AN HONEST DAY’S WORK

HARRY HARRISON

The image of the grim-jawed hero with steely eyes has become tarnished in this latter half of the twentieth century. Pride in manual skills in a culture clearly being taken-over by automation collapses so that ‘satisfaction from a good job well done’ is more and more obtainable only from avocations, not vocations. Harry Harrison in rumbustious fashion sets about demolishing notions of duty and glory and interstellar invasion as well as the dignity of labour and the rate for the job.

* * * *

‘I DO my job, that’s all. And that’s all that anyone can expect.’ Jerry’s jaw set hard with these words, set as firmly as his voice as he bit deep into the scarred stem of the old pipe.

‘I know that, Mr. Cruncher,’ the Lieutenant said. ‘No one is asking you to do anything more than that, or to do anything wrong.’ He was dusty and one of the pocket flaps had been torn off his uniform. There was a wild look in his eye and he had a tendency to talk too fast. “We tracked you down through BuRecCent and it wasn’t easy, there were good men lost …’ His voice started to rise and he drew himself up with an effort. ‘We would like your co-operation if we could get it.’

‘Not the sort of thing I like to do. It could lead to trouble.’

* * * *

The trouble was that no one expected it, or rather the people who expected it had expected something altogether different and had made their plans accordingly and fed them to the computer which had drawn up programs covering all possible variations of the original. However the Betelgeuseans had a completely different plan in mind so they therefore succeeded far beyond what was possibly their own wildest dreams. The trade station they had set up in Tycho crater on the Moon was just that, a trade station, and had nothing to do at all with the events that followed. Records of the Disaster are confused, as well they might be under the circumstances, and the number of aliens involved in the first phase of the invasion was certainly only a fraction of the exaggerated figures that were being tossed around by excited newsmen, or worried military personnel who felt that there must be that number of attacking aliens to wreak the damage that was done. The chances are that there were no more than two, three maximum, ships involved; a few hundred Betelgeuseans at the most. A few hundred to subjugate an entire planet—and they came within a hair of succeeding.

* * * *

‘Colonel, this is Mr. Cruncher who has volunteered…’

‘A civilian! Will you get him the hell out of here and blindfold him first, you unutterable fool. This headquarters is double-red-zed top security…!’

‘Sir, the security doesn’t matter any more. All of our communications are shut down, we’re sealed off from the troops.’

‘Quiet, you fool!’ The Colonel raised his clenched fists, his skin flushing, a wild light in his eyes. He still did not want to believe what had happened, possibly could not believe. The lieutenant was younger, a reserve officer; as much as he disliked it he could face the facts.

‘Colonel, you must believe me. The situation is desperate, and desperate times call for desperate solutions…’

‘Sergeant! Take this lieutenant and this civilian to the target range and shoot them for violating security during an emergency.’

‘Colonel, please…’

‘Sergeant, that is an order!’

The Sergeant, who was only four months short of retirement and had a pot belly to prove it, looked from one officer to the other. He was reluctant to make a decision but he had to. He finally rose and went to the toilet, locking the door behind him. The Colonel, who had been following his movements in eye-bulging silence, gasped, his face a bright scarlet, and groped for his sidearm. Even as he drew it from the holster he gurgled and fell face first upon the desk, then slid slowly to the floor.

‘Medic!’ the Lieutenant shouted and ran and opened the Colonel’s collar. The medic took one look and shook his head gloomily. ‘The big one. He’s had it. Always had a dicey ticker.’

The Sergeant came out of the toilet and helped the Lieutenant to pull a gas cape over the corpse. Jerry Cruncher stood to one side and looked on in silence, sucking on his pipe.

‘Please, Mr Cruncher,’ the Lieutenant said pleadingly, ‘you must help us. You’re our last hope now.’

Now when we look back at Black Sunday when the Disaster began we can marvel at the simplicity of the Betelgeusean plan and understand why it came within a hair’s breadth of succeeding. Our armies and spaceborne tanks were poised and waiting, all instruments and attention firmly fixed on the massive bulk of the ‘so called’ trade station which was, indeed, just a trade station. On Earth a complex spiderweb of communication networks linked together the host of defenders, a multilevel net of radio and laser links, buried coaxial cables and land lines, microwave and heliograph connections. It was foolproof and unjammable and perfect in every way except for the fact that all global communications were channelled through the two substations and ComCent in Global City. These three stations, wonderfully efficient, handled all the communications with the armed forces on Earth, below the ground, on the Moon and in space.

They were knocked out. Betelgeusean commando squads in field armour dropped one null-G on to each centre and the battle could not have lasted more than half an hour. When it was over the three communications centres had been taken and the war was lost before it began. Headquarters were cut off from units, individual units from each other, tanks from tank commanders, spaceships from their bases. Radar central on the far side of the Moon very quickly discovered the blips of the invasion fleet swooping in from beyond Saturn. But there was no way they could tell anyone about it.

* * * *

‘I have to ask my supervisor about it,’ Jerry Cruncher said, nodding solemnly at the thought. ‘This being my day off and all. And taking of unauthorised people into the tunnels. Can’t say he’s going to like it much.’

‘Mr. Cruncher,’ the Lieutenant said through tight-clamped teeth. ‘In case you have not heard there is a war on. You have just seen a man die because of this war. You cannot call your supervisor because the military override has rendered the civilian visiphone network inoperable.’

‘Can’t say I like that.’

‘None of us do. That is why we need your help. The enemy aliens have taken our communication centres and they must be recaptured. We have contacted the nearest combat units by messenger and they are attempting to retake the centres, but they are virtually impregnable.’

‘They are? How did those Beetlejuicians capture them then?’

‘Well, yes, it is Sunday, you know, minimum personnel, at 0800 hours the church coaches were leaving, the gates were open…’

‘Caught you with your pants down, hey?’ A wet suck on his pipe told the world what Jerry Cruncher felt about that, kind of efficiency. ‘So your lot is out and you want back in. So why bother a working man at home on a Sunday?’

‘Because, Mr. Cruncher, war does not recognise days of the week. And you are the oldest employee of CitSubMaint and probably the only man who can answer this question. Our communication centres have their own standby power sources, but they normally use city power. And the land lines and cables go out underground. Now, think carefully before you answer, can we get into these centres from underground? Particularly into ComCent?’

“Where is it?’ He tamped down the glowing tobacco with a calloused thumb, then sucked in the grey smoke happily.

‘At the junction of 18th Way and Wiggan Road.’

‘So that’s why there are so many cables in 104-BpL.’

‘Can we get into it?’

In the hushed silence that followed the burble of Jerry Cruncher’s pipe could be clearly heard. The Lieutenant stood, fists clenched tightly, and beside him the Sergeant and the Corpsman, as well as the operators who had left their silent communication equipment. All of them waited and listened in strained silence as Jerry Cruncher narrowed his eyes in thought, took the pipe from his mouth and exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke, then turned to face them.

‘Yep,’ he said.

They weren’t the best troops—but they were troops. Technicians and operators, MP’s and cooks, clerks and motor pool mechanics. But they were armed with the best weapons the armouries could provide and armoured as well with a sense of purpose. If they stood a little straighter or held their guns a little more firmly it was because they knew that the future of the world was in their hands. They marched with grim precision to the road junction where they had been instructed to wait and had been there no more than a few minutes when Jerry Cruncher showed up. He wore waterproofs and a hardhat, heavy gumboots that, came to his waist, while a worn and ancient toolbox was slung by a strap over one shoulder. His pipe was out, but still clamped in his jaw, as he moved his shrewd eyes over the waiting troops.

‘Not dressed right,’ he said.

‘Everyone is in combat uniform,’ the Lieutenant answered.

‘Not right for the tunnels. Gets mighty damp-‘

‘Mr. Cruncher, these are volunteer soldiers. They may die for their world so they do not mind getting wet for it. May we go now?’

Shaking his head in solemn disapproval Jerry Cruncher led the way to a manhole in the road, into the socket of which he inserted a shining tool with which, in a practised movement, he flipped the heavy manhole lid aside.

‘Follow me then, single file. Last two men in slide that lid back on and watch out for your fingers. Here we go:

Automatic lights sprang on as they climbed down the ladder to the cool, green tunnel below. Wires, cables and pipes lined the walls and ceiling in a maze that only a Jerry Cruncher could make head or tail of. He slapped them affectionately as they passed.

‘Water main, steam main, 50,000 volt line, 220 local feeder, telephone, teletype, co-ax, ice water, pneumo-delivery, food dispenser supply, oxygen, sewer feeder.’ He chuckled happily. ‘Yep, we’ve got a little bit of everything down here.’

‘Medic!’ a voice called from the rear of the file and the Corpsman hurried away.

‘They’ve found us!’ A Permanent KP wailed and there was a rattle of weapons readied.

‘Put those away!’ the Lieutenant shouted. ‘Before you kill each other. Get me a report. Sergeant, snap to it.’

They waited, weapons clenched and eyes rolling with anxiety, until the Sergeant returned. Jerry Cruncher hummed to himself tonelessly as he tapped various valves with a small ballpean hammer, then carefully tightened the gasket retainer on one.

‘Nothing much,’ the Sergeant said. ‘Burne-Smith got a finger mashed putting the lid back on.’

‘They never listen,’ Jerry Cruncher coughed disapprovingly.

‘Move it out,’ the Lieutenant ordered.

‘One thing we haven’t mentioned,’ Jerry Cruncher said, unmoving as a block of stone. ‘You guaranteed that my supervisor would see that I received my pay for this job.’

‘Yes, of course, can we talk about it as we go?’

‘We go when this is settled. I forgot that this being Sunday I’ll be getting double time and triple time after four hours.’

‘Fine, agreed. Let’s go.’

‘In writing.’

‘Yes, writing, of course.’ The Lieutenant’s scriber flew over a message pad and he ripped off the sheet. ‘There, I’ve signed it as well, with my serial number. The Army will stand behind this.’

‘Had better,’ Jerry Cruncher said, carefully folding the slip and placing it securely in his wallet before they moved out again.

It was a nightmare journey for all except the grey, solid man who led them like a Judas goat through this underground inferno. The main tunnels were easy enough to pass through, though pendant valvewheels and transverse pipes lay constantly in wait for the unwary. Had they not been wearing helmets half of the little force would have been stunned before they had gone a mile. As it was there was many a clank and muffled cry from the rear. Then came the inspection hatch and the first crawltube leading to a vertical pit sixty feet deep down which they had to make their way on a water-slippery ladder. At its foot an even damper tunnel, this one faced with blocks of hand-hewn stone, led them through the darkness—no lights here, they had to use their torches—to an immense cavern filled with roaring sound.

‘Storm sewer,’ Jerry Cruncher said, pointing to the rushing river that swirled by just below their feet. ‘I’ve seen it bone dry in the season. Been rain in the suburbs lately, and here it is now. Stay on the walkway, this is the shortest way to go, and don’t slip. Once in that water you’re a goner. Might find your body fifty miles out in the ocean if the fishes don’t get it first.’

With this cheering encouragement the men slithered and crawled the awful length of that great tunnel, almost gasping with relief when they were back in the safety of a communications tube again. Shortly after this Jerry Cruncher halted and pointed up at a ladder that rose into the darkness above.

‘98 BaG dropwell. This is the one you want, to that second centre you talked about.’

‘You’re sure?’

Jerry Cruncher eyed the Lieutenant with something very much like disgust and he groped his pipe from his pocket.

‘Being you’re ignorant, mister, I take no offence. When Jerry says a tunnel is a tunnel, that’s the tunnel he says.’

‘No offence meant!’

‘None taken,’ he muttered mollifiedly around the pipe stem. ‘This is the one. You can see all the wires and communication cables going up there as well. Can’t be anything else.’

‘What’s at the top?’

‘Door with a handle and a sign saying NO ADMISSION UNDER PAR. 897A OF THE MILITARY CODE.’

‘Is the door locked?’

‘Nope. Forbidden under paragraph 45-C of the Tunnel Authority Code. Need access, we do.’ ‘

‘Then this is it. Sergeant, take eighteen men and get up that ladder. Synchronise your watch with mine. In two hours we go in. Just get through that door and start shooting - watch out for the equipment though - and keep shooting until every one of those slimy dirty Betelgeuseans is dead. Do you understand?’

The Sergeant nodded with grim determination and drew himself up and saluted. ‘We’ll do our duty, sir.’

‘All right, the rest of you, move out.’

They had walked for no more than ten minutes down a lateral tunnel lined with frosted pipes before Jerry Cruncher stopped and sat down.

‘What’s wrong?’ the Lieutenant asked.

‘Tea break,’ he said, putting his still warm pipe into his side pocket and opening his lunch box.

‘You can’t—I mean, listen, the enemy, the schedule…’

‘I always have tea at this time.’ He poured a great mugful of the potent brew and sniffed it appreciatively. ‘Tea break allowed for in the schedule.’

Most of the men brought out rations and sipped from their canteens while the Lieutenant paced back and forth slapping his fist into his hand. Jerry Cruncher sipped his tea placidly and chewed on a large chocolate biscuit.

A shrill scream sliced through the silence and echoed from the pipes. Something black and awful launched itself from a crevice in the wall and was attached to Trooper Barnes’ throat. The soldiers were paralysed. Not so Jerry Cruncher. There was a whistle and a thud as he instantly lashed out with his three foot spanner and the vicious assailant rolled, dead, onto the tunnel floor before their bulging eyes.

‘It’s … it’s … hideous!’ a soldier gasped. ‘What is it?’

‘Mutant hamster,’ Jerry Cruncher said as he picked up the monster of teeth and claws and stuffed it into his lunch box. ‘Descendants of house pets that escaped centuries ago, mutated here in the darkness until they turned into this. I’ve seen bigger ones. Boffins at the university give me three credits for every one I bring them. Not bad if I say so myself, and tax free too, which I hope you won’t be repeating.’ He was almost jovial now at this fiscally remunerative encounter. As soon as the trooper had been sewn up they pressed on.

A second squad was left at the next communication substation and they hurried on towards ComCent itself.

‘Ten minutes to go,’ the Lieutenant gasped, jogging heavily under the weight of all his equipment.

‘Not to worry, just two tunnels more.’

It was three minutes to deadline when they reached the wide opening in the ceiling above them, sprouting cables from its mouth like an electronic hydra’s head.

‘Big door at the top,’ Jerry Cruncher said, shining his torch up the shaft. ‘Has a dual interlock compound wheel exchange lever. As you turn the wheel counterclockwise the lever in position ready must be…’

‘Come up with us, please,’ the Lieutenant begged, peering at his watch and chewing his lip nervously. ‘We’ll never get in in time and they’ll be warned by the attacks on the other stations.’

‘Not my job, you know, getting shot at. I let them as has been paid for it do it.’

‘Please, I beg of you, as a patriotic citizen.’ Jerry Cruncher’s face was as of carved stone as he bit down heavily on the stem of his pipe. ‘You owe it to yourself, your family, your conscience, your country. And I can guarantee a hundred credit bonus for opening it.’

‘Done.’

They climbed against time and when they reached the platform at the top the second hand on the Lieutenant’s watch was just coming up on the twelve.

‘Open it!’

The wheel spun and gears engaged, the great lever went down and the massive portal swung open.

‘For Mother Earth!’ the Lieutenant shouted and led the charge.

When they had all gone inside and the tunnel was silent again Jerry Cruncher lit his pipe and then, more out of curiosity than anything else, strolled in after them. It was a vista of endless steel corridors lined with banks of instruments, whirring and humming under electronic control. He stopped to tamp down his pipe just as a door opened and a short hairy creature, no taller than his waist, shaped like a bowling pin and possessing a number of arms, scuttled out and raced towards a large red switch mounted on the opposite wall. Five of its arms were reaching for the switch, spatulate fingers almost touching it, when the spanner whistled once again and sank deep into the creature’s head, flooring it instantly. Jerry Cruncher had just retrieved the spanner when the white-faced Lieutenant raced through the same door.

‘Praise heaven!’ he gasped, ‘you’ve stopped him in time.’

‘Didn’t like his looks at all, though I didn’t mean to bash his brains in.’

‘That is their leader, the only survivor, and he was going for the destruct switch that would have blown us all a mile high. He’s our prisoner now and he’ll talk, believe me. You didn’t kill him. The Betelgeuseans have their brains in their midriffs, their stomachs are in their heads. He’s just unconscious.’

‘Like a boot in the guts. Glad of that, didn’t mean to kill him.’

* * * *

‘Where you been?’ Agatha called from the kitchen when she heard Jerry’s heavy tread in the hall.

‘Special job,’ he wheezed, pulling off his high boots. ‘Going to be some extra lolly in the pay packet this week.’

‘We’ll need it to fix the viddy. It’s been out of order all day, though it just came back on. Something wrong with it I’m sure. Had phone trouble too, would you believe, all in the same day. Tried to call Mum but our line went dead. Was it a hard job?’

‘Not specially,’ Jerry grunted, digging out his pipe. ‘Government work, bit of a bonus in. it too I imagine. Showed a bunch of chaps through the tunnels. Not a clue they had. One mashed his hand in a lid and the other just sat there while a hampmutey went for his throat.’

‘Oooh, don’t say that, I’ll have no appetite at all. Tea’s ready.’

‘Now that is the sort of thing I like to hear.’

He smiled for the first time since he had gotten out of bed that morning and went in to have his tea.