Slave Ship by Frederik Pohl Page A

might be interested to know that this burning gizmo the Caodais have has just been tested out on a submerged vessel. The Caodais are probably pretty happy, because according to a burst transmission COMCARIB intercepted it works. The whole engineering section of the sub died at once, and the sub hasn't been heard from since." He looked at me levelly. "It was Spruance , Miller."
    I had thought I was numb, but I wasn't quite numb enough. I was out in the anteroom, ignoring Giordano sitting there reproachfully, waiting for his own turn under the lash, before it occurred to me to wonder if I had saluted.
    Spruance was sunk.
    And I was tending cows and pushing buttons in a featherbed project ashore.

IX
     
     
    THERE HAD BEEN big doings down in the bay for a couple of weeks, but we had been warned to keep our noses out of it. Something had been floated in on a moonlit night, guarded by a patrol boat, convoyed by two little Diesel tugs; and a huge tarpaulin tent had been erected over it, and Navy mechanics had been hammering at it day and night. They weren't our own mechanics; they were flown in in shifts, and flown out again, even for mess.
    Semyon and I strolled down one evening after work, but a husky seaman with a rifle leaned out of a cluster of palmettos and chased us. We didn't argue; I heard the snick of the bolt on his rifle, and we turned around and went home. "Very silly procedure," Semyon said angrily. "They might have shot us!"
    "I think they would have," I said. The seaman had looked very businesslike.
    "Barbarous!" raged Semyon. "In Irkutsk such a thing would not be. Ah, Logan, you Americans have not yet learned the proper conduct of a war. In Krasnoye Army when I was a cadet at the Suvorov Academy—"
    "I've heard," I said. "And what is Krasnoye Army doing today?"
    "Oh, granted." Semyon agreed cheerfully. "You beat the ears from us; we lost. True. But, Logan, we lost so well !"
    "Let's go into town," I said disgustedly. We took a copter to Boca Raton and wandered around at loose ends. "Let's go to the Passion Pit," Semyon suggested eagerly.
    "Why not?" It wasn't my idea of a big evening, but I admittedly didn't have any better ideas to suggest. Besides, I had been a long time away from Elsie, but not quite long enough to be looking for another girl; and in spite of its .name the Passion Pit was about the most innocuous spot in town. They didn't even have a license; if you wanted to get high in the Passion Pit, you brought your own.
    We paid our admission fee, stood still while the attendant stamped our foreheads with fluorescent ink—so that we could walk in and out, if we wished, without being able to crash the place unpaid; the UV spotlight at the door showed who had paid his admission, and who was merely hopeful of getting in for free—and sat down to watch the floor show. "We should have brought a couple of shots," Semyon grumbled. "It is not fun, just sitting here. If I wish to see cows cavort, there are plenty at Proj—"
    "Shut up." It wasn't only that I wanted to keep him from mentioning Project Mako by name, though we'd had pretty stiff orders about that; but the chorus girls were near enough to hear, and one of them was glaring at us.
    "All right. But we should have brought a couple of shots."
    I shrugged. Semyon didn't pop and I didn't drink—we'd had arguments about it—but there wasn't any sense discussing it with him. Anyway, the Pit was filling up and if we went out for a shot we wouldn't be likely to get our seats back.
    The Passion Pit wasn't anything like a pit, really; it was on the beach, looking out over the ocean; it was only the size of it and the way the crowd acted on a busy night that gave it its name. I suppose seventy-five people could have fitted into it comfortably. On a dull Monday it usually held a hundred. The tables were more than merely close, they almost touched each other, and where you fitted in your chairs was your own problem.
    Semyon nudged me and pointed. He had a