Takeoff!

by Randall Garrett

  Past that, my memory is unclear. I retain an impression still of the total panic in my mind, as my body ran back across the sandy level to the noxious sea-scudded rocks. Some thankful instinct guided me toward the White Moon. The joy that surged through me when I saw her masts above the slimy crest that marked the edge of the ‘“beach” is totally indescribable. Those masts represented safety, refuge, security. To my unbalanced mind they represented wholesomeness. All I need do, so my mind ran, was reach the White Moon-there I would find forgetfulness. It would be as though I had never set foot in that gruesome temple; it would never have happened at all. And how I longed to escape the memory of that place, of the indescribable horror that ruled over that dishonourable altar!

  I ran for the White Moon’s masts, slipping and falling, heedless of the dangerous coral which cut repeatedly at my extremities. With a soulfelt sob of relief, I ran straight over the edge of the crest and plummeted to the beach below.

  I do not remember the pain; all I remember is the shock of the blow that knocked the breath out of me. And then, gratefully, I gave myself up to the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness.

  I was told later that I was unconscious for two days, and thus did not experience the second volcanic eruption and the resulting quake which allowed the merciful sea to flood over and cover again that horrid island and its tomb-like temple.

  Some infection from the coral cuts must have invaded my body, for I was in a fevered delirium for the next five days.

  But, delirium or no, I did not imagine that carven figure above that gruesome altar. No living thing has that much imagination, even in delirium.

  I can still see it clearly in my mind’s eye, although I would far rather forget it. It tells too much about the horrible and blasphemous rites which must have been performed in that evil place, rites practiced by monstrous beings that ruled this planet a quarter of a million or more years ago.

  The hideous thing was almost indescribable, and I cannot, will not, bring myself to draw it. It was thin and emaciated-looking, with two tiny, deep-sunken eyes and a small mouth surrounded by some kind of bristles or antennae. The muscles were clearly visible, as though its flesh were all on the outside. It had only two arms, and these were flung wide. The horrible, five-fingered hands and the five-toed feet were nailed firmly to a great stone cross!

  LOOK OUT! DUCK!

  By Randall Garrett

  This one is due primarily to Peg Campbell, John’s lovely wife. She read a story in The New Yorker by Peter de Vries, and in it was one line that tickled her fancy, It is the last line of Look Out! Duck!

  But both she and John objected to what Mr. de Vries had to say about “pulp” writers, and wanted me to prove him wrong,

  I don’t know whether I did or not, but I enjoyed writing the story, You wouldn’t believe the research it took to find out about ducks,

  By the way, all the names of the characters and the spaceships are taken from the New Yorker story-with the exception of the hero’s.

  And one other,

  There were four men aboard the cargo ship Constanza when she made the voyage to Okeefenokee, Three of them were her regular crew: Joseph Dumbrowski, the captain; Donald MacDonald, the engineer; and Peter Devris, the astrogator .

  The fourth man didn’t show up until the Constanza was almost fully loaded and ready to take off. Dumbrowski was definitely reaching the peevish stage when the panel truck came rolling up towards the loading pit that housed the interstellar vessel.

  Inside the truck, the driver pointed toward the shaft of silver that speared up from the pit. “That’s the Constanza, ahead,” he said.

  Rouen Drake, M.D., D.V.M., looked at it, nodded, and looked back through the glass panel at the remaining cargo in the rear of the truck. “You can’t see it, children,” he said, “but your new home is just ahead, At least it will be your home for a while,”

  The cargo did not reply, The truck driver grinned. “You like

  them ducks, eh, Doc?”

  The doctor grinned back. “In a way. They’re the product of ten years of genetic engineering. Besides being proud of them, I think they’re kind of cute.”

  The truck pulled up beside the ramp of the Constanza and braked to a halt. “Here comes Captain Dumbrowski,” the driver said. Dr. Drake climbed out and offered his hand to the man in the striking crimson-and-gold of the Interstellar Service. The officer took it in a bone-crushing grip.

  “Dr. Drake? I’m Captain Dumbrowski. Where have you been?”

  The captain was a thickset man with beetling brows, and a voice like a bellowing bull.

  “I got here as soon as possible, captain,” Drake said stiffly. “I’m sorry if I’m late.”

  “We’re overdue now,” the captain said. “MacDonald will help you get loaded.” He turned to another crimson-and-gold clad man nearby. “MacDonald, here’s our last entry. One Drake and a harem of ducks.” And with that, he turned and went into the ship.

  Drake’s jaw muscles set a little, and his face flamed crimson under his blond complexion. The truck driver smothered a snicker, and MacDonald seemed to be trying to offer a friendly smile instead of an impish grin. He didn’t quite succeed.

  “Section Five has been set up for your...uh ...ducks, Doctor,” he said.

  “Excellent,” said Drake evenly. “Let’s get them aboard as soon as possible.” Then he added: “I’ll check the rest of the cargo later.”

  Twenty minutes later, fifty ducks were safely ensconced in the specially rebuilt Section Five of the Constanza’s hold. MacDonald leaned against a bulkhead and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Hoo!” he said. “I’m worn out.”

  “It isn’t very comfortable, is it?” Drake asked rhetorically. He, too, was streaming with perspiration, and his arms felt heavy as lead.

  “Temperature, one hundred degrees Fahrenheit,” MacDonald said in a dry voice. “Humidity, eighty-five per cent. Gravity, one point five. Why...if I may ask?”

  Drake stuck a soggy handkerchief in his pocket. “We have to reproduce the environment of the surface of Okeefenokee as closely as possible,” Drake explained. “That’s what the ducks are bred for.”

  “What’s this planet like?” MacDonald wanted to know. His eyes warily followed a duck that flapped its way through the hot, muggy air with apparent unconcern.

  “Something like Earth was a few hundred million years ago. Mostly swamps and shallow seas. Plant life is pretty highly evolved-wind pollinated, though; there aren’t any insects. Animals haven’t gotten much above the crustacean stage. Oh, there are a few chordates, I understand, but no true vertebrates. There are some things that look like fish, but they’re more closely related to the mollusks.

  “That wouldn’t be so bad, but it means the colonists wouldn’t have the proper proteins. We’ve got to change the ecological setup. Therefore, the ducks.”

  “Why ducks?”

  “Don’t ask me; I’m not an ecologist.”

  “They’re sure queer looking,” MacDonald said as one of them waddled unconcernedly toward him.

  “They’re mutations,” Drake told him. “Had to be. The surface gravity of Okeefenokee is half again as great as Earth’s, and the air pressure and temperature are higher—as you’ve noticed. That necessitated modification of the duck’s flying apparatus. And there were other changes; their diet isn’t quite the same as that of ordinary Terrestrial ducks. They’re still members of the Anatidae, but they aren’t like any other duck on Earth.”

  The duck waddled closer and looked at the two men with apparent interest.

  “What are you along for, Doc?” MacDonald asked. “Are you a veterinarian?”

  “Yes. I also have an M.D. degree.”

  The duck looked him straight in the eye. “Quack!” it said distinctly.

  MacDonald almost gagged.

  Dr. Rouen Drake was a scholarly man who had the unfortunate luck to look like a scholar is supposed to look. He was lean and somewhat shorter than average height. His shou
lders were slightly rounded, and his eyes had the faint telltale glitter which betrayed the lenses that corrected his myopia. His hair was blond and straight and had a pronounced widow’s peak. Even his soft, measured, somewhat pedagogical voice betrayed him. It was the first time he had ever been aboard a spaceship in his life, and he felt somewhat out of place among the spacemen.

  But he had a job to do, and he was determined to do it well.

  After he and MacDonald left Section Five, they went back and checked over the other cargo. Item: One electric incubator, five thousand egg capacity. Item: Fifty electric brooders, one hundred duckling capacity. Item: Two hundred and thirty thousand pounds duckling rations, Types A and B. Item: Three thousand pounds adult duck rations, normal feeding. Item: Three thousand pounds adult duck breeding rations.

  And, Item: Five thousand crash-frozen fertile duck eggs.

  All in order.

  Satisfied, Drake went up to the control blister in the nose to report to Captain Dumbrowski.

  He was in a somewhat better mood now, possibly because there were still ten minutes until the scheduled take-off time. If Drake had been late—

  “I’m all set, captain,” Drake said. “The cargo is in excellent shape, and the live ducks are all taken care of.”

  “Good,” said Dumbrowski. He turned to the other man who had been in the control blister with him. “Lieutenant Devris, this is Dr. Drake. Doctor, this is Devris, our navigator.”

  Devris was a good-looking man, quiet, efficient, and intelligent. His handshake was warm and friendly.

  “All right, men,” Dumbrowski said, “let’s get settled. Take-off in eight minutes. MacDonald, show the doctor to his cabin.”

  Eight minutes later, the sixty-five meter long Constanza lifted her huge mass gently and easily from her pit and accelerated toward the sky. As she left the atmosphere, her course changed slightly, aiming her nose at a point near Shaula in Scorpio. Then the mass-time converters shifted in and the ship vanished. She was moving towards her destination at nearly ten thousand times the velocity of light. Okeefenokee was eighteen weeks away.

  Time plodded on. The operation of the vessel was largely automatic, requiring only occasional human judgment. Once every twenty-four hours, the mass-time converters were cut and the ship returned to normal space so that Devris could take positional readings.

  Twice a day, Dr. Drake went down to Section Five to feed and care for his ducks.

  Between times, the men read, played cards, or watched the new movies that had been brought along. And each night, Captain Dumbrowski issued each man a ration of two bottles of beer.

  Dumbrowski himself was a storyteller of no mean ability, although the subject matter was rather monotonous.

  “And then there was that time on Tripha,” he would say, pouring himself a foaming glass. “Some disease had wiped out nine-tenths of the male population. They’d whipped it finally, but even the men who were left were in pretty sad condition. Naturally”—he chuckled knowingly—”we had to do our duty. There was one little blonde who had four sisters—good lookers, all of ‘em. Well, they seemed to take a shine to me, so...”

  Or: “I remember a red-headed dancer in Lunar City; she did a strip that was out of this world! What technique! Anyway, I was in this dive, and—”

  And so on. MacDonald would try to top him, but he always came off second best. Neither of them ever repeated himself exactly, but after a few weeks there developed an overhanging pall of similarity about the tales.

  Drake noticed that Devris usually listened to Dumbrowski for a while, and then got up and strolled quietly to the astronomical dome. One evening, he walked out as usual, but as soon as he was out in the corridor, he turned and made signals with his hands and fingers.

  Drake realized the signals were for him, since neither the captain nor the engineer could see Devris from where he sat.

  Drake nodded imperceptibly, and got up a few minutes later. He walked quietly out, mumbling something about his ducks. Behind him, Dumbrowski was saying:

  “...Could be picked up without any trouble. So I...”

  Drake headed for the astronomy dome. Devris was pouring a colorless liquid into a couple of glasses. He added ice and fruit juice and said: “I thought you might like to get away from Joe ‘One-Note’ Dumbrowski for a while. Here; have a drink.” He handed one of the glasses to the doctor.

  Drake sipped at the drink. It was smooth, but with a strange aura of power. “Isn’t this against regulations?” he asked.

  “Not exactly.” Devris’ smile was that of the triumphant loophole-seeker. ,. ‘Articles of Interstellar Commerce,…’” he quoted, “ ‘Section VIII, Paragraph 4: No beverage alcohol shall be permitted aboard Service vessels except regulation five per cent beer, which shall be rationed to personnel at the rate of twenty-four fluid ounces per day, such rations not to be cumulative.’ “ He paused for a moment, then went on: “ .Section IX, Paragraph 3: Intoxication of personnel shall be punished by the commanding officer of the ship according to Section II, Paragraphs 7 and 8, dealing with endangering the lives and/or property aboard service vessels’ “

  “Then what’s this?” Drake asked, holding up his glass.

  “Lens cleaning fluid,” Devris said candidly. “I find absolute alcohol to be an excellent lens cleaner.

  “Naturally,” he continued virtuously, “no one in his right mind could consider lens cleaning fluid a beverage.”

  “Which proves,” said Drake, taking another sip, “that I am not in my right mind.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Devris. They drank.

  “Very neat,” Drake said. “ As long as you do not become intoxicated and do not have alcoholic beverages aboard, you are not disobeying the regulations. Does the captain know about this?”

  “Probably. But we don’t mention it. We have a tacit agreement. He doesn’t check on my lens cleaner, and I don’t ask him why he has an extra foot locker aboard.”

  “I see. No one checks on the captain. What about MacDonald?”

  “He’s satisfied with his beer ration, I guess. He isn’t much of a drinker. He’d rather swap true confessions with Joe One-Note.” He finished his drink and mixed another. “you know ,” he said philosophically, “I have done a little computation. Assuming that all of Joe’s stories are true, and assuming that each of his conquests was completed in a minimum amount of time, and using Service tables to compute the average length of a voyage and the average time of stay on a planet-figuring all these in, I say, I have come up with a cubic equation.”

  Drake nodded. “I follow you. So?”

  “I have come up with two real and one imaginary roots to the equation.” He held up a hand and began counting them off on his fingers.

  “Real Root One: Captain Dumbrowski is over nine hundred years old. Otherwise, he couldn’t possibly have done all that work in the time allowed.

  “Real Root Two: Captain Dumbrowski has psionic powers and is able to teleport himself from this ship every night to some suitable planet in the galaxy and get back within eight hours.”

  “Uh-huh. And the imaginary root?”

  “Captain Dumbrowski’s stories are imaginary. But, being imaginary, such a root is not allowable in a real situation.”

  “Naturally not,” agreed Drake. “Pour me another drink.”

  As the navigator mixed, Drake asked: “I wonder why he lays it on so thick?”

  “He married young,” Devris said oratorically. “His wife is a small, birdlike woman to whom he is intensely devoted. She is, as far as I can determine, a simpering prude.”

  “So he tells sea stories like Long John Silver, eh?”

  From then on, Drake managed to get away from Dumbrowski early and have a chat with Devris in the evening. The navigator proudly displayed his instruments, and even let the doctor compute their position one day. Drake got one of the factors confused, and Devris respectfully informed him that he had better tell the captain to turn around, because the ship was heading t
owards Alhena in Gemini, dead away from their target.

  Drake, in turn, took the navigator to Section Five to show him his ducks.

  “Why live ducks, anyway?” Devris asked. “Why not just ship them all as eggs?”

  “Well, remember, these aren’t going to be domestic ducks; they’ll be allowed to go wild on Okeefenokee. One of the most important things a duck can learn is how to be a duck. It isn’t all instinct, you know. So we have a live adult duck for every hundred eggs. The old duck teaches the younger ones the duck business.”

  “Been in the family for generations, eh?” Devris asked.

  “We hope so. Believe me, we hope so.”

  “You hope so? I’d think any duck could learn the duck profession. It ought to be easy as duck soup.”

  Drake winced. “Not necessarily. These ducks, like most domestic ducks, are descended from the Anas boschas—the mallard. But domestic ducks have been inbred and crossbred for meat and egg qualities. In several strains, the brooding or nest-sitting instinct has been bred right out. Such a species wouldn’t survive in the wild; the duck would lay her eggs and then walk off and leave them.

  “We went back to the original wild mallard to get Anas okeefenokias, here. The genetic engineers worked hard to get the bird they wanted, but a couple of strains turned out to be absolutely worthless. One strain was a failure because the opposite sexes refused to have anything to do with each other-no mating instinct.”

  “Tell that to Captain Dumbrowski. He’ll have a duck fit,” said Devris calmly. He ducked just in time.

  Seventeen weeks slipped by. It was on the fourth day of the eighteenth week, two days’ flight from Okeefenokee, that Drake found a sick duck.

  It wasn’t really very ill; it had managed to get a scratch near one eye, and the scratch had become slightly infected. It took him a couple of minutes to snare the duck, then he picked it up and looked at it.