Starman Jones

4 THE ASTROGATORS' GUILD

Everything about the hall of the Mother Chapter was to Max's eyes lavish, churchlike, and frightening. The great doors opened silently as he approached, dilating away into the walls. His feet made no sound on the tesselated floor. He started down the long, high foyer, wondering where he should go, when a firm voice stopped him. "May I help you, please?"

He turned. A beautiful young lady with a severe manner held him with her eye. She was seated behind a desk. Max went up to her. "Uh, maybe you could tell me, Ma'am, who I ought to see. I don't rightly know just ..."

"One moment. Your name, please?" Several minutes later she had wormed out of him the basic facts of his quest. "So far as I can see, you haven't any status here and no excuse for appealing to the Guild."

"But I told you ..."

"Never mind. I'm going to put it up to the legal office." She touched a button and a screen raised up on her desk; she spoke to it. "Mr. Hanson, can you spare a moment?"

"Yes, Grace?"

"There is a young man here who claims to be a legacy of the Guild. Will you talk with him?"

The voice answered, "Look, Grace, you know the procedures. Get his address, send him on his way, and send his papers up for consideration."

She frowned and touched another control. Although Max could see that she continued to talk, no sound reached him. Then she nodded and the screen slid back into the desk. She touched another button and said, "Skeeter!"

A page boy popped out of a door behind her and looked Max over with cold eyes. "Skeeter," she went on, "take this visitor to Mr. Hanson."

The page sniffed. "Him?"

"Him. And fasten your collar and spit out that gum."

Mr. Hanson listened to Max's story and passed him on to his boss, the chief legal counsel, who listened to a third telling. That official then drummed his desk and made a call, using the silencing device the girl had used.

He then said to Max, "You're in luck, son. The Most Worthy High Secretary will grant you a few minutes of his time. Now when you go in, don't sit down, remember to speak only when spoken to, and get out quickly when he indicates that the audience is ended."

The High Secretary's office made the lavishness that had thus far filled Max's eyes seem like austerity. The rug alone could have been swapped for the farm on which Max grew up. There was no communication equipment in evidence, no files, not even a desk. The High Secretary lounged back in a mammoth easy chair while a servant massaged his scalp. He raised his head as Max appeared and said, "Come in, son. Sit down there. What is your name?"

"Maximilian Jones, sir."

They looked at each other. The Secretary saw a lanky youth who needed a haircut, a bath, and a change of clothes; Max saw a short, fat little man in a wrinkled uniform. His head seemed too big for him and Max could not make up his mind whether the eyes were kindly or cold.

"And you are a nephew of Chester Arthur Jones?"

"Yes, sir."

"I knew Brother Jones well. A fine mathematician." The High Secretary went on, "I understand that you have had the misfortune to lose your government Citizen's Identification. Carl."

He had not raised his voice but a young man appeared with the speed of a genie. "Yes, sir?"

"Take this young man's thumb print, call the Bureau of Identification--not here, but the main office at New Washington. My compliments to the Chief of Bureau and tell him that I would be pleased to have immediate identification while you hold the circuit."

The print was taken speedily; the man called Carl left. The High Secretary went on, "What was your purpose in coming here?" Diffidently Max explained that his uncle had told him that he intended to nominate him for apprenticeship in the guild.

The man nodded. "So I understand. I am sorry to tell you, young fellow, that Brother Jones made no nomination."

Max had difficulty in taking in the simple statement. So much was his inner pride tied to his pride in his uncle's profession, so much had he depended on his hope that his uncle had named him his professional heir, that he could not accept at once the verdict that he was nobody and nothing. He blurted out, "You're _sure?_ Did you look?"

The masseur looked shocked but the High Secretary answered calmly, "The archives have been searched, not once, but twice. There is no possible doubt." The High Secretary sat up, gestured slightly, and the servant disappeared. "I'm sorry."

"But he _told_ me," Max said stubbornly. "He said he was going to."

"Nevertheless he did not." The man who had taken the thumb print came in and offered a memorandum to the High Secretary, who glanced at it and waved it away. "I've no doubt that he considered you. Nomination to our brotherhood involves a grave responsibility; it is not unusual for a childless brother to have his eye on a likely lad for a long time before deciding whether or not he measures up. For some reason your uncle did not name you."

Max was appalled by the humiliating theory that his beloved uncle might have found him unworthy. It could not be true--why, just the day before he died, he had said--he interrupted his thoughts to say, "Sir-- I think I know what happened."

"Eh?"

"Uncle Chester died suddenly. He meant to name me, but he didn't get a chance. I'm sure of it."

"Possibly. Men have been known to fail to get their affairs in order before the last orbit. But I must assume that he knew what he was doing."

"But--"

"That's all, young man. No, don't go away. I've been thinking about you today." Max looked startled, the High Secretary smiled and continued, "You see, you are the second 'Maximilian Jones' who has come to us with this story."

"Huh?"

"Huh indeed." The guild executive reached into a pocket of his chair, pulled out some books and a card, handed them to Max, who stared unbelievingly.

"Uncle Chet's books!"

"Yes. Another man, older than yourself, came here yesterday with your identification card and these books. He was less ambitious than you are," he added dryly. "He was willing to settle for a rating less lofty than astrogator."

"What happened?"

"He left suddenly when we attempted to take his finger prints. I did not see him. But when you showed up today I began to wonder how long a procession of 'Maximilian Jones's' would favor us. Better guard that card in the future--I fancy we have saved you a fine."

Max placed it in an inner pocket. "Thanks a lot, sir." He started to put the books in his rucksack. The High Secretary gestured in denial.

"No, no! Return the books, please."

"But Uncle Chet gave them to me."

"Sorry. At most he loaned them to you--and he should not have done even that. The tools of our profession are never owned individually; they are loaned to each brother. Your uncle should have turned them in when he retired, but some of the brothers have a sentimental fondness for having them in their possession. Give them to me, please."

Max still hesitated. "Come now," the guildsman said reasonably. "It would not do for our professional secrets to be floating around loose, available to anyone. Even the hairdressers do not permit that. We have a high responsibility to the public. Only a member of this guild, trained, tested, sworn, and accepted, may lawfully be custodian of those manuals."

Max's answer was barely audible. "I don't see the harm. I'm not going to get to use them, it looks like."

"You don't believe in anarchy, surely? Our whole society is founded on entrusting grave secrets only to those who are worthy. But don't feel sad. Each brother, when he is issued his tools, deposits an earnest with the bursar. In my opinion, since you are the nearest relative of Brother Jones, we may properly repay the earnest to you for their return. Carl."

The young man appeared again. "The deposit monies, please." Carl had the money with him--he seemed to earn his living by knowing what the High Secretary was about to want. Max found himself accepting an impressive sheaf of money, more than he had ever touched before, and the books were taken from him before he could think of another objection.

It seemed time to leave, but he was motioned back to his chair. "Personally, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am merely the servant of my brothers; I have no choice. However ..." The High Secretary fitted his finger tips together. "Our brotherhood takes care of its own. There are funds at my disposal for such cases. How would you like to go into training?"

"For the _Guild?_"

"No, no! We don't grant brotherhood as charity. But for some respectable trade, metalsmith, or chef, or tailor--what you wish. Any occupation not hereditary. The brotherhood will sponsor you, pay your 'prentice fee and, if you make good, lend you your contribution when you are sworn in."

Max knew he should accept gratefully. He was being offered an opportunity free that most of the swarming masses never got on any terms. But the cross-grained quirk in him that had caused him to spurn the stew that Sam had left behind made this generous offer stick in his craw. "Thanks just the same," he answered in tones almost surly, "but I don't rightly think I can take it."

The High Secretary looked bleak. "So? It's your life." He snapped his fingers, a page appeared, and Max was led quickly out of the Hall.

He stood on the steps of the Guild Hall and wondered dejectedly what he should do next. Even the space ships on the field at the foot of the street did not attract; he could not have looked at one without feeling like crying. He looked to the east instead.

A short distance away a jaunty figure leaned against a trash receptacle. As Max's eyes rested on the man he straightened up, flipped a cigarette to the pavement, and started toward him.

Max looked at him again. "Sam!" It was undoubtedly the wayfarer who had robbed him--well dressed, clean shaved--but Sam nonetheless. Max hurried toward him.

"Howdy, Max," Sam greeted him with an unembarrassed grin, "how did you make out?"

"I ought to have you arrested!"

"Now, now--keep your voice down. You're making yourself conspicuous."

Max took a breath and lowered his voice. "You stole my books."

"_Your_ books? They weren't yours--and I returned them to their owners. You want to arrest me for that?"

"But you ... Well, anyhow you ..."

A voice, civil, firm, and official, spoke at Max's elbow. "Is this person annoying you, sir?" Max turned and found a policeman standing behind him. He started to speak, then bit off the words as he realized the question had been addressed to Sam.

Sam took hold of Max's upper arm in a gesture that was protective and paternal, but quite firm. "Not at all, officer, thank you."

"Are you sure? I received word that this chico was headed this way and I've had my eye on him."

"He's a friend of mine. I was waiting for him here."

"As you say. We have a lot of trouble with vagrants. They all seem to head for Earthport."

"He's not a vagrant. He's a young friend of mine from the country and I'm afraid he's gotten a bit confused. I'll be responsible."

"Very well, sir."

"Not at all." Max let himself be led away. When they were out of earshot Sam said, "That was close. That nosy clown would have had us both in the bull pen. You did all right, kid--kept your lip zipped at the right time."

They were around the corner into a less important street before Sam let go his grip. He stopped and faced Max, grinning. "Well, kid?"

"I should a' told that cop about you!"

"Why didn't you? He was right there."

Max found himself caught by contradictory feelings. He was angry with Sam, no doubt about it, but his first unstudied reaction at seeing him had been the warm pleasure one gets from recognizing a familiar face among strangers--the anger had come a split second later. Now Sam looked at him with easy cynicism, a quizzical smile on his face. "Well, kid?" he repeated. "If you want to turn me in, let's go back and get it over with. I won't run."

Max looked back at him peevishly. "Oh, forget it!"

"Thanks. I'm sorry about it, kid. I really am."

"Then why did you do it?"

Sam's face changed suddenly to a sad, far-away look, then resumed its cheerful cynicism. "I was tempted by an idea, old son--every man has his limits. Some day I'll tell you. Now, how about a bit to eat and a gab? There's a joint near here where we can talk without having the nosies leaning over our shoulders."

"I don't know as I want to."

"Oh, come now! The food isn't much but it's better than mulligan."

Max had been ready with a stiff speech about how he would not turn Sam in, but he certainly did not want to eat with him; the mention of mulligan brought him up short. He remembered uneasily that Sam had not inquired as to _his_ morals, but had shared his food.

"Well ... okay."

"That's my boy!" They went on down the street. The neighborhood was a sort to be found near the port in any port city; once off the pompous Avenue of the Planets it became more crowded, noisier, more alive, and somehow warmer and more friendly despite a strong air of "keep your hand on your purse." Hole-in-the-wall tailor shops, little restaurants none too clean, cheap hotels, honky-tonks, fun arcades, exhibits both "educational" and "scientific," street vendors, small theaters with gaudy posters and sounds of music leaking out, shops fronting for betting parlors, tattoo parlors fronting for astrologers, and the inevitable Salvation Army mission gave the street flavor its stylish cousins lacked. Martians in trefoil sunglasses and respirators, humanoids from Beta Corvi III, things with exoskeletons from Allah knew where, all jostled with humans of all shades and all blended in easy camaraderie.

Sam stopped at a shop with the age-old symbol of three golden spheres. "Wait here. Be right out."

Max waited and watched the throng. Sam came out shortly without his coat. "Now we eat."

"Sam! Did you pawn your coat?"

"Give the man a cigar! How did you guess?"

"But ... Look, I didn't know you were broke; you looked prosperous. Get it back, I'll ... I'll pay for our lunch."

"Say, that's sweet of you, kid. But forget it. I don't need a coat this weather. Truth is, I was dressed up just to make a good impression at--well, a little matter of business."

Max blurted out, "But how did you ...", then shut up. Sam grinned. "Did I steal the fancy rags? No. I encountered a citizen who believed in percentages and engaged him in a friendly game. Never bet on percentages, kid; skill is more fundamental. Here we are."

The room facing the street was a bar, beyond was a restaurant. Sam led him on through the restaurant, through the kitchen, down a passage off which there were card rooms, and ended in a smaller, less pretentious dining room; Sam picked a table in a corner. An enormous Samoan shuffled up, dragging one leg. Sam nodded, "Howdy, Percy." He turned to Max. "A drink first?"

"Uh, I guess not."

"Smart lad. Lay off the stuff. Irish for me, Percy, and we'll both have whatever you had for lunch." The Samoan waited silently. Sam shrugged and laid money on the table, Percy scooped it up.

Max objected, "But I was going to pay."

"You can pay for the lunch. Percy owns the place," he added. "He's offensively rich, but he didn't get that way by trusting the likes of me. Now tell me about yourself, old son. How you got here? How you made out with the astrogators ... everything. Did they kill the fatted calf?"

"Well, no." There seemed to be no reason not to tell Sam and he found that he wanted to talk. Sam nodded at the end.

"About what I had guessed. Any plans now?"

"No. I don't know what to do now, Sam."

"Hmm ... it's an ill wind that has no turning. Eat your lunch and let me think."

Later he added, "Max, what do you _want_ to do?"

"Well ... I wanted to be an astrogator ..."

"That's out."

"I know."

"Tell me, did you want to be an astrogator and nothing else, or did you simply want to go into space?"

"Why, I guess I never thought about it any other way."

"Well, think about it."

Max did so. "I want to space. If I can't go as an astrogator, I want to go anyhow. But I don't see how. The Astrogators' Guild is the only one I stood a chance for."

"There are ways."

"Huh? Do you mean put in for emigration?"

Sam shook his head. "It costs more than you could save to go to one of the desirable colonies--and the ones they give you free rides to I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies."

"Then what do you mean?"

Sam hesitated. "There are ways to wangle it, old son--if you do what I say. This uncle of yours--you were around him a lot?"

"Why, sure."

"Talked about space with you?"

"Certainly. That's all we talked about."

"Hmm ... how well do you know the patter?"