Passage at Arms Read Free

snapped a living legend of the Fleet.”
    Crew segregation by sex is an unpleasantry unique to the Climbers. I haven’t been womanizing that much in integrated society, but I’m not looking forward to a period of enforced abstinence. There’s something about having somebody else cut you off that does things to your mind.
    The folks back home don’t hear the disadvantages. The holonets concentrate on swaggering leave-takers and glory stuff that brings in the volunteers.
    Climbers are the only Navy ship-type spacing without integrated crews. No other vessel produces pressure like a Climber. Adding the volatile complication of sex is suicidal. They found that out early.
    I can understand the reasons. They don’t help me like it any better.
    I met Commander Johnson and her officers in Turbeyville. They taught me that, under like pressures, women are as morally destitute as the worst of men, judged by peacetime standards.
    What are peacetime standards worth these days? With them and a half-dozen Conmarks you can buy a cup of genuine Old Earth coffee. Price six Conmarks on the black market.
    The first dropship whips in along the carrier’s backtrail, taking us by surprise. Her sonic wake seizes the vehicle, gives it one tremendous shake, and deafens me momentarily. Somehow the others get their hands to their ears in time. The dropper becomes a glowing deltoid moth depositing her eggs in the sea.
    “There’s some new lifters that’ll need to be built,” Westhause says. “Let’s hope what we lost were Citron Fours.”
    My harness is suddenly a trap. Panic hits me. How can I get away if I’m strapped down?
    The Commander touches me gently. His touch has a surprisingly calming effect. “Almost there. A few hundred meters.”
    The carrier stops almost immediately. “You’re a prophet.” It’s a strain, trying to sound settled. That damned open sky mocks our human vulnerability, throwing down great bolts of laughter at our puniness.
    A second dropper cracks overhead and leaves her greetings. A lucky ground weapon has bitten a neat round hole from her flank. She trails smoke and glowing fragments. She wobbles. I missed covering my ears again. Yanevich and Bradley help me out of the carrier.
    Bradley says, “Bad shields on that one.” He sounds about two kilometers away. Yanevich nods.
    “Wonder if they’ll ever get her back up.” The First Watch! Officer commiserates with fellow professionals.
    I stumble several times clambering through the ruins. The boom must have scrambled my equilibrium.
    The entrance to the Pits is well hidden. It’s just another shadow among the piles, a man-sized hole leading into one of war’s middens. The rubble isn’t camouflage. Guards in full | combat gear loaf inside, waiting to clear new debris when the last dropship finishes her run, hoping there’ll be no work to do.
    We trudge through the poorly lit halls of a deep subbasement. Below them lie the Pits, a mix of limestone cavern and wartime construction far beneath the old city. We have to walk down four long, dead escalators before we find one still working. The constant pounding takes its toll. A series of escalators carries us another three hundred meters into Canaan’s skin.
    My duffel, all my worldly possessions, is stuffed into one canvas bag. It masses exactly twenty-five kilos. I had to moan and whine and beg to get the extra ten for cameras and notebooks. The crew, including the Old Man, are allowed only fifteen.
    The last escalator dumps us on a catwalk overlooking a cavern vaster than any dozen stadia.
    “This is chamber six,” Westhause says. “They call it the I Big House. There are ten all told, and two more being excavated.”
    The place is as warm with frenetic activity. There are people everywhere, although most of them are doing nothing. The majority are sleeping, despite the industrial din. Housing remains a low priority in the war effort.
    “I thought Luna Command was crowded.”
    “Almost a million