The Dark Dimensions

by A Bertram Chandler

  Grimes II was giving his orders unhurriedly, decisively; they were acknowledged smartly. In the little screen of the NST transceiver, Captain Trafford in Wanderer's control room was doing likewise. Then Trafford said, facing the iconoscope, "All machinery on full stand by, Commodore."

  "Thank you, Captain," replied Grimes II, just a fraction of a second before Grimes I could do so. (I'll have to watch myself, he thought. I'm only a passenger. . . .)

  "Execute on the count of zero."

  "Aye, aye. Execute on the count of zero."

  "Five . . ." intoned Grimes II. "Four . . . Three . . . Two . . . One . . . Zero!"

  From below came the high, undulating whine of the Mannschenn Drive, and with it the temporal disorientation, the sense of unreality. Grimes looked at Sonya and asked himself, with wry humor, How many of me is she seeing now? The picture of Wanderer's control room faded from the NST transceiver screen, was replaced by that in the screen of the Carlotti set. Beyond the viewports the brightly lit Vindictive and the distant Shaara derelict faded into invisibility—but the cold-gleaming intricacy of the Outsiders' Ship persisted stubbornly.

  It is in every space, thought Grimes. It is in every time. But how is it that nobody else has ever reported this phenomenon? He answered his own question. Dead men and missing men do not tell tales.

  And then, suddenly, things were normal—or as normal as they ever are, as they ever can be while the Drive is in operation.

  Flandry looked at Grimes. His face was pale. He said, "So this is your Mannschenn Drive. I think I prefer our Standing Wave."

  "You get used to it," Grimes told him.

  "Speak for yourself," snapped Sonya.

  But Grimes II—after all, this was his ship—was taking charge. "Mr. Carradine," he ordered, "keep your ears skinned for the faintest whisper from anybody on the main Carlotti. Grab a bearing if you can. Mr. Danby, let me know if you see even the merest flicker in the MPI. And you, Commander Mayhew, I needn't tell you what to do. I'm sorry that this ship doesn't run to psionic amplifier, but Mr. Metzenther and Trialanne in Wanderer have one."

  Flandry said something about trying to find a black cat in a coal mine at midnight. Grimes II laughed. "Yes, Captain, that just about sums it up. And once we do find it we may not be much better off. For any physical contact to be made between ships while the Mannschenn Drive is operating there must be exact synchronization of temporal precession rates. There have been devices whereby one vessel can induce synchronization in the Mannschenn Drive unit of another vessel with her own. But most ships today—certainly all warships—are fitted with special governors which make this impossible unless the captain so desires."

  "And when do you start accelerating, Commodore? I'm finding all this free fall rather boring."

  "As soon as we know where to accelerate to."

  Flandry shrugged. The gesture, now that he was out of his space suit and attired in a close-fitting, beautifully tailored, black and gold uniform, was much more effective.

  Irritated, Grimes II asked sharply, "And do you have any ideas, Captain Flandry?"

  "Why, yes. People don't hijack ships just for the fun of it. We don't have any Duchy of Waldegren in my universe—but, from what I have gathered, the Waldegrenese are baddies. The people who have seized the Faraway Quest, the first Faraway Quest that I was aboard, are also baddies. Could this hijacked Faraway Quest be making a rendezvous with Adler?"

  "What do you think, Commodore?" asked Grimes II.

  "I think that Captain Flandry could be right, Commodore," replied Grimes I.

  "Of course I'm right," said Flandry.

  "Mphm," grunted Grimes II thoughtfully. He turned to his navigator. "Mr. Danby," he said, "run up a trajectory for Waldegren. We'll just have to assume that she's coming out by the most direct route, the same as we did from Faraway. . . ."

  "No," Grimes told him. "She's running out on the Leads astern, the same as we did."

  "The Leads?" demanded Grimes II.

  "Yes. Macbeth and the Kinsolving sun in line."

  "You have some most peculiar ideas about navigation on your time track, Commodore. However, this Adler also belongs to your time track, so. . . . All right, Mr. Danby, do as the carbon copy Commodore Grimes says. And Mr. Carradine, inform Wanderer of our intentions."

  Carbon copy . . . thought Grimes indignantly. But, original or not, this was not his ship. He—or his own version of himself—was not giving the orders. He could only suggest and be thankful that this other Grimes did not seem to be as pigheaded as he, more than once, had been accused of being.

  Briefly the Mannschenn Drive was shut down, and the big, directional gyroscopes rumbled, hummed and then whined as the ship turned about her short axis. Directly ahead—overhead from the viewport of those in Control—the dim, misty Galactic Lens swam into view and was almost immediately distorted beyond recognition as the interstellar drive was restarted. The irregular throbbing beat of the inertial drive made itself felt, and there was gravity again, and weight, and up and down.

  "Now we're getting someplace," murmured Flandry a little smugly.

  Grimes glared at him and was even more annoyed when he saw that Sonya was looking at the Imperial Captain with what could have been admiration.

  16

  It was not a long pursuit, and it ended in stalemate.

  Falling through the non-space, non-time between the dimensions were the four ships: Adler, Wanderer, both versions of Faraway Quest. Trajectories had been matched, in spite of the initial efforts of Adler and Faraway Quest I to throw off their pursuers; but it was only those two vessels that had synchronized temporal precession rates.

  Back toward The Outsider they ran, all four of them, a mismatched squadron. And they would run past their objective, and go on running, until somebody did something, somehow, to break the deadlock.

  Meanwhile, Grimes had learned that his crew was safe, although they were now prisoners. At last, at long last, and with assistance from Metzenther and Trialanne, Mayhew had been able to reestablish his rapport with Clarisse. It had not been easy, but after many hours of concentrated effort the three telepaths had been able to drag her mind up out of its drugged sleep to a condition of full awareness. She was able, then, to supply the details of Druthen's take-over of the ship. It had been done with surprising ease, merely by the introduction of an instantaneously anesthetic gas into the air circulatory system. In theory, this should have been impossible. Alarms should have sounded; pumps and fans should have stopped; baffle plates should automatically have sealed off the ducts. But Druthen was a scientist, and his people were scientists and technicians. He had a very well equipped laboratory at his disposal. And, most important of all, Mayhew and Clarisse had obeyed that commandment of the Rhine Institute: Thou shalt not pry into the mind of a shipmate.

  "It's no use crying over spilt milk, Ken," Grimes told his psionic communications officer. "At least we know that Clarisse and the others are unhurt. . . ."

  "What the hell's the use of having these talents if you don't use 'em?" wondered Flandry, all too audibly.

  "Some of us," Grimes told him coldly, "subscribe to ethical codes."

  "Don't we all, Commodore? Do unto others as they would do unto you—but do it first!"

  "Captain Flandry is right, John," said Sonya.

  Yes, thought Grimes, I suppose the bastard is right. And, come to that, I've tried often enough, and sometimes successfully, to get PCOs to pry for me. . . . Like Spooky Deane, who loved his gin—or my gin. . . . Even so. . . .

  Anyhow, there was now telepathic communication between the two Faraway Quests, and communication regarding which neither Druthen nor the captain of Adler was aware. Not that it would have worried them much if they had known about it. Clarisse was locked up in the quarters that she had shared with her husband. There was little that she could tell him, and nothing that she could do. She could not communicate with the other prisoners, who were non-telepaths. She could not even pry into the minds of Druthen and
his people—and neither could Mayhew and Metzenther and Trialanne. The scientist had, somehow, succeeded in stimulating Mayhew's psionic amplifier—it could, of course, have been just a side effect of the anesthetic gas that had been used during the takeover—and the continual howling of that hapless, disembodied dog's brain blanketed all stray thoughts. Trained telepaths could punch their signals through the psionic interference, but that was all.

  In any case, Druthen was willing enough to talk.

  He, fat and slovenly as ever, glowered out at Grimes from the screen of the Carlotti transceiver. Grimes stared back at him, trying to keep his own face emotionless. It was all wrong that he should be looking into his own control room this way, from outside, that he should see the nerve center of his own ship in the hands of strangers, of enemies. With Druthen were two of the scientist's own people, and in the background were three uniformed men: large, blond, obviously officers of the Waldegren Navy.

  The senior among them, a full commander by his braid, came to stand beside Dr. Druthen. Druthen seemed to resent this, tried to push the officer out of the field of the iconoscope. He muttered, "Nehmen Sie mal Ihre Latschen weg."

  The other replied, "Sie sind zwar dick genug für zwei, aber Sie haben nur für einen Platz gezahlt Rücken Sie weiter."

  Sonya laughed. Grimes asked her, "What's the joke?"

  "Just that they don't seem to love each other. Druthen told the commander to get his big feet out of his way, and the commander told him that even though he's big enough to fill two seats he's only paid for one. . . ."

  "Paid?" asked Grimes.

  "Obviously. He's bought his way into the Duchy of Waldegren."

  "Ja," agreed the Waldegren commander. And then, speaking directly to Grimes, "And you the captain of this ship were? But. . . ." His eyes widened. "Vich of you der kapitan vas?"

  "I suppose we're twins, of a sort," grinned Grimes I. "The gentleman standing behind me is Commodore Grimes, commanding Faraway Quest. And I am Commodore Grimes, commanding Faraway Quest—the Faraway Quest aboard which you, sir, are trespassing."

  "But I am the captain now," stated Druthen, smugly.

  Grimes ignored this. He asked coldly, "Where are my people?" (There was no point in letting Druthen and the officers of the prize crew know that he was already fully informed on that subject.)

  "Do you want them back?" countered Druthen, with an infuriating expression of deliberate incredulity.

  "Yes. And my ship."

  Druthen laughed sneeringly. "You don't want much, Commodore. Or should I say, ex-Commodore? Your masters will not be very pleased with you. The ship—I keep. Doubtless the Duchy will pay me a fair price for her. The crew. . . . They are useful hostages. You and your allies dare make no hostile move for fear of hurting them." The fat face was suddenly gloating, evil. "And, perhaps, I can use them to persuade you to call off this futile chase. Suppose I have them thrown, one by one, unsuited, out of the airlock . . . ?"

  "Herr Doktor!" snapped the commander. "Enough. That I will never countenance. I am an officer, not an executioner."

  "Sie glauben wohl Sie sind als Schiffsoffizier was besonderes!"

  "Hau'ab!" The commander struck rather than pushed Druthen away from the screen. Those in the control room of Quest II watched, fascinated, a brief scuffle in the control room of the other ship. And then the senior officer of the prize crew was addressing them again. "Herr Commodore, my apologies. But I my orders must follow, even when I am told to cooperate with schwein. Aber, my word I give. I, Erich von Donderberg, promise you that your crew will be treated well as long as I in this ship am."

  "Thank you, Commander," said Grimes stiffly.

  Druthen, with one eye puffed and almost shut, bleeding from the corner of his mouth, reappeared.

  "Officers!" he spat. "Gold-braided nincompoops, survivals from a past age who should have become extinct millennia ago! I'm cutting you off, Grimes. I want the transceiver so that I can call Captain Blumenfeld in Adler. There'll be some changes made in the composition of this so-called prize crew!"

  The screen went blank.

  "What now?" asked Flandry. "You know these Waldegren people. I don't."

  "They're naval officers," said Grimes at last. "They're professional naval officers. They can be ruthless bastards—but they do, at times, subscribe to a rather antique code of honor. . . ."

  "I concur," said Grimes II.

  "Would you mind," asked Grimes I, "passing the recording of this rather odd interview on to Wanderer? Irene and her people may have some comments."

  "Certainly, Commodore."

  "And you should be able to let us know, Ken, if Druthen is able to persuade Captain Blumenfeld to let him play the game his way?"

  "I'll try," said Mayhew doubtfully. "I'll try. With Clarisse alert and with Metzenther and Trialanne to help us. . . . Yes, I should manage."

  "And so," commented Flandry, "we just, all of us, go on falling through sweet damn' all until somebody condescends to make something happen."

  "That's the way of it," agreed Grimes.

  17

  They, all of them, went on falling through sweet damn' all.

  They swept past the Outsider's Ship, which was still dimly visible, although the derelicts in orbit about it were not. Neither was Flandry's Vindictive. The Imperial Captain complained rather bitterly that he was unable to communicate with his ship. Both Grimeses growled, simultaneously, that it was the fault of his culture for developing neither psionic communications nor the Carlotti system. Both Mrs. Grimeses were inclined to commiserate with Flandry. Relations aboard Faraway Quest II were becoming strained. Aboard Wanderer there were not the same problems. There was only one of each person, and there were no outsiders.

  Out they fell, the four ships, out into the ultimate night.

  Druthen and Captain Blumenfeld made an occasional attempt at evasion, which was countered with ease by the pursuers. Once Blumenfeld, using the Carlotti equipment, tried to reason with Grimes—either or both of him—and with Irene, who had been hooked into the conversation.

  Blumenfeld was an older and stouter version of von Donderberg, and he was more of the politician and less of the space officer. His accent was not so heavy. He appeared in the screens of Faraway Quest II and Wanderer by himself, a fatherly-grandfatherly, almost—figure, smoking an elaborate pipe with a porcelain bowl. It was a pity that his cold, very cold, blue eyes spoiled the effect.

  "Come now, Commodore," he said, "we are both reasonable men. And you, Kaiserin, are a reasonable lady. What do any of us gain by this pointless chase?"

  "You gain nothing," Grimes told him. "Furthermore, you are intruding in Rim Worlds' territorial space. I order you, legally, to hand my ship and my personnel back to me, and also Dr. Druthen and his people so that they may be dealt with by our courts. . . ."

  "You order, Commodore?" asked the other Grimes softly.

  "Yes. I order, Commodore. Faraway Quest I is mine, and Druthen and his accomplices will be my prisoners."

  "Speak up, Commodores," put in Blumenfeld jovially. "Do I detect a slight dissension in your ranks? And you, Kaiserin, do you acknowledge the right of these gentlemen to give orders? And you, Captain Sir Dominic Flandry? What is your view?"

  "We'll settle our own differences after you have been disposed of," growled Irene.

  "I second that," said Flandry.

  Captain Blumenfeld puffed placidly at his pipe. Grimes wondered what tobacco it was that he was smoking. The man seemed to be enjoying it. At last he said, through a wreathing blue cloud, "My patience is not inexhaustible, Commodore. Or Commodores. I am addressing, however, whichever one of you it is who commanded the Faraway Quest aboard which I have placed my prize crew. The good Herr Doktor Druthen has made certain proposals to me regarding the prisoners. I was horrified, and told him so, in no uncertain terms. But . . ." There was a great exhalation of smoke. "But . . . I have thought about what he said to me. I still do not like it." He shrugged heavily.

  "Nonetheless
, my loyalty is to the Duchy, not to citizens of a Confederacy that the Duchy still has not recognized. It may—note that I say 'may,' Commodore, not 'will'—it may be expedient to use those prisoners as a lever to force a certain degree of compliance from you." Again he shrugged. "I shall not like doing it—assuming, that is, that I am obliged to do it. And I shall not resort to painful or . . . messy methods. Just a simple shooting, to be watched by all of you. And then, after a suitable interval, another. And then, if it is necessary, another." He smiled coldly. "But there is no real urgency. You will be given time to think it over, to talk it over. Three days' subjective time, shall we say? Call me on this frequency. Over. And out."