Like a slice of pie, thought Grimes, complete with crust . . . And then, most irrelevantly, Sing a song of sixpence, A rocket full of pie . . .
But Faraway Quest was not, strictly speaking, a rocket, although she was fitted with auxiliary reaction drive, used sometimes in emergencies.
The Commodore noticed that Mayhew, seated three rows back with his wife and assistant, Clarisse, was grinning. Damn these telepaths! he thought, but without viciousness. Get out of my mind, Ken!
Didn't know you were a poet, Commodore, the Psionic Communications Officer replied, the words forming themselves in Grimes' mind.
Mphm, thought Grimes, and "Mphm," he grunted aloud. He surveyed the faces turned up to look at his. They all seemed to be wearing a brightly expectant expression. So they were expecting him to produce the usual bloody rabbit out of the usual bloody hat . . .
But you usually do, John . . . Mayhew told him telepathically.
I need help, replied Grimes. Don't think that I've forgotten that Clarisse got us our ship back. And, to himself, That's an idea!
He said aloud, "I need not remind you how much we owe to Ensign Mayhew and her psionic talents, especially her ability to teleport persons and even, at the finish, such a large construction as this ship. It has just occurred to me that it may be possible for us to reach Earth by being teleported there. What do you say, Clarisse?"
A frown cast its shadow over her rather plump, pretty face. She said slowly, "I'm sorry, sir. But it can't be done."
"Why not?" demanded Grimes. "You dragged the ship from wherever she was, brought her to us on Kinsolving."
"My technique worked then," she admitted. "But only just . . ."
Yes, thought Grimes, her technique had worked—but, on that crucial occasion, only just. Hers was a talent that must have been fairly common in the very remote Past, when Science was undreamed of and what is called Magic still worked. She could trace her descent from a caveman-artist—a painter who, by his vivid depictions of various animals, drew them into the snares, the ambushes, to within range of the thirsty spears of the hunters. But first the picture had to be drawn. Clarisse, telepath as well as teleporteuse and with the aid of her telepathic husband, had succeeded at last in producing a true representation of Faraway Quest, drawing upon the intimate knowledge of the specialist officers, the heads of departments and the members of departments. And Grimes, the Quest's Master over many years, had, at the finish, supplied from his own mind the essential feel of her. The soul of her, he thought.
"I would have to paint a picture of Earth," she said. "Or of some part of Earth intimately known to some of you, or to one of you." She added, "I have never been to Earth . . ."
And which of us has? Grimes asked himself. Sonya was there, on a cruise, not so long ago. And I was born there. But the rest of us . . . Rim Worlders, Franciscans, you name it, anything and everything but Terrans . . .
"You are a Terran, Commodore," said Clarisse.
"It's many years since I was there," said Grimes. "I've so many memories, of so many worlds . . ."
"I can help you find the right ones," said Mayhew.
Mphm. It's worth trying. We can't lose anything. Yet, somehow, Grimes felt no confidence in the scheme, despite his certain knowledge that the girl's talent was a very powerful one, that her technique had worked on several occasions.
He said, "Commander Williams, organize the necessary materials—easel, paint, canvas. And you, Doctor, make up a dose of whatever hallucinatory drug was used before." He turned to Mayhew. "Ken, I'm letting you into my mind. I want a picture, as clear and detailed a picture as possible, of the apron at Port Woomera . . ." He corrected himself. "No. Make it the Central Australian Desert, roughly midway between Ayers Rock and Mount Olga."
"And what was wrong with your first idea?" asked Sonya.
"Plenty. If Clarisse's technique works again we could find ourselves coinciding in Time and Space with a Constellation Class battlewagon. The result would be measured in megatons. The desert's the safest bet, and the Olgas and the Rock are good points of reference . . ."
Sonya still looked doubtful. "Even a tourist coach . . ."
"I've thought of that. I shall visualize the way that things look during the rainy season. As I recall it, there weren't any tourists around then."
He looked down at the upraised faces of his people. He did not need to be a telepath to read their thoughts: The old bastard's pulling it off again!
But he could not feel confident.
Clarisse's talent worked across Time as well as Space—there had been the odd business of the Rim Gods, and the equally odd Hall of Fame adventure—but . . .
Chapter 3
It was a good painting.
Clarisse stood before it, sagging with exhaustion, an incongruous figure among her smartly uniformed shipmates, spatters of paint on her naked upper body, smears of pigment on the bedraggled fur kilt that was her only garment. She had dressed the part, that of a cavewoman artist. She had played the part, with a massive dose of hallucinogenic drugs to put her in the proper trance state while she worked. Mayhew, her husband, was beside her, supporting her now that she had finished. She slumped, tired, against him. A dribble of dull red ran from the brush that she still held down his right leg.
But the magic hadn't worked. It had worked before, more than once. It had called the old gods of the Greek pantheon from that distant past when men had believed in them, it had evoked the Mephistopheles of fantasy rather than of religion, it had teleported Grimes and those with him from Faraway Quest II to his own Faraway Quest. It had drawn Faraway Quest herself from the unimaginable nothingness into which she had been flung to the surface of Kinsolving's Planet. Now it had failed to transport the Quest from the Rim of the Galaxy to Earth.
There was no need for Grimes to speak. Gently Mayhew led his wife away from the easel so that the Commodore could see, in full detail, what had been painted.
Yes, the scene was just as he remembered it. There was the desert, green rather than red, carpeted with the growths that flourished briefly during the wet season. The sky was overcast, with drifting veils of rain, except to the westward, where there was a flaring orange sunset, silhouetted against which were the blue domes—blue only by contrast—of the Olgas. To the east, sullenly smouldering against the grey sky, was the great hulk of Ayers Rock . . .
But . . .
But this was how it had looked in Grimes' own time. This was how it would look—how many years, how many millennia in the future? The domes of Mount Olga, products of erosion . . . Mount Olga, a mass of red conglomerate, plum-pudding-stone, shaped by century after century of wind and rain . . . And even the Rock itself, the granite monolith, could not have resisted the working tools of Time, the great sculptor.
How did the Rock and the Olgas look now?
And when was now?
"Nothin' seems to have happened, Skipper," commented Williams.
"It's not too late to go back to Kinsolving, sir," said Major Dalzell.
Grimes looked at the faces looking up at him. He knew what they were thinking. He had failed to deliver the goods. Mutiny, he realized suddenly, was far from impossible. The Marines would be loyal to their own officer rather than to a mere spaceman, no matter what his rank. Hendriks would probably go along with the Major. And the others? Personal loyalty would influence most of them, but not all. Williams he could count on, and Mayhew, and Clarisse, and Carnaby . . . Yes, and Daniels. But altogether lacking was the support given to any captain by Interstellar Law, by the Regulations of his own navy, or by the provisions of his own Merchant Shipping Act. The Age of the Spaceship—or, at any rate, of the human owned, operated and manned spaceship—lay far in the future. The crew of this particular spaceship might well feel fully entitled to make up their own rules as they went along.
Dalzell seemed to be on the point of saying something further, and those around him were turning towards the Major expectantly. Grimes spoke loudly, more to attract and to hold their
attention than because he had anything of importance to say.
He said, "This, of course, was only the first attempt. There will be others. The main trouble is that we do not know, yet, just when we are. There is an Earth waiting for us." And how can you be so sure of that, buster? jeered a little voice in his mind. "There is an Earth waiting for us," he repeated firmly. "The only thing to be determined is just what period of its history it has reached." He was warming up. "Perhaps we shall be privileged to see the glory that was Greece." He allowed himself a smile as he quoted from Kipling, "When Homer smote 'is bloomin' lyre . . ."
"Homer?" asked Williams. "An' who was he, Skipper?"
Sonya, beside him, collapsed in helpless laughter.
"Did I say anything funny?" asked Grimes coldly.
"No . . . It was something I remembered."
"And what was it?"
"Nothing important. Just absurd. It just came into my mind. When I was last on Earth I spent some time in the north of England. The people there still have all lands of archaic sports, including pigeon racing. The birds are specially bred for their homing instinct. Oh, anyhow, I heard this story. About a christening. The parson asked the father what name he was giving his son, and the man said, 'Homer.' 'Ah,' said the parson, 'you, like me, are an admirer of the great Greek poet . . .' 'No,' the father replied, 'I keep pigeons.' "
"Ha," commented Grimes. "Ha. Ha."
"I thought that it was quite funny at the time," Sonya told him defensively.
Nobody else does, that's for certain, Grimes thought, looking down at Faraway Quest's people. And what the hell does Carnaby want?
"Sir," asked the Navigator, "didn't you once tell me about a similar sort of bird that was used in an automatic steering system, for surface ships, on Tharn?"
"Not quite automatic steering," Grimes said. "But the birds were, in effect, used as compasses."
Carnaby turned to Mayhew. "Commander, you're our expert on all forms of E.S.P. Do human beings have a homing instinct?"
"Yes," replied the telepath. "Not all, but some."
Is there an Earthman in the house? thought Grimes. Yes, there was, and he was it.
You will have to allow yourself to be placed under hypnosis, said a voice, Mayhew's voice, in his brain.
But who'll mind the shop, Ken?
Sonya, and Billy Williams . . . And Clarisse and myself. We'll manage.
What about Dalzell and his bully boys? And Hendriks?
I'm keeping tabs on them, John. They'll not be able to pull any surprises.
What about your Rhine Institute's famous Code of Ethics?
I'll worry about that when there is a Rhine Institute . . .
Grimes spoke aloud once more. He said, "Mr. Carnaby has given us what may be the solution to our problem. I have seen the records of all of you, so I know that I am the only Earthborn person aboard this ship. At times, in the past, I have prided myself on my sense of direction. I may or may not possess a homing instinct. I hope, most sincerely, that I do. In any case, I have to leave the . . . er . . . technicalities in the capable hands of Commander Mayhew . . ."
Mphm, he thought. That bloody Major would still like to have things his way, but Hendriks seems to be coming round . . .
Put it to the vote, John, came Mayhew's soundless voice.
"Nonetheless," Grimes went on, "there are those of us who think that we should return to Kinsolving. I propose, therefore, that a decision be reached by a show of hands. All those who think that we should return, please indicate!"
Only Dalzell and his men raised their hands.
"Those in favour of continuing towards Earth?"
The Marines were outvoted. There were no abstentions.
And Grimes wondered what odd sort of rabbit he would be pulling out of the hat this time.
Chapter 4
Grimes was not a good subject for hypnosis. For him the words of the long-dead poet had always held special meaning: I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. And for so many years he had been a captain, literally as well as figuratively. Even as a junior officer in the Federation's Survey Service he had been in command—only of small ships, but in command nonetheless.
Too, this was more, much more, than mere hypnosis. The telepath would be actually entering his mind, working from the inside. Psychic seduction or psychic rape . . . Whatever label was attached to it would make it no more pleasant from the viewpoint of this particular victim.
Luckily Grimes and Mayhew were friends, very old friends. Luckily Grimes trusted, fully, his Psionic Communications Officer. Even so, he didn't like it. Even so, it had to be done.
The Commodore sat in the master chair in the control room, the one from which one man could be in full and complete charge of every operation, every function of the ship. It was only on rare occasions that a captain did exercise such direct, personal control; in normal circumstances there were officers to do this and to do that, to watch this screen and those tell-tale lights. But, Mayhew explained, it was essential that now Grimes, more than ever before, must feel himself to be no more (and no less) than the brain, with Faraway Quest as his mechanical body.
Grimes sat in the master chair, with controls, set in the armrests, under his finger tips, with other controls in the waist-high console before him. Behind the console, facing him, stood Mayhew. To one side sat Sonya, with Williams and Carnaby. Mayhew had been insistent that no other members of the Quest's crew be present, had been reluctant to admit even the Commodore's wife, his second-in-command, his navigator. "But," Grimes had insisted, "if things go wrong, very wrong, there will be people here capable of taking over at once."
Mayhew held out a small tumbler of clear fluid. He said, "Drink this, John."
"What is it, Ken?" asked Grimes suspiciously. "Something fancy in the hallucinogenic line that the Quack brewed up?"
"No." The telepath grinned. "Just a mild sedative. You're too tense . . ."
"Down the hatch!" toasted Grimes, taking the glass and raising it to his mouth, gulping the contents. He said accusingly, "There should have been an ice cube and a hint of bitters. I like my gin—but not neat and warm . . ."
"It's the effect that matters, not the flavor," remarked Mayhew smugly. "And it's made you drowsy, hasn't it? You've had very little sleep of late, and you're tired. Very tired. Why not admit it? Yes, you are tired . . ." Subtly the telepath's voice was changing. At first it had been pleasantly conversational, now a note of insistent suggestion was becoming more and more evident. Grimes thought, I shouldn't have had that large, neat gin . . . Stubbornly he tried to visualize a mug of very hot, very black coffee, then dismissed the image from his mind. He was in this of his own free will, wasn't he? It was just that he hated to make himself subject to another's control.
"You are very tired, very tired . . . Why not relax? Yes, relax. Visualize your body part by part, member by member . . . Let every muscle, every tendon go slack, slack . . ."
S.O.P., thought Grimes smugly. He'll tell me next to try to raise my arm, and I'll decide that it's just not worth the bother . . . But I wish that I didn't have the sensation of somebody scratching around inside my mind like an old hen . . .
"Relax, relax . . . Visualize your body, part by part . . . Your right foot . . ."
And Grimes realized that he was visualizing his foot, in every detail—the bones, the sinews, the muscles, the slightly hairy skin, the toes and the toenails, even the texture of the encasing sock and the glossy polish of the black shoe.
He thought defiantly, There are better feet to visualize, and allowed his regard to stray to the neatly shod Sonya, to the long, smooth legs gleaming below the hem of her brief uniform skirt. But his own, uninteresting, utilitarian rather than handsome foot persisted in his mind's eye.
"You cannot feel your foot any longer, John. You cannot move your foot. Perhaps it is not your foot . . . Whose foot could it be? What foot could it be?"
And . . . And it was not a human foot any longer. It was a scaly cla
w, scrabbling on a filthy wooden deck . . .
Grimes was no longer in the control room of Faraway Quest; he was in the master compass room of a primitive steamship on Tharn, one of the worlds of Rim Runners' Eastern Circuit. He was looking (as he had looked, long ago) with pity and disgust at the living compass, at the giant homing bird, its wings brutally clipped, imprisoned in its tight harness from which the spindle extended upwards, through deck after deck, to the bridge, to the binnacle in the bowl of which quivered the needle, always indicating the Great Circle course to the port of destination, to the coastal town in which was the nest where the bird had been hatched and reared. The illusion was fantastically detailed; the thin, high keening of the Mannschenn Drive faded to inaudibility, the irregular beat of the inertial drive became the rhythmic thudding of an archaic reciprocating steam engine . . .
The Way Back Page 2
