"One thing I would say before you go, Junius," said Fong. "The President appointed you Chairman of the Venturer Twelve Commissioning Board because he has the utmost faith in your judgment."
"You mean Mariano was bluffing?" Carter said.
A flicker of pain passed over Pong's smooth features at the Admiral's lack of subtlety. "I have said more than enough. You must draw your own conclusions and handle your own Commissioning Board."
Carter's face cracked into a grin for the first time during the interview. "You're darned right, I'll handle them—those chair-borne spacemen!"
"Fine, Junius; you do that," said Henry Fong. "Remember me to Velma, won't you? We must get together some time. Good-by."
When Carter was gone, Henry Fong stubbed out his cigar carefully in the crystal ashtray on his desk, then
flipped a switch on his vidphone. "Vargas, get me the officer commanding Space College, will you?"
He switched off and turned his attention back to the documents he had been studying before Carter's arrival. Would that political life were as simple as it appeared to somebody like Junius Carter. Dear old Junius, the unregenerate romantic who kidded the world that he was tough and practical.
The vidphone beeped. "Admiral Vanbrugh on the line," said his PA.
"Thank you, Vargas. Put him on. Hallo, Harry!"— this to the prim face of the commanding officer of Space College.
"Good afternoon, Henry," Vanbrugh said. "What can I do for you?"
"I was wondering," said Henry Fong, squaring the papers on his desk with slim, brown fingers, "if you could spare that excellent 2 i/c of yours for a time. We've been having quite a bit of trouble with meteor incidence in the Perimeter Stations area, and the President wants a detailed report. Longcloud seems the obvious man for the job."
"Well, I—"
Henry beamed. "Fine! I was sure you'd be cooperative. If you'll tell him to report to me first thing tomorrow, we can discuss his briefing."
"But, Henry, Longcloud is—" began Vanbrugh.
"An excellent man," said Fong. "Don't worry, the job shouldn't take more than four or five weeks."
"But I understood Longcloud was supposed to be coming up for interview about the Venturer Twelve command," said Vanbrugh.
"Oh, that,** said Fong blandly. "No, I don't think that will be necessary now. I was just talking to Junius Carter, and the whole thing is pretty well sewn up."
"I can't say I'm sorry about that," said Vanbrugh. "I wasn't relishing the idea of breaking in a replacement for Longcloud."
"Precisely," said Fong. "Well, do give my love to Edna. We must get together some time. Good-by, Harry." He flipped the vidphone off.
*6*
It is not the duty of Space Corps men or women to die for others; it is their duty to stay alive and save others. This is not Just a quibble of words; within it lies the truth that every situation must be {judged in Corps terms, and therefore of mankind generally; it implies that Corps personnel can evaluate without panic, can make decisions on their own levels, and know when their decisions must involve more people and higher ranks.
(World Admiral Joseph Hoffner, S.C.
Jakarta Conference May 2160)
BRUCE STOOD on the concrete in front of the System Patrol building, looking out over the Patrol Spaceport Lieutenants Garcia and Takaki were on their way up the side of number two scout, raised on an anti-grav lift driven by a G.D. crewman. The lift sailed stiffly like a metal magic carpet, up the sixty shining gray-blue meters of the scout, until it reached the long, slant-eyed nose, where a narrow lock hung open.
The lift swayed momentarily to one side, then clamped onto the port. Takaki and Garcia stepped across and slipped, feet first, into the control cabin. The lift detached itself and floated down until it levelled at about half a meter, then gathering speed it skimmed 38 away toward the maintenance workshops. The lock near the nose of scout number two closed.
Bruce glanced at his wristwatch, counting off the seconds to himself. By the time he had reached twenty- five, the scout was already beginning to lift. He nodded his satisfaction. Quietly, with only the faintest of humming from her A/G generator, the dart shape rose, as though drawn by an invisible cord, up into the hazy blue of full morning.
Pulling on his dark glasses, Bruce watched the ship until she was a tiny dot which suddenly spurted a pinpoint of flame and was gone, as her regular drive took over from the A/G. Apart from his own bigger command vessel, only number four scout now remained on the landing area, and she was cluttered with a gantry and swarming artificers. He turned and walked across the baking concrete into the headquarters building.
Helen Lindstrom was waiting for him in his office. He returned her salute and walked across to his desk. "Sit down, Lieutenant—or is it Lieutenant Commander?" he said, opening a box and selecting one of his long black cigars.
"It will be."
"With effect from...?"
"Next Saturday morning. In orders Friday night."
"Uh huh." He nodded. "Congratulations."
"Thanks."
He squinted through the smoke of his newly lit cigar. "Why so sour? Was it rough?"
"You could say that," she said quietly. "Your friend, Admiral Carter, your dear old buddy . . ."
Bruce frowned. "Junius?"
'Td rather not talk about it if you don't mind," Helen said. "I thought you might want to discuss the subject of my successor as Second-in-Command— System Patrols, I mean." The qualification slipped out
before she had time to think about it and realize its implication. She coloured.
But Bruce either did not notice or chose to ignore the remark. "Takaki's good. Tough, too."
Takaki, a little Japanese with the wiry body of a twelve-year-old boy and the face of an intelligent monkey. No, not in Tom Brace's line at all. Helen Lindstrom shifted in her chair as she tried to stifle a stream of bitchy thoughts.
"Yes, Takaki should do very well," she said, fighting to maintain an expression of intelligent interest
"Very efficient," Bruce said. "I just timed her takeoff in number two. Twenty-five seconds from closing of hatch to lift."
"Efficient as hell," said Helen Lindstrom. She gritted her teeth as she detected the harsh tone of her own voice.
She wondered if, during those few days that remained, she would be able to control the impulse to approach him on a personal level. It was not going to be easy.
"Yes, I think she'll be pretty good on the admin side," Bruce said. He stood with his back to her, looking out over the landing area.
"You've moved out, then," she said. "The apartment, I mean." Steady, keep it impersonal.
"Dockridge tell you?"
"Yes."
"I hope he didn't offer any opinion?" he said, turning to face her.
"No, of course not," she said, avoiding his eyes. Will you get Corps quarters?"
"Here."
"What?"
"Couple of rooms in the basement," he explained.
"Meant for a caretaker but never used. Dockridge had it picked out"
Her mask of indifference slipped a little. "You'd told him that you were leaving the apartment—before you told me?"
"You don't have to tell Dockridge things like that," he said,.
The explanation satisfied her. "No . . . not Dockridge," she said. "I shall be moving myself, on Friday —to the officers' mess at Shipyard Seven."
"Meet the new chums, eh?"
She thought about that for a moment. A whole new collection of officers and crew, male and female, awaiting her arrival, awaiting such administrative skills as she possessed to begin the process of welding them into something like an integrated ship's company. With no commander yet appointed, the responsibility would fall squarely on her shoulders for the time being. She drew herself upright. "You'll be wanting me to stay on until Friday?" she said.
"Unless you had other plans," he said. "I thought you might spend a bit of time with Takaki—show her the ropes."
"Of c
ourse." She rose to her feet and stood facing him, looking full into his green eyes. She still wanted him; she knew that if he had crossed the few meters that separated them and held out his arms she would have fallen into them without a shadow of hesitation.
Then she remembered. "I met Ed Dimitrov. He said he sent his regards."
Bruce didn't have to think. "Venturer Ten. Accident with a lock. Prosthetic bungle over his leg."
"Yes."
"A good man. What's he doing?"
"Limping about on a roof park."
"He could be doing worse. Thanks for telling me."
The intercom on the desk burped urgently. Bruce stepped across and flipped a switch.
"Yes?"
"Weiss here, sir, UFO. We're getting a purple alert from Perimeter Station Fifteen!"
"I'll be right there." Bruce threw his cigar into the disposal chute and headed for the door. Helen Lindstrom was close behind him.
PO Weiss was waiting for them in Main Control, his round, pock-marked face like a lunar landscape with eyes. "This way, sir," he said, ferrying them through the tiers of desks and control consoles toward the operator who was handling incoming calls from Perimeter Station Fifteen.
"I haven't channelled through the main monitor yet, in case it's a false alarm," Weiss explained.
"Let's hope to God it is," Bruce said, his face grim. "What details do you have so far?"
"Station Fifteen thought it was a large meteor at first," Weiss said. "There was no ship scheduled in that sector. Then they spotted the drive. They put out routine identification calls, but there was no reply."
They reached the console, where a pale-faced, dark girl sat listening to the sound that came through her headphones. Her name was Linda Barutz, and she was Dockridge's girl. A tape was running on the console, recording the message as it came in. The girl looked up. "Reception is very bad, sir. I'm only getting about fifty percent."
"The first purple alert in two years and we have to hit it in the middle of a solar storm," Bruce said disgustedly. "Switch in your console speaker, Barutz."
"I'm trying to filter out the interference, sir." explained Leading Crewwoman Barutz. "But I'm afraid that means an increase in distortion." The three people standing round her console listened silently as the dehumanized voice of the Perimeter Fifteen operator began to come through.
"... completely ignored our request for identification. In accordance with . . ." The voice faded out completely and was replaced by a sputtering, crackling surge of cosmic mush. Then, after about half a minute, it crept into audibility again. "... to within point oh oh one of actual speed ... identification, but seems to indicate . . . again to contact by tight beam . . . fifteen ... instructions from ..."
"Hell!" Bruce exclaimed. "We could stand here all day listening to this firework display and not make any sense of it." He reached across and switched off the speaker. "Weiss! Get her tape of the messages so far and take it down to Lieutenant Suzuki. I want a detailed semantic analysis within half an hour. In the meantime, Barutz can keep listening and recording."
"Condition, sir?" asked Weiss.
"Normal," barked Bruce. "I'm not going to panic the whole damned system on the strength of what we've got so far. I'll think again when I've seen Suzuki's analysis. Right, man—move!" He turned to Helen Lindstrom. "Get onto maintenance and tell them I want the command scout ready—checked."
"Yes, sir," she said briskly, then in a more intimate tone, "you really think this is it?"
He shrugged. "Who knows? It could be."
*7*
Feed well, little man, and fortify yourself,
Against fear.
Drug well (as directed by Med/Psyche).
Use well (but with consideration) the woman who wants
To give and take, and with the warm ache in your crotch .
Go forth to duty station.
Cast a calm eye on dial and meter, circuit and control.
Do not believe that you are alone.
(DUTY. I. Kavanin)
ONCE OUT of lane restrictions over Lake Cities, Carter set his course eastward and switched the flycar to automatic. He set up the small worktable and dug an armful of folders out of his briefcase.
Carter's love of the line of exploration ships was even greater than that affection for his work found in the mind and heart of a dedicated engineer. Carter was a spaceman. Grounded these ten years, save for jaunts as far as moon, he never regarded himself as anything less than a spaceman, and it was here that his true value as a commissioning officer lay. The comfort and safety of the men who took such ships across the galaxy was a personal thing to him.
He muttered and pondered over his notes. Panos for Warrant Officer on Venturer Twelve—surely that 44 would be a good choice. Those anti-grav lifts ... there would have to be some really crushing discipline if the civilian construction workers didn't toe the line. Radar Lieutenant Yvonne Maranne . . . Why not let Med/Psyche sort that one out? But watch them, because there was a certain school of thought down at Med/Psyche Centre which was pressing for a complete damping of the sexual urge in long-journey space crews. As an old spaceman, Carter believed that male and female sides of a crew should meet and, without infringing duty in the least, get their adjustments in the normal manner. Such sexual freedom had become traditional in the Corps. He had been pleased to note that World Admiral Joe Hoffner had come right out and said so in a recent public speech.
Joe Hoffner, on Moon with the President. Funny, that—and Fong covering up, for what? The President had gone to Moon, to look at installations; what installations? The only new installations on Moon in the last five years had been some alterations in the sewage recycling system, and that had been last November.
With a small, irritating thought buzzing in his mind like a mosquito, Carter put his papers to one side and glanced down at the neatly quilted agricultural plain that was rolling beneath the flycar. After a moment's inaction, he thumbed the button on his vid and got in touch with Pringle.
"Good afternoon, sir," Pringle said. "I'm getting a terrible picture of you I'm sorry to say."
"Don't bother to say," Carter replied. "I always look like this. Anything urgent?"
"Nothing, sir. Test beds aren't quite finished with the engines yet; a little more checking to do. I said to carry on—they're not holding us up. Right?" She smiled.
"Right," Carter said, with a twinge over his lost youth, regretting that now there should come along a girl with so much brain and beauty. "Now listen, Pringle. I want you to locate Karl Hurwitz."
"The surgeon-general?"
"That's right."
"Running a temperature, Admiral?"
"Cut the sauce," growled Carter. "Where did you last hear of him?"
"There was a shot on the news a few nights ago showing him in a trout stream near a village called Invercuckie, Aberdeenshire, Scotland. Do you want I should haul him out of his waders?"
"Just locate him," Carter said. "I'll do any hauling."
"Now?"
"If not sooner." Carter cut the contact.
Fifteen minutes later Pringle was on his screen again, wearing a puzzled look. She shook her head. "I don't get it."
"He's not there." It was more of a statement than a question.
"Left two days ago, they said. Oh, and I had to pretend to be his daughter before they'd say anything. There was a Mrs. MacTavish who was very positive with her negatives." Pringle looked wondering. "You knew?"
"I guessed," Carter said. "Thanks, Pringle. I'll be about twenty minutes." He broke contact. It gave him no satisfaction at all to confirm that he had been right. Henry Fong was covering up something, something concerning an old man whose guiding hand was of the utmost importance to Earth and her colonies. Some said he was the main unifying influence which held together a mankind now scattered among the nearer stars; Oharo—tenth president of United Earth.
James Connor, the United Christian priest, formed a natural focal point as he moved among the Athena
colonists with a cheerful word, a blessing, a comforting hand. He gave of himself unstintingly, and now that they were irrevocably committed by the action of an extremist minority, he offered no opposition to that minority or reproach for what they had done. Soon— once contact was made with the perimeter stations— help would come, and the Athena would be guided by the ships of System Patrols.
Meanwhile, they gathered round him, asking questions to which, if they gave the matter a moment's thought, they must realize he had no more certain answers than themselves, and finding comfort in his platitudes.
"My Hendrik did what he thought best, Priest Connor," said Nini Persoons, her small Eastern face solemn.
"Of course, my child," said Connor.
"You will speak for him when the time comes?"
"I will speak if they will listen to me," Connor said. "A priest has little power in the world of affairs." He felt a surge of pity for this tiny girl who had tied her destiny to that of Hendrik Persoons, who would always be involved in violence and unrest, wherever he went The man was a near psychotic, Connor had guessed that from the start, but now he was certain.
When the gyros had been restarted and the gravity was sufficient to permit controlled movement, Connor had gone to the bridge to find out what progress was being made. There he found Persoons, just roused from a coma of exhaustion, dosing himself with Duty One capsules.
"Persoons, how many of those things have you taken in the last twelve hours?" he asked.
The Eurasian rounded on him, his broad cheekboned face grim, eyes blood-flecked slits. "I don't know—five, maybe six. What's the difference?"
Connor was startled by the admission. Two, and at the most, three Duty Ones was the maximum dosage within twenty-four hours. Like all such stimulants, Duty One created no energy; it merely made available that which already existed in the body of the subject. And once used, that energy had to be paid for, replenished by nourishment and sleep if the subject was not to suffer permanent damage to his system. Persoons, with his Space Corps experience, must have known this perfectly well.
A Thunder Of Stars Page 4
