THE LINEMAN Walter M. Miller, Jr. IT was August on Earth, and the newscast reported a heat wave in the Midwest: the worst since 2065. A letter from Mike Tremini's sister in Abilene said the chickens were dying and there wasn't enough water for the stock. It was the only letter that came for any of Novotny's men during that fifty-shift hitch on the Copernicus Trolley Project. Everybody read it and luxuriated in sympathy for Kansas and sick chickens. It was August on Luna too. The Perseids rained down with merciless impartiality; and, from his perch atop the hundred-foot steel skeleton, the lineman stopped cranking the jack and leaned out against his safety belt to watch two demolition men carrying a corpse out toward Fissure Seven. The corpse wore a deflated pressure suit. Torn fabric dragged the ground. The man in the rear carried the corpse's feet like a pair of wheelbarrow handles, and he continually tripped over the loose fabric; his head waggled inside his helmet as if he cursed softly and continuously to himself. The corpse's helmet was translucent with an interior coating of pink ice, making it look like a comic figure in a strawberry ice cream ad, a chocolate ragamuffin with a scoop for a head. The lineman stared after the funeral party for a time until the team-pusher, who had been watching the slack span of 800 MGM aluminum conductors that snaked half a mile back toward the preceding tower, glanced up at the hesitant worker and began bellowing into his micro-phone. The lineman answered briefly, inspected the pressure gauge of his suit, and began cranking the jack again. With every dozen turns of the crank, the long snaking cable crept tighter across the lunar plain, straightening and lifting almost imperceptibly until at last the center-point cleared the ground and the cable swooped in a long graceful catenary between the towers. It trembled with fitful glistenings in the harsh sunglare. The lineman ignored the cable as he turned the crank. He squinted across the plains at the meteor display. The display was not spectacular. It could be detected only as a slight turbulence in the layer of lunar dust that covered the ground, and an occasional dust geyser where a' pea sized bit of sky debris exploded into the crust at thirty miles per second. Sometimes the explosion was bright and lingering, but more often there was only a momentary incandescence quickly obscured by dust. The lineman watched it with nervous eyes. There was small chance of being hit by a stone of consequential size, but the eternal pelting by meteoric dust, though too fine to effect a puncture, could weaken the fabric of a suit and lead to leaks and blowouts. The team-pusher keyed his mic switch again and called to the lineman on the tower. "Keep your eyes on that damn jack, Relke! That clamp looks like she's slipping from here." The lineman paused to inspect the mechanism. "Looks OK to me," he answered. "How tight do I drag this one up?" The pusher glanced at the sagging span of steel-reinforced aluminum cable. "It's a short stretch. Not too critical. What's the tension now?" The lineman consulted a dial on the jack. "Going on forty-two hundred pounds, Joe." "Crank her up to five thousand and leave it," said the pusher. "Let C-shift sag it in by the tables if they don't like it." "Yokay. Isn't it quitting time?" "Damn near. My suit stinks like we're on overtime. Come on down when you reel that one in. I'm going back to the sleep wagon and get blown clear." The pusher shut off his oxygen while he transferred his hose connections from the main feeder supply to the walk-around bottles on his suit. He signaled "quitting time" at the men on the far tower, then started moon-loping his way across the shaggy terrain toward the train of rolling barracks and machinery that moved with the construction crew as the 200 kilovolt transmission line inched its way across the lunar landscape. The lineman glanced up absently at the star-stung emptiness of space. Motion caught his eye. He watched with a puzzled frown, then hitched himself around to call after the departing team-pusher. "Hey, Joe!" The pusher stopped on a Iow rise to look back. "Relke?" he asked, uncertain of the source of the voice. "Yeah. Is that a ship up there?" The lineman pointed upward toward the east. "1 don't see it. Where?" . "Between Arcturus and Serpens. I thought I saw it move." The pusher stood on the low tongue of lava and watched the heavens for a time. "Maybe?maybe not. So what if it is, Relke?" "Well ..." The lineman paused, keying his mic nervously. "Looks to me like it's headed the wrong direction for Crater City. I mean?" The pusher barked a short curse. "I'm just about fed up with that superstitious drivel!" he snapped. "There aren't any non-human ships, Relke. And there aren't any non-humans." "I didn't say?" "No, but you had it in mind." The pusher gave him a scornful look and hiked on toward the caterpillar train. "Yah. If you say so, Joe," Relke muttered to himself. He glanced again at the creeping point of light in the blackness; he shrugged; he began cranking up the slack span again. But the creeping point kept drawing his gaze while he cranked. When he looked at the tension indicator, it read 5,600 pounds. He grunted his annoyance, re-versed the jack ratchet, and began letting out the extra 600 pounds. The shift-change signal was already beeping in his headsets by the time he had eased it back down to 5,000, and the C-shift crewmen were standing around the foot of the tower jeering at him from below. "Get off it, boy. Give the men a chance." "Come on down, Relke. You can let go. It ain't gonna drop." He ignored the razzing and climbed down the train-ward side of the tower: Larkin and Kunz walked briskly around to meet him. He jumped the last twenty-five feet, hoping to evade them, but they were waiting for him when his boots hit the ground. "We want a little talk with you, Relke, my lad," came Larkin's rich, deceptively affable baritone. "Sorry, Lark, it's late and I?" He tried to sidestep them, but they danced in and locked arms with him, one on each side. "Like Lark told you, we want a little talk," grunted Kunz. "Sure, Harv?but not right now. Drop by my bunk tank when you're off shift. I been in this straight jacket for seven hours. It doesn't smell exactly fresh in here." "Then, Sonny, you should learn to control yourself in your suit," said Larkin, his voice all mellifluent with, smiles and avuncular pedagoguery. "Let's take him, Harv." They caught him in a double armlock, hoisted him off the ground, and started carrying him toward a low lava ridge that lay a hundred yards to the south of the tower. He could not kick effectively because of the stiffness of the suit. He wrenched one hand free and fumbled at the channel selector of his suit radio. Larkin jerked his stub antenna free from its mounting before Relke could put in a call for help. "Tch tch tch," said Larkin, waggling his head. They carried him across the ridge and set him on his feet again, out of sight of the camp. "Sit down, Sonny. We have seeeerious matters to discuss with you." Relke heard him faintly, even without the antenna, but he saw no reason to ,acknowledge. When he failed to answer, Kunz produced a set of jumper wires from his knee pocket and clipped their suit audio circuits into a three-way intercom, disconnecting the plate lead from an r.f. stage to insure privacy. "You guys give me a pain in the hump," growled the lineman. "What do you want this time? You know damn well a dead radio is against safety rules." "It is? You ever hear of such a rule, Kunz?" "Naah. Or maybe I did, at that. It's to make things easy for work spies, psych checkers, and time-and-motion men, ain't that it?" "Yeah. You a psych checker Or a time-and-motion man, Relke?" "Hell, you guys known damn well I'm not?" "Then what are you stalling about?" Larkin's baritone lost its mellowness and became an ominous growl. "You came nosing around, asking questions about the Party. So we let you in on it. We took you to a cell meeting. You said you wanted to join. So we let you in on two more meetings. Then you chickened out. We don't like that, Relke. It smells. It smells like a dirty informing rat!" "I'm no damn informer!" "Then why did you welsh?" "I didn't welsh. I never said I'd join. You asked me if I was in favor of getting the Schneider-Volkov Act re-pealed. I said `yes.' I still say `yes.' That doesn't mean I want to join the Party." "Why not, Relke?" "Well, there's the fifty bucks, for one thing." "Wh-a-a-at! One shift's wages? Hell, if that's all that's stopping you?Kunz, let's pay his fifty bucks for him, okay?" "Sure. We'll pay your way in, Relke. I don't hold it against a man if he's a natural born tightwad." "Yeah," said Larkin. "All you gotta do is sign up, Sonny. Fifty bucks, hell?that's less than union dues. If you can call that yellow-bellied obscenity a union. Now how about it, Relke?" Behind the dark lenses of his glare goggles, Relke's eyes scanned the ground for a weapon. He spotted a jagged shard of volcanic glass and edged toward it. "Well, Relke?" "No deal." "Why not?" "That's easy. I plan on getting back to Earth someday. Conspiracy to commit mutiny rates the death penalty." "Hear what he said, Lark? He calls it mutiny." "Yeah. Teacher's little monitor." "C'mere, informer." They approached him slowly, wearing tight smiles. Relke dived for the shard of glass. The jumper wiresjerked tight and broke loose, throwing them off balance for a moment. He came up with the glass shard in one fist and backed ...
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