Slave Ship by Frederik Pohl Read Free Book Online Page B

know what to do about it. The big brass is scared witless. They're trying everything. They're trying blackouts, they're trying this, they're trying that. But they aren't getting anywhere, and they're going to have to face up to it by and by, and then, my God, you're going to see panic, Miller! Because they can get us with the Glotch. This raid on the stockade, that was nothing; the Glotch can strike a thousand miles inland, it can kill anybody. Sooner or later they'll use it in big doses—maybe a whole city at a time, eh? And then what? You remember what I said, Miller . . ."
    The stewards appeared. "Chow, gentlemen." And that was the end of that, and I never did get to tell Kedrick about the Air Force captain I had seen stricken down with my own two eyes.
    But I had a lot to think about.
     
    Semyon showed up for lunch, punctual as always. We chatted over the stockade break and our skirmish, and I tried to find out what he knew about the Glotch; but all he knew was the word. That didn't stop him from discussing it, though. By the time we got to dessert and coffee I was sick of the subject, and looking forward to getting back to work. I counted the spoons of sugar he dumped into his coffee: Six of them.
    "Ah," he said, tasting the first sip, "one lives again. At the Academy was like heaven to drink coffee, Logan. Only once a day. And coffee was from Turkey, you know. Once—"
    "Better drink it fast," I advised. "I have to get to work."
    "—once four cooks drank coffee and died," he went on. "Whole batch had to be thrown away, because someone had put strychnine in it. Terrible." He frowned reminiscently. "Turk? One imagines so. Was terrible time—"
    "Good-by, Semyon." I stood up.
    "—was terrible time, when Soviets of Russia were surrounded by hostile nations. Now, of course," he shrugged, "it is greatly different. We are friend to all, what of us the Orientals left. Do you find this a lesson to you, Logan?"
    He winked amiably at me, and I couldn't help smiling. It was hard to realize that his country and mine had torn each other apart for the salvage of the splinters not much over a decade before, when Semyon was a fresh eighteen-year-old junior officer, straight out of the Academy into the Yugoslav Push that had touched off the Short War. That was Semyon's first battle—against Marshal Tito's stubborn little army.
    And now he had named his dog in honor of his late enemy, the marshal, whose real name was Josip Broz.
    He was a nuisance, but it was with a little disappointment that I realized, later on, that he hadn't shown up for his three o'clock coffee break. And he didn't show up at four, and he was late, actually late , for dinner.
    "Oh, Logan," he explained sorrowfully, staring without appetite at the plate the mess attendant put before him. "Josip is sick. Could someone have hurt him, Logan? He is bleeding, and he will not let me come near. Poor little dog, perhaps he has been in a fight. Bloody, And he behaves oddly. I play with him and show him tricks, and he whines and hides under the desk and whines again." He began to chew.
    "Maybe you ought to call a vet."
    "I did! Of course I did. And they said, 'Terribly sorry, old man, but it will have to wait; we must scrub the catties' teeth for Commander Lineback first.' And poor Josip, he is in pain."
    It seemed a little silly, but it wasn't silly to Semyon. He was worried. He even decided to go back to the sheds after dinner—even talked Chief Oswiak into flying him down in the copter instead of waiting for the regular trip.
    As a consequence, he missed the excitement.
    The excitement occurred when the regular copter flight went down. I went along, preferring an evening with the computers to an evening loafing around the wardroom, and Oswiak spotted a running figure in the palmettos as we whirled overhead.
    It was not a place where anyone should have been running. We radioed back to Commander Lineback; another copter load of security troops came after us; and in less