Gateway to Never (John Grimes)

by A Bertram Chandler

  “You bloody fool,” gasped Flandry, who was last to emerge. “You bloody fool! You should have known. . . .”

  “I did know,” snapped Grimes. “Pipe down, damn you!”

  The fire-extinguishing foam was pouring out into the alleyway. Grimes motioned to the others to follow suit, dropped to his knees, let the cool, not unpleasantly acrid froth almost cover him. How long would it be before the fire-fighting party was on the scene? When Quest’s own crew had been running the ship scant seconds would have elapsed; but Druthen and his scientists and technicians were not spacemen, and at least one of the three officers put aboard from Adler would be remaining in the control room.

  Somebody, somewhere, switched the alarms off. So they realized that there was a fire. And without that incessant noise it was possible to think, to give orders.

  “Keep covered,” said Grimes. “They’ll not see us until it’s too late.” He added, in a disgruntled voice, “The bastards are certainly taking their time. Billy Williams and his crowd would have had the fire out half an hour ago!”

  “Glumph,” replied Sonya through a mouthful of foam.

  They were here at last, rounding the curve in the alleyway: a tall figure in a space suit, the spiked helmet of which made it obvious that he was a member of the Waldegren Navy, four men in civilian space armor, pushing a wheeled tank.

  “Lasers only,” whispered Grimes. “Fire!”

  Lasers are silent—but they are dreadfully lethal. Grimes hated to have to do it—but the fire fighters must be given no chance to warn Druthen and von Donderberg in Control. Druthen’s men were hijackers, and their lives were already forfeit. The universal penalty for this crime is death. The Waldegrener was acting under orders, but he had no business aboard Grimes’ ship. What happened to him was just his bad luck.

  Grimes stood up slowly in the waist-high foam. He looked at the five silent figures. They were dead all right, each of them with his armor neatly pierced in half a dozen places. There was no blood, luckily, and luckily nobody had employed the effective slashing technique, so the suits were still reasonably intact.

  Five of them, he thought, trying hard to fight down his nausea. Seven of us. Flandry can wear the Waldegren space suit—it’ll fit him. Then myself. And Sonya. Irene? Metzenther? Trafford? Clarisse?

  He said, “Get the armor off them. It’s a made-to-order disguise.”

  Trafford, Flandry and Sonya went to work. The smell of charred meat and burned blood was distressingly evident. Suddenly, Sonya beckoned to Grimes. He went to look down at the stripped figure. It was a woman. She was—had been—one of the junior technicians. Grimes remembered her. He had referred to her, in his thoughts, as a hard-faced little bitch. Feeling sorry for this would not help her now.

  He walked slowly back to where Clarisse was standing, patches of foam slipping slowly down her smooth skin, others still clinging to the salient points of her body. He whispered, pointing, “You know her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wear her suit. Speak into the suit radio, using her voice. . . . You can do that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Report that the fire is under control. Should Druthen or von Donderberg feel uneasy about anything you, as a telepath, will know the right things to say to put their minds at rest. Say that we are returning topside to report as soon as the fire is out. Get it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get suited up.”

  She obeyed him, assisted by Sonya and Irene. She spurned their suggestion that she should wear the dead woman’s long johns. Grimes didn’t blame her, although he winced at the thought of the unlined inside of the suit chafing her unprotected skin.

  Then Grimes, too, stripped to his skimpy underwear, could not bring himself to put on a dead man’s next-to-the-skin union suit. Neither could Sonya. But the corpse robbing worried neither Irene nor Flandry.

  The bodies were concealed in the congealing foam, which hid, too, the tools taken from the belt pouches of the fire party. Those same pouches served as holsters for the weapons of Grimes and his people. It was decided that Trafford and Metzenther, who had been unable to disguise themselves, would stay in the watch room. They would be safe enough there, especially since Metzenther should be able to give ample advance warning of the approach of any hostile persons.

  Then, speaking in a voice that was not her own, Clarisse said into her helmet microphone, “Sadie Hawkes reporting to Dr. Druthen. The fire’s out. Nothing serious. That stupid bitch was burning papers for some reason or other.”

  “Is she hurt?” Druthen’s voice did not betray much, if any, concern.

  “Naw, Doc. We just slapped her round a little, is all.”

  Von Donderberg’s voice came through the speakers. “Lieutenant Muller.”

  “Sorry, Commander,” Clarisse told him. “The lieutenant slipped on the foam an’ caught his helmet a crack. His transceiver’s on the blink.”

  “Where is the prisoner now?” inquired Druthen.

  “We left her in her bubble bath to cool down. Ha, ha.”

  “Ha, ha,” echoed Dr. Druthen.

  Chapter 24

  GRIMES LED THE WAY into the control room. (After all, this was his ship.) He was followed by Flandry, whose right hand hovered just over the butt of his energy pistol, then by Sonya, then by Irene. Clarisse caught up the rear.

  Druthen and von Donderberg swiveled in their chairs to face the returning fire-fighting party. The scientist was fatly arrogant. The Waldegrener looked more than a little frayed around the edges. It’s your own fault, thought Grimes. If you aren’t fussy about the company you keep. . . .

  Grimes and the others stood there. Druthen and von Donderberg sat there. Grimes knew that he should act and act fast, but he was savoring this moment. Druthen, an expression of petulant impatience growing on his face, snarled, “Take your bloody helmets off! Anybody’d think there was a smell in here.” His words, although distorted by the suit diaphragms, were distinct enough.

  “There is,” replied Grimes. “You.”

  The scientist’s face turned a rich purple. He sputtered, “Mutinous swine! Von Donderberg, you heard! Do something!”

  Von Donderberg shrugged. There was a flicker of amusement in his blue eyes.

  Grimes said, “Mutiny, Dr. Druthen? I am arresting you for mutiny and piracy.” He fumbled for his Minetti, but the little pistol, unlike the heavier weapons carried by the others, was not suitable for use by a man wearing space armor with its clumsy gloves.

  But Flandry’s odd-looking weapon was out, as were Sonya’s and Irene’s pistols. Druthen stared at them helplessly, von Donderberg in a coldly calculating manner. “You will note, Herr Doktor,” remarked the Waldegren officer, “that there are neat holes in those space suits, holes that could have been made by laser fire at short range.” He seemed to be speaking rather louder than was really necessary. “It would seem that our prisoners somehow have escaped and have murdered my Lieutenant Muller and four of your people.” He turned to face Grimes. “You will surrender.”

  “I admire your nerve,” Grimes told him.

  “That is not one of the prisoners!” exclaimed Druthen. “It’s that bastard Grimes! But that’s impossible!”

  “It’s not, Doctor. It’s not.” The commodore was really enjoying himself. “You sneered at me—remember—for carrying a practicing witch on my Articles of Agreement. . . .”

  The practicing witch screamed, “John! The Carlotti set! It’s on! Adler’s seeing and hearing everything!”

  And Adler’s temporal precession rate was synchronized with that of Faraway Quest. No doubt her cannon and projectors were already trained upon their target. No doubt boarding parties were already suited up and hurrying into the warship’s airlocks.

  Grimes swore. His gloating could easily have ruined everything. He dived for the Mannschenn Drive remote controls. He heard pistol fire as somebody, Irene probably, switched off the Carlotti transceiver in an effective but destructive manner. Von Donderberg g
ot in his way, grappled him. The Waldegrener was a strong man and agile, whereas Grimes was hampered by his armor. His body was a barrier between the commodore and the Mannschenn Drive control console. Brutally, Grimes flailed at him with his mailed fists, but von Donderberg managed to get a firm grip on both his wrists. Grimes tried to bring his knee up, but he was too slow and the foul blow was easily avoided.

  It was Irene who settled matters. (After all, this was not her ship.) Her heavy pistols barked deafeningly, the slugs just missing Grimes (intentionally, he hoped) and von Donderberg. The face of the control panel splintered; otherwise the immediate results were unspectacular.

  But down in the Mannschenn Drive room the duty technician watched aghast as the great, gleaming rotors ran wild, precessing faster and faster yet, tumbling down and into the dark dimensions uncontrolled and uncontrollably. Beyond the control room viewports, the image of Adler glowed with impossible clarity against the blackness, then flickered out like a snuffed candle flame. Throughout the ship, men and women stared at familiar surroundings and fittings that sagged and fluoresced, that wavered on the very brink of the absolute nothingness. Belatedly, alarm bells started to ring, but their sound was a thin, high shrilling, felt rather than heard.

  Abruptly, shockingly, normalcy returned as the Drive shut itself off. Colors, forms and sounds were suddenly . . . drab. The irregular throbbing of the inertial drive was harsh and irritating.

  Grimes, still straining against von Donderberg, snapped, “Shut that bloody thing off!” Apart from the Waldegren commander and his surviving officer—wherever he was—there were no spacemen among those who had hijacked the ship. Free fall would not worry Grimes and his boarding party overmuch, but it would be, at the very least, an inconvenience to the planet lubbers.

  The annoying vibration ceased. What next? Grimes asked himself. It was hard to think clearly. That blasted von Donderberg was still putting up a fight, and Sonya and Clarisse, who had come to the commodore’s aid, were more of a hindrance than a help. “Irene!” he called. “Check the indicator! Are all AT doors shut?” (The airtight doors should have automatically at the first signs of main drive malfunction.)

  “Yes,” she replied at last. “There’s a switch by itself in a glass-fronted box. . . . It’s labeled LOCK. . . .”

  “Got it. . . .”

  “Then throw it!”

  Grimes heard the little crash of shattering glass, heard Irene say, “Locked.”

  Sonya had a space-suited arm across von Donderberg’s throat. The man was starting to choke; his face was turning blue, his eyes were protruding. Suddenly he relinquished his hold on Grimes’ wrists. The two women hustled him to an acceleration chair, forced him down into it. They held him there while Irene, using a length of flex that she had found somewhere, lashed him into the seat. Druthen had already been similarly dealt with by Irene and Flandry.

  “Mphm,” grunted Grimes. The situation was, for the time being, under control. Slowly he removed his gloves, then took his pipe from one of the pouches at the belt of his space suit. He filled it and lit it, ignoring Sonya’s “Not now!” He stared at Druthen, demanded, “Where are the prisoners?”

  “Find out!” came the snarled reply.

  From the intercom speakers came a growing uproar. “Doctor Druthen, what’s happened?” “We’re shut in, let us out of here!” “Doctor, there’s no gravity!”

  “We can do without that,” said Grimes. Sonya switched off the system. Then, “Where are the prisoners, Druthen?”

  Again the scientist snarled, “Find out!”

  “And that is just what we intend to do, Herr Doktor,” remarked Flandry. He pulled that complicated-looking weapon from a makeshift holster at his belt, looked at it thoughtfully, said regretfully, “Not quite subtle enough. . . .” From another pouch he took out a knife, drew it from its sheath. It was only small, but it gleamed evilly. “Perhaps a little judicious whittling . . .” He murmured. “Where shall I start?”

  Von Donderberg, who had recovered his voice, croaked, “Remember that you an officer and gentleman are. A civilized man.”

  “Who says that I’m civilized, Commander? Come to that—who dares say that either you or the learned Herr Doktor are civilized? You, sir, are a pirate. He is either a mutineer or a hijacker or both—but this is no time to discuss legalities. H’m. Your hands are nicely secured to the arms of your chair, Doctor. Perhaps if I pry off your fingernails, one by one . . .”

  “Flandry, you wouldn’t!” expostulated Grimes.

  “Wouldn’t I, Commodore? You may watch.”

  “But I know where they are,” said Clarisse. She added tartly, “What the hell’s the good of having a professional telepath around if you don’t make use of her?”

  “Why must you spoil everything?” asked Flandry plaintively.

  Von Donderberg laughed mirthlessly and Druthen fainted.

  Chapter 25

  YES, CLARISSE KNEW WHERE THEY WERE. It was an obvious enough place anyhow, the empty cargo compartment, right aft, in which Grimes had intended to stow whatever fantastic artifacts could be plundered from The Outsiders’ Ship. Sonya, taking with her the electronic master key that would allow her passage through the locked airtight doors, went to release them. She was accompanied by Irene and would pick up Trafford and Metzenther on the way. She assured Grimes that if she encountered any of Druthen’s people she would shoot if she had to. Irene growled that she would shoot, period. But there was not much risk. Metzenther would be able to give them ample warning of what hostile action, if any, awaited them in any compartment that they were about to enter.

  Grimes switched on the second Carlotti transceiver—luckily the ship was fitted with two of the sets—and raised Faraway Quest II without any difficulty. She was no longer ahead, relatively speaking. Adler had turned, and Quest II and Wanderer had turned with her, and all three ships were racing back toward The Outsider on a reciprocal of their original trajectory.

  “So you’ve got your ship back, Commodore,” commented the other Grimes, looking out from the little screen. “Your Commander Mayhew, and Trialanne aboard Wanderer, have been keeping us informed.”

  “There’s a little mopping up yet, Commodore,” said Grimes. “But it shouldn’t take long. I suggest that you and Wanderer slow down to allow me to catch up.”

  “Wanderer can if she likes, Commodore, but I’m not going to. Adler’s going like a bat out of hell, and has the heels of us. Mayhew tells me that she’s using some experimental accelerator, for the first time. Unluckily he’s a mechanical and mathematical moron, so he can’t get anything but absolute gibberish from the mind of Adler’s engineer officer. But I know that it’s Blumenfeld’s intention to race us to The Outsider and then to seize and to hold it against all comers, waiting for reinforcements.”

  “What about Vindictive? Captain Flandry’s ship?”

  “What, indeed?” echoed Flandry.

  “We can’t warn her,” said Grimes II. “That stupid culture she comes from has never developed the Carlotti system, or used telepaths. . . .”

  “I resent that,” snarled Flandry.

  Grimes II seemed to notice him for the first time. “Sorry, Captain. I didn’t realize that you were listening. But can you warn your ship?”

  “No, I can’t. But my men have very itchy trigger fingers.”

  “They’ll need ’em. But switch on your other set, Commodore. Mr. Smith in Wanderer would like a word with you.”

  “I can’t. Commodore, will you tell Mr. Smith that his Mrs. Trafford switched off my other set rather permanently? The same applies to the remote control panel of my Mannschenn Drive.”

  “Then switch over to Wanderer. I’ll just stick beak.”

  Grimes made the necessary adjustments, found himself looking at Smith. Tallentire was well in the background.

  “Commodore,” said Smith, “you realize that neither we nor the other Commodore Grimes can afford to wait until you have effected repairs and adjusted trajectory. Adler mu
st be stopped. I, as the charterer, have assumed effective command of Wanderer. I do not see either Captain Trafford or Mrs. Trafford in your control room. Could you ask them to speak with me?”

  “They’re not available at the moment,” said Grimes.

  “They bloody well are!” Irene contradicted him.

  Suddenly the control room had become crowded with people: Sonya, Irene, Trafford, Metzenther, Billy Williams, Carnaby, Hendrikson, Major Dalzell and Daniels. Williams reported to Grimes, “Commander Davis and his juniors have gone straight to the engine room, Skipper. They’ll let you know as soon as they can get her started up.” He went to where Druthen and von Donderberg were lashed in their chairs. “An’ what shall we do with these drongos?”

  “Take ’em away and lock ’em up, as soon as we can get round to it.”

  “Captain Trafford, Mrs. Trafford,” came Smith’s insistent voice from the Carlotti speaker.

  “Yes!” snapped Irene.

  “You and Captain Trafford should be aboard this ship. But you’re not. So I had no option but to order Mr. Tallentire to press the chase.”

  “You . . . ordered?”

  “Yes. I ordered.”

  “He is the charterer,” pointed out Trafford.

  “All right. He’s the bloody charterer. And so what?”

  “Blumenfeld must be stopped,” insisted the little captain. “Waldegren, in any continuum, cannot be allowed to get its hands on The Outsider’s secrets.”

  “You’ll never stop us now!” bragged von Donderberg.

  “Shut up, you!” growled Billy Williams.

  Irene turned back to the Carlotti transceiver “All right, Smith. Press the chase. But, as owner, I appoint Mr. Tallentire master—until Captain Trafford’s return. Mr. Tallentire will act as he sees fit. Get it?”

  “As you wish.” Smith managed to convey the impression of being supremely unconcerned.

  “I will talk with Mr. Tallentire now.”

  Tallentire’s face replaced that of Smith in the screen. He looked far from happy. “Yes, ma’am?”