Read Online Dark Star by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Dean Foster
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frame on which were mounted a pair of grossly bloodshot half-eyeballs made of cheaper plastic and attached to the glasses by means of metal springs.
Bending his head and carefully concealing the device from view, he moved slowly toward Boiler. The corporal had concluded the extensive examination of his invulnerable finger and was now leaning against the wall and blowing his perfect smoke rings once more. Pinback slowly leaned over and toward him—ever so slowly. He knelt slightly and bent his head, removing his hand at just the right time, and the eyeballs flopped out of their frames to bob wildly on the springs.
Boiler turned with equal patience and calmly blew a fresh smoke ring into Pinback's waiting face. There was a moment of nonreaction. Then Pinback turned and made his way back to his own bunk, his smile gone. Dejectedly, he removed the glasses and dropped them back into the box.
Boiler's crazy, the poor slob, he thought. Cuts his own finger and doesn't say a thing. Crazy, but he won't let me help.
Boiler stared evenly at Pinback, then went back to introspective contemplation of his seemingly uninjured finger. Nuts, the sergeant was certifiably nuts! They were all nuts, except maybe Doolittle—and Doolittle had other problems.
The silence was getting to Pinback, as it always did. There must be something he could do for the poor guys. Something he could do . . . His gaze left the floor and settled on the nearby form of Doolittle.
The lieutenant was once again deep into a game of solitaire. Pinback's mouth started to curl mischievously at the corners. He started rummaging through the bottomless box.
Doolittle, meanwhile, had searched through the deck card by card until he had found a red jack to put on the vacant queen. He was oblivious to Pinback, to Boiler, to the room, and to the ship.
The voice inside his head was admonishing him again. Most of the time he could shut it out, but sometimes it got so insistent that no wall could dampen it fully.
"You're cheating again, Doolittle," it claimed angrily, beating at him relentlessly. "You've always cheated, you know that, Doolittle?
"You cheated to get into flight school, and then you cheated on your astronaut physical when you couldn't pass the pull-ups. They said that was impossible, but you did it, Doolittle. You cheated on the oral exam when you wanted to get on the Dark Star mission to impress your girl friend, and you cheated with the psychiatrist, giving him all the carefully prepared right answers instead of the truthful ones.
"You cheated your way all the way through your short, miserable, successful life, Lieutenant Doolittle—and you're paying for it, in triplicate. Because right now"—he put a red ten on the jack—"right now you'd like to cheat yourself back home, wouldn't you?
"But you can't, because now there's nobody left to cheat here but yourself. If you go home without the computer confirming that you've properly utilized all twenty of those expensive little toys in the bomb bay, they'll turn you to powder. And if you try and dump the last one in no particular place, the computer will record it and they won't be complimentary when you get home, will they?
"No, Doolittle. They'll most likely toss you in the can for observation. Then they'll find out about your other cheating and despite all your successes they'll be most displeased. Your only out was to fool the computer, and you can't do that, can you? So it looks like you're stuck with doing a good job in spite of yourself, hey?
"You could never fool Commander Powell, either—but then, at least he understood."
He jerked sharply. Someone was standing next to him.
The moment of fright passed quickly, turned to anger. It wasn't the long-dead Powell. It was only Pinback. He went back to his game.
Pinback reached stealthily inside his flight suit, whipped out an object of uncertain shape, and dangled it jerkily in front of Doolittle's face. It was a rubber chicken. Doolittle was not
Bending his head and carefully concealing the device from view, he moved slowly toward Boiler. The corporal had concluded the extensive examination of his invulnerable finger and was now leaning against the wall and blowing his perfect smoke rings once more. Pinback slowly leaned over and toward him—ever so slowly. He knelt slightly and bent his head, removing his hand at just the right time, and the eyeballs flopped out of their frames to bob wildly on the springs.
Boiler turned with equal patience and calmly blew a fresh smoke ring into Pinback's waiting face. There was a moment of nonreaction. Then Pinback turned and made his way back to his own bunk, his smile gone. Dejectedly, he removed the glasses and dropped them back into the box.
Boiler's crazy, the poor slob, he thought. Cuts his own finger and doesn't say a thing. Crazy, but he won't let me help.
Boiler stared evenly at Pinback, then went back to introspective contemplation of his seemingly uninjured finger. Nuts, the sergeant was certifiably nuts! They were all nuts, except maybe Doolittle—and Doolittle had other problems.
The silence was getting to Pinback, as it always did. There must be something he could do for the poor guys. Something he could do . . . His gaze left the floor and settled on the nearby form of Doolittle.
The lieutenant was once again deep into a game of solitaire. Pinback's mouth started to curl mischievously at the corners. He started rummaging through the bottomless box.
Doolittle, meanwhile, had searched through the deck card by card until he had found a red jack to put on the vacant queen. He was oblivious to Pinback, to Boiler, to the room, and to the ship.
The voice inside his head was admonishing him again. Most of the time he could shut it out, but sometimes it got so insistent that no wall could dampen it fully.
"You're cheating again, Doolittle," it claimed angrily, beating at him relentlessly. "You've always cheated, you know that, Doolittle?
"You cheated to get into flight school, and then you cheated on your astronaut physical when you couldn't pass the pull-ups. They said that was impossible, but you did it, Doolittle. You cheated on the oral exam when you wanted to get on the Dark Star mission to impress your girl friend, and you cheated with the psychiatrist, giving him all the carefully prepared right answers instead of the truthful ones.
"You cheated your way all the way through your short, miserable, successful life, Lieutenant Doolittle—and you're paying for it, in triplicate. Because right now"—he put a red ten on the jack—"right now you'd like to cheat yourself back home, wouldn't you?
"But you can't, because now there's nobody left to cheat here but yourself. If you go home without the computer confirming that you've properly utilized all twenty of those expensive little toys in the bomb bay, they'll turn you to powder. And if you try and dump the last one in no particular place, the computer will record it and they won't be complimentary when you get home, will they?
"No, Doolittle. They'll most likely toss you in the can for observation. Then they'll find out about your other cheating and despite all your successes they'll be most displeased. Your only out was to fool the computer, and you can't do that, can you? So it looks like you're stuck with doing a good job in spite of yourself, hey?
"You could never fool Commander Powell, either—but then, at least he understood."
He jerked sharply. Someone was standing next to him.
The moment of fright passed quickly, turned to anger. It wasn't the long-dead Powell. It was only Pinback. He went back to his game.
Pinback reached stealthily inside his flight suit, whipped out an object of uncertain shape, and dangled it jerkily in front of Doolittle's face. It was a rubber chicken. Doolittle was not
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