that sightseeing room from solar radiation, so it has been locked off this whole trip.)
I knew I was safe where I was, so I hung back, intending to take advantage of being “teacher’s pet”—for I certainly didn’t want to spend hours or days stretched out on a shelf with gabbling and maybe hysterical women crowding me on both sides.
I should have known. The Captain hesitated a split second as he started down the hatch and snapped, “Come along, Miss Fries.”
I came. He always calls me “Poddy”—and his voice had spank in it.
Third-class passengers were already pouring in, since they have the shortest distance to go, and crew members were mustering them into their billets. The crew has been on emergency routine ever since we first were warned by Hermes Station, with their usual one watch in three replaced by four hours on and four hours off. Part of the crew had been staying dressed in radiation armor (which must be very uncomfortable) and simply hanging around passenger country. They can’t take that heavy armor off for any reason at all until their reliefs show up, dressed also in armor. These crewmen are the “chasers” who bet their lives that they can check every passenger space, root out stragglers, and still reach the shelter fast enough not to accumulate radiation poisoning. They are all volunteers and the chasers on duty when the alarm sounds get a big bonus and the other half of them who were lucky enough not to be on duty get a little bonus.
The Chief Officer is in charge of the first section of chasers and the Purser is in charge of the second—but they don’t get any bonus even though the one on duty when the alarm sounds is by tradition and law the last man to enter the safety of the shelter. This hardly seems fair . . . but it is considered their honor as well as their duty.
Other crewmen take turns in the radiation shelter and are equipped with mustering lists and billeting diagrams.
Naturally, service has been pretty skimpy of late, with so many of the crew pulled off their regular duties in order to do just one thing and do it fast at the first jangle of the alarm. Most of these emergency-duty assignments have to be made from the stewards and clerks; engineers and communicators and such usually can’t be spared. So state rooms may not be made up until late afternoon—unless you make your own bed and tidy your room yourself, as I had been doing—and serving meals takes about twice as long as usual, and lounge service is almost nonexistent.
But of course the passengers realize the necessity for this temporary mild austerity and are grateful because it is all done for safety.
You think so? My dear, if you believe that, you will believe anything. You haven’t Seen Life until you’ve seen a rich, elderly Earthman deprived of something he feels is his rightful due, because he figures he paid for it in the price of his ticket. I saw one man, perhaps as old as Uncle Tom and certainly old enough to know better, almost have a stroke. He turned purple, really purple and gibbered—all because the bar steward didn’t show up on the bounce to fetch him a new deck of playing cards.
The bar steward was in armor at the time and couldn’t leave his assigned area, and the lounge steward was trying to be three places at once and answer stateroom rings as well. This didn’t mean anything to our jolly shipmate; he was threatening to sue the Line and all its directors, when his speech became incoherent.
Not everybody is that way, of course. Mrs. Grew, fat as she is, has been making her own bed and she is never impatient. Some others who are ordinarily inclined to demand lots of service have lately been making a cheerful best of things.
But some of them act like children with tantrums—which isn’t pretty in children and is even uglier in grandparents.
The instant I followed the Captain into the radiation shelter I discovered just how efficient Tricorn service can be when it really matters. I
I knew I was safe where I was, so I hung back, intending to take advantage of being “teacher’s pet”—for I certainly didn’t want to spend hours or days stretched out on a shelf with gabbling and maybe hysterical women crowding me on both sides.
I should have known. The Captain hesitated a split second as he started down the hatch and snapped, “Come along, Miss Fries.”
I came. He always calls me “Poddy”—and his voice had spank in it.
Third-class passengers were already pouring in, since they have the shortest distance to go, and crew members were mustering them into their billets. The crew has been on emergency routine ever since we first were warned by Hermes Station, with their usual one watch in three replaced by four hours on and four hours off. Part of the crew had been staying dressed in radiation armor (which must be very uncomfortable) and simply hanging around passenger country. They can’t take that heavy armor off for any reason at all until their reliefs show up, dressed also in armor. These crewmen are the “chasers” who bet their lives that they can check every passenger space, root out stragglers, and still reach the shelter fast enough not to accumulate radiation poisoning. They are all volunteers and the chasers on duty when the alarm sounds get a big bonus and the other half of them who were lucky enough not to be on duty get a little bonus.
The Chief Officer is in charge of the first section of chasers and the Purser is in charge of the second—but they don’t get any bonus even though the one on duty when the alarm sounds is by tradition and law the last man to enter the safety of the shelter. This hardly seems fair . . . but it is considered their honor as well as their duty.
Other crewmen take turns in the radiation shelter and are equipped with mustering lists and billeting diagrams.
Naturally, service has been pretty skimpy of late, with so many of the crew pulled off their regular duties in order to do just one thing and do it fast at the first jangle of the alarm. Most of these emergency-duty assignments have to be made from the stewards and clerks; engineers and communicators and such usually can’t be spared. So state rooms may not be made up until late afternoon—unless you make your own bed and tidy your room yourself, as I had been doing—and serving meals takes about twice as long as usual, and lounge service is almost nonexistent.
But of course the passengers realize the necessity for this temporary mild austerity and are grateful because it is all done for safety.
You think so? My dear, if you believe that, you will believe anything. You haven’t Seen Life until you’ve seen a rich, elderly Earthman deprived of something he feels is his rightful due, because he figures he paid for it in the price of his ticket. I saw one man, perhaps as old as Uncle Tom and certainly old enough to know better, almost have a stroke. He turned purple, really purple and gibbered—all because the bar steward didn’t show up on the bounce to fetch him a new deck of playing cards.
The bar steward was in armor at the time and couldn’t leave his assigned area, and the lounge steward was trying to be three places at once and answer stateroom rings as well. This didn’t mean anything to our jolly shipmate; he was threatening to sue the Line and all its directors, when his speech became incoherent.
Not everybody is that way, of course. Mrs. Grew, fat as she is, has been making her own bed and she is never impatient. Some others who are ordinarily inclined to demand lots of service have lately been making a cheerful best of things.
But some of them act like children with tantrums—which isn’t pretty in children and is even uglier in grandparents.
The instant I followed the Captain into the radiation shelter I discovered just how efficient Tricorn service can be when it really matters. I
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