Dark Benediction

The pusher barked a short curse. “I’m just about fed up with that superstitious drivel!” he snapped. “There aren’t any non-human ships, Relke. And there aren’t any non-humans.”

“I didn’t say—”

“No, but you had it in mind.” The pusher gave him a scornful look and hiked on toward the caterpillar train.

“Yah. If you say so, Joe,” Relke muttered to himself. He glanced again at the creeping point of light in the blackness; he shrugged; he began cranking up the slack span again. But the creeping point kept drawing his gaze while he cranked. When he looked at the tension indicator, it read 5,600 pounds. He grunted his annoyance, reversed the jack ratchet, and began letting out the extra 600 pounds.

The shift-change signal was already beeping in his headsets by the time he had eased it back down to 5,000, and the C-shift crewmen were standing around the foot of the tower jeering at him from below.

“Get off it, boy. Give the men a chance.”

“Come on down, Relke. You can let go. It ain’t gonna drop.”

He ignored the razzing and climbed down the trainward side of the tower: Larkin and Kunz walked briskly around to meet him. He jumped the last twenty-five feet, hoping to evade them, but they were waiting for him when his boots hit the ground.

“We want a little talk with you, Relke, my lad,” came Larkin’s rich, deceptively affable baritone.

“Sorry, Lark, it’s late and I—” He tried to sidestep them, but they danced in and locked arms with him, one on each side.

“Like Lark told you, we want a little talk,” grunted Kunz.

“Sure, Harv—but not right now. Drop by my bunk tank when you’re off shift. I been in this straight jacket for seven hours. It doesn’t smell exactly fresh in here.”

“Then, Sonny, you should learn to control yourself in your suit,” said Larkin, his voice all mellifluent with, smiles and avuncular pedagoguery. “Let’s take him, Harv.”

They caught him in a double armlock, hoisted him off the ground, and started carrying him toward a low lava ridge that lay a hundred yards to the south of the tower. He could not kick effectively because of the stiffness of the suit. He wrenched one hand free and fumbled at the channel selector of his suit radio. Larkin jerked his stub antenna free from its mounting before Relke could put in a call for help.

“Tch tch tch,” said Larkin, waggling his head.

They carried him across the ridge and set him on his feet again, out of sight of the camp. “Sit down, Sonny. We have seeeerious matters to discuss with you.”

Relke heard him faintly, even without the antenna, but he saw no reason to acknowledge. When he failed to answer, Kunz produced a set of jumper wires from his knee pocket and clipped their suit audio circuits into a three-way intercom, disconnecting the plate lead from an r.f. stage to insure privacy.

“You guys give me a pain in the hump,” growled the lineman. “What do you want this time? You know damn well a dead radio is against safety rules.”

“It is? You ever hear of such a rule, Kunz?”

“Naah. Or maybe I did, at that. It’s to make things easy for work spies, psych checkers, and time-and-motion men, ain’t that it?”

“Yeah. You a psych checker or a time-and-motion man, Relke?”

“Hell, you guys known damn well I’m not—”

“Then what are you stalling about?” Larkin’s baritone lost its mellowness and became an ominous growl. “You came nosing around, asking questions about the Party. So we let you in on it. We took you to a cell meeting. You said you wanted to join. So we let you in on two more meetings. Then you chickened out. We don’t like that, Relke. It smells. It smells like a dirty informing rat!”

“I’m no damn informer!”

“Then why did you welsh?”

“I didn’t welsh. I never said I’d join. You asked me if I was in favor of getting the Schneider-Volkov Act repealed. I said ‘yes.’ I still say ‘yes.’ That doesn’t mean I want to join the Party.”

“Why not, Relke?”

“Well, there’s the fifty bucks, for one thing.”

“Wh-a-a-at! One shift’s wages? Hell, if that’s all that’s stopping you—Kunz, let’s pay his fifty bucks for him, okay?”

“Sure. We’ll pay your way in, Relke. I don’t hold it against a man if he’s a natural born tightwad.”

“Yeah,” said Larkin. “All you gotta do is sign up, Sonny. Fifty bucks, hell—that’s less than union dues. If you can call that yellow-bellied obscenity a union. Now how about it, Relke?”