The entire humiliating episode had been her fault.
She should have realized what Baker was from the first, and for herself, apparently, to make the first physical move was unforgivable. But it had seemed at the time that Baker and she had so much in common, that they had suffered from the same kind of problems and could help each other.
What she had not realized was the fact that Baker, over the long, hard years, had found an answer that fitted in with her own, personal mental makeup: women in a man's universe either capitulated or became men themselves.
"She's one hell of a ship, Commander, that's for sure," said PO Nick Panos. He pitched his gravelly voice high to cut through the echoing clangour of noise.
They were standing on a temporary flooring laid over girders, below which could be seen the huge, bow-like curve of the engine area. In the centre was the forty meter circular vent, round which steelmen squatted, working on the arcs of lining which an anti-gravity lift was ferrying up to them from the ground below. Helen Lindstrom nodded. She was looking down through the vent at a foreshortened figure in blue coveralls which stood, loud-hailer to mouth, bawling instructions to men working above.
She and Panos were conducting their own tour of inspection. They had arranged this between themselves as a way of getting to know the ship, and the members of the crew who were already working on her, supervising the installation of equipment relating to their specialty. Without the forbidding presence of Admiral Carter, they found themselves accepted with a lesser degree of formality, and Helen would have enjoyed herself had it not been for her continual awareness of Commander Sarah Baker down there on the floor beneath the engines vent.
"That looks like Lieutenant Maranne, the radar officer," Panos said, squinting upward, as a trim figure stepped off the hoist lift at a level some thirty meters above them. "Shall we go up and have a word with her?"
Helen made a sudden decision. "You go on up, Panos," she said. "I want to see those heavy-grade engine liners that Chalovsky was talking about."
"I'll come with you, then," Panos said immediately.
"No!" Helen was aware that even against the background of noise, her voice was suddenly strident. "Go ahead, Panos, I'll join you in the Radar section later."
Panos looked at her curiously, then shrugged. "All right, Commander." He turned and walked toward the spot where the descending hoist lift would come to rest
Helen watched his broad back for a moment, then walked hurriedly in the other direction. Grabbing a rope, she lowered herself down onto the engine floor, not far from where the whining, spitting welders were working on the rim. A safety officer would have disapproved of her method of transit She walked toward them and looked down.
Sarah Baker was still there. The loud-hailer was tucked under her arm now, as she stood talking to the driver of a truck that had just come up with a fresh load of metal for the engine linings. GD men were taking the sections from the truck and piling them onto an anti-grav lift
"Not too close, please, Commander," said a voice at Helen's elbow.
She turned, to find herself face to face with a small man in the bright yellow fluorescent coverall suit of a safety officer. "Good morning; Mr. Cohen, isn't it?"
The man nodded, evidently pleased at her recognition after only a brief introduction on the previous day.
'That's right, Commander. Don't mind my interference—that's my job."
"Of course," Helen said.
"The Admiral's the worst," Cohen said. "Three, four times a week I have to pull him up over something or other. He just doesn't seem to give a damn."
Helen grinned. "A fair description of Junius Carter's philosophy." She wondered if Cohen had seen her come down.
"He's a great man," Cohen said, nodding his head. "With a man like—" He stopped, suddenly alert, his eyes staring beyond her.
Helen turned to see the underside of a loaded anti- grav lift which had just come up through the vent.
As she watched, a wisp of smoke came from the side of the lift.
"His coils are burning!" shouted Cohen. "Damned fools! I've told them time and again about overloading." He ran toward the edge of the vent, looking upward and blowing his whistle. Several welders stopped working and looked up.
The lift was lowering now, bucking and swaying as it moved, still out in the centre of the vent. More smoke came from its side, then a spark, then a shower. The driver's face was a pale, frightened blur; his mouth was open. ,
"Don't try to get it up here!" Cohen called. "You won't have the power. Take it down while you still have some left!"
The driver made no response. Only his fear-ridden eyes moved. He stood paralyzed by the recognition that one touch on the controls could mean instant failure of the coils. The lift bucked, emitting another shower of sparks.
Helen was at the edge of the rim; Cohen was too busy to even notice her. Down below the vent, on the ground, she could see the face of Sarah Baker looking up, half masked by the loud-hailer, as she bawled up instructions that were drowned out by the screaming of the accident siren.
The lift steadied and then, without warning, dropped three meters like a stone. Caught unawares, the driver was thrown sideways. Sections of metal tipped off and hurtled down, clanging and bouncing as they hit the concrete. The driver pitched as the lift stopped with a jerk and a vicious swash, and his head caught the stanchion in front of him. He slumped down and lay helpless.
As the accident siren died to nothing, the amplified voice of Sarah Baker yelled: "Tell him to hold it there! Ladder lift will be there in a minute!"
A minute, Helen decided, was far too long. She looked up as the rope from the hoist sailed down and grabbed. Shoving a loop of rope over her head, round her back and under her arms, she stepped toward the edge.
"Godsake, Commander!" shouted Cohen. "Don't do it!"
She snapped at him. "Get me lowered down to that lift," she ordered, "and make clear signals. Now!"
She swung out over the void. Cohen cooperated, and a hundred and more pairs of eyes watched her as she was lowered. The lift swayed dangerously, holding the still form of its driver.
On the floor above steelmen watched, rigid.
"Crazy," muttered one.
"Did what she had to," another said. There was a note of admiration in his voice.
"She strong enough?" asked the first.
"Sure."
When she was within a yard of the lift, the coils spat again, more sparks, more smoke. "Get my shoulders level with it!" she called.
Cohen signalled for lowering. "Don't get any part of you under it!" he screeched.
Then she was level. The unconscious driver was within her grasp. She grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him toward her. The lift kicked again and hit her in the stomach. She gasped and hung on, heaved herself forward, wrenched the unconscious man to her and at last clasped her hands together round his chest. The lift sagged, spewed smoke and dropped another ten centimetres, and a moment after, she was swinging in midair with the driver hanging limply in her grasp.
She began to be hauled up.
Below, Baker turned her attention to the rescue squad, whose articulated vehicle was approaching, its hooter bellowing for clearance.
She waved an arm and shouted, "Get a support under this before it drops!"
She watched the truck skid to a halt ten meters away from her, shedding blue-helmeted men as it slowed. She watched the truck, and in that moment, the antigrav lift fell.
Those in the engine area of V.12 did not see it, as they were concentrating on the pulling to safety of Lieutenant Commander Lindstrom and her burden, but the steelmen saw it, and so did the rescue men on the ground.
The lift fell, but not vertically. It was as though, in its final surrender to the forces against which it spent its life battling, the lift found a small, unbalanced fraction of power before its final burnout. That fraction of power was sufficient to make it sway three meters out of the vertical before it dropped the last t
en meters like a stone. It collapsed Baker's lean body as though it were a plasticene doll, and the lift smashed into the concrete with a harsh rasp of rending metal, giving a final shower of sparks which bedizened, in grotesque horrors, the blood which seeped from under it in a sluggish stream, seeking the oblivion of a drainage channel as though it were a living part of some shameful, sensate evil.
Helen was no more than the height of two men from the solid ground now, still clutching her unconscious burden, and she was clearly out of danger. She reached the ground, delivering the lift driver into waiting hands. She struggled to unloop the holding rope. Free at last, she rushed to the fallen lift, where the rescue squad were trying to hook the wreck to a truck crane.
Near her feet, the red spring ran from beneath the wreckage.
Helen turned away, her eyes dimmed with tears— tears unbecoming to an officer of the corps. This was the way the world ended for the woman who had once been the "Star Dancer"; this was the finish of all the hard, bitter years.
*13*
If it's justice they seek, then justice they'll get,
All strictly according to law;
It may take a week, but they'll straighten 'em yet,
As long as it's good for the Corps.
Did he insult the police? Did he bilk a hotel?
A crewman could do this, and more—
But be out on release, have his fine paid as well,
As long as it's good for the Corps.
Did you dare to suggest that a spaceman can fail?
Did you criticize, then, not adore?
Oh, the Med/Psyche will test, and correctively jail,
For that would be good for the Corps!
(Scurrilous verse published in humorous magazine PRIVATE SCAN May 2162.)
Lieutenant Susan Pringle was seated at her desk, her attention divided between the morning newscast which was appearing on the wall screen opposite and the documents and folders in front of her which bore the stamp of the Judge Advocate General's Branch.
" ... Supreme Court Judge Alote Jones, who has 102 been appointed to take charge of the Athena inquiry ..the screen voice was saying.
She looked up to see the judge, a large, stern-looking African in middle age, talking to an interviewer. It was clearly an unequal contest. For three whole minutes the judge managed to say almost nothing, and yet at the same time to give an impression of infinite wisdom. The one thing he did say was that, in dealing with the Athena inquiry, he had absolute right in law to make whatever rulings he chose and to admit any evidence he thought fit.
"But surely, Your Honour, might this not be interpreted as a despotic attitude?" asked the interviewer.
Alote Jones quelled him with a haughty look. "I am not interested in interpretations of my actions. / am unimportant. What really matters is that, with God's help and a minimum of bickering, we should arrive at the truth of this incident, and that the blame—if there be any blame—should be placed squarely where it belongs. You have asked your last question."
Pringle decided that she liked Alote Jones. He had a certain style. Was he, she wondered, quite as incorruptible as he appeared to be? She hoped so.
The door opened smartly and Admiral Carter came in. She made to switch off the wall screen, but Carter shook his head.
"Keep it on, Pringle. I missed the earlier news."
"Did you talk to Commander Bruce?" she asked.
Carter nodded, his eyes watching the screen.
"Are you sure that was wise, at this stage?"
He turned to face her, head sunk deep between his heavy shoulders. "I tell you this, Pringle. I've never been neutral in my life and I'm not proposing to start now. Tom Bruce is a stiff-necked bastard, but he's a damned good officer, and he's right. And I'm talking, if they give me a chance to talk, on that basis. Did you see that Excelsior lawyer dripping out his poison in last night's "Solar View?" I'm willing to bet you a month's pay that he has men out right now, bribing and intimidating people to reinforce his dirty slurs."
"I heard what he said about the Corps," Pringle said. "I thought it was quite unnecessarily vicious."
"Unnecessarily?" grunted Carter. "Not with that boy. He knows where he's aiming. The Corps is law, once you leave Earth. Give them a chance and they'll all be snapping round us, trying to destroy the position of trust and authority we've built up. Make no mistake, girl, this Morton has allies, even though they may not have shown themselves yet. Once this thing gets started, you watch out for the corruption and cozenage. I only hope the judge—"
"He was on just now—" Pringle stopped as Carter motioned urgently with his hand, moved forward toward the screen and turned up the sound.
"... and the President is now resting peacefully. The operation has gone according to plan, under the direction of Space Corps Surgeon-General, Admiral Karl Hurwitz, assisted by Commander Bolkovsky and Lieutenant Commander Chan. A further bulletin wall be issued at 23.59 hours Moon Standard Time."
"So that's the story behind the moon inspection trip," Carter said. "No wonder Henry Fong was being cagey." All at once he sagged, seemed older.
"You're worrying again," Pringle said.
"You're damned right I’m worrying," Carter said, straightening his shoulders with an effort. "Bruce talked to the President before he destroyed Athena, but there's no record of the conversation. We may need the old man's personal testimony—need it badly if things get too rough."
"I've had the files from the JAG's department," Pringle said.
Carter grunted. "Right. I suppose Td better take a look. Maybe this Persian bull, Sharva or whatever his name is, will be able to handle that snake Morton. He comes highly recommended." Grabbing the bundle of documents, he barged through into the inner office.
He was seated at his desk, poring through the material, when the vidphone buzzed. He muttered a curse and switched it on.
"Junius," said his wife. "There you are. I've been trying to—"
"Velma," he began. "I'm not—"
"Now you listen to me, Junius," she commanded. "I hope you're not thinking of coming home, are you?"
He hadn't imagined that she could surprise him, ever, but she did. The Admiral gaped like a landed fish. "Wha ... what?"
"Don't you come home here," ordered Velma Carter. "Don't you think of resting or taking time off now; you can't afford to!"
"I can't?"
"Certainly not! With the Athena inquiry coming up you've got important work to do there. Pitch in, Junius, and tell 'em about the Corps, about the job people like Bruce and Lindstrom are doing. Remind these civilians what semper ducens means!"
Carter gazed owlishly at his wife's plump, still attractive face, then he began to chuckle. The chuckle became open laughter, and Lieutenant Pringle, who had just entered the room, stood watching in amazement
"Sure, Velma," he said. "I'll stay, don't worry. And Velma..."
"Yes?" she said warily.
"I love you," he said. "You're the best wife I ever had." He switched off and looked up at Pringle. "Yes?"
"Admiral Mariano's here," she said. "He says he has to see you right away."
"Hell!" snarled Carter, his good humour gone like a puff of smoke in a breeze. "All right, send him in."
Mariano marched into the office and halted sharply in front of Carter's desk. He looked annoyed.
"Longcloud, Commander Charles Longcloud," he said, without preliminary.
"Yes?" frowned Carter, momentarily puzzled.
"According to Corps General Orders of this date, Commander Charles Longcloud, 2 i/c Space College has been temporarily seconded to Moon Commander in order to carry out investigation on meteor incidence in the perimeter station areas."
Carter said: "The order certainly didn't come from me, as you can very easily verify through your well- known network of pen-pushing spy-eyes."
"No. It came, in fact, from the President's office," Mariano said.
"Then maybe you should take it up with him!" Carter was enjoying himself
.
"But Longcloud was scheduled to be interviewed by the Commissioning Board, with a view to his appointment as Commander of Venturer Twelve," said Mariano. "The President's office should have been informed of this fact."
"Fact?" Carter rumbled, his face darkening.
Mariano said: "We've got to have a commander for Venturer Twelve, and now the other man is out of the running."
Carter reared to his feet, dark and terrible. "What in hell's name do you mean, out of the running?" he roared.
Mariano was not without courage, but he moved back a pace. "Junius, let's be realistic about this thing," he said placatingly. "I know how you feel about Bruce, but he's been unfortunate. The press is already calling him a mass murderer, by implication. Right or wrong, the public isn't going to forget such charges in a hurry, even if he comes out of the inquiry without an official blemish on his character."
"Damn the public," barked Carter.
"In the last resort you, I, the President, Bruce— we're all their servants." Mariano sounded quite sincere.
Carter's eyes narrowed as he glared at the trim uniformed figure in front of him. "Humility sits badly on all that gold braid, Mariano," he said quietly.
"Most of the population must already have made up their minds about Bruce."
"And what you're suggesting is that we should endorse their stupid, ignorant judgment of a good man by dropping him from consideration as commander of Venturer Twelve?"
"Junius, this has been a purely internal Corps matter so far. Nobody outside the Commission even knows that Bruce is being considered for the post"
"In that case ..." Carter pressed a button on his desk. Pringle appeared.
"Pringle—got your notebook? Good girl!" he said, baring his uneven teeth in an unholy grin. "I want to dictate a press release."
A Thunder Of Stars Page 9
