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IV.

When better able to remember the events of the previous night, and to realize that she was now in space, apparently on board a large independent merchant freighter, Judikha asked the man nearest her for an explanation.

“What’re you growlin’ ‘bout, girlie girl?” he answered, between gritted teeth, as he hauled on an enormous valve-clabber. “You’ve jus’ run afoul of th’ bucko second mate—th’ kid bucko. We’ve been doin’ th’ same all night. He’s big enough, all right, but too young fer th’ noise he makes.”

“So I’ve been shanghaied,” Judikha groaned. “Do you know if Lieutenant Birdwhistle is aboard?”

“Who? Th’ gink you was brung in wit’? He’s wit’ th’ other watch. Oh, you’ve struck a sweet ship, girlie girl, you have. Been in space before?”

“In the Patrol.”

“Whew! Patrolman? Botha you? Musrum help you then, ‘til you learn your work.”

“Dry up that guff at the valves!” bawled the officer from the catwalk.

“Aye, aye, sir,” returned the man with strained courtesy, then shouted to his workmates: “Watch that balance, boys! Hold ‘em level! Keep them needles straight up! Take ahold, here, girlie girl,” he added in a lower tone. “Take ahold er you’ll have ‘im at you again.”

Judikha hauled at the huge valves with the enormous, greasy wrench, as big as her leg, a blind, physical activity that was about all she could do in her demoralized condition. The muscles in her long arms, bunched and quivering like epileptic anacondas, were almost torn from their moorings by the effort. She allowed her mind to concentrate entirely on the purely mechanical task of working the tool, of directing her limited reserves of energy into the brainless fibers of arms and back. She fell into a kind of trance that was as therapeutic as it was time-passing. Before she knew it she had accomplished her task—the valves were all balanced for open space and the gauges were all trimmed until their thin red needles were uniformly vertical. Then the crew were driven aft to assist the other watch in trimming the turbine inhalators. The strong, dry, chilly breeze that leaked from the gratings rapidly cleared Judikha’s benumbed faculties, and as she worked with the others, she searched her memory in an effort to identify the second mate’s voice. She had heard it somewhere before, she was certain, but could not quite remember where. It was certainly out of its original context. But ever since her awakening the man had kept to the shadowy catwalk—either by chance or design—where it was too dark for her to distinguish any features other than his bulky, porcine outline. Indeed, it was difficult to distinguish even the features of those working shoulder to shoulder with her. It was only when the second mate chastised the crew for not bending their backs enough to suit him, and the man next to her muttered an indignant reply, that she became aware that that unkempt and sagging figure was the formerly elegant Lieutenant Birdwhistle.

“Keep quiet, Judikha!” said the latter in an undertone, responding to her startled exclamation. “Don’t say anything until I can talk with you. We’re in separate watches, curse it. Can you believe they roused me out at 2400? Why, I’d barely gotten a decent six hours’ sleep!”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir.”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me here!” he hissed. “Do as you’re told and say nothing. We’re in a bad fix.” Then he turned his back on her and their labors were resumed in mutual silence if not mutually identical feelings.

It was only later that Judikha grasped the general layout of the spaceship, which, though simpler overall, was very much different than the warships with which she was familiar. The Rasputin was shaped like an enormous football. From its blunt nose to seven-eighths of the way towards the equally blunt tail, the ship was filled with cargo—thousands upon thousands of tons. Of the remaining eighth the first third was the chamber—the pump room—in which Judikha now found herself. Cheesebox-shaped, it was circular and not quite as high as it was broad. It was the only habitable part of the spaceship, which was operated and steered from a control room that opened onto the catwalk that completely encircled it; the officer’s quarters were on the same level as the control room and catwalk. The crew’s quarters and the galley were cramped rooms squeezed between the vast, pulsating machines that occupied the bulk of the available space. The rear section of the ship was devoted entirely to fuel, engines and etherbenders. Like many independent merchant ships, the Rasputin was of primitive design, at least compared to the sleek, automated Patrol ships. It was cheaper and simpler to maintain half-century-old technology, to keep the decrepit old ships running until they literally disintegrated one fine day, to kidnap a crew and starve and beat them and then replace them next voyage out, than to refurbish a worthless hulk and install modern equipment. So there you were.

Though the air was now clear of the soot and oil and steam of takeoff, the huge banks of engines would continue to thunder until sufficient velocity had been achieved for transystem hypoinsertion—when the big ether benders would be engaged—after which they would be economically throttled back to where the scantest modicum of gravity would be maintained. There was a honk and then a bellowing roar sounded from the annunciator: Relieve the helm and lookout. That’ll do the watch.

“Your watch, youngster,” said Judikha’s valve-mate, as they stowed their gear. Perspiration still poured down the length of her glistening stalagmite body, sticky and salty, her fine hair glued in calligraphic swashes to broad forehead and broader shoulders; she was glad for the briefs and sleeveless vest, both of thin cotton gauze, though they were plastered to her like wet tissue paper. She wiped her face with the back of her forearm.

“There was little choice between ye,” said her companion, apologetically, “when we lifted ye up th’ hatch; but th’ first mate picked your chum an’ th’ second mate picked you. Don’t know which o’ ye had th’ worse luck. Wonder where th’ bloody mate is, anyhow. Ain’t heard his yap this watch, but he was busy enough up t’ midnight. Where ye hail from, anyway?”

“Blavek,” she replied. “The Transmoltus.”

“Earth-girl, eh? Least we hail from th’ same planet, more or less. Leastways I’m from a dead loyal colony. Rastabranaplan, just th’ same what this sorry barge calls home, I’m ashamed to say, though I was born in Udskaya.”

“But then,” she mused, “every planet’s called ‘earth”, isn’t it? just like the native name of every race usually translates into ‘people’. So it doesn’t really mean much if I tell someone the name of the planet I’m from.”

“True enough, youngster. ‘Rastabranaplan’ did just mean ‘place’ in the tongue of th’ late natives, now that ye mention it. Might behoove us t’ use earth’s Galactic Standard name.”

“Might as well get used to it. What ship is this?” she asked, “and where’s she bound?”

Rasputin, of Rastabranaplanian registry, as I said, Captain Krill, of Schlarnbarro, master. Ever hear of ‘im? Surprised ye ain’t. First mate’s another Schlarnbarro bully, an’ th’ second mate’s a brand new bucko just out o’ kindergarten, I take it—not used t’ bossin’ crew an’ not more’n half a spaceman, but a jim-hickey with his fists. From your neck o’ th’ woods, I heard. Guess you an’ me an’ your chum are th’ only Terrians forrard. We’re goin’ out t’ Quongslacken-Oop XI. My handle’s Wopple, of Udskaya, an’ I go t’ space only t’ keep out o’ Ironhouse. How’d you come t’ b’ shanghaied?”

“Beats me. Drugged, I guess, judging from the headache I’ve got.”

“That’s bad. Stick t’ your own boardin’-house, that’s my advice. You’ll get robbed all right, anywhere, but ye won’t be doped in your own place. The doctor’s turned out so I guess we’ll get some coffee soon—what they call coffee anyway. It ain’t good, but it’ll sure give your system th’ wallopin’ it needs.”

The rest of the watch had finished stowing the clabbing-gear and the two went forward, Judikha observing in the chilly, flickering light that Wopple was a tall, grizzled, loose-jointed man with a nose like a carpenter’s triangle and an expression that was rather inappropriately bemused. She couldn’t begin to imagine what could be amusing. Perhaps he’s a little simple-minded. He was rough enough that he might be sixty years old, but his chest was broad and his arms corded with muscles that might have been twenty years younger. The “doctor” was up and the cold greasy odor of food was wafting from the galley. Her deckwatch were grouped together, waiting for the early coffee served on all Rastabranaplanian ships at “turn-to”. The other watch had retired to its quarters, but as Judikha joined the line outside the galley, Lieutenant Birdwhistle appeared at the corridor junction and beckoned to her. Looking around to be certain no one was paying her defection any attention, she followed the officer to a cluster of pumps just behind the turbine housings and there, in an open space which precluded eavesdropping, Birdwhistle said in a low voice—

“Know anything about the Rastabranaplanian hellship, Judikha?”

“No, sir—only what I’ve heard.”

“I told you to drop the ‘sir’ while we’re here! Make that a habit or you’ll get us both in trouble. All right, then. This is a hellship and the hellship is the blackest shame against Rastabranaplan and I’ve had enough of it. When I was first awakened, at midnight, I went straight to the control room and protested to the captain. I told them I was a Patrol officer. Did they believe me? Hardly! All they did was laugh and kick me down the companionway. Thought I was drunk—and to tell the truth, I suppose my speech at the time would bear out such an offensive conclusion. And I was in rags, besides. I’ve got a bagful more of them, now, and I suppose you have, too, unless someone has stolen them. Now, this much I know, from what I have seen and heard: the mere presence among the crew of an educated man or woman is a continual menace to the brutes who command and officer ships such as this, and is warrant enough for murder; for they know that he or she is bound to make trouble at planetfall. As the law now stands they can punish an insolent spaceman with a blow and if he returns it they may kill him with impunity: the law won’t touch the murderer. Therefore, I dare not convince them of my identity—and neither should you. I’ll just have to bear up under their insults until I’m able to act; and as for you, do as you’re told, keep out of trouble—for I may want you in a hurry—keep your mouth shut, call me only by my last name and don’t let them see us together too often.”

Before Judikha could reply to this astonishing speech, the lieutenant was gone; she went back to the galley where she secured another man’s tin pot while his back was turned and filled it with her own share of the coffee. Following her shipmates, she carried it back to the crew’s quarters to drink. It was vile stuff to begin with, and had been rendered viler by the saccharine added in a misguided attempt at sweetening. But it was hot and it warmed Judikha’s chilled and aching body, and cleared much of the residual fog from her brain. She was glad for the warmth because little energy was wasted in keeping the crew’s quarters heated—in contrast to the tropical heat of the engine room. The cubicle was evidently hard against the poorly insulated outside hull of the ship and the bare metal walls, floor and furniture greedily sucked the heat from the overabundance of bare skin; Judikha had no personal ambition to raise the ambient temperature of the universe so she sat on a wooden crate with her feet tucked beneath her thighs.

She leaned her back against a stanchion and closed her eyes...


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Framed