“Why don’t you first wait to hear what I have to say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What I was going to say was that we should continue the search for as long as necessary to determine that the bogie is no longer in this area. I think the standard-pattern search procedure should do. Mr. Barak. At the end of, say, twelve hours, if we still haven’t picked up a shimmer, we can safely assume that the enemy has vacated this sector, and we can head for home. Mr. Korie—?” The captain indicates with a gesture, almost mocking, that now he may express his opinions, if any.
Korie does have opinions. “First of all, the standard-pattern search procedure will not do. That procedure is used mainly for rescue operations and rendezvous. It is not a battle maneuver. It can be consciously evaded. Now, the patterns I have set up—the ones already in the computer—are three-dimensional spirals with random deviations to allow for the enemy’s evasive maneuvers.
“A standard search covers a limited area, one in which you know your target is supposed to be. My search patterns cover an ever-expanding sphere because—as you said yourself—we do not know here the bogie is. The point of my search patterns is to find him.
“I believe that the standard procedure should also suffice to fill that purpose—”
Korie snorts. “And we’ll lose the bogie again. Your standard patterns will allow you to put on a show for the crew and for the High Command—so they won’t think you gave up too easily—but if that other captain is as clever as he’s supposed to be, the only way we’re going to find him is to be unorthodox in our searching.” He stops abruptly. The captain’s features are grim.
“Mr. Korie,” he says slowly. “I am not ‘putting on a show’ for anyone, as you put it.”
“Sir, you admit your first battle decision may have been in error—excuse me, too cautious—why not let me have a chance with this one? We still may be able to catch that ship.”
Brandt starts to say something, then changes his mind. For a moment, his gaze is inward, thoughtful. “All right, we’ll try your patterns for twelve hours—”
“That won’t be enough.”
“How much time do you need?”
“I don’t know, I’m not sure,” Korie says quickly. “The effectiveness of this procedure requires that we take the time to check a large area of space, as large as possible—that means we need as much time as possible.”
“How much time?”
“As much as we’ve got—”
“Give me a figure, Mr. Korie. Two days? Three days?”
Korie says, “I don’t know, wait a minute. Let me think—Al,” he turns to Barak, “how far are we from home.”
Barak scratches his head. “Let’s see, ten light days at 174 lights plus another fifty-six days—about five-and-half light years.”
“Eleven days’ traveling time at top speed, right?”
“Right.”
“And how many days of power do we have left in our cells?”
“Um, a little less than forty.”
“All right—” Korie does some hasty figuring. “Let’s say we need fifteen days of power to get home from here. I’ll take half the difference—” He turns to Brandt. “—fifteen days.”
“Out of the question. You leave us no margin for error.”
“My search spirals won’t take us fifteen days of traveling distance away from here—coming back won’t take more than seven days, maybe less—there’s your margin.”
“Still out of the question. You’re cutting it way too close.”
“All right, not half the difference, a third—ten days.”
Brandt considers it.
“Plus—” Korie adds, “one day’s worth of power for the missiles. Eight hours’ cruising range for each, plus time to unwarp, drop them, and rewarp.”
Brandt looks at Barak; the astrogator remains noncommittal; he looks back at Korie. “I don’t like it. You can have ten days, Mr. Korie. Ten days. No more. If you don’t find your bogie by then, we head for home.”
“All right,” Korie says. “I’ll take it.”
“Fine,” says the captain. “I don’t want you to say I didn’t give you a fair chance. You do think ten days is a fair chance, don’t you?”
“Under the circumstances—yes.”
“Good.” He pauses, eyes Korie speculatively. Almost mockingly, he asks, “Would you go on record with that? That is, may we enter it in the log?”
The first officer exhales loudly. “Yes, sir.”
“Fine.”
“May I be excused now, sir? I’d like to go to the bridge and see that the search patterns are being properly initiated—after all. I assume my ten days have already started.”
“Yes, they have. All right, you’re excused.”
“Thank you, sir.” The door slides shut behind him.
SEVENTEEN
There is no way to command loyalty. Like respect, it must be earned.
—ROGER BURLINGAME,
The Officer’s Handbook
Brandt looks at Barak. “You have something to say, Al?” Barak doesn’t look back at him, he studies his fingernails instead. “I don’t think so.”
“But you’re thinking it, aren’t you—?”
Barak looks up sharply.
“I can see it in your face,” Brandt explains. “There’s something—bothering you.”
Barak eyes the captain carefully. Brandt’s face is hard-chiseled granite. The astrogator knows the appearance is deceptive, but Brandt’s eyes are steely.
Barak says, “Well, sir—if you really must know, I think Korie is right.”
“About what?”
“About the bogie, sir—about the best course of action to have taken, I think we should have gone in at top speed, too.”
“Mmm,” says Brandt, making a wry face. He turns slightly away. “You don’t think I made the right choice.” A statement, not a question.
“No, sir; I don’t.”
“Ah, tell me, Al,” Brandt looks at him again. In a slightly sharper tone of voice, “Why do you think I made such a decision?”
Barak shrugs. “You—had your reasons—I guess—”
“And what do you think those reasons were—?”
The astrogator shakes his head. “I wouldn’t presume to—”
“Take a guess.”
“Captain, sir—” Barak’s tone is suddenly stiff. “I learned a long time ago not to question the orders of my superior officers. Usually they have reasons I don’t know about—”
“That’s true, Al; but I want you to understand those reasons—”
“If you please, sir—I’d rather not. It might affect the performance of my duties to know such things. My job is to work out the mechanics of your decisions; I don’t need to understand why you make them.”
“And you’re not curious—?”
“You might say I don’t want to be involved—you might tell me something that would change my opinion of someone I have to work with—and that might affect my performance of my duties.”
Brandt nods slowly, a careful understanding. “Sit down, Al.” He gestures at a chair.
The astrogator crosses the room in three steps and takes a seat. The spindly wooden frame creaks under his weight. His gaze is on the captain; Brandt has moved to face him from the opposite side of the room.
“You know,” he says, “your reasons for not wanting to know more are very perceptive—they indicate to me that you already suspect why I made the decision the way I did.” He frowns thoughtfully, then says quietly, “What do you think of Korie?”
“Korie—? Why he’s a—an intelligent officer and and—”
Brandt looks at him wryly. “Go on. . . .”
Brandt takes a breath. “Sir, Mr. Korie is a fine officer; a little too much by the book perhaps, but still a fine officer. He knows his ship better than any man I’ve ever seen; he has very high standards and he expects the men and equipment to live up to them.”
“And if they don’
t?”
“Uh, Mr. Korie is a stern disciplinarian, sir—but again, he’s strictly by the book.”
“Come on now, Al.” Brandt leans up against the shelf with the typer on it. “I asked you what you thought of him; I didn’t ask for a textbook description.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s all that’s necessary for me to know about Mr. Korie—or think about him.”
“You don’t have any opinions of your own. . . ?”
“I don’t know what more you want me to say, if that’s what you mean.”
Brandt brushes a speck of dust off the typing machine. “What I meant was—what do you think of him as a person?”
Barak shakes his head. “I . . . don’t.”
Brandt accepts that. He chews it over thoughtfully and accepts it. “All right.” He straightens. “Would you like me to tell you what I think of him?”
“Uh, sir—”
“I think that First Officer Korie is the most dangerous man on this ship. He has a single-mindedness of purpose which is all-consuming and deadly. Everything in his life and everything in this ship is being sacrificed on the altar of his incredible ego—”
“Oh, now, that’s hardly—”
“—and his manic determination to be a battle commander is perhaps the most dangerous of all—especially because of his violent temper. Have you noticed his fits of hyperthyroid nervousness? Have you watched him on the bridge? When in pursuit of that bogie, Mr. Korie becomes like a madman—”
“Sir, I must protest—”
Brandt is brought up short. “Protest?”
“Mr. Korie is not—that bad.”
“Not . . . that . . . bad. . . .” The captain hesitates. “You mean—you wouldn’t mind following him into battle.”
“No, sir; I wouldn’t. Mr. Korie is—is a careful planner—”
“Al,” says Brandt. “I would be afraid to follow Mr. Korie into battle.”
For a moment, there is silence between the two men. Finally, Barak says, “Why, sir—?”
“Look around you, Al—you see this ship? The Burlingame—an F-class cruiser. Do know how old this ship is? Do you know the state of her equipment? Do you know the condition of this—this hulk?”
“I know it could be better,” the astrogator says carefully.
“Yes,” Brandt smiles at that. “It could be better—it certainly couldn’t be much worse.”
“You exaggerate, sir. There’s been a lot of work done on the engines lately and Mr. Korie has had a lot of new equipment installed—”
“Ah, yes, that’s another example of his—what did I call it?—his single-minded determination to be a battle captain. The Burlingame is his toy. He thinks he’s going to turn her into a fighting ship—he thinks he already has.”
Barak doesn’t say anything. His expression is carefully neutral.
The captain is striding back and forth in the narrow room. “Al, this ship is not the fighting machine Mr. Korie thinks it is—these men are not battle trained. Korie has become so possessed by his vision that he’s blind to the truth of the matter. The Burlingame is little better than a moving wreck—despite Korie’s improvements. She was supposed to be scrapped three years ago. Instead they recommissioned her.” He slams his hand against the plastic paneling of the wall. “She’s nothing but a hulk! A rotten, stinking hulk—”
Barak is looking at the floor. “I’m sorry you think that, sir. I—I like this ship.”
Brandt looks at him, suddenly surprised, “You do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“For God’s sake—why?”
Barak shakes his head. “I just do. She’s small and she’s comfortable and she’s easy to live with.”
“Easy to live with?”
“If you know what you’re doing and if you’re not in too much of a hurry to get somewhere else. Mr. Korie wants to be a battle commander. I don’t blame him for being impatient with the Burlingame. He wants to get off. There are other men on this ship who’d like transfers off too—for one reason or another—I don’t blame them for being impatient either—”
“Al,” Brandt says in a sharply serious note. “I’m one of those ‘other men’ who wants a transfer off.”
Almost a whisper, “I know, sir.”
“You do?”
“Yes, sir. The whole ship knows.”
“Oh. Well—I suppose it really isn’t a secret anymore.” He wipes at his nose. “Well, anyway, I want to get off too.” He sits down on his bed, facing the astrogator. “I want a base job. I want to help them win the war where I can help best. You know they’re fighting this war all wrong, Al—they’re fighting to win. And that’s not how to win a war anymore. Now, you win by—enduring.”
Brandt pauses. Barak is leaning morosely forward in his chair, staring at the floor, his elbows resting on his knees, his head sunk low on his chest. He nods slowly to show that he is still listening.
“Al,” explains the captain, “I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to meet the enemy. I just want to outlive him. In order to do that, I have avoid contacting him. That’s why I—”
Barak looks up sharply. “Sir, I figured as much. It seems to me when you said we should sneak up on him that you were purposely trying to give the enemy a chance to get away.”
“Why didn’t you say something then?”
“I—wasn’t sure.” He returns to his contemplation of the space between his shoes. “Besides, you explained it so well—”
“Mm, yes. I don’t want that bogie, Al. I don’t want it. I—I’m not afraid of him, don’t misunderstand; it’s just that I don’t think we could survive a contact with the enemy. We’re not that fast or that skillful, or. . .,” he trails off. “I couldn’t just give up the chase, turn around, and head for home, though. It wouldn’t—be right. So I did the only thing I could. I let him get away.
“Al, I’m a career man. The navy is my life—I was running ships for years before this war broke out. Now, everything’s changed and I—there are new kinds of officers now. They don’t understand what running a ship is all about. Like Korie, they think it’s some kind of game—they’re possessed by the idea of war. They—
“Al, Korie thinks he’s transformed this ship into something more than it is. But, he hasn’t—and there’s no way to tell him he’s mistaken.
“Oh, look, I’ll admit he’s done a fine job in many respects. I’m pleased with the way he’s tightened up the Burlingame. And I don’t mind letting him have a free hand with the crew and the engines. It’s one less thing for me to worry about—and it’s good experience for him if he ever gets a ship of his own. But—a battle commander? No—I don’t want to trust my life to his hands. The Burlingame is still a hulk. The best that can be said for her is that she moves and holds air. Al, we’re going to survive this war. We’re going to endure. We’re going to do it by not chasing after the enemy and looking for trouble. Is that such a terrible thing?”
“I don’t know, sir—,” Barak’s voice is low, almost inaudible, “—but Threebase sent us out here to do a mission. We’re supposed to do it—or die trying. I think this ship—Korie too—deserves a chance to prove itself. I think you’re wrong for holding us back and not letting us have the kill.”
A pause. “All right. That’s your opinion. My opinion is otherwise. Korie isn’t ready, this ship isn’t ready, and this crew isn’t ready for battle. I did what I did to keep us from making contact with the enemy and I’d do it again.” He stands abruptly, crosses to the opposite side of the room. “Al, tell me, don’t you want to live? Why are you so easygoing? How do you get along with Korie? Why do you like this ship?”
“If you have to ask, you don’t understand. I just do. I’m that kind of person.”
“All right. Well, what do you think. Al—I mean, about what I’ve just told you? Don’t you see that I’m right?”
Barak doesn’t move. He is shrunken into himself and staring at the floor. His face is troubled; his eyes are almost moist. “Sir, I d
on’t know. I don’t know—I’ve always depended on my captains to do my thinking for me. I—I don’t like to see them—show signs of weakness.”
“You think I’m being weak?”
“I don’t know—I think so. I wish you were running this ship instead of Korie, but—you’re not—I want to serve a captain I can support 100 percent, sir.”
Brandt looks at him for a long time. “What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice is stiff.
“Nothing, sir—I—”
“Go on, Al. You can say it.”
“I already have, sir.” Barak’s words are choked. “I respect the captain you should have been—so does the crew. But it’s Mr. Korie who gives the orders now—”
“He does it by my authority!” insists Brandt, a little too loudly.
“I wish you were right, sir—but he does it by his own authority. The crew obeys him.”
Brandt is stiff. “They obey me. I’m the captain.” He repeats it. “I’m the captain.” His mouth forms the words again. “I’m the captain.”
Barak stares. There is silence.
Brandt returns his gaze. “Well?” he demands.
“Yes, sir.” Barak is resigned. “You’re the captain.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barak.”
Barak lowers his eyes. “May I be excused, sir?”
“Yes, Mr. Barak. You may be excused.”
EIGHTEEN
The only constant in the universe is change.
—I CHING
The opposite of change is not resistance to change, but change in the opposite direction.
—I CHING
The only thing you can be sure of is that you can’t really be too sure of anything.
—TOM DIGBY, twentieth-century
American philosopher
On his way back to the bridge, Korie stops at the radec room. “Rogers, Bridger—”
Bridger looks up; Rogers keeps his gaze fixedly on his monitors.
“I just wanted to tell you to keep your scanners wide open. We’re starting a prolonged search of the bogie—you two are the key part of it. If you don’t do your job, we might as well not go. But you’ll do your jobs; I—have confidence in you.” He looks from one to the other. “You haven’t let me down yet.” He looks at Rogers in particular, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. The boy is rigid before his console; the brace across his back gives him a bulky, hunchbacked appearance. “Well, carry on—” The first officer continues on to the bridge.
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