“Captain to the bridge, please!” I was sacked out in my bunk in utter exhaustion when the call came. Never before had I been summoned from my cabin; after shaking my head in a hapless effort to clear it I took only seconds to scramble into my clothes and dive out the hatch, foreboding rushing my stride.
Alexi stood rigidly at attention. The Chief appeared angry.
Pilot Haynes paced back and forth, a holovid in his hand.
“What’s going on?” I demanded. I’d expected a gaping hole in the hull, if not worse.
“Mr. Tamarov,” spat the Pilot, “brought some funny measurements. They’re wrong; they don’t balance. They can’t.”
“Alexi, report.”
“Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir. I was assigned to check gas exchange rates on the atmospheric recyclers. I took Recycler’s Mate Quezan to the recycler compartments, bringing along gas gauges as ordered. We tested the oxygen/carbon dioxide exchange, the nitrogen recycler, and the purifiers, sir. The exchange rates were lower than listed so I ordered Mr. Quezan to repeat each measurement. We got the same numbers again, sir.”
The Pilot. “I told you. He must have--”
“Let him finish.”
“I went to the ship’s library and got out the manufacturer’s specs. Their model numbers don’t jibe with the actual numbers on our units, but as far as I could tell the equivalent models in the book showed rates like we measured, not the rates Darla had in her banks, sir.” Alexi shifted uncomfortably before bringing himself back to attention at my glare.
I sat to think. Atmospheric recycler rates were predetermined: they were fixed parameters. Darla kept the atmosphere in balance by keying the machinery on and off in accordance with those rates. “Chief, talk about recycling, please.”
“Sir, the puter regulates our atmosphere. She turns on the oxy-carbo exchanger at set times, based on the rate the machine exchanges the atmosphere. Likewise the nitrogen and the other trace elements. If those rates were wrong we should be dead by now. The likely explanation is that Mr. Tamarov took bad measurements.”
Alexi’s face reddened.
The Chief added, “We called you before rechecking, because your standing orders were to be summoned the moment we found an inconsistency.”
“Sir, I didn’t foul up. Darla has another glit--”
I snarled, “Be silent!” Alexi knew better than to argue with the Chief. Still, his integrity was being questioned, and I could understand his indignation. “We’ll know soon enough.
Chief, you and Mr. Haynes run the test while Alexi and I watch.”
We trooped down to Level 3 and crowded into the recycler compartment. Alexi, his face pale, watched the Chief hook up the gauges, knowing he faced disaster if his report was inaccurate. The Pilot tightened both connections to the gauge.
He turned on the system. After a few minutes we took a reading. The actual CO 2 exchange rate was lower than the puter’s parameter.
Alexi closed his eyes, sagged in relief.
“Now the others.”
The Pilot transferred his gauges to the oxygen tubes. We waited while the machinery settled into operation. The oxygen rate was also lower than Darla’s parameter. So, we learned a moment later, was the nitrogen rate, but by a lesser amount.
We returned to the bridge in tense silence. “Chief, report tonight on why these discrepancies haven’t killed us. The rest of you, carry on. Alexi, just a moment.” When they left I came close to him. “Good man.” My voice was soft. “And, thanks.” I touched his shoulder. “Dismissed.”
He gave me an Academy parade salute and spun on his heel toward the hatch. From the worshipful look he made no effort to hide, I knew I had finally done something right.
The Chiefs report, delivered a few hours later, was brief.
The discrepancy in exchange rates hadn’t fouled our air because we were never at maximum utilization. Later in the voyage, after the last of our reserves of oxygen were fed into the system, the recyclers would go to full capacity to keep our atmosphere healthy. That’s when Darla’s glitch could have proved fatal.
She would assume the exchange rates were adequately renewing our atmosphere, while we slowly poisoned ourselves from excess CO 2 . Our sensors were supposed to detect any variations from normal atmosphere, but Darla would suppress their readings as faulty as long as the machines seemed to be operating properly.
Only our manual backups would have stood between us and asphyxiation. A crewman probably would have noticed-if he didn’t ignore the sensor rather than report it, to avoid having to tear down the whole system when he knew the puter was already keeping watch.
The next week we found seven more glitches, two of them involving the navigation system. Others seemed less important: misfigured stats for various compartments and the launch, or incorrect paint colors. Impatiently I waited for our recheck of the parameter list to be completed, so I would know how bad matters actually were.
Some of the more difficult calculations involved rechecking calibrations on the electronic gear, which required the help of crew work parties. We Defused, to allow crewmen to clamber around on the hull; during Fusion any object thrust outside the field surrounding the ship would cease to exist.
As they clumped about outside, our work parties sighted their primitive electronic instruments on distant stars, to provide an absolutely clean base for calibrations.
One evening there came a knock on my hatch. Apprehensive, I realized that except for Ricky with my breakfast tray, nobody had ever knocked on my hatch. Except in my dreams.
Chief McAndrews stood stolidly in the corridor, coming to attention when I opened. “As you were, Chief,” I said.
“What is it?”
“I’m here to own up, Captain.” He met my eye.
“Come in,” I said, turning away. He had no choice but to follow.
Uncomfortably, he cleared his throat. “Captain Seafort, I apologize for my foolishness, entering a protest in the Log.
You were right and I was dead wrong; I should have kept my mouth shut. I’ve been kicking myself for two weeks now. I was insubordinate. You’d think I’d been in the Navy long enough to know better.”
“You had every right to protest.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but like hell I did. You’re in charge and you knew what you were doing. I had no business playing sea lawyer. I’m ashamed.”
I sighed. “I was lucky, Chief.” He looked skeptical.
“Very well, we’ll trade apologies. Mine for yours. As long as you’re here, stay awhile and help me research that thing in the safe.”
“I really don’t think, I mean, after--”
“Stay.” I punched in the combination. Sometimes it felt good to pull rank.
17
The nightmares receded, but my loneliness remained. One evening after dinner I found myself descending the ladder to Level 2, wandering along the east corridor to Amanda Frowel’s cabin. I knocked hesitantly at her hatch. Inside, sounds emanated from a holovid.
She opened the hatch; abruptly we found ourselves eye to eye.
“What is it, Captain Seafort?” Her cool formality only made me feel more ill at ease.
“I hoped we could talk.”
She thought for a moment. “I can’t stop you from coming in, Captain, but I don’t want to talk with you.”
“I’m not going to force my way in, Amanda.”
“Why not? Force is your Navy’s first recourse.”
I sighed. It was difficult enough without that. “Can’t the incident be over? I wanted--I need somebody to talk to.”
Her voice hardened. “The incident will never be over, Captain. Not now, not as long as I live.”
“You’re that sure I was wrong?”
“I’m sure, as you should have been. I’d like to close my door, please.” She stared at my hand on the hatch until I removed it. The hatch closed firmly in my face. I remained there a moment, numb, before I turned and left. Not wanting to go back to the bridge, dreading the solitude of my cabin, I wandered along the corridor. Impulsively I took the ladder down to Level 3, with vague thoughts of visiting the engine room to hear the Chiefs reassuring voice.