The Escape Orbit

Chapter 7

Next day Warren dispatched Kelso, Hynds and two other responsible officers from the post on a good-will mission to the surrounding farms and settlements, at the same time signaling the other posts to send out as many officers as could be spared with similar instructions. These orders were designed to show the so-called Civilians that a major change of policy had taken place within the Committee, and while explaining the ramifications of this change the visiting Committeemen were to bend every effort to be frank, friendly, and helpful to the farmers—especially in the matter of doing odd jobs of construction and maintenance and in putting down marauding battlers. They were also ordered to show all due respect toward these fellow officers, being particularly careful to avoid dumb insolence or sarcasm, and on no account were they to refer to these non-Committee officers as Civilians—they were to refrain from even thinking of them as such. These non-Committeemen and women were to be regarded simply as imprisoned officers who on a certain day already fixed in the not too distant future would be breaking out of their prison, and that any assistance they felt like giving, whether it was a full-time service with the Committee or an hour or so a day on preparatory work, would be very much appreciated.

Already drafted were a series of follow-up orders in increasingly firm language, which would not go out until the present tension between the two factions had eased considerably and the preparations for the Escape were far advanced, one of which stated, “Owing to the necessity of gathering up-to-date information on the disposition of friendly and enemy forces prior to the Escape, all officers are asked to interrogate new arrivals regarding these matters or, if they feel unable to execute this duty with the required efficiency, to escort them to the nearest Post without delay.”

To Ruth Fielding he said, “You’ve been appointed to the Staff because I need a good psychologist who can evaluate the overall situation here and help me guide it in the direction I think it must go, and who is also capable of seeing it from the woman’s angle. We don’t really need the help of every officer on the planet, but the ones we do want—the chemists, metallurgists and engineers that Sutton is screaming for—all seem to have married or gone civ… sorry, I mean they’ve left the Committee. To get these men, it seems to be, we must first interest their wives in the project.”

“This might be accomplished,” he went on, “by you mentioning at some length the absence of civilized amenities here, such as decent feminine clothing, makeup and whatever else it is that you and they miss. If you can make them feel discontented they will bring additional pressure to bear on their husbands and friends to support the Escape.”

“With this in mind, I am going to make a tour,” Warren continued, standing up and indicating a sequence of farms, villages and Posts which included both Hutton’s Mountain and Andersonstown. “One of the most important calls will be Andersonstown. It was there that some of our best Committeemen were lured, trapped or otherwise inveigled into joining the other side, and it is only fitting that we choose the same place to start winning them back again.”

Warren resumed his chair, smiled and went on, “But this whole area is literally crawling with husband-hungry women, which is another and more selfish reason for me wanting to take you along. The way I see it, arriving in company with a female officer who is well above average in looks will, as well as showing them that the Committee is no longer composed entirely of misogynists, be the only way of keeping these ravening females at bay and protecting me from a fate which is, the way Sloan tells it, worse than death… What did you say, Ruth?”

“Sorry, sir,” said Fielding. “I was muttering to myself about my lack of experience chaperoning Sector Marshals. And for the other flattering things you said, thank you, sir.”

“Not flattery, Major. Fact.”

“Well, well,” Fielding returned, grinning. “It seems that there are two good psychologists here…”

Hastily, Warren ended the interview before it developed into a mutual admiration society by telling her that he wanted to leave that afternoon and that they both had arrangements to make.

But the preparation for the tour did not go smoothly, and when the hour came when Warren had expected to set off he had what amounted to a mutiny on his hands. It began when Sloan insisted that the Marshal was too valuable a man to risk traveling without a proper escort, and in the same breath refused to order his men to a duty which would take them into hag-ridden Andersonstown—nor would he go there himself. It took every scrap of Warren’s authority, persuasiveness and invective to finally effect a compromise, which was that a single Committeeman from the post should act as guide to Warren and an escort made up of six members of Warren’s original crew who were fairly proficient with their cross-bows would accompany him.

The delay meant that they would not be able to stop the night at the farm thirty miles to the south as planned, but the idea of roughing it for the first night out did not seem to bother anyone. They marched in single file with packs on their backs, their cross-bows carried at the regulation Committee angle and with their hair plastered with the strong-smelling grease which was supposed to discourage insects and battlers—if the battlers did not happen to be feeling hungry or mean, and it was only on rare occasions when battlers were not feeling both—and eager to put into practice all the things they had learned as drill at the Post. It was only their guide, an officer named Briggs, who seemed worried. Tactfully but at frequent intervals he suggested that they might not be as proficient as they thought.

But the two-hour trek through the forest, which was often so dense and thorny that Warren longed for Civilian trousers rather than his trim, Committee kilt, did not noticeably damp their enthusiasm and when they reached the road which would eventually lead them to the farm they began to make good time.

It was Warren’s experience of what, until then, had been only a black line on the wall map. The road was little more than an unpaved trail, grass-grown and overhung by trees except where it crossed a river or ravine by way of a strong and surprisingly well-designed bridge. Warren had to remind himself that the road had not been built solely for pedestrian traffic, but was meant to take the heavy, metal sections of the dummy, and that the whole escape could fail if just one of those sections was to end up in a ravine.

Three hours before sunset Briggs called a halt, saying that due to their lack of experience it would be better to allow plenty of daylight in which to catch their supper. Then later, when the fires were going well and the men were returning in triumph with the small rabbit-like creatures which abounded in the forest, Briggs had some gently sarcastic things to say about the large number of arrows which were apparently necessary to kill these ferocious, eight-inch long herbivores. And when there was nothing left of the supper but the appetizing smell, he made further attempts to spoil the general air of well-being by talking about some of the horrible accidents which could occur through hammocks not being properly hung. Warren felt a little sorry for him because nothing he said or did could make Fielding and the men stop behaving as if they were all on a glorious picnic.

Some of the things which Briggs had warned them about came back to Warren, however, as he climbed the regulation thirty feet into one of the trees chosen for them to sleep in. Thirty feet was the minimum safe altitude, the height above ground level to which a fully grown battler reared onto its hind legs and with trunks at full extension could not reach. The trouble was, Warren thought as he attached his hammock to the one Briggs had pointed out to him, that branches at this height tended to be thin, and under his considerable mass this one sagged alarmingly. It required a distinct effort of will for him to climb into the hammock even when its fail-safe device—a length of thick rope looped around his waist and tied securely to the branch above—was in position. As he pulled across the flap which was designed to keep out the rain or dew, he was painfully aware of the distance between the ground and himself, and of the fact that he was not going to sleep this night…

He awoke suddenly to the sounds of shouting, cursing and cries of pain. The sky between the leaves above him was light blue and the leaves themselves reflected pink highlights from the rising sun, and in the next tree Briggs was clambering among the branches methodically whacking the undersides of the hammocks with a stick. Warren did not think that the man would subject a Sector Marshal to such treatment, but rather than put it to the test he pulled himself astride his branch and began untying the hammock preparatory to stowing it in his pack. Half an hour later they were on their way, munching on the hard, Post-baked biscuits as they marched.

They reached the Nelson farm just before noon, finding that it comprised a fair-sized log house and a larger but more crudely constructed building for storage purposes, both of them being enclosed by a stockade which sagged badly in two places. A large tree served as the main support and a ladder led up to a platform covered by a skin awning. The platform was above the thirty-foot level, a refuge for the Nelsons should a battler succeed in breaching the stockade.

Warren had hoped to stay overnight at the farm, and the Nelsons had insisted on him doing so, saying that they could easily accommodate his people between the house and the barn. Despite their offer of hospitality Warren could see that they did not want him there. Mrs. Nelson seemed very ill at ease and when he talked to her husband, sounding him on the possibility of his contributing a few hours work a week to the Committee and testing his arguments generally, he found that he was not getting through to the man at all.

The reason, or to be more accurate, the three reasons, were quite obvious. He mentioned them to Fielding as soon as they were alone together.

“Three children,” he said in a strained voice. “Between six months and seven years. I wasn’t prepared for this.”

Fielding was silent for a moment, then she said, “The Committee keeps records of all arriving prisoners, but they are the only new arrivals which concern them. I did expect something like this, although I would say that three is above the average. You must remember that the dangers of pregnancy are aggravated here—the lack of proper medical facilities and the battler menace to name only two…”

“The medical facilities are pretty good, ma’am, considering,” Briggs broke in defensively at that point. Warren had not realized the guide was within earshot. Briggs went on, “There are some very good ex-medicos on the Committee. And among the Civilians, too, of course, but their doctors don’t have the same local know-how. Our people, under Hutton, have conducted systematic research into the medical properties of the local flora, and a couple of them have died carrying it out. But these people feel awkward about sending for one of our men at a confinement. They know what we think of bringing kids into a prison world, that an officer who has kids is not likely to take the risk of escaping, or dying, or maybe bringing down Bug reprisals.”

“That,” said Warren with great feeling, “was what I was thinking.”

“Sorry to butt in like this, sir,” Briggs went on, “but I wanted to ask permission for our men to repair this stockade…”

According to Briggs the farm stockade was in such a state of disrepair that a baby battler could push it over, and as fixing it was a job called for the concerted efforts of upwards of six men, Nelson was probably waiting until some of his neighbors could come to help with the job. All the indications were that the Committee party would not be staying the night, so Briggs suggested that they do something before they left which would leave a good impression. Besides, if his men fixed the stockade it was the unwritten law that Mrs. Nelson would give them dinner and supplies for the journey, and while the farm bread would not remain edible as long as Committee biscuit, for the time it did remain fresh it made the biscuit taste like sawdust.

As he gave the necessary permission Warren thought that words had failed him here and that a nice good deed might salvage something from the situation. He knew that the Nelsons would not mind feeding his hungry mob—Civilian cooking was one of the chief weapons used to convert Committeemen—and he resolved that his good deed should have no other strings attached. He would not even mention the Escape again, and for a while he would be very chary of talking about his ideas to non-Committee people.

He was going to have to change his approach, Warren told himself grimly, and develop a whole new set of arguments.

To Fielding he said thoughtfully, “Mrs. Nelson was Senior Warp Engineer on a battleship—she must have more degrees than she knows what to do with—and her husband, a relative moron, commanded a destroyer. It seems a great shame to me that two such brilliant people should be stuck here for the rest of their lives. It’s a criminal waste of brains!”

“Yes, sir,” said Fielding.

“Did you see those hand-made books lying around?” Warren went on. “Full of simple sketches and short words in block capitals. They’re accepting it, and beginning to think of teaching their children. I think they’ve given me some useful ideas…”

“About founding a dynasty, sir?” said Fielding.

Irritated suddenly, Warren wondered why all psychologists seemed to have one-track minds, the track becoming a deep and well-worn gully where female psychologists were concerned. They had not been that sort of ideas, and he suspected that Fielding knew it as well as he did, but perversely he refrained from telling her about them. Like his arguments, they need to be worked into better shape. Because it had become very plain to Warren that the main obstacle to the success of the Escape was not, as he had hitherto thought, the Bug guardship…

Muffled by the thick log walls, but still plainly audible, the Nelson baby began to cry.