The Kruton Interface

CHAPTER 8

Standing on the bounce pad beneath the blow tube was a strange man dressed in formal attire of two centuries ago: dark trousers and tailed coat, white starched shirt and white tie, a white carnation gracing the lapel of the jacket. For all the finery and formality, though, there was a seedy look about him.

He was not a small man, but he stood with his torso slightly forward and his legs bent, and as he moved it was apparent that he maintained this curious posture while walking. His face was comic in itself: a largish beaked nose jutted out between small round spectacles, presiding over a bushy mustache (though there was something odd about it). His hair parted in the middle and flared out into winglike tufts. He brandished a huge cigar that did not appear to be lit. His eyebrows were as thick as hedgerows.

Wanker stood, took one look at this apparition, and groaned again. Thinking that if he ignored the thing it would go away, he barked, “Navigator! Plot a course for the Kruton Interface!”

Warner-Hillary asked, “Where is it?”

Wanker was on the verge of deigning to speak to the intruder, but was brought up short. “What’d you say?”

“I mean, sir, like… where’s the Kruton Interface?”

“In Sector Four.”

“Uh, that’s a big area of the galaxy, sir. Uh, any idea, you know, exactly where?”

“Haven’t a clue, honey. What the devil do I know about navigation?”

“Didn’t you learn a little bit in the Academy?”

“Huh? Well, I guess I did. But it wasn’t… matter of fact… you know, I think I actually flunked that course.” The captain thought it over. “No, I dropped it and got an Incomplete, then I retook it and squeaked by with a…” The penny finally dropped. “Wait a minute, what the hell am I saying? Lieutenant, you are the navigator of this ship. You mean to say you don’t know how to plot and lay in a course?”

“Well, yes, sir, but I’ll have to look at a map.”

Wanker whacked the heel of his hand against his temple. “A map! What were the chances? Unbelievable. Is that really how it’s done?”

“Oh, you’re teasing me, sir. No, sir, you see, it’s just that—”

“Lieutenant, this is the twenty-second century. We have amazing devices now called computers. They’re vastly more intelligent than we are. If you want to plot a course to a certain destination, all you have to do is tell the computer, and it’ll do it for you. Does any of this ring a bell?”

“Sir, if you’ll let me explain. It’s like this — most of the automatic mapping functions in the navigational software have been glitching like crazy, sir. The one that does the plotting and stuff is, like, totally grunged.”

“‘Grunged.’ Is that standard Space Forces terminology?”

“Means it’s messed up, sir. I’ll have to locate the coordinates manually, and that means I’ll have to search the maps myself and find out where the Interface is.”

“Sorry to put you to so much trouble.”

“Oh, that’s okay, Captain. It’s my job, after all.”

“I’ve heard a rumor to that effect.”

The strange visitor, who had been standing off to one side listening to all this, nicked nonexistent ash off the end of his cigar. “I don’t know about a navigator, but if anyone needs a doctor, I’m here. Meanwhile, is there a Wanker in the house?”

Wanker took a dim view of this sentiment. “That’s VAHN-ker.”

“That’s ridiculous. Anyway, are you the skipper of this tugboat?”

Wanker’s shoulders fell. “Unfortunately, that burden is in my hands.”

“Well, a burdened hand is worth two in the bush. Speaking of which, I’m pretty bushed myself. I’ve traveled the length and breadth of this galaxy. The length was fine, but I’m here to tell you that the breadth was pretty bad,”

Wanker looked about the bridge. “Did I walk into a night club?”

“You look like you walked into a lamppost.”

“Look, Dr. Strangefinger… I presume you are the famed Dr. Rufus T. Strangefinger?”

“Famed? That’s a laugh. I’ve worked and I’ve slaved and look where it’s got me. I can’t get arrested. Except for last night. They nabbed me for frequenting a house of ill repute. I got off, though. Turned out I was on the wrong frequency.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Wanker demanded.

“It will all be made clear in the fullness of time. You say you’re the captain of this garbage scow?”

Wanker folded his arms imperiously. “I did.”

“Well, you ought to be arrested,” Dr. Strangefinger said, jabbing the cigar at the captain. “On second thought, you ought to walk the plank. Or walk the dog.”

“We don’t have a mascot,” Rhodes said.

The cigar jabbed at the captain again. “You have him, don’t you? Somebody should take better care of him. You know how much a veterinarian charges these days? More than a lawyer. There ought to be a law about that. Have my lawyers call your lawyers. Then they can all call my stockbroker and well take a meeting and do lunch.”

“See here—”

“Or do a meeting and take our lunch. Or we could all stay home and have a nice home-cooked meal.” The stranger’s bushy eyebrows went up and down in a suggestive manner.

Wanker was losing patience. “Are you or are you not Dr. Rufus T. Strangefinger?”

“My name is legion. Matter of fact, when I was in the Foreign Legion, I had a number of names. One of them was ‘Filthy Pierre.’”

“Are you or aren’t you Strangefinger?”

“Suh, ah have been called many things in mah time,” the man said in an accent that was a burlesque of Mr. Rhodes’.”

“Yes or no?”

“Suh, it simply is not that simple. Suh.”

“YES OR NO?” Wanker exploded.

“Well, since you put it that way — yes.”

Wanker exhaled. “Thank you. Now, just what the devil is this thing of yours, this new drive — what the hell was the name again?”

“You’re being coy, sir. Coy, very coy.” The eyebrows wiggled again.

“Look, Strangefinger, can we dispense with all this foolishness?”

At a brisk pace, Strangefinger began a spot inspection of the bridge, shoulders hunched forward, cigar pointing the way. “I always try to keep dispenses down. Speaking of money, can you lend me a hundred credits till payday?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then can you spare a coin for a poor orphan?”

“You’re an orphan?

“My father died before his time. The hangman showed up early. Hello, my dear.”

“Hello,” Darvona said with a smile.

“And you are dear to me, very dear.” Strangefinger sat in her lap.

“You’re very forward, sir.”

“Well, I’ll go forward and you go aft, and ne’er the twain shall meet. Except in the wee hours, at the full of the moon, when the wolfbane blooms.”

“Huh?”

Strangefinger slid off and dropped to his knees. “Oh, can’t you see what I’m trying to say? I love you.”

Darvona blushed.

“No, don’t say it. We’re from two different worlds. Your parents don’t approve of me. My dear, I’m afraid we’re doomed … doomed!’’

“No, we’re not.”

“Sure we are. Got any hemlock?”

“You’d die for me?” Darvona asked.

“No, but I’m willing to get very ill.”

Darvona suddenly shouted, “I LOVE YOU! TAKE ME NOW, NOW!” She dove on him.

They tussled on the deck before Strangefinger got the upper hand and pinned her.

“Boy, did I get a wrong number!” Strangefinger exclaimed.

“You said ‘I love you’ to the wrong person,” Sven Svensen told him. “Here, I’ll hold her till she calms down.”

“It’s all right, I’m a doctor.”

“No, I am the doctor!” said O’Gandhi, who had dropped out of the blow tube in the middle of the fracas.

“Doctor, you’ll have my complete confidence and none of my money,” Strangefinger said as he relinquished control of the supine and semiconscious Darvona.

Strangefinger rose to meet the withering stare of Captain Wanker.

“Dr. Strangefinger, I have a ship to command.”

“I’m still waiting for my ship to come in. When it does you can ship out.”

“You wouldn’t know a spaceship if one came up and ignored you,” Wanker scoffed.

“Au contraire,” countered Strangefinger, “I’m an old space hand. I used to cook meals on a freighter that hauled raw chocolate.”

Rhodes asked, “You were the cookie?”

Strangefinger’s eyebrows wriggled lewdly. “That’s right, I was the chocolate ship cookie. And a sweet job it was.”

Wanker was horrified. He appealed to everyone on the bridge. “What is with this guy?”

Rhodes said, “Sir, I think I can explain… ”

“Sun, ah protest. Ah protest in the most strenuous terms—”

Wanker clapped his hands over his ears. “Shut up! Shut up! Will everyone please for one minute shut the hell up!”

Strangefinger looked at Rhodes. “What’s eating him?”

“Don’t know, Doctor.”

“Well, whatever it is, he’s giving it indigestion.”

“QUIET!”

Wanker made a heroic effort to compose himself. “Look, Dr. Strangefinger. We both have jobs to do. Now, about this Proust Drive of yours. What the devil is it?”

“What the hell do you care?” the scientist shot back, then became suddenly conciliatory. “But I’ll tell you. It’s the invention of the century. It’s colossal, it’s stupendous. It cost a pile of money.”

“How much?”

“Sorry, that’s classified.”

“Well, how does it work?”

“Sorry, that’s also classified. Matter of fact, I ran the ad for a whole week and never got a nibble. I’ve been trying to unload this turkey for the longest time.”

“What’s it supposed to do?”

“I’ll tell you this, Captain. If it works, you’ll be out of a job.”

“Thank God! When?”

“Don’t be too eager. You’ll be walking the streets soon enough. Wait a minute. Didn’t I see you walking the streets last night? I know — you were the tall one in the magenta frock.”

“Oh, frock off.”

“Very funny, Captain, but I’m not going to engage in a battle of wits with you. I’d never attack an unarmed man.”

Rhodes broke in, “Doctor, am I to understand that your mechanism is another attempt at supplanting a starship crew with an advanced computer system?”

“We’ve gone through so many of those,” Warner-Hillary said with a trace of bitterness. “They’re always trying to eliminate good honest working people.”

“And none of those systems has ever worked,” Rhodes pointed out.

Strangefinger shook his head. “I’m all for working people. Why, my record on labor issues is a hundred percent for other people working.”

“Then this Proust device isn’t an attempt at total automation?” Rhodes asked.

“No. It’s primarily two things: a radically new interstellar drive, and a cybernetic-bionic approach to starship systems control and command involving resonating positive and negative feedback loops in an environment of neural networking.” He bent over and whispered into Warner-Hillary’s ear. “Impressive, huh? Come to my cabin at midnight and well exchange dirty navigator stories.”

The young lieutenant giggled.

Rhodes persisted, “Which means exactly what, Dr. Strangefinger?”

“It means, my tall, gangling friend, that the Proust device will primarily replace two personnel aboard this ship. The captain and the technical officer. “

Strangefinger broke off and studied Sadowski, who was standing by his station, calmly observing events.

Strangefinger’s aside to the captain was: “Don’t look now, but your engineer is wearing a dress.”

“It’s okay,” Wanker said, “he’s Polish.”

“Well, that’s different. I was worried there for a moment. As I was saying, uh, regarding the engineer, the Proust device is a star drive and a complete engineering system. Regarding the captain … well, just about anything can replace a captain of a ship. All you need is a peg leg, a parrot, and a pillar of salt.”

“What about the radically new star drive?” Rhodes asked.

“Oh, that. Nothing big. Just instantaneous travel to anywhere in the universe.”

“Wow!”

“A trifle. That’s mostly theory right now, but even as the new drive is configured, we ought to be able to treble this ship’s cruising speed.”

“Wonderful!” Captain Wanker enthused. “I’m all for it. Please go install your device and leave me alone. You bore me.”

Strangefinger took the cigar from his mouth. “Sir, I take umbrage at that remark. But I’m a peaceable man, so it’s all water under the umbrage to me.” .

“Why does he keep doing that?” Wanker demanded of Rhodes.

“He’s a serial punster.”

“But why?”

Strangefinger struck a melodramatic pose. “All right, I’ll go! Throw me out like a worn-out shoe — my lawyer and I will shoe you for everything you’ve got!”

“Do I have to call Security?”

“Go ahead. Call Security. Call Social Security, for all I care. Tell them your check was stolen and you’re a widow and need comforting.”

“LEAVE THE BRIDGE!” Wanker screamed.

Dr. O’Gandhi helped the recovered Darvona to her feet.

“Very well,” Strangefinger said. “I go to make history.” He pointed at Darvona. “Or her story. But first I’d like to freshen up after my long trip.”

Wanker ordered, “Mr. Rhodes, escort this gentleman to the guest quarters.”

“I’ll do it, sir!” Darvona said, still a bit flushed and overexcited.

“Ms. Roundheels, stay at your post.”

“Have a heart, Captain,” Strangefinger pleaded. “Can’t you see she wants to make it up to me? She’s a simple woman with simple needs. Her won’ts are few.”

“I’m waiting for the right man to come along,” Darvona said. “Meanwhile, there’s nothing wrong with having some fun with the wrong ones.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Again, the physicist’s eyebrows did their lascivious dance.

“Ms. Roundheels, you will please—” Wanker made a despairing gesture. “Oh, go ahead, what do I give a damn.”

Darvona’s ample hips swayed as she went to Strangefinger, who took her hand.

“Where have you been all my life?” the scientist asked. “And when are you going back?”

Darvona turned, let go of his hand, and hip-wiggled away. “Walk this way, Doctor.”

“If I could walk that way I wouldn’t be a doctor.”

When they had mounted the blow tube pad, Darvona hit SUCK and threw her arms around the bespectacled visitor. The tube carried them up together.

Wanker was fretting. “I tell you, Command Central has it in for me. I have enemies, many enemies.”

“Isn’t that a bit paranoid, sir?” Rhodes asked.

“As a personality style, I’m rather fond of paranoia. It’s safer than trust and optimism.”

“I don’t quite follow, sir.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

A beeping came from the general vicinity of Darvona’s comm console.

Warner-Hillary ran to answer the call. “Cosmophone contact from Command Central, Captain. It’s Admiral Lyman Dickover, calling for you, sir.”

“Old Trickie Dickie again! He’s in on the plot for sure. He’s hated me since I stole his girl at Space Academy.

It was a fib, but it was better than telling the real reason. Wanker had blurted that Dickover had gone AWOL over a weekend to see his girlfriend, and was overheard by an upper classman, who turned Dickover in. Dickover had never forgiven Wanker.

“Put him on the big screen, Lieutenant.”

Wanker turned to face a blank view screen. “Oh, I forgot. Wonderful! Well, the little screen, then.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

What appeared on the captain’s personal screen looked like a moon, its surface cratered and bleak, but then it rotated on its axis, revealing itself to be the shaved, stubbly cranium of Rear Admiral Lyman Dickover. The admiral’s perpetual scowl, like a permanent marking on the lunar surface, was still there.

“Wanker? Dickover here.”

“Hello again, Admiral.”

“I trust you’ve taken aboard the civilian party we talked about?”

“All aboard, sir.”

“Don’t say ‘All aboard,’ for God’s sake. It sounds ridiculous.”

“Sorry, sir. They’ve arrived safely.”

“Good. I’m also relying on you to extend to them every courtesy and comfort.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And you’ll cooperate with them fully. Understood?”

Wanker answered with reluctance, “Understood, sir.”

“Bear this in mind. The successful testing and development of this special project is vital to United Systems defense needs. We must have a technological edge against our enemies. Is that clear, Wanker?”

“Uhh.… that’s Vahn-ker, sir.”

“Sorry, but the other way sounds more appropriate. Captain, the best way to accomplish your mission is to turn over your ship to your guests and try to stay out of their way. I trust that is within your capacity.”

“Give up my ship? You mean, just hand it over? Sir, really, with respect, I must protest. It goes against the grain of a fighting man—”

“Captain, you’ll be fighting court-martial charges of incompetence and dereliction of duty if you foul up this assignment as you did your last two. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Wanker nodded sadly. “Yes, sir.”

“Then bring back a fully tested and operational device. Don’t fuck this one up, Wanker. Dickover out.”

The screen went dark, and Warner-Hillary announced, “Transmission ended, sir.”

Wanker muttered, “Weasel.”

Dickover’s voice boomed from the speaker. “I heard that! Add a charge of insubordination to that list of court-martial charges. Dickover out!”

Wanker turned savagely on the navigator. “You said the transmission ended!”

“I couldn’t read the little thingie, here, sir.”

“Lieutenant, the only little ‘thingie’ I’m aware of is your microscopic brain. Put yourself on report!”

“Sir, communications isn’t my job! I’m only trained as a backup!’’

“Nevertheless, you’re on report. Life’s nasty, isn’t it?”

The navigator said sullenly, “It’s a bitch.”

Warner-Hillary moped back to her station. As she passed behind Wanker she stuck out her tongue at him.

“And then you get court-martialed,” Wanker murmured to himself.

The captain tried to calm down, using transcendental biofeedback techniques that he had been taught in the Academy, most of them useful for summoning extra mental strength and stamina during combat. He did alpha-breathing, beta-chanting, and gamma-imaging; he visualized his favorite things, and tried to conjure up the happiest moment of his life. He made an effort to feel better about himself, searching within to find an inner strength that he knew he had. He attuned himself to goal-oriented behaviors that would maximize his options and minimize environmental negativity.

“DOCTOR!”

O’Gandhi came running. “What is it, O my Captain of mine?”

“FOR GOD’S SAKE GIVE ME SOMETHING BEFORE I GO OUT OF MY FREAKING MIND!”

“Here they are, right in my tunic pocket, the happy little beggars.”

O’Gandhi gave him a handful of pills, pretty purple, red, and green ones.

Captain Wanker wolfed them down dry.