“Shall we finish him off?”
“No. Not now. Shut him up.”
Joe-Jim opened the door of a small side compartment, and urged Hugh in with the knife. He then closed and fastened the door and went back to his game. “Your move, Jim.”
The compartment in which Hugh was locked was dark. He soon satisfied himself by touch that the smooth steel walls were entirely featureless save for the solid, securely fastened door. Presently he lay down on the deck and gave himself up to fruitless thinking.
He had plenty of time to think, time to fall asleep and awaken more than once. And time to grow very hungry and very, very thirsty.
When Joe-Jim next took sufficient interest in his prisoner to open the door of the cell, Hoyland was not immediately in evidence. He had planned many times what he would do when the door opened and his chance came, but when the event arrived, he was too weak, semi-comatose. Joe-Jim dragged him out.
The disturbance roused him to partial comprehension. He sat up and stared around him.
“Ready to talk?” asked Jim.
Hoyland opened his mouth but no words came out.
“Can’t you see he’s too dry to talk?” Joe told his twin. Then to Hugh: “Will you talk if we give you some water?”
Hoyland looked puzzled, then nodded vigorously.
Joe-Jim returned in a moment with a mug of water. Hugh drank greedily, paused, seemed about to faint.
Joe-Jim took the mug from him. “That’s enough for now,” said Joe. ‘Tell us about yourself.”
Hugh did so. In detail, being prompted from time to time.
Hugh accepted a de facto condition of slavery with no particular resistance and no great disturbance of soul. The word “slave” was not in his vocabulary, but the condition was a commonplace in everything he had ever known. There had always been those who gave orders and those who carried them out—he could imagine no other condition, no other type of social organization. It was a fact of nature.
Though naturally he thought of escape.
Thinking about it was as far as he got. Joe-Jim guessed his thoughts and brought the matter out into the open. Joe told him, “Don’t go getting ideas, youngster. Without a knife you wouldn’t get three levels away in this part of the Ship. If you managed to steal a knife from me, you still wouldn’t make it down to high-weight. Besides, there’s Bobo.”
Hugh waited a moment, as was fitting, then said, “Bobo?”
Jim grinned and replied, “We told Bobo that you were his to butcher, if he liked, if you ever stuck your head out of our compartments without us. Now he sleeps outside the door and spends a lot of his time there.”
“It was only fair,” put in Joe. “He was disappointed when we decided to keep you.”
“Say,” suggested Jim, turning his head toward his brother’s, “how about some fun?” He turned back to Hugh. “Can you throw a knife?”
“Of course,” Hugh answered.
“Let’s see you. Here.” Joe-Jim handed him their own knife. Hugh accepted it, jiggling it in his hand to try its balance. “Try my mark.” Joe-Jim had a plastic target set up at the far end of the room from his favorite chair, on which he was wont to practice his own skill. Hugh eyed it, and, with an arm motion too fast to follow, let fly. He used the economical underhand stroke, thumb on the blade, fingers together.
The blade shivered in the target, well centered in the chewed-up area which marked Joe-Jim’s best efforts.
“Good boy!” Joe approved. “What do you have in mind, Jim?”
“Let’s give him the knife and see how far he gets.”
“No,” said Joe, “I don’t agree.”
“Why not?”
“If Bobo wins, we’re out one servant. If Hugh wins, we lose both Bobo and him. It’s wasteful.”
“Oh, well—if you insist.”
“I do. Hugh, fetch the knife.”
Hugh did so. It had not occurred to him to turn the knife against Joe-Jim. The master was the master. For servant to attack master was not simply repugnant to good morals, it was an idea so wild that it did not occur to him at all.
Hugh had expected that Joe-Jim would be impressed by his learning as a scientist. It did not work out that way. Joe-Jim, especially Jim, loved to argue. They sucked Hugh dry in short order and figuratively cast him aside. Hoyland felt humiliated. After all, was he not a scientist? Could he not read and write?
“Shut up,” Jim told him. “Reading is simple. I could do it before your father was born. D’you think you’re the first scientist that has served me? Scientists—bah! A pack of ignoramuses!”
In an attempt to re-establish his own intellectual conceit, Hugh expounded the theories of the younger scientists, the strictly matter-of-fact, hard-boiled realism which rejected all religious interpretation and took the Ship as it was. He confidently expected Joe-Jim to approve such a point of view; it seemed to fit their temperaments.
They laughed in his face.
“Honest,” Jim insisted, when he had ceased snorting, “are you young punks so stupid as all that? Why, you’re worse than your elders.”
“But you just got through saying,” Hugh protested in hurt tones, “that all our accepted religious notions are so much bunk. That is just what my friends think. They want to junk all that old nonsense.”
Joe started to speak; Jim cut in ahead of him. “Why bother with him, Joe? He’s hopeless.”
“No, he’s not. I’m enjoying this. He’s the first one I’ve talked with in I don’t know how long who stood any chance at all of seeing the truth. Let us be—I want to see whether that’s a head he has on his shoulders, or just a place to hang his ears.”
