; he was a perfect sphere. Rod wondered if he dared leave the ship on anything larger than Luna.
Weiser rejoined them, looking sullen but clean-shaven. Rod's eyes widened; then he remembered his manners and looked away, just before Weiser gave him a murderous glare.
"Gentlemen and lady," the captain said, "this is Spaceman Rodney d'Armand."
Weiser's eye lit with a wicked gleam, hearing Rod's full name. But the young man didn't care; just hearing the title from the captain's lips made his heart sing. He was a spaceman!
"However, as the junior member," Donough went on, "it falls to you to serve at table. Everyone else, please be seated."
Rod thought of mentioning something about his job description, then remembered how far it was to the nearest spaceport. Besides, Weiser had caught his eye again. And Muldoon was sitting down. Rod moved to hold her chair, but McCracken beat him to it. Not that it made any real difference—the seats were securely tracked, anyway. The other crewmen slid forward to lock themselves in place, and Donough said, "Stand by the autochef, Mr. d'Armand."
Rod looked around, identified the food synthesizer, and pushed himself over to it. He found himself really respecting Donough; any man who could keep his crew dressing for dinner, and even making some attempt at good manners, was pretty good. He was also pretty smart—it was a prime ingredient in maintaining morale.
It sure seemed to work on Muldoon.
"We'll begin with minestrone—key in I-C, please. And a plain salad, B-V. Dressings?"
"French," said Whelk.
"Russian," Weiser answered.
"Clavian," McCracken stated.
"None," Muldoon said.
"And I'll have Roquefort. Now, let's see the day's menu." He picked it up, pretending not to have it memorized. The others followed suit, except McCracken. Donough caught his eye, and the Third picked up the printout with a sigh.
The 'chef rang; Rod pulled cups out and started setting them in front of people.
"Thank you, Mr. d'Armand. Be seated, please."
Rod went to his chair, then stopped. He looked up and found the captain's eye on him, amused. "You might want to punch up one for yourself."
"Yes, sir!" Rod went back for another minestrone, brought it to his chair, and sat.
Donough picked up his cup, sipped through the spout, and set it down as he said. "I thought we did rather well at Maxima."
"Yes, sir," Whelk agreed. "Made a nice profit on the textiles from Terra."
"And the wines." McCracken smiled. "I never cease to be amazed that people will pay so much for fermented grape juice, when any decent autochef can synthesize it just as well."