Burton watched the ship move closer in the night sky, then boarded the shuttle. By coincidence, the ship had arrived in the system and then lost its handler, so it was stuck.
Captain Washburn was a sturdy man in his early seventies with sharp eyes and a false smile. "Glad to have you aboard, Burton." What Burton read, however, was something else entirely. This man did not trust telepaths, and resented their necessity. "I'll take you to Driscoll, he's in your cabin." The ship, like all those Burton had the occasion to travel in, seemed horribly cramped and small. They made their way through the confusing tangle of passageways to Driscoll's cabin, but before they entered the room Burton reached out quickly to probe the mind behind the door.
It was the first time Burton had ever made telepathic contact with someone who was more than a little neurotic, and he was repulsed by it. His new assignment was a form of mental babysitting for an interstellar navigator, Dan "Droolbucket" Driscoll - a man who had led a perfectly normal life but who, at 178 years of age, was quite unsettled mentally. Unbridled, Driscoll's mind was a relentless torrent of images and feelings that were impossible to tie together.
The captain, unaware of Burton's discomfort, simply knocked on the door and opened it.
Driscoll, who had been lying on his bunk, sat bolt upright. He looked to Burton to be even older than his years. "Now what? Bobby? Is that you?" The captain turned to look at Burton and shook his head.
"I'm afraid you have your work cut out for you, Burton." He turned back to the old navigator. "No, Driscoll, this isn't your son Bobby. This is Peter Burton, and he's going to watch over you for a while." Driscoll simply smiled and nodded his head a bit.
Burton tapped in for a moment, and Driscoll's mind was more focused. He wanted them to go away.
The captain simply shrugged, thinking what a crazy old coot Droolbucket was, and motioned Burton back out of the room.
Burton had really only heard stories about this duty before. Mankind had finally reached the stars, but it took someone a few degrees off mentally to guide them there. A navigator who was senile was perfect, with a normal life behind them as an anchor to reality - yet without the governor imposed by complete sanity. A short-circuited mind needs direction, however, and that was what Burton was on board to provide. Beyond that, he was unsure of the details. He asked the captain about them.
"Well, Burton, it's simple. You do your little mental mumbo-jumbo, and you keep Old Droolbucket in there straight. He's electronically linked to the navigation of the ship, and your job is to keep his mind from wandering off thinking about showgirls, or whatever the hell he thinks about. If his mind wanders too far, we end up in the middle of a sun somewhere. It's sort of a twenty-four hour a day job." And the captain thought that served a sneaky son of a bitch telepath just right.
Burton just thought that the arrogant son of a bitch captain had left out too much. "Look, Captain, I've been on these boats before, but I've done my best to keep from dipping into either the navigator or the handler. If I don't know how Driscoll does his job, I'm sure as shit not going to know how to do mine. How is it that these old geezers can navigate at all? I mean, how do you feed them the information they need?"
The captain was upset by Burton's manner, but realized there was little he could do about it. "They're fed the information before every trip, using holographic star charts in the navigation room. There's really deceptively little to keeping the ship going in the right direction. The controls are simpler than those of an automobile or old-fashioned atmospheric aircraft. As for 'how the old geezers do it,' as you put it, I have no idea, and if I did I'd probably be a rich man." Then, the captain was thinking, I wouldn't have to deal with you or the stinking old man. But, since I do, it's a pleasure to be able to throw the two of you together.
"You bunk in there, with Droolbucket. The ship's schedules are in there, and so are your orders." The captain spoke rather sharply, as he suddenly realized that Burton knew what he was thinking. He made a weak halfhearted attempt at a mental apology to Burton.
"Save it, captain. I know the game, I've played it before. And you'll find that in most situations you'll feel a little less uneasy if you speak to me with your mouth, instead of your mind. Sometimes it takes things - off of people's minds." Burton smiled without humor. "I'll come and speak to you when I'm done looking things over." Burton knew he could afford to be insubordinate, since without him the ship could end up lost, God knows where. He saw as well as overheard the captain's indignation at being treated this way by someone on his own ship, but before the irritated spacer could comment Burton had left him standing there, mouth open, and gone in to his new quarters.
Driscoll sat up again, grumbled about the racket, and glared at Burton. For a moment, there was something - fear? -- in the scattered lights of Driscoll's mind that made a heavy impression on Burton, who at the moment had not even been consciously looking into his new charge's thoughts. He thought of asking Driscoll what he was afraid of, but thought better of it -- he had never had a conversation with someone who wasn't all there, and he had other things to do just now.
There were two beds in the cabin, but only one desk, for Driscoll would hardly have need of one. On Burton's desk were a folder and a computer terminal built into the desk itself, displaying a menu of options to choose from. The first option was a map of the ship itself, which Burton studied and committed to memory. He also went through the ship's schedule, but found that most of the other information from this terminal was unavailable to him. He had insufficient clearance. At least, he thought, this might be interesting. He wasn't much of a computer wizard, so the terminal's secrets would stay locked from him there, but there would be men on board who knew the information, and they could not hide it from Burton.
He turned to the folder on his desk, which bore a military seal. As he reached for it, he sensed that Driscoll was awake, and eagerly anticipating something. There was a loud, rude noise as Driscoll broke wind, and then a heavy sigh, followed by Driscoll drifting back off to sleep, the echos of his mind reduced to a murmuring whisper.
The smell was awful, but Burton didn't want to leave the room. His orders were his own business. Someone who delved into someone else's secrets so easily found it difficult to give up his own.
There really wasn't much to the orders, which was very frustrating for Burton. He was simply to guide Driscoll's mind toward the task of navigating the ship to its destination, and the focus he would provide was all the more necessary because the path of the ship took it dangerously close to T873, a black hole. It said nothing about the mission of the ship itself.
Burton wouldn't worry about it -- tonight. The ship had arrived in the evening to pick him up, and he was now looking forward to his nightly reprieve from the daily stress of being a telepath. He stowed his gear in one of the cabin's meager closets and lay down in bed.
Curiousity won out over his dissatisfaction with his new assignment, and he quietly slipped into Driscoll's mind. Driscoll was in the middle of a dream. There was a woman and two children, a boy and a girl. The woman was not overly attractive -- Driscoll's wife. The four of them were sitting at a table with a good home-cooked meal laid out in front of them. There was a conversation going on, but in Driscoll's mind only snippets of it made any sense, echoing in the untidy warehouse of his mind.
"Daddy, I played baseball today..."
"Sweetheart, you know that too much red meat's not good for you..."
"Daddy? Am I pretty?"
Burton growled mentally. The dream dissolved and he broke contact. There had never been any such dinner at his own home, and the few meals he shared with his parents had weird echos of their own.
"Odd little shit. Wonder what he's staring at..."
"For Chrissakes, I wish he'd finish so we can get the hell out of here..."
With a bad taste in his mind, Burton fell asleep.
A rude awakening came somewhere in the dark of night. Burton had no idea what time it was -- the desk terminal was too far for him to read in the dark -- but Driscoll was crawling into bed with him! Alarmed, Burton read a weird echo of lust in Driscoll's mind before Driscoll muttered something about Sweet Irene, and would she move over just a little for Sugar? Burton was disgusted.
"HEY! Just what the hell do you think you're doing, old man?"
Driscoll stopped what he was doing, his mind registering a quick pang of guilt like a frightened puppy, and headed back to his own bed. "You don't have to yell at me," he whined.
"Look," Burton continued, "there is one thing I want to make clear. I'm here to help you, but I am NOT here to take care of you, and ESPECIALLY not like that!" His anger tapered off, however, as he felt Driscoll's mind curl into a fetal ball, and heard him begin to cry.
Burton woke up sorely missing his old bed at the Embassy. His former duty assisting Ambassador Walters had been easy duty. There was very little danger involved, and between events you had your time pretty much to yourself. He had enjoyed the time to himself, because for the most part he couldn't stand people. Now here he was playing wet nurse for some cross-wired old coot who at any moment could dump them all into the middle of a sun.
With a sideways glance the telepath noticed that the desk terminal was flashing a message at him. It must have been some kind of accompanying sound effect that woke him up, he decided. Driscoll was starting to wake up also.
The message read "Have Driscoll ready by 0600 hours." The onscreen clock showed 0540. Burton was puzzled. He sent a message back to the captain.
"Have him ready?" he typed.
"Shit, showered, and shaved," the reply said. "Washburn out." Burton tried another query, but the Captain had indeed logged out. He tried to reach him mentally, but it was no use - either he was just too far away, or the ship's internal shielding was blocking the way. He looked at Driscoll.
Driscoll was grinning from ear to ear. "Shower time! Shower time!" He got up from the bed and started to strip. Burton was still puzzled.
"You need...help?" he asked.
"Well, yes, silly, of course." Driscoll seemed to be on a particularly sharp tack for the moment. "Mitchell used to help me get ready every morning. Now it's your turn!" He leaned over, pinched Burton on the cheek, then turned and clipped off to the bathroom. Burton stared after in disbelief. He looked again to the desk terminal, where the Washburn's message was still onscreen. "Shit, shower, and shave."
It was awful. Halfway through the shower, with Burton trying his hardest to make a quick job, Driscoll proceeded backward to step one, which Burton had unknowingly skipped. The stench was unbearable, and Burton couldn't even venture a guess what the old man had had for dinner the night before. Throughout the cleanup effort, Driscoll kept acting like a scolded puppy. "I'm really just like a little baby," Driscoll kept saying sadly. When they got back to the regularly scheduled shower, Driscoll started playing with the water and made a mess of Burton, who had been trying for the most part to stay out of it. By the time they got out of the shower, it was already a little after six. Burton decided to skip the shave.
"Captain won't like it," Driscoll warned. Burton just glared at Driscoll as he dressed him, then ignored him. By the time they reached the mess cabin for breakfast, they were twenty-five minutes late.
The captain and most of the crew were there, waiting for Burton and Driscoll to start the morning's briefing meeting. "I expect people to be punctual on my ship, Burton," Washburn snapped.
Burton was cool. "Of course, sir. A little difficulty, that's all." But he sent an angry message directly to the spacer's mind - and I asked you what my duties were, you son of a bitch. It was a pleasure to watch the captain's face turn red. Burton also noticed that the captain let Driscoll's unshaven face pass unnoticed.
"Now that we're all here," the captain started, "we can begin." He let his eyes pass over his crew, and then he settled them on Burton. "I'm sure you've all heard that we have a new telepath on board. His name is Peter Burton, and you're to do whatever you can to see to it that he is able to handle the job. Burton's never handled a navigator before, so he may have a little bit of a hard time." Not that you don't deserve it, he thought directly to the telepath.
Eat shit, Burton thought back. "I hope my stay with you goes as smoothly and as quickly as possible," he told the crew. From around the room he heard echos of curiosity about his talent - what were its limits? He made no attempt to answer them, the less they knew the better. Another theme played through their thoughts -- is he anything like Mitchell Walker? As the only telepath most of them had ever been close to, Walker served the crew as a point of reference by which to judge Burton.
"As for the trip," the captain continued, "if everything goes well this will be a short one. It's only 30 hours to Carson's Planet, and we'll try to do it in three ten-hour hops. Provided Burton handles Driscoll well enough..."
Driscoll turned to Burton and whispered hoarsely, nodding toward the captain. "He farts a lot," he said, and Burton was sure the whole room could hear him. Without really feeling responsible for the old man, Burton was embarrassed for him. There were a few repressed snorts, and a few mental agreements with the statement, before Washburn continued.
"If Burton handles Driscoll well enough, we should have no problems. You all know your jobs, so just continue to do them. Now let's eat." The meal was completed with an eerie silence, at least for most of the people in the room. To Burton, it was as noisy as a cocktail party. Maybe worse, since they weren't actually talking about connected subjects, like a group of people at a party would. There were about thirty of them, and little chunks of their mental babbling came through to him like a changing radio dial.
I hope I finish up that shit early today...
If Tristar takes off...enough money...stupid job...New Bel Air...
I wonder...Walker...Burton...
Twenty more minutes...gotten some...
I hope nothing goes wrong with the cargo...
Burton zeroed in on the word "cargo". It seemed a likely way to find out a little something of the actual mission of the ship. Burton didn't know the man's position on the ship, but it seemed the man knew something.
If anything goes wrong, it'll be my ass. Hell, it'll be all our asses. I just wish I felt a little more secure about the shielding system. If any of that shit leaks through, I might as well be sitting in a microwave oven.
Burton was surprised. The cargo was dangerous! So far, though, he still didn't know exactly what it was, or why they were taking it to Carson's planet. He "listened in" further.
You'd think by now they'd have come up with propulsion that doesn't have any dangerous by-products -- or some less dangerous way to process them. I wonder if the colony on Carson's knows they're living next to the most dangerous reclamation lab in the known universe?
So that was it...Carson's Planet was a toxic waste dump! Unlike the man worrying about their cargo, Burton had assumed there was a harmful by-product of interstellar propulsion -- and he'd always wondered what they did with it.
The meal was finishing up, and Burton had hardly touched his food. It was standard shipboard fare, and he had other things to think about. He glanced at Driscoll, who had made a mess of himself.
"Messy, eh?" Driscoll grinned.
"Sure, Driscoll, a real pig. What do we do now?" Burton feared the worst.
"Potty, potty, potty!" Driscoll cried out. Then, reading Burton's face, "By myself." Burton sighed and nodded, then got up and walked with Driscoll back to the cabin. "Always use my own head," Driscoll pointed out on the way.
The telepath waited while Driscoll relieved himself, and shook his head when Driscoll came out of the bathroom with his pants halfway down. "Couldn't get the snaps done," Driscoll said.
Reproachfully, Burton helped Driscoll with the pants. He sensed anticipation in Driscoll's mind, edged with a blurring touch of fear,but then felt the old man's mind once more come to a sharp focus.
"Now we go to the office. You ever pilot a starship before, Burton?" Burton shook his head. It was like spending the day with a half dozen people all rolled into one. Burton knew Driscoll wasn't the multiple personality type, though. He'd just lost a few more brain cells than your average Joe. The remainder of the cells tried to compensate for the loss, but Driscoll was still left with half-charged batteries.
"Well, let's get on with it then son, there's hyperspace to put behind us. Sort of." He gestured toward the door, and Burton followed him out.
As they walked into the navigation room, Driscoll made a majestic wave of his hand. "This," he said, "is my office. 178 and still a useful member of society, thank you very much." A junior member of the crew was waiting for them, female. She was attractive, but not overwhelmingly so. Burton wrote her off as shallow. She looked at Burton with only slightly guarded curiousity.
"Are you the new handler?" When Burton nodded in the affirmative, she stuck out a hand. "I'm Jeanine DeVille, Junior Navigation Officer for this ship. You can just call me Jeanine. I set up Dan here at the beginning of every run, and turn him loose at the end of it. Has he been to the bathroom since breakfast?"
"Yes." Driscoll answered for himself.
"Good. Come on Dan, you remember the routine..." her gestures and her tone of voice suggested that she was directing a four-year-old.
"I know," Driscoll whined, "you don't have to treat me like a baby." He looked at Burton. "She always treats me like a baby." He took his seat at the navigation console, and Jeanine attached little probes and biofeedback monitors to various points of his body. Again he turned to Burton, as gingerly as the wiring would allow. "Kind of looks like a spiderweb, eh? With me a fly, stuck."
Burton disagreed, but Driscoll did look stuck. Only a drunken spider would have produced such a sparse and tangly-looking web, though. He made an attempt to smile at Driscoll.
"Well, my little fly," Jeanine remarked, "you're all set up. We can start whenever you're ready."
"Wait a minute," Burton cautioned her. "I've never done this before, remember?"
"Don't worry about it. Just keep his attention on the job, and I'll let you know if you're letting him slip. He's already been read the course, and I can tell by my instruments if he starts to slip a bit." It seemed odd to Burton that if the computer and Jeanine could tell when the ship went off course but they couldn't make the course corrections without Driscoll.
He slipped into Driscoll's mind, and was surprised to find it fairly well focused on the task at hand. It seemed that Driscoll took a fair amount of pride in the job, even if it did make him uncomfortable.
The discomfort that the wires generated in Driscoll gnawed at the edges of his concentration. As Driscoll's concentration increased to block out the discomfort, Burton felt the sensation of motion beginning followed by a knotted, twisty feeling. It didn't last long, maybe a second or two. Burton recognized one idea in Driscoll's mind as the destination, and sensed that Driscoll was, indeed, heading for it. As for what lie between - well, what lie between was beyond Burton's comprehension. It registered as sort of a grey area that was fuzzy and yet sharp and solid. Any attempts to reveal more about it simply fell aside, exposing nothing but the grey. Burton was aware only that it was something, and that they had to go through it to get to Carson's Planet. He set his own mind to keeping Driscoll's on an even keel and tried to survey the room at the same time.
It was very small. In fact there was only room for the three of them. Strange that Driscoll should be so proud of this tiny "office". Driscoll was wired into his harness facing the center of the room, and Burton was seated directly accross from him. Driscoll didn't seem to be aware of him, only the grey. Jeanine was seated with her back to the door, facing a computer terminal built into a desk, somewhat similar to the one in Burton's cabin.
The examination of the room halted, as Burton felt Driscoll beginning to sway from his trance. He stole a quick glance at his watch -- they had only been "travelling" for a little under an hour, if time had any practical meaning where they were. Driscoll was feeling an abnormal amount of discomfort at one of the connections, and Burton relayed the information to Jeanine. She stepped over and quickly found the problem -- one of them was slightly out of place. She moved it into the proper position and got back to her seat, anxiously scanning her computer screen.
"Nice catch," she said. "Only the barest twitch in course." She turned and smiled at Burton, who could only feebly half-smile in response. Driscoll seemed back on track now, so Burton relaxed. The expression on Driscoll's face had remained blank.
The work was incredibly boring. After a time, Burton's eyes turned to Jeanine. He thought he had caught a bit of friendliness in her smile, but couldn't turn his full attention to finding out if it was genuine. It wasn't often that people were friendly to Burton, especially if they knew he was telepathic. He couldn't help checking the validity of someone's smile -- it was sort of a reflex action with him. Someone once said a dog licks his privates because he can; in this case telepathy was a little like that.
Without being able to probe her mind completely, though, he had nothing to go on. Was she really being friendly? Did she like him? Did she find him attractive? Burton felt himself growing excited by the prospect. The element of mystery was new to him, and it set off his imagination. He pictured Jeanine's sleek form naked, with that same smile on her face. She was reclining backward on a sensuously undulating waterbed, drawing him to her...
"We have a major course deviation!" Jeanine's bark rattled him out of his daydream, momentarily setting his mind spinning. "Do something!" An audio alarm began to sound from Jeanine's terminal to accompany her, but Burton ignored it and connected again with Driscoll's mind.
Driscoll was engrossed in Burton's daydream. Somehow it had filtered through to Driscoll, even though Burton hadn't been actively "sending" it. Driscoll had taken it a few steps further, however, and was mentally picturing Jeanine writhing in a tremendous orgasm as he poured himself into her. Stop it, Burton interrupted, You have work to do. At the same time Burton became aware that Driscoll had been grinning from ear to ear, even drooling a little. The weathered face before him fell. He examined the time-worn mind again, and the grey was back.
"Good job," Burton heard Jeanine say. "He's setting us back on course. But both of you, pay attention!" For the remaining three hours of the jump, Burton did exactly that, and Driscoll kept the ship right on course. Almost exactly ten hours from when they started, Burton felt the odd seconds of motion, and then things were calm again.
As soon as Jeanine disconnected him, Driscoll was up. "Dinnertime!" he yelped. Without waiting to see if Burton would follow him, he headed for their cabin. Burton took his turn in the bathroom after Driscoll, and the two of them headed to the mess cabin for dinner.
They were punctual this time, but the captain's mood was sour anyway. "What the hell happened?" he demanded, attempting to stare Burton down.
Driscoll piped up. "Jeanine!"
"Jeanine what?" the captain asked him. Before Driscoll could answer, Burton intervened in his mind, stirring things up enough to confuse him mildly. "Um," he said, "Jeanine took good care of me today?" It came out a question, as if he wasn't really sure. The captain grunted impatiently and Burton offered an answer.
"I lost him for a bit. You know I've never pulled this duty before. Be glad we didn't end up molecular ashes in the middle of some sun."
"Right," the captain returned. "Just make sure you keep him straight, alright Burton? Remember, your ass is on the line right along with the rest of us. Now let's eat, and get a good night's sleep." Burton knew the captain was right -- he shouldn't have lost Driscoll, even for a moment. He wanted to blame it on Jeanine, but he knew it wasn't her fault either. He thought about dipping into her mind to see what she thought of Driscoll's blurted response to the captain's query, but he changed his mind. For once, he fought the reflex back, and let the mystery remain.
The rest of the crew didn't understand why Burton smiled through dinner.
Once again, Burton's sleep was interrupted by Driscoll's unauthorized entry into his bed. He was a little easier on Driscoll when he turned him away. "No, Driscoll, this is my bed. You stay in your bed."
"Oh," Driscoll said. "Sorry. I must have been sleepwalking." He returned to his own bed, and Burton heard him lie down.
For some reason, Burton couldn't go right back to sleep. He was restless, probably from being pent up in a small cabin within the confines of a ship in the middle of a particularly vast section of nowhere. He sensed that Driscoll was staying awake also.
"I can't sleep," Driscoll complained.
"Try, Driscoll. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow."
He heard the old man roll over. "My name is Dan," he said.
Burton thought about that for a moment, and then felt Driscoll slowly drifting off to sleep. He followed, dreaming about grey masses and naked women.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The morning shower went a little better the next day, probably because it wasn't such a surprise. Burton remembered to make sure that Driscoll went to the bathroom first, and Driscoll wasn't in such a playful mood once they were actually in the water. With a grimace, he cleaned off the old man's body and then his own. Burton still felt a little anticipation in Driscoll's mind, but he shrugged it off as looking forward to another day at the "office." Burton even remembered to help Driscoll shave.
Burton found two razors. One was a standard issue electric razor, and the other was some sort of antique -- an ancient straight razor, but with the blade removed. Probably so that Driscoll wouldn't hurt himself, Burton thought. He watched as Driscoll pretended to shave with the disabled instrument, then did it for him with the electric razor.
The captain ran through a quick summary of the day before breakfast. There were still two runs in the journey, and they were heading into an area a little more densely populated with stars. Burton realized that this was for his benefit, since the crew was probably fairly familiar with the universe they traveled about in. He would have to be on extra alert today, since a slip was more likely to toast the lot of them than it had been the previous day. Nothing like adding a little stress to an already unpleasant assignment, he thought to himself. He thought he caught Driscoll turning to look at him when he issued the thought, but when he dipped into the navigator's mind to check Driscoll's mind was on his breakfast.
As the meal came to a close Driscoll wore a blank look on his face. Burton wondered what was up, and dipped into Driscoll's thoughts again.
It was a full-fledged daydream. Driscoll was a small boy, and he was playing in a wide, green yard behind a big white house. A woman -- Driscoll's mother -- stood on the back porch and watched the boy as he played, swinging crazily on a swing set. The boy gave out a war whoop and launched himself from the swing, sailing through the air for a moment or two. Before he had even hit ground, his mother was off the porch and scolding him.
"Daniel Driscoll, don't let me ever catch you doing that again!" Little Daniel got up from where he had landed, eyes wide. Driscoll had been a cute kid.
"I'm sorry, mommy." He looked as though he were about to cry, and his mother was drained of her anger in an instant.
"Oh, you silly thing. I just don't want you to get hurt, Danny. What would I do if you ever got hurt?"
"You'd take care of me, mommy. You always do." Now it was his mother's turn at the brink of tears.
"Of course I would, sweetheart. I'll always take care of you. You just be careful, that's all."
"Okay, mommy, I will!" Little Daniel promised, and ran off back to the swing, where he started to swing just as crazily as before.
Burton snapped his attention back to the himself. Driscoll's face remained blank -- presumably his daydream would go on.
Burton had lived in a slightly smaller house, but he never played outside. Earth was pretty well poisoned already by the time Burton was born. His mother never watched him play, either. She preferred not to be near him at all, if she could avoid him. "Why don't you go play in your room?" she would say. Or on the expressway, she would think.
Whenever Burton tried to remember his childhood, it always seemed so short.
He looked at Driscoll one last time, sitting there lost in his past. It wasn't fair. "Come on," he said, shaking Driscoll physically, "we need to get going."
Driscoll looked hurt and a little suspicious. "They ain't going anywhere without me, Bud." he said.
Jeanine wired the navigator in without saying much. Again, Burton resisted the temptation to find out why. When she was finished, she turned to Burton.
"Now. The captain was right, Burton. Be extra careful today, or it's possible we can all just forget tomorrow." It sounded melodramatic, but he knew she was only being realistic.
"I'll do my best," he said.
Driscoll looked tired, but his spirits were up. "Me too," he said.
Once again, the boredom was incredible. Driscoll was doing an excellent job on his own, and Burton wondered if he even needed to be there. The room seemed even smaller than it did the day before.
He tried to concentrate on what was going on in Driscoll's mind. The grey mass, impenetrable as ever, loomed in Driscoll's mental ether. Burton wondered how Driscoll got in there. It seems to only work if the navigator led a fairly normal life before they started developing mental quirks. Burton knew from Driscoll's dreams and daydreams what a normal life looked like; certainly nothing like his own. He chewed over the idea of how unfair his position was, until it was aggrevated into anger. It was like he was serving Driscoll a sumptuous meal, and watching him eat it, but not being able to join in the fare. And on top of it, Driscoll was occasionally as bad as an infant, with the mess coming from either end. For God's sake, why couldn't he just take care of himself?
He peered into Driscoll's mind a little deeper, trying to discover exactly what was missing. As he did, he noticed that the image of the grey mass was beginning to fade. His eyes snapped up and met Driscoll's - the old man's normally dazed glare was now clearly transfixed on Burton. Why do you hate me? Driscoll was thinking.
Burton anticipated Jeanine's reaction, and it wasn't long coming. "For Christ's sake, watch him!"
Burton waded in and tried to glue Driscoll's mind back on the task at hand, but Driscoll just wasn't having any. Why don't you like me? he thought to Burton.
Burton didn't want to speak aloud, because he knew that once more he was at fault, and that this time he might get into trouble for it. He communicated with Driscoll purely through thought. What do you mean?, he asked.
Don't bullshit me, boy.
Get back to work, will you? You're going to vaporize us!
I asked you a question, Peter Burton.
"We're getting way, way off track here, Burton..." Jeanine sounded very nervous, and in turn she made Burton nervous.
Alright, alright, Burton returned. It's not really that I don't like you, I just don't like having to babysit your ass.
The ship shuddered.
"Shit!" Jeanine swore. "That was close. Would you see if you could possibly bring him back now, please?"
Listen, Burton, do you think I want to be babysat? What you don't seem to understand is that I'm still the same person I always was, and I'm trying very hard. How would you like it if you dribbled piss whenever your bladder felt like it? If you've had a rough life, I'm very sorry, but it really wasn't my fault, so don't take it out on me. In some ways you're as bad as Mitchell was! Treat me like a person, understand?
Burton was ready to promise him anything. "I understand," he said aloud.
The grey mass came forward once again, and the alarms on Jeanine's console stopped bleating their urgent tones.
After the shift Driscoll seemed in a hurry to get back to the room and ready for dinner. He didn't say anything to Burton, and Burton didn't say anything to him. He stayed out of his mind, as well. Something Driscoll had thought stuck in his memory, and he wondered about it. In some ways you're as bad as Mitchell was! He knew from the briefing file that Mitchell Walker had been the navigator's previous handler, and that he was dead now. The file didn't list the cause of death.
The captain was extremely pissed at the pre-dinner meeting, and was even less satisfied with Burton's lack of a response.
"Look, Burton," he fumed, "in case you haven't gotten it yet, you are this ship's strongest barrier between life and death. Driscoll's not responsible; you are. If you screw up, we're all dead. Not just me, and not just Driscoll, but all of us. You included, and the hyperexplosive shit we're toting. Keep him on the straight and narrow, mister, or so help me before we bake inside this boat I'll have you skinned!"
Driscoll didn't invade Burton's bed space that night; Burton presumed he was exhausted from the navigation shift. He thought about dipping into Driscoll's mind, but thought better of it. There was really nothing he had to know, and what he would probably get was some happy memory anyway. Tomorrow they would have to pass close to the black hole. He lay there awake for a while, staring at the ceiling in the dark, and then fell asleep.
Much to Burton's surprise, Driscoll was awake when the morning alarm went off, and had already mostly gotten himself ready. He was in the middle of shaving -- or pretending to, making long, smooth strokes with the antique razor. When Burton walked into the bathroom, Driscoll turned and looked at him. It almost looked like Driscoll didn't really see him. "Who are you?" he asked.
Burton sighed and made sure Driscoll finished the shaving job properly. When the old man was finished, he pulled himself into his clothes and looked at Burton. "I'm going to the office," he said. He shuffled out of the room. Burton had to hurry and catch him.
"Driscoll, it's not time to go to the office, it's time for breakfast. And you have to wait for me."
"Mitchell," Driscoll said, "I've told you a thousand times, call me Dan." Burton caught the mistake but made no attempt to correct him.
"Just wait for me," he said. Driscoll did, and they went to breakfast together. On the way there, Driscoll's mood was conspiratorial.
"The food's lousy here," he complained. "Sometime's it's so bad I spit it up, just to make a point. You got any cigarettes?" As far as Burton knew, Driscoll didn't smoke. He didn't say anything.
When they had seated themselves at the table, Driscoll was positioned next to Jeanine. "Why don't my children ever write me?" She looked very uncomfortable, but managed to answer.
"Because, Dan, they're very busy. Do you miss them?"
"Of course I do. I miss them very much, I love them."
The captain spoke up. "I hope every one of you -- and this means you, especially, Burton -- are aware of T873. I want you all to be where you're supposed to be today, doing what you're supposed to be doing. I don't want the slightest inkling of mental disarray anywhere on this ship. Does everyone read me well?" There were murmurs of agreement all over the room. Burton didn't have to be a telepath to realize they didn't think he could handle it. He had already screwed up twice, and now they had to make the most dangerous part of the journey.
"I want to say something," he spoke up. "You all might not like me, or people like me, but I just want you to know I'm going to do my best today. Not necessarily out of any great fondness for any of you, but because I have to. I want you all to feel secure -- I think I can do it."
No one said a word for a moment, and then Washburn broke the silence. "Let's eat and get a move on."
Driscoll took off as soon as breakfast was finished, but Burton hung back for a second to talk to Jeanine. There really wasn't any far corner of the ship where Driscoll could get lost. When the old man was out of the room, he adressed her. "He seems a little worse than normal today."
"Well," she started, "he has good days and bad days. I don't mean to break the impact of that little speech you made, but he's going to be much harder to manage today."
"Shit. Listen -- how did the last guy handle him?"
"Beats me. I always got the impression that Dan was afraid of him. I never asked. Walker was kind of anti-social."
"And I'm not?"
Jeanine smiled, and again Burton had to fight the reflex reaction to check it out mentally. It was kind of like riding a roller coaster. "Compared to Walker, you're a regular sweetheart."
Jeanine got Driscoll wired up in record time, even though he seemed to resent it that morning. He kept pulling away and glaring at her. When she was finished, he looked at Burton, confused. "Where are we going?"
Burton looked at Jeanine. "Is there some way to call the captain from here?"
"Yes," she answered, "but we never use it, in case we break concentration." She nodded her head in Driscoll's direction.
"Where?"
She pointed it out.
"Captain Washburn?"
"Yes, Burton, what is it?"
"Is there any chance we can hold off on this last leg until tomorrow?"
"Not a chance, Burton. This isn't a milk run. You might as well know, the cargo we're carrying is volatile, and it becomes more unstable as time progresses. We've got to get moving. And Burton..."
"Yes?"
"You're not building my confidence in you."
"Right. Just asking. Burton out." He flipped off the intercom. He turned to Jeanine and shrugged. "Well, we'll either be fine - or we won't." He sat down in his spot opposite Driscoll and tapped into the navigator's mind.
There was music going; Driscoll was humming inside of his head. Burton successfully quieted it down - it was a Van Halen guitar tune from a hundred and fifty years earlier. Then he caught Driscoll's eyes and spoke to him aloud. "Well, time to get to work...got to play your role in society, right Driscoll?"
"Damn it, Mitchell, it's Dan" was all Driscoll said, and then he dove into his work. The grey mass whipped into his mental picture and Burton was again grabbed by the sensation of motion, quick enough to be startled by it. He caught Jeanine giving him a sideways glance, but he ignored it.
They did very well, in a manner of speaking. Driscoll tried to wander many times, but Burton was right there with him, sweating with the effort, and kept him right on track. In Driscoll's mental arena Burton defeated a visit to the dentist, a scolding from the principal, a dozen thoughts about Driscoll's errant children, and two steamy sex acts. It was very taxing work, but Burton believed he was handling it well.
Then he wondered how Mitchell Walker had handled it.
Driscoll went into a mental tailspin. The grey mass disappeared like a speck of dust sucked into an industrial vacuum, and a menacing figure towered in its place.
Jeanine started panicking, and Burton tried to get rid of the image. The figure had an almost solid feel in Driscoll's mind. The smell of urine filled the air as the old man lost control of his bladder, whimpering.
Driscoll, the figure said, what did I tell you about slacking off while you're on the job? It was Mitchell Walker. Driscoll didn't answer right away. You've got to be punished, don't you Driscoll? The ship was starting to shudder.
I guess so, Driscoll replied. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You guess so? You're damn right! You're not some untouchable master of time, space, and dimension, Driscoll. In fact, you're not the master of anything! Not even your own body, do you understand?
Burton tried again to break into the conversation, but it was as if he no longer had any power to communicate in Driscoll's mind. He could only observe.
"I lost him," he said to Jeanine, not really sure what she could do about it.
"You'd better get him back," she urged him. "We're heading straight for T873, and he's not exactly taking his time!"
Burton panned back into the conversation.
Walker's tirade was continuing. You worthless shrivelled up excuse for a man, I am your master. You don't take a piss without me, you don't go anywhere without me, you don't even think anything without me. Got it? Burton confirmed his suspicions about how Walker had kept Driscoll in line -- he had abused him into submission. No wonder Driscoll was so cowed whenever Burton showed anger.
Get over here and take your punishment, Walker went on. They were in the cabin now, and it was dark. Driscoll whimpered, but got out of his own bed and into Walker's. Then Walker began to abuse Driscoll, really abuse him. As he molested Driscoll's body, he cruelly molested his mind as well. He alternated between images of pleasure and pain, searing them into Driscoll's brain until he was entirely unsure which was which. It seemed to go on for hours, and then Walker finally rejected Driscoll. You dirty old pig, get back in your old bed where you belong, he berated. As the ship shook and groaned around them, Burton could feel the old man's humiliation and pain. Driscoll was once a proud man, and Walker had broken him completely. He was helpless. Burton cried along with the navigator, and thought that Driscoll would cry himself to sleep.
Instead, Driscoll stayed awake, and stayed crying. Walker fell asleep, spent, but Driscoll could only lie there. He stared at the ceiling, sore all over, and hated Walker. The hate washed over and around Burton and he found it easy to participate in it. Walker was not only a maniac, he was a monster. Something had to be done.
Damn right something had to be done, Driscoll thought quietly. When he was sure that Walker was fully asleep, he slipped into the bathroom. His hands shook as he retreived the straight razor from the bathroom drawer. The blade flashed, reflecting the small night light in the bathroom. Driscoll slipped quietly back into the main part of the cabin and up to Walker's bed. On the same bed where Walker had horribly tortured and humiliated him, he calmly slit the telepath's throat. As he made the cut, he spoke aloud to Walker. "My name is Dan, asshole." His heart nearly jumped out of his chest when Walker tore into his mind.
You bastard! You filthy worthless son of a bitch! I'll haunt you until the day you die, you worthless piece of shit! The mental screaming continued, but as it continued it also faded. Soon Driscoll's settled to complete silence.
Burton breathed out heavily, discovering at the same time that he had been holding his breath. He tested his talent in Driscoll's mind, unsure that it would work. Dan?
Driscoll's eyes, which had been squeezed shut, came open. "What?"
"Are you okay?" Driscoll's chest was heaving, and his face was wet from the tears.
"Yeah, I'm fine." He still didn't sound like it.
"He's gone, you know." Burton reassured him.
"I know."
Burton turned to Jeanine. He had noticed that the ship was no longer shuddering, it was in fact very quiet. "Where are we?"
She raised her head, which had sunken low between her shoulders, and turned around. She had apparently been crying as well. "We're stuck."
"Stuck?"
"We're at the fringe of T873. The captain has managed to vector our thrust directly away from the pull it's exerting, but that's it. And we have a limited amount of fuel."
"Oh." Burton was calm.
Jeanine threw up her hands, exasperated. "We're stuck, Burton, we're going to run out of fuel, and we'll slip into that -- thing -- and then we'll all be crushed to death. Don't you care about anything?"
"Why didn't you tell me about him and Walker?"
"What? Look, I don't even know you. How would I know that it wouldn't give you the same kind of sick ideas?"
"It would have helped to know," he said. "Let me talk to the captain." Jeanine got up and Burton sat down. "Captain Washburn?"
"You blew it, Burton."
"How far are we from Carson's Planet?"
"What? We're stuck, Burton. We're not going to be making it to Carson's Planet."
"Never mind that. How much time did we have left before we started off course?"
"Three hours. We were a little over halfway there, and we had an hour of fuel to spare."
"Ok, now...how much time has elapsed since then?"
"A little more than a half an hour."
Burton looked at Driscoll, who seemed to know what he had in mind. "Alright," he addressed the captain, "This next question is a little trickier. How long before the cargo blows?"
"The cargo will blow before we run out of fuel. We're all going to die in about three and a half hours." The edges of the captain's voice were cracked.
"Just keep us pointing where we are, captain. I've got some thinking to do." He took a few minutes, tried to remain calm, and thought about their situation. He tapped into Driscoll's mind, just to check. There was no sign of Walker, Driscoll was focused fairly well on watching Burton.
"Well, boss, what do we do?" Driscoll looked at him, impatiently.
"Let's just go home, alright?"
"Yeah, sure. I'm ready to go home if you are." There was a note of sarcasm in Driscoll's voice. Burton tapped the intercom switch again.
"Captain? Could you come down here a minute?"
"What? I'm kind of busy right now, Burton, what is it?"
"Well, I have an idea, but it may be a bit crazy, and since most of the people here aren't real confident in my sanity or my capability lately, I'd like to discuss it with just you."
"Fine, Burton. I'm on my way. But this better be good...Washburn out."
Burton looked over at Jeanine, who eyed him suspiciously. "Kind of makes you feel tingly, eh?" She was not amused.
The discussion was brief, but Washburn admitted that Burton's idea just might work.
It was all they had.
The waiting was some of the hardest time that Burton had ever spent. The captain and most of the rest of the crew were busy preparing the ship for their attempted escape, but in the navigation room there was nothing to do but wait. A scientist might have blamed the slow pace of time on the vicinity of T873, but Driscoll, Jeanine, and Burton knew better. It was hanging at the edge of the abyss that was pulling at their minutes, making them hours.
Jeanine sat staring blankly at her display, biting her nails.
Driscoll broke out of the terror for a few minutes at a time, taking little mental vacations that may or may not have been on purpose. He spoke about his parents, he proposed to Jeanine once, and he saluted Burton and called him "General Barker."
Burton only knew this from outside observation -- he was far too busy taming his own mind to worry about the old navigator. He was nervous.
The captain sent a message over the intercom when he was ready. He addressed the entire ship. "We have now been teetering on the edge of T-873 for just barely over three hours. In perhaps another hour, we would run out of fuel and be sucked into it -- if it weren't for our cargo. Some of you don't know that we're carrying nucleic molecular plasma. It's the one hazardous by-product of our propulsion system, and it's all we're carrying. It's extremely volatile, and becomes more so with time. This is the reason we were in such a hurry to get to Carson's Planet; we were to arrive there just in time to neutralize its volatile state in a special lab there, and put the neutralized material to productive use.
"The plasma will be completely unstable within the half hour and disrupt. We have rigged a makeshift shield which will direct the blast away from the inhabited portions of the ship where we are, and if the ship holds together we will ride the blast away from T-873.
"The force of the blast, if we've rigged the shield well enough to harness it, may send us halfway across the universe. Peter Burton believes he and Driscoll can take it from there and guide us to safety.
"The disruption should happen in about twenty-five minutes. We've rigged up some detection devices that will allow me to let you know when it's going to happen a little more accurately than that, but only enough for a countdown when it happens. I want you to each strap yourselves in somewhere, and then I want you to pray.
"Burton, it's all yours. Good luck."
Burton thought about making a speech to the crew, but he'd made enough speeches already, and they never seemed to help anything. He had an idea, yes, but he wasn't sure it would work.
Time would tell.
The last half hour was difficult. Everyone on board could feel the ship begin to move - T-873 was winning. It made Burton sick to his stomach.
Finally, the captain spoke again over the intercom system. "Fifteen seconds..."
Burton jumped into Driscoll's mind.
Dan, he thought, what are you thinking?
I'm thinking about death, Peter. What are you thinking?
I'm thinking about death too. I'm thinking it's too soon for death, for both of us. Don't you agree?
I'm not sure, Peter.
Why?
Because I'm old, that's why. My parents died in their eighties, Peter. I'm getting tired of living.
"Ten seconds..."
But you have a purpose, Dan. You still serve a useful function for mankind.
Yes, there is the job. Still, it seems I'm not much good at that, either.
"Nine..."
It's not you, Dan, it's me. I'm supposed to be helping you, and I just haven't. But I will now...
"Eight..."
Peter? If you think we can get out of this, I'm really don't think I'm ready to die either...
"Seven..."
I think I can help you do it, but you have to really want to do it...can you accept my apology?
Apology?
"Six..."
Yes, my apology. I've been unkind to you. Not cruel in the same sense that Mitchell was; but in my own way. You're not the one who's to blame for my life.
"Five..."
I accept, Peter, but it's not necessary. Don't be silly. You're not at fault either. Try to remember that.
"Four..."
I'll do my best. Let's just hope the ship stays in one piece, so we can shoot our way out of this.
The blast was premature. Whatever instruments they had rigged up hadn't been accurate enough. The entire ship shook with the impact of the explosion, jerking violently into motion. It rattled like a tin can on a string, and Burton thought that it really would shake apart.
Driscoll wet his pants.
The ship did decide to stay in one piece, and Jeanine's terminal started flashing and beeping warnings. They were no longer teetering on the brink of T-873, but they were way off course, and getting further every minute.
Burton whipped into action inside Driscoll's mind.
He formed the image of one of Driscoll's former employers, who frowned over Driscoll as he sat at his desk late at night, working. You should go home now, Driscoll, it's getting pretty late.
Burton shifted the picture, and showed Driscoll his mother, standing on the back porch. She was calling his name, over and over. Around the house it was beginning to get dark, and Danny knew he should be getting home.
Jeanine interrupted them briefly. "Better do something fast...we're headed for a pretty dense area..."
Burton shifted Driscoll's mental point of view again, this time showing him his wife, on the telephone.
"Ted? Have you seen Dan?" Driscoll mentally experienced her side of the conversation. "No, he's not home yet. I'm beginning to worry about him...No, he didn't mention having to stop anywhere else when he left this morning...well, okay, thanks Dan. Have him call me if he stops there, alright?"
Burton then let the image of Driscoll's late wife dissolve, and replaced it with one of himself. It is time for you to go home now, Dan. Can you find the way?
Hmm? Peter, I'm not sure. It's so...hard...to concentrate.
Try, Dan. I'll help you.
Driscoll mustered up his mental concentration, and before Burton realized it the grey mass appeared next to the image of himself he had positioned in Driscoll's mind.
That's where home is, he reassured the old man, through there.
Driscoll took over from there, forming his own mental image, of himself. He was wearing a sharp grey hat and an overcoat, and he was smiling. He gave a brief bow toward Peter Burton, then walked into the grey.
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I hope you enjoyed this work. It is copyrighted 1995 by Steven Coallier.