outside the englobement of the simulator, as far as the orbiting trans-Plutonian perimeter stations.
Bruce stood for a moment, looking upward, his mind digesting the information presented by the simulator, then turned as a lean, greying terrier of a man wearing PO's uniform approached and saluted.
"Anything to report, Dockridge?"
"Com systems very erratic sir; sunspots."
"But you're managing to keep an accurate general picture?"
"Good enough, sir, but there's an awful lot of mush."
"Can't be helped."
"Let's just hope we don't get any Class A emergency," Dockridge said. "That could be very slaggy."
"Hm ... Anything else?"
"Sir?"
"Disciplinary?"
PO Dockridge alerted. "No, sir?"
"On the apron," Bruce said, his eyes boring, "Leading Crewman Gleason is walking about smoking a cigarette—saw him as I parked the flycar."
Dockridge shook visibly. "Omigawd!"
"I don't want to see him again," said Bruce. "Just tell him he loses a week's pay and month's promotion, and if he's caught once more I'll have his balls for gyros. See to it, Dockridge, and report to me in my office afterward." He walked quickly away.
The matter of the sinning crewman settled by a terse vidcall to the PO in charge, Dockridge was in the patrol chiefs office within two minutes. Bruce was chewing a black cigar as he leafed through the pile of pink and yellow stat copies that had accumulated during his off-duty period.
"Anything here of importance?"
"Just routine, sir." "Right." Bruce balled the lot in his palms and threw them into a disposal chute. He began reading command orders, then said, without looking up, "When are you going off?"
"In an hour, sir."
"Good. Send a couple of men along to clear the apartment, will you?"
Dockridge frowned. An ordinary run-of-the-mill PO would have merely executed the order and thought no more about it. But Dockridge had worked with Bruce for a long time.
"Leaving, sir?"
Bruce gave him a stony look. "Bright this morning, Doc?"
"And Lieutenant Lindstrom ... ?"
"Will make her own arrangements."
The corners of Dockridge's mouth turned down. "Not your girl anymore?"
"Spare me your advice to the lovelorn. Just get on with it." Bruce produced a yellow corps form and handed it over. "Take this along to billets and see what they can do for me."
"Yes, sir." Dockridge took the quarters application form.
"Oh, and Doc ..." Bruce said as the PO saluted and turned to leave. "Sir?"
"It's not quite what you think."
Dockridge allowed himself the merest shadow of a grin. "Things seldom are, sir." He left.
Alone in his office, Bruce turned his attention to the contents of his in tray. He scanned at a great rate, discarding ninety percent, considering nine and three quarters, and hesitating over the remainder for only a few seconds before noting decisions. Administrative work of this kind was completely undemanding for
him, except in terms of boredom. It was only when he was actually out on patrol in his command ship that he really felt he was doing something.
Helen Lindstrom had begun as a casual attachment. They suited each other's physical requirements exactly, that was one thing. For another, she was a fine officer, well balanced and as attentive to detail as he was. She was, in the highest term of praise possible for a corpsman, "All Corps."
"Love," he muttered, "be damned to love." What he had done was for the best—for both of them. And, within a few days, if she passed the scrutiny of the Venturer Twelve Commissioning Board, she would be gone, anyway. The next time he saw her after that, she would probably be his senior, looking down at him as an old deadbeat who got stuck on the promotion ladder. Unless Carter did succeed in working the miracle.
He turned his attention determinedly back to the paper work; then, needing a stylus, he slid open the right hand drawer of his desk.
A pair of fine-quality, dark blue leather gloves, Corps female officers' issue, lay there. Moving with quick irritation, he picked them up, balled them together, and aimed them at the disposal chute.
For the first time in memory, he missed.
He sat for ten full seconds, gazing down at the gloves on the floor. Then, rising from his chair, he walked across the room and picked them up, feeling the soft warmth of the leather.
Back at his desk, he replaced the gloves in the drawer and closed it gently.
Form 3713/2/IRR.
EXCELSIOR COLONIZATION CORPORATION.
IRREGULARITY REPORT.
FROM: Radio Room.
TO: Corpn. President
MESSAGE 6 FROM COLONIZATION SHIP ATHENA (OUTGOING) FIFTEEN MINUTES LATE. UNABLE TO RAISE, POSSIBILITY OF SUNSPOT ACTIVITY.
*4*
We are the girls of the old Space Corps
They say we're as good as men.
We'll fight and swear, and drink, and whore.
And we'll die—
There's no difference—then ...
(SONS OF THE CREWWOMEN—Trad.)
Senior Lieutenant Helen Lindstrom sat on the edge of a hard chair in the anonymous, cream-painted anteroom of the Commissioning Board. She shifted her shoulder slightly, aware of the chafing of an over-tight strap on her brassiere.
"The Board will see you now, Lieutenant Lindstrom."
She looked up into the smiling eyes of Admiral Carter's pert-faced secretary.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Pringle," she said distantly as she walked toward the door of the inner room. Damn that bra strap!
"Please be seated, Lieutenant Lindstrom," said Admiral Carter, who was sitting in the chairman's position, flanked on either side by two members of the board.
"Thank you, sir." She obeyed, then took advantage of a slight pause and shuffling of papers to scan the faces of the board members. Her candidature for the post of 2 i/c Venturer Twelve would already have been discussed at length by the board, acting on the data provided by Med/Psyche, Personnel Records and a dozen other departments, but despite Bruce's assurance that "she had it made," Lindstrom knew that commissioning boards were important. About Carter himself she had no misgivings; his bark was notoriously loud and frequently profane, but she knew that he had a true devotion to the ideals of the Corps.
Seated on Carter's right was Admiral Sam Suvorov, a cheerful West African whose greying hair showed strongly against his ebony skin. Suvorov had a mind of his own, but as far as the essentials were concerned, it was safe to place him in a similar category to Carter. She had no such certainty about the dark, sharp- featured Latin on Carter's left. Rear Admiral at thirty- six, Sylvano Mariano had a reputation in the corps as a pusher of the most efficient and ruthless type, an Admin officer and a politician. Next to him sat Yow Thin Thang, a Commander from the South East Asian Area, an unknown quantity; and on the other side of Suvorov sat Commander Ericson, blond and slab headed, with eyes that bored through her like a pair of blue lasers.
"Now, Lieutenant Lindstrom," said Admiral Carter. "All the members of the board are familiar with the details of your career since you joined the corps. These are matters of fact, contained in your record file."
"Which is beyond reproach," cut in Mariano, smiling.
Helen Lindstrom stiffened involuntarily. It was from Mariano, if anybody, that she had expected opposition. That he should go out of his way to be charming at the outset put her even more on guard.
"Good," Carter said, frowning slightly. "Admiral Suvorov?"
Suvorov leaned forward slightly. "Lieutenant Lindstrom, apart from a three-month tour of duty on Perimeter Station 15, you have been based on Earth, have you not?"
"Yes, sir," Helen said. "I have made application on several occasions to be drafted to Venturer service."
"That is a matter of record, Lieutenant," Carter said sharply. "Have the goodness not to waste our time by amplifying your answers unnecessarily."
/> Helen Lindstrom decided hurriedly that this was one of those days that had earned Carter the nickname "Crusty" among the other ranks of the corps. She would have to be more careful.
"But the fact remains that you have never, for any period longer than those three months, been away from Earth?" said Suvorov.
"That is correct, sir."
"You are aware that the tour of duty of Venturer Twelve, on this, her maiden voyage, will be at least two years?" Suvorov said.
"Yes, sir," Helen said.
"Lieutenant Lindstrom, are you familiar with the nature of the aberration known as geo-nostalgic psychosis?" asked Admiral Suvorov.
"I have heard of such cases, sir, naturally." Helen was unable to suppress a frown of puzzlement. "But surely there's nothing in my Med/Psyche record to suggest... ?"
"Of course there isn't, Lieutenant." This from the chivalrously smiling Mariano. "Your stability rating is excellent. With all due respect, I fail to see the object of Admiral Suvorov's question."
Suvorov's expression hardened. "If the Admiral had experienced the incidence of this psychosis among a crew, he would be more qualified to judge the pertinence of the question. Within the present limits of Med/Psyche investigation, there is no certain way of predicting the vulnerability of a given subject."
"Then why ... ?" said Mariano.
"Indications are that personnel with long-standing emotional attachments here on Earth are more prone to succumb to geo-nostalgic psychosis, however impeccable their stability ratings," said Suvorov.
Helen maintained her upright position in the chair and kept her facial expression carefully neutral. The interview showed all the signs of developing into a sparring match between the space-going and the admin members of the board, with herself caught in the middle. The bra was pinching now with a vengeance.
It was Admiral Carter who brought the real object of the present line of discussion out into the open, and he did it with his usual well-known lack of finesse, his face dark with either anger or embarrassment, or possibly a combination of both.
"Lieutenant Lindstrom, this board is aware that you have been sleeping with Lieutenant Commander Thomas Winford Bruce for the past two years."
This board is aware. . . . The damned old toad! Helen Lindstrom felt a flush of colour suffusing her features. What the hell had it got to do with him, who she slept with? This was the woman's reaction, but the officer part of her mind managed to view the situation more soberly and to note with some alarm that Carter, upon whom she had looked as an ally when she entered the room, was in fact an enemy. For some obscure reason of his own, it appeared that he was opposed to her appointment.
"Lieutenant?" Carter barked interrogatively.
"I was given to understand that the board did not require my comment on matters of fact, sir," she said, with dignity. "My relationship with Commander Bruce is now ended."
Carter harrumphed and blew out his cheeks.
"A surprisingly convenient fait accompli," said Yow
Thin Thang blandly. "Perhaps the Lieutenant would like to give us further details?"
Helen was aware of an anger building up in the pit of her stomach.
"I hardly think that would be necessary, or desirable," Mariano said, smoothly. "If the episode is finished, there is no more to be said. Now, Lieutenant, perhaps you would like to ~ tell us how you feel about your ability to cope with this appointment? Does the size of Venturer Twelve daunt you? The magnitude of your responsibility?"
Helen raised her chin just a fraction. She sensed that she was on firmer ground now. "I have the Corps with me," she answered. "If I know my job, they know theirs."
Mariano nodded, apparently satisfied.
Ericson asked: "Have you ever experienced any difficulty in the application of discipline?"
She shook her head. "No, sir."
"Then you consider yourself a tough person?" per- sued Ericson, the blue-laser eyes boring into her. "Tough. Not physically. I can see that, without asking. But how do you react in, say, situations of strain— constant strain?"
She gazed back at him steadily. "I saw some of my documents once—quite by accident. Since then, I've always felt that I had to live up to the reputation they gave me."
Mariano chuckled briefly. "I think that answers your question, Ericson."
From that moment Helen felt able to relax slightly. The questions that followed were merely routine, taxing neither her resources nor her temper. Carter was clearly still under tension, his face wrinkled with bottled-up anger, but the anger was not directed against her and remained contained. He asked her no further direct questions, and when he next spoke it was to make the formal announcement that concluded the interview.
"This board appoints you to the acting rank of Lieutenant Commander, with the position of Second in Command of Venturer Twelve. Within twelve months of this appointment your rank will either be confirmed or you will be demoted. You are to put up your new badges of rank for first parade Saturday morning; your promotion will be announced in Corps orders next Friday evening. That will be all, Lieutenant Commander Lindstrom. You may go."
"Thank you, sir," she said, rising to her feet.
Composed and beautiful, she responded to the relaxation of formality as the members of the board came from behind the table and shook hands with her, offering their congratulations. Four of the members of the board. Carter stood, head sunk between heavy shoulders as he stared out of the window across the shipyard toward the gleaming bulk of Venturer Twelve. She looked at his broad back for a moment, hesitated, saluted and left.
When she gained the roof park of shipyard building, she paused for a moment, looking out toward the shining city. With no smoke, and no natural haze on this bright day, the distant hills were clearly visible, purple and enduring, twenty miles away. She took off her cap and the wind tugged at her hair. Behind her, with half a dozen other flycars, stood her own craft, wearing the decorous dark green of all service vehicles. As she looked at it, she thought that, in a week's time, she would no longer have to requisition for one of the pool vehicles; her new rank would entitle her to her own personal transport. She had felt tense, even angry, at the interview. Now that emotion had left her and she was placid. The promotion meant more responsibility, that was true. She could take it. It meant that she could have a crewwoman GD as a servant, her accommodation allowance increased twenty-five percent, her "in space" pay doubled, with an added command pay, while her basic rate increased thirty percent.
It came to her that she had no one with whom to share the success. There were two aunts in Stockholm, a second cousin in Lima, and a brother who was a mining engineer on Mars, a beaver of a man who was content to stay there and let his pay accumulate back home. She could send him a message telling him of her new rank, and then he could send her one in congratulation, and that would be that.
She thought about Tom Bruce. But the time of sharing things with him was past—if it had ever really existed.
She was brought down by the knowledge that, if she were to die at that moment, the most disturbed people in the world would be the men who had just promoted her.
She roused from the mournful deliberations, turned and walked to the fly car. The park attendant was typical of his kind. He had the uniform and pay of a leading crewman, and he limped.
He saluted cheerfully. "I've checked her out, Commander."
She returned the salute. "Thank you." She was about to step into the craft when she stopped. "What did you call me?"
He smiled, almost affectionately. He might have been just old enough to be her father. 'Till paint two and a half bars on the door, ma'am, if you'd like to wait five minutes."
"It's a pool car—but how did you know?" She felt pleasure that he cared, in a mild, general way, that she had been promoted.
"Got a job where you-hear things," he grinned. "Soft job man, now. Time for gabbing." He nodded east, where the silver egg of Venturer Twelve rose over the shipyard like a pale sun. "I'm still in
the Corps— penguin branch." He was dark and thin faced, with a grin that spread round his sharp nose and touched his black eyes with welcome geniality. "That ship, she'll be yours. And I think about other ships. I was in Venturer Eight and Ten. I got a young cousin in Eleven. Can't leave it alone. Space is like a whore you keep going back to even when you know she's poxed." He moved his left leg with an awkward tug and grimaced. "Sometimes I just stand here and look."
"Your leg?"
"Got shot out of an airlock. Smacked against a wall. Never mind, I make out. They look after us. What price glory, eh?"
"You were in Ten. When?"
"When Tom Bruce was Senior Lieutenant."
You can't get away from Bruce, she thought.
"We were in orbit when he and Panos and Dockridge went down to Minos IV. Never knew the truth of that. Shut up like clams, everybody did. And what those things were that they brought up from surface I don't know." His face, which had momentarily looked thoughtful, cleared. "Would you tell Commander Bruce that Ed Dimitrov would like to be remembered to him?"
She smiled at the grounded veteran. "I'll tell him, surely." She climbed into the car, swung it up in the regulation straight lift, and headed southwest, toward the distant gulf lands.
"Gentlemen, the appointment of a commander for Venturer Twelve," said Carter. "I'm open to propositions for a short list of possible candidates."
There was a moment of silence, then Mariano said: "Very well, I'll be the first to stick my neck out, if that's the way you want it. I propose Commander Charles Longcloud, at present 2 i/c Space College, an officer with an impeccable record and the highest qualifications."
"You can spare us the commercial," gritted Carter. He glanced round the table. "Seconded?"
A Thunder Of Stars Page 2
