The Captain shoved back from his desk, started to get up. “Rec-ommendation confirmed. Dismissed.”
Anger flooded through Hugh at the unreasonable injustice of it. They had not even considered looking at the only real evidence he had in his defense. He heard a shout: “Wait!”—then discovered it was his own voice.
The Captain paused, looking at him.
“Wait a moment,” Hugh went on, his words spilling out of their own accord. “This won’t make any difference, for you’re all so damn sure you know all the answers that you won’t consider a fair offer to come see with your own eyes. Nevertheless— Nevertheless—it still moves!”
Hugh had plenty of time to think, lying in the compartment where they confined him to await the power needs of the Converter, time to think, and to second-guess his mistakes. Telling his tale to Ertz immediately—that had been mistake number one. He should have waited, become reacquainted with the man and felt him out, instead of depending on a friendship which had never been very close.
Second mistake, Mort Tyler. When he heard his name he should have investigated and found out just how much influence the man had with Ertz. He had known him of old, he should have known better.
Well, here he was, condemned as a mutant—or maybe as a heretic. It came to the same thing. He considered whether or not he should have tried to explain why mutants happened. He had learned about it himself in some of the old records in Joe-Jim’s possession. No, it wouldn’t wash. How could you explain about radiations from the Outside causing the birth of mutants when the listeners did not believe there was such a place as Outside? No, he had messed it up before he was ever taken before the Captain.
His self-recriminations were disturbed at last by the sound of his door being unfastened. It was too soon for another of the infrequent meals; he thought that they had come at last to take him away, and renewed his resolve to take someone with him.
But he was mistaken. He heard a voice of gentle dignity: “Son, son, how does this happen?” It was Lieutenant Nelson, his first teacher, looking older than ever and frail.
The interview was distressing for both of them. The old man, childless himself, had cherished great hopes for his protege, even the ambition that he might eventually aspire to the captaincy, though he had kept his vicarious ambition to himself, believing it not good for the young to praise them too highly. It had hurt his heart when the youth was lost.
Now he had returned, a man, but under disgraceful conditions and under sentence of death.
The meeting was no less unhappy for Hugh. He had loved the old man, in his way, wanted to please him and needed his approval. But he could see, as he told his story, that Nelson was not capable of treating the story as anything but an aberration of Hugh’s mind, and he suspected that Nelson would rather see him meet a quick death in the Converter, his atoms smashed to hydrogen and giving up clean useful power, than have him live to make a mock of the ancient teachings.
In that he did the old man an injustice; he underrated Nelson’s mercy, but not his devotion to “science.” But let it he said for Hugh that, had there been no more at issue than his own personal welfare, he might have preferred death to breaking the heart of his benefactor—being a romantic and more than a bit foolish.
Presently the old man got up to leave, the visit having grown unendurable to each of them. “Is there anything I can do for you, son? Do they feed you well enough?”
“Quite well, thanks,” Hugh lied.
“Is there anything else?”
“No—yes, you might send me some tobacco. I haven’t had a chew in a long time.”
“I’ll take care of it. Is there anyone you would like to see?”
“Why, I was under the impression that I was not permitted visitors—ordinary visitors.”
“You are right, but I think perhaps I may be able to get the rule relaxed. But you will have to give me your promise not to speak of your heresy,” he added anxiously.
Hugh thought quickly. This was a new aspect, a new possibility. His uncle? No, while they had always got along well, their minds did not meet—they would greet each other as strangers. He had never made friends easily; Ertz had been his obvious next friend and now look at the damned thing! Then he recalled his village chum, Alan Mahoney, with whom he had played as a boy. True, he had seen practically nothing of him since the time he was apprenticed to Nelson. Still—
“Does Alan Mahoney still live in our village?”
“Why, yes.”
“I’d like to see him, if he’ll come.”
Alan arrived, nervous, ill at ease, but plainly glad to see Hugh and very much upset to find him under sentence to make the Trip. Hugh pounded him on the back. “Good boy,” he said. “I knew you would come.”
“Of course, I would,” protested Alan, “once I knew. But nobody in the village knew it. I don’t think even the Witness knew it.”
“Well, you’re here, that’s what matters. Tell me about yourself. Have you married?”
“Huh, uh, no. Let’s not waste time talking about me. Nothing ever happens to me anyhow. How in Jordan’s name did you get in this jam, Hugh?”
“I can’t talk about that, Alan. I promised Lieutenant Nelson that I wouldn’t.”
“Well, what’s a promise—that kind of a promise? You’re in a jam, fellow.”
“Don’t I know it!”
“Somebody have it in for you?”
“Well—our old pal Mort Tyler didn’t help any; I think I can say that much.”
Alan whistled and nodded his head slowly. “That explains a lot.”
“How come? You know something?”
“Maybe, maybe not. After you went away he married Edris Baxter.”
“So? Hm-m-m—yes, that clears up a lot.” He remained silent for a time.
Presently Alan spoke up: “Look, Hugh. You’re not going to sit here and take it, are you? Particularly with Tyler mixed in it. We gotta get you outa here.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Pull a raid, maybe. I guess I could get a few knives to rally round and hdp us—all good boys, spoiling for a fight.”
