Microcosmic God by Theodore Sturgeon

Author:Theodore Sturgeon [Sturgeon, Theodore]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9781583947463
Publisher: North Atlantic Books
Published: 2013-04-08T14:00:00+00:00

Completely Automatic

“WHAT THE DEVIL does he do for a living?” I asked as the petty officer left the mess room.

“Nothing,” said the second officer. “Nothing at all.”

“What do you carry him for, then?”

The second was a man in his middle forties with a very nice grin. He used it now. “We carry him just in case,” he said. “He’s the chemical supervisor. He stands no watches, makes no reports. He reports aboard before we take off and disappears when we make port. For that he knocks down six hundred and forty credits a month.”

“Six—Holy Kit, that’s a lot of change for doing nothing. I was always under the impression that the crew of a spaceship was streamlined down to practically nothing. Does every ship carry these … these paid passengers?”

The second nodded as he filled my glass again. “There was a time, four or five hundred years ago, when a ship couldn’t have done without them. They had no automatic machinery to speak of then. The ships were self-powered, and half their capacity was given over to fuel. Half the rest was driving machinery. They had no power beams then; they had to plot their courses and steer them every trip. Now, of course, with the power beams that both guide and drive the vessels, things are different. There are only two or three hundred men in the System that know the theory of astrogation nowadays, and they are either research scientists or doddering scholars. It’s only tradition that keeps a crew aboard any more—that and the fact that the more jobs the Supreme Council can create, the better for everybody. I don’t kid myself—I know damn well that I could be replaced in a minute by two switches and a rheostat on the control panel back on Earth. That goes for everyone else riding these ships, too. Only the passenger ships carry captains, and they are there to impress the passengers. Sort of glorified masters of ceremonies. No, space travel isn’t what it used to be.”

“That may be true,” I said, “but at least you do something for a living. You stand a regular watch and supervise the stowage and the passenger lists and keep the log and give the passengers the idea that the ship is in competent hands—but what about that chem super? False front is false front, but it’s usually attached to something solid. That guy hasn’t even an excuse for being aboard.”

“You don’t think so? Granted, his work is taken care of entirely by automatic machinery that hasn’t broken down once in the last three hundred years, but that isn’t the point. Remember—I told you that he is here just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“Certain eventualities. Got an hour or so? I’ll tell you a story about a chemical supervisor that might interest you.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “I’ve got three weeks with nothing to do, let alone an hour. Start spinning.”

The second officer unzipped his collar, flipped a lever on his chair to tilt it back a little, and began.

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