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Authors: Alan Dean Foster
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the Dark Star was to be regretted. Sleeping hours were among them, especially since their special bunks had been ruined. Now was another of them, as Boiler contemplated his nebula-like creations and considered the possible reactions of smoke rings in zero-gee.
Pinback was staring at the picture-covered wall, the cigarette still grasped unlit in one hand, the virgin match in the other. Abruptly he let them both drop to the floor. His face took on a decidedly sly expression.
There was a lively gleam in his eyes as he picked up a large box and set it on his bed. Watching Boiler and Doolittle for signs of reaction, he began fumbling through its contents. Boiler blew contented smoke rings.
The corporal rolled over, selected another cigar, and lit it. He seemed surprised to discover then that he had another already in his mouth. Without seeming the least bit embarrassed, he put out the second one by pinching the tip into suffocation.
A moment later he had exchanged it for a switch blade knife—an odd item to bring on board, and one which the mission directors would have banned if they had known about it. But the one thing the psychometricians had insisted on was that every man's four crates of personal effects, barring actual explosives or something equally dangerous, were absolutely private.
This was why Boiler had had such success in bringing along such unorthodox but decidedly nonexplosive items as his real-sandwich components and the switchblade. The latter snicked open with a wicked metallic whisper.
Holding the knife in one hand, he used the other to clear everything from the upturned crate alongside his bed. It made a nice makeshift table. This was one of his own, personal, surviving crates. It was made of good solid homey wood, not plastic or free-formed metal.
Spreading his fingers flat on the surface, he took the knife and began mumblety-pegging with it, jabbing between the closely spaced fingers into the firm wood. He started outside the thumb and worked over to the outside of the little finger. Then he repeated the journey.
Back and forth, forth and back, and back—and the knife sliced down just outside one of his fingers. He stopped, held up his nicked hand, and stared blankly at it.
All the attributes and faults that the psyche people had agreed were present in Boiler were apparent right then: that he had ice water in his veins; that he was likely to be the least communicative member of the Dark Star crew; that he would be the one least likely to crack in a pressure situation—except for Powell.
They had told him all that before they had left for Earth Orbital Station, at the final psyche briefing. He studied the finger, remembered what they had told him, and smiled.
Since he had only ice water in his veins, then of course there could be only ice water leaking out. And that would stop quickly enough. Indeed, while the knife had been driven into the finger with some force, anyone could see for himself that there was no blood dripping out. That this was due to Boiler's unnatural control of his own body was the explanation of the psychometricians who had first observed the quality in him.
Of course, the distinct possibility existed that he was imagining his own lack of bleeding, that he was in actuality spurting gore all over the room, and that he had better seek treatment quickly or else bleed to death. In which case he was mad.
His smile grew broader, then vanished. But he wasn't at all mad. Only Talby was mad, and he was harmless. Boiler wondered if Talby, mad Talby, would bleed.
One of these days, maybe he'd find out.
Pinback was having trouble concealing a smile of his own as he removed a strange object from the colorless box. It was a pair of eyeglasses of unusual properties. Possibly two people on Earth would have found it amusing. Despite this, somewhat more than two of these objects had been manufactured on that benighted planet. Pinback put on the glasses.
They consisted of a cheap plastic
Pinback was staring at the picture-covered wall, the cigarette still grasped unlit in one hand, the virgin match in the other. Abruptly he let them both drop to the floor. His face took on a decidedly sly expression.
There was a lively gleam in his eyes as he picked up a large box and set it on his bed. Watching Boiler and Doolittle for signs of reaction, he began fumbling through its contents. Boiler blew contented smoke rings.
The corporal rolled over, selected another cigar, and lit it. He seemed surprised to discover then that he had another already in his mouth. Without seeming the least bit embarrassed, he put out the second one by pinching the tip into suffocation.
A moment later he had exchanged it for a switch blade knife—an odd item to bring on board, and one which the mission directors would have banned if they had known about it. But the one thing the psychometricians had insisted on was that every man's four crates of personal effects, barring actual explosives or something equally dangerous, were absolutely private.
This was why Boiler had had such success in bringing along such unorthodox but decidedly nonexplosive items as his real-sandwich components and the switchblade. The latter snicked open with a wicked metallic whisper.
Holding the knife in one hand, he used the other to clear everything from the upturned crate alongside his bed. It made a nice makeshift table. This was one of his own, personal, surviving crates. It was made of good solid homey wood, not plastic or free-formed metal.
Spreading his fingers flat on the surface, he took the knife and began mumblety-pegging with it, jabbing between the closely spaced fingers into the firm wood. He started outside the thumb and worked over to the outside of the little finger. Then he repeated the journey.
Back and forth, forth and back, and back—and the knife sliced down just outside one of his fingers. He stopped, held up his nicked hand, and stared blankly at it.
All the attributes and faults that the psyche people had agreed were present in Boiler were apparent right then: that he had ice water in his veins; that he was likely to be the least communicative member of the Dark Star crew; that he would be the one least likely to crack in a pressure situation—except for Powell.
They had told him all that before they had left for Earth Orbital Station, at the final psyche briefing. He studied the finger, remembered what they had told him, and smiled.
Since he had only ice water in his veins, then of course there could be only ice water leaking out. And that would stop quickly enough. Indeed, while the knife had been driven into the finger with some force, anyone could see for himself that there was no blood dripping out. That this was due to Boiler's unnatural control of his own body was the explanation of the psychometricians who had first observed the quality in him.
Of course, the distinct possibility existed that he was imagining his own lack of bleeding, that he was in actuality spurting gore all over the room, and that he had better seek treatment quickly or else bleed to death. In which case he was mad.
His smile grew broader, then vanished. But he wasn't at all mad. Only Talby was mad, and he was harmless. Boiler wondered if Talby, mad Talby, would bleed.
One of these days, maybe he'd find out.
Pinback was having trouble concealing a smile of his own as he removed a strange object from the colorless box. It was a pair of eyeglasses of unusual properties. Possibly two people on Earth would have found it amusing. Despite this, somewhat more than two of these objects had been manufactured on that benighted planet. Pinback put on the glasses.
They consisted of a cheap plastic
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