Dark Benediction

Slowly the girl nodded. “I see. I know of Cophian ethics. If an officer’s blunder results in someone’s death, he either proves that it was not a blunder or he cuts his throat—ceremonially, I believe. Will you do that?”

Roki shrugged. He had been away from Coph a long time. He didn’t know.

“A stupid custom,” she said.

“It manages to drain off the fools, doesn’t it? It’s better than having society try them and execute them forcibly for their crimes. On Coph, a man doesn’t need to be afraid of society. He needs only to be afraid of his own weakness. Society’s function is to protect individuals against unfortunate accidents, but not against their own blunders. And when a man blunders, Coph simply excludes him from the protectorate. As an outcast, he sacrifices himself. It’s not too bad a system.”

“You can have it.”

“Dalethian?”

“Yeah?”

“You have no personal anger against what I did?”

She frowned at him contemptuously. “Uh-uh! I judge no one. I judge no one unless I’m personally involved. Why are you worried about what others think?”

“In our more highly developed society,” he said stiffly, “a man inevitably grows a set of thinking-habits called ‘conscience.”

“Oh—yeah.” Her dull tone indicated a complete lack of interest.

Again Roki wondered if she would think of making a quick bit of cash by informing Solarian officials of his identity. He began a mental search for a plan to avoid such possible treachery.

They ate and slept by the ship’s clock. On the tenth day, Roki noticed a deviation in the readings of the radiation-screen instruments. The shape of the screen shell was gradually trying to drift toward minimum torsion, and assume a spherical shape. He pointed it out jo Daleth, and she quickly made the necessary readjustments. But the output of the reactors crept a notch higher as a result of the added drain. Roki wore an apprehensive frown as the flight progressed.

Two days later, the screen began creeping again. Once more the additional power was applied. And the reactor output needle hung in the yellow band of warning. The field-generators were groaning and shivering with threatening overload. Roki worked furiously to locate the trouble, and at last he found it. He returned to the control cabin in a cold fury.

“Did you have this ship pre-flighted before blast-off?” he demanded.

Her mouth fluttered with amusement as she watched his anger. “Certainly, commander.”

He flushed at the worthless title. “May I see the papers?”

For a moment she hesitated, then fumbled in her pocket and displayed a folded pink paper.

“Pink!” he roared. “You had no business taking off!”

Haughtily, she read him the first line of the pre-flight report. “‘Base personnel disclaim any responsibility for accidents resulting from flight of Daleth Ship—’ It doesn’t say I can’t take off.”

“I’ll see you banned from space!” he growled.

She gave him a look that reminded him of his current status. It was a tolerant, amused stare. “What’s wrong, commander?”

“The synchronizers are out, that’s all,” he fumed. “Screen’s getting farther and farther from resonance.”

“So?”

“So the overload’ll get worse, and the screen’ll break down. You’ll have to drop back down out of the C-component and get it repaired.”

She shook her head. “We’ll chance it like it is. I’ve always wanted to find out how much overload the reactor’ll take.”

Roki choked. There wasn’t a chance of making it. “Are you a graduate space engineer?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then you’d better take one’s advice.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.”

“No! We’re going on.”

“Suppose I refuse to let you?”

She whirled quickly, eyes flashing. “I’m in command of my ship. I’m also armed. I suggest you return to your quarters, passenger.”

Roki sized up the situation, measured the determination in the girl’s eyes, and decided that there was only one thing to do. He shrugged and looked away, as if admitting her authority. She glared at him for a moment, but did not press her demand that he leave the control room. As soon as she glanced back at the instruments, Roki padded his rough knuckles with a handkerchief, selected a target at the back of her short crop of dark hair, and removed her objections with a short chopping blow to the head. “Sorry, friend,” he murmured as he lifted her limp body out of the seat.

He carried her to her quarters and placed her on the bunk. After removing a small needle gun from her pocket, he left a box of headache tablets in easy reach, locked her inside, and went back to the controls. His fist was numb, and he felt like a heel, but there was no use arguing with a Dalethian. Clubbing her to sleep was the only way to avoid bloodier mayhem in which she might have emerged the victor—until the screen gave way.