Some Shipmen claimed they talked to Ship, and she had studied these people. They fell into two obvious categories: fools and non-fools. Most of the claimants had a history of talking to walls, bowls, items of clothing and such. But perhaps one out of every twenty who said they talked to Ship were Ship’s best. For them, talking with Ship represented the single rare absurdity of their records. It fascinated her that, for this small group, the talking incidents were isolated and seemingly innocuous—almost as though Ship were checking in from time to time.

Unlike Oakes and Lewis, she did not count herself a disbeliever.

But God or not, Ship apparently refused to interfere in the private decisions of Shipmen.

So what if I decide to destroy Oakes?

Did Ship care for him, too?

Oakes was too cautious, too painstakingly right about the things he did. What if he were the only reason Colony had survived? Could she watch Colony wither and die, knowing she had done it?

Was the Scream Room right?

Only the holorecord could decide that for her. She had to see it.

She levered herself to her feet, found a singlesuit and slipped into it. There was a sense of urgency about her motions now compounded of the late hour and the terrors she knew she was holding at bay. A glance at her chrono showed only six hours to dayside. Six hours to call up those records, review them and cover her tracks. And those records spanned most of a diurn—perhaps forty hours. All she needed was to see the essence of it, though.

What did he do to me?

Without conscious decision, she headed for Oakes’ abandoned shipside cubby, realizing her own choice only when she grasped the hatchdogs. Yes, the com-console would still be here. It was a good place to search out the record and review it. She knew the code which would call up the Scream Room holo. Her priority number would insure that she got it. And there was something exquisitely right about the choice of the place to do it.

As she keyed the hatchdogs on the cubby, she reminded herself: Whatever he wanted me to do, I did not do it. Some part of her knew that neither the pleasures nor the curiosities of the Scream Room had tempted her—neither ecstasy nor pain. But Oakes wanted her to believe in some willing debasement. He required that she believe.

He’ll see.

She released the hatchdogs and stepped inside.

Chapter 41

Chapter 41

The family feeds its fledgling, and under the nest weaves twigs—Intelligence is a poor cousin to understanding.

—Kerro Panille, The Collected Poems

THE DULL crimson of instruments and telltales filled the sub’s core gondola with red shadows and played firelight flickers off every movement of the three people strapped in their seats around the tight arc of controls.