First Command

by A Bertram Chandler

  He yawned himself, then decisively drained his cup, set it down on the tray with a clatter. He said, “Thanks for the supper. I enjoyed it.”

  “I did, too.”

  Then, very firmly, “Good night, Miss Russell.”

  She flushed all over her body. “Good night? You don’t mean . . . ?”

  “I do mean. I’m turning in. By myself. Good night.”

  Without looking again at her he went through into his bedroom. He was afraid that she would (would not?) follow him. She did not. As he undressed he heard a vicious clattering as she put the remaining supper things back on the tray, then heard the outer door open and close behind her.

  You bloody fool! he admonished himself. You bloody, bloody fool! But he thought (he hoped) that he had acted wisely. Vinegar Nell, as a de facto Captain’s Lady, would very soon try to assume de facto command of the ship. On the other hand, because of his out-of-character puritanism, he could have made a dangerous enemy. He did not sleep at all well.

  Chapter 12

  Discovery did not stay long on New Maine, although most of her people, who had speedily made friends locally, would have welcomed a longer sojourn on that planet.

  Grimes feared that some ship, deviating from the usual route, might stumble upon Davinas’ Lost Colonies at any moment. He had been given access to the up-to-the-minute Lloyd’s Register in the Penobscot port captain’s office and had discovered that the majority of the ships of the Waverley Royal Mail had not yet made the change-over from psionic Deep Space communications to the Carlotti system. And Ballchin 1716 and 1717 were almost within the territorial space of the Empire of Waverley. The ruling emperor—as was known to Grimes, as a naval officer of the Federation—was not averse to the expansion of his already considerable dominions.

  Discovery did not stay long on New Maine, which meant that her crew did not enjoy the shore leave that they had been expecting. It meant too that all hands, the senior officers especially, were obliged to dedigitate. Brabham, of whom it had been said that he had only two speeds, Dead Slow and Stop, was resentful. MacMorris, who had been looking forward to an orgy of taking apart and putting together, was resentful. Brandt, who had been given the run of the extensive library of the University of New Maine, was resentful. Vinegar Nell was resentful for more reasons than the short stay at the sub-Base.

  “Commander Grimes,” complained Brandt, “even though you are doing nothing to turn up possible leads, I, in the little time that I shall be given, am sifting through years of records.”

  But Grimes kept Davinas’ information to himself. He knew what would happen if it leaked, just as Davinas himself had known. There would be an urgent Carlottigram from New Maine—where the empire maintained a trade commissioner—to Waverley, and long before Discovery arrived off those Lost Colonies some Imperial cruiser would have planted the thistle flag.

  Brabham sulked, MacMorris sulked, Brandt sulked, Swinton snarled, and Vinegar Nell was positively vicious. “I suppose you know what you’re doing, Captain.”

  “I hope you realize the consequences if the algae tanks go bad on us, Captain.”

  “I suppose you know that it’s practically impossible to replenish the beef tissue culture in the time you’ve given me, Captain.”

  “I’m afraid that I just can’t accept responsibility if things go wrong in my department, Captain.”

  At least, Grimes consoled himself, he had one satisfied customer. That was Denny. The elderly commander clearly did not approve of the flurry of activity into which his normally sleepy Base had been plunged. He knew that this flurry would continue as long as Discovery was sitting on the apron. He knew, too—Mrs. Denny made sure that he knew—that the outsiders were interfering with the local ecology. They had attached hoses to his hydrants and washed down the entire spaceport area. They had rigged a wire fence with a carefully calculated low voltage trickling through it on a wide perimeter about their vessel. When Denny had objected, Grimes had told him that his crew did not like working in a latrine and that, furthermore, the materials used for the fence came from ship’s stores, and the current in the wires from the ship’s generators.

  “I shall report this to Lindisfarne Base, Commander Grimes,” said Denny stiffly.

  “I shall be making my report too,” Grimes told him. “And so will my medical officer. Meanwhile, my chief engineer tells me that he’s not getting much help from your workshops.”

  “I’ll see that he gets all the help he wants,” promised Denny. His manner suddenly softened. “You’re not married, Commander, but you will be. Then you’ll find out what it’s like, especially if your wife has a weird taste in pets.”

  “One man’s pets are another man’s pests,” cracked Grimes.

  “One woman’s pets are, strictly between ourselves, her husband’s pests. Rest assured that I shall get your rustbucket off my Base as soon as is humanly possible. Anything for a quiet life.”

  And so the activity continued, with work around the clock.

  “There’s hardly been any shore leave, sir,” complained Brabham.

  “Growl you may, but go you must,” countered Grimes cheerfully.

  “But what’s the hurry, sir?”

  “There is a valid reason for it, Number One,” Grimes told him.

  “More sealed orders, I suppose,” said Brabham, with as near to a sneer as he dared.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” replied Grimes, with what he knew must be infuriating smugness. There were times when he did not quite like himself, and this was one of them—but his officers were bringing out the worst in him. “Just take it from me that I know what I’m doing, and why. That’s all.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Brabham, conveying the impression that, as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t.

  Rather to Grimes’s surprise the target date was met.

  A cheerless dawn was breaking over the Base as the ramp was retracted, as the last of Discovery’s airtight doors sighed shut. The old ship was as spaceworthy as she ever would be, and she had somewhere to go.

  Grimes, in the control room, spoke into the microphone. “Discovery to New Maine Aerospace Control. Request outward clearance. Over.”

  “All clear for your liftoff, Discovery. No air traffic in vicinity of Base. No space traffic whatsoever. Good hunting. Over.”

  “Thank you, Aerospace Control. Over.”

  “Base to Discovery.” This was Denny’s voice. “Good hunting. Over.”

  “Thank you, Commander Denny. Give my regards to the great snakes. They can have their public convenience back now. Over.”

  “I wish you were taking the bastards with you, Grimes. Over.”

  Grimes laughed, and started the inertial drive. Discovery shuddered, heaving herself clear of the apron. She clambered upward like an elderly mountaineer overburdened with equipment. No doubt MacMorris would complain that he should have been given more time to get his innies into proper working order. Then the beat of the engines became louder, more enthusiastic. Grimes relaxed a little. He took a side-wise glance at Tangye, in the co-pilot’s seat. This time, he noted, the navigator had done his sums before departure; a loosely folded sheet of paper was peeping out of the breast pocket of his uniform shirt. And what target star would he have selected? Hamlet, probably, in the Shakespearean System, out toward the Rim Worlds. It was a pity that Discovery would not be heading that way.

  The ship pushed through the low overcast as though she really meant it, emerged into the clear stratum between it and the high cirrus. Blinding sunlight, almost immediately dimmed as the viewports automatically polarized, smote through into the control room, and, outside, made haloes of iridescence in the clouds of ice particles through which the vessel was driving. She lifted rapidly through the last tenuous shreds of atmosphere.

  “Clear of the Van Allens, sir,” reported Tangye at last. “Thank you, pilot,” acknowledged Grimes. Then, to Brabham, “Make the usual announcements, Number One. Free fall, setting trajectory, all the rest of it.”
/>   “Take over now, sir?” asked Tangye, pulling the sheet of notes from his breast pocket.

  Grimes grinned at him. “Oh, I think I’ll keep myself in practice, pilot. It’s time I did some work.”

  The ship was in orbit now, falling free about New Maine. Grimes produced his own sheet of paper, glanced at it, then at the constellations patterned on the blackness outside the viewports. He soon found the one that he was looking for, although why the first settlers on this planet had called it The Mermaid he could not imagine. Their imaginations must have been far more vivid than his. His fingers played over the controls and the directional gyroscopes began to spin, and the hull turned about them. “Sir,” said Tangye urgently. “Sir!”

  “Yes, pilot?”

  “Sir, Hamlet’s in The Elephant. From here, that is—”

  “How right you are, Mr. Tangye. But why should we be heading toward Elsinore?”

  “But, sir, the orders said that we were to make a sweep out toward the Rim.”

  “That’s right,” put in Brabham.

  “I have steadied this ship,” said Grimes coldly, “on to Delta Mermaid. We shall run on that trajectory until further orders—orders from myself, that is. Number One, pass the word that I am about to start the Mannschenn Drive.”

  “As you say, sir,” replied Brabham sulkily.

  Deep in the bowels of the vessel the gleaming rotors began to turn, to spin and to tumble, to precess out of normal space-time, pulling the ship and all her people with them down the dark dimensions, through the warped continuum. There was the usual fleeting second or so of temporal disorientation, while shapes wavered and colors sagged down the spectrum, while all sound was distorted, with familiar noises either impossibly high in pitch or so low as to be almost inaudible.

  There was, as always, the uncanny sensation of déjà vu.

  Grimes experienced no previsions but felt, as he had when setting trajectory off Lindisfarne, a deep and disturbing premonition of impending doom.

  Perhaps, he thought, he should adhere to his original orders. Perhaps he should observe the golden rule for modest success in any service: Do what you’re told, and volunteer for nothing.

  But whatever he did, he knew from harsh experience, he always ran into trouble.

  Chapter 13

  The ship settled down into her normal Deep Space routine—regular watches, regular mealtimes, regular exercise periods in the gymnasium, and regular inspections. In many ways, in almost all ways, she was like any other ship; what made her different, too different, was the resentment that was making itself felt more and more by her captain. The short stay on New Maine, with hardly any shore leave, was in part responsible. But there was more than that. Everybody aboard knew what Grimes’s original orders had been—to use New Maine as a base and to make a sweep out toward the Rim without intruding into what the Rim Worlds already were referring to as their territorial space. (It was not Federation policy to do anything that might annoy those touchy colonials, who, for some time, had been talking loudly about secession.) And now everybody aboard knew that Discovery was headed not toward the Rim but in the general direction of the Waverley sector. Grimes, of course, was the captain, and presumably knew what he was doing. Grimes was notoriously lucky—but luck has a habit of running out. If this cruise, carried out in contravention to admiralty orders—vague though those orders had been—turned out to be fruitless, Grimes would have to carry the can back—but his officers, none of them at all popular with high authority, would be even less likely to achieve any further promotion.

  Grimes could not help overhearing snatches of conversation. The old bastard is putting us all up Shit Creek without a paddle. And, He’s always been fantastically lucky, but he’s bound to come a real gutser one day. I only hope that I’m not around when he does! And, He must think that he’s a reincarnation of Nelson—turning a blind eye to his orders! With the reply, A reincarnation of Bligh, you mean!

  This last, of course, was from Brabham.

  And if Bligh, thought Grimes, had carried a trained and qualified telepath aboard Bounty he might have been given warning of the mutiny that was brewing. He, Grimes, did have such a telepath aboard Discovery—but was Flannery willing to bend the Rhine Institute’s ethical code? If he were, it would be far easier to keep a finger on the pulse of things. But Flannery . . . his loyalties, such as they were, were to his shipmates, much as he disliked them all, rather than to the ship and her commander. He was bred of stock with a long, long record of rebellion and resentment of all authority. Even his psionic amplifier—one that Grimes, ironically enough, had persuaded the telepath to accept—seemed to share its master’s viewpoint.

  Yet Grimes did not dislike the whiskey-swilling psionic communications officer and did not think that Flannery actively disliked him. Perhaps, carefully handled, the man might be induced to spill a bean or two. In any case, Grimes would have to spill the beans to him, would have to tell him about Davinas and the suspected Lost Colonies. But did Flannery know already? PCOs were not supposed to pry, but very few of them were able to resist the temptation.

  He made his way down to the farm deck, to the squalid cubbyhole where Flannery lived in psionic symbiosis with his amplifier. The man was more or less sober, having, over the years, built up a certain immunity to alcohol. He was playing patience—and, Grimes noted, cheating—between sips from a tumbler of whiskey.

  “Ah, top o’ the mornin’ to ye, Captain! Or is it mornin’? Or evenin’? Or last St. Patrick’s Day?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Flannery.”

  “A drop of the real peat elixir for ye, Captain?”

  Grimes hesitated, then accepted. Irish whiskey was not among his favorite tipples, but he wanted to keep Flannery in a good mood. He wondered how long it was since the glass into which his drink was poured had been washed.

  “Thank you, Mr. Flannery. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Not at all, not at all, Captain. This is Liberty Hall. Ye can spit on the mat an’—”

  “Call Ned a bastard? He mightn’t like it.”

  “He wouldn’t be mindin’ at all, at all. T’is a term o’ endearment where he comes from. An’ it was about Ballchin 1716 and 1717 ye were wantin’ to see me, wasn’t it?”

  “You’ve been . . . snooping,” accused Grimes.

  “Snoopin’, Captain? There was no need to. I’d have to blank me mind off entoirely not to pick up your broadcasts on that subject! An’ if ye’re askin’ me now, I’ve picked up nary a whisper yet from the planets o’ those two suns. But I’m listenin’. An’ Ned—bless the sweet soul o’ him—is listenin’.”

  “Thank you. Mphm. Oh, and there was something else.”

  “Ye’re not after askin’ me that, Captain, are ye? To pry on me mates?”

  “Well, it is done, you know,” said Grimes defensively. “When justified by the circumstances, that is.”

  “Niver by me it isn’t, Captain. The Rhine Institute licensed me, an’ I abide by its rules.”

  When it suits you, thought Grimes.

  Flannery grinned, showing his mottled teeth. Grimes might just as well have spoken aloud. “I’ll tell ye what,” said the telepath cheerfully. “I’ll tell ye what . . . I’ll give ye a readin’. On the house, as the wee dog said.” His grubby hands swept the cards into an untidy pile, stacked them. “Seein’ as how we’re aboard a starship I’ll be usin’ the Mystic Star.”

  “Mphm?” grunted Grimes dubiously.

  Flannery riffled through the cards, selected one, laid it face upward on the dirty tabletop. “The King of Clubs,” he announced. “That’s you. Our leader, no less.”

  “Why the King of Clubs?”

  “An’ why not, Captain? Ye’re a decent enough boyo, under the gold braid an’ brass buttons. The King o’ Grave-diggers, standin’ for the military leader, is not for the likes o’ you. Ye’re not a bad enough bastard.”

  “Thank you.”

  “An’ now take the pack. Shuffle it. Let the—the essence o’ ye
seep through yer hands into the Devil’s Prayerbook.”

  Grimes felt that the reverse was taking place, that the uncleanliness of the cards was seeping through his skin into him, but he did as he was told.

  “An’ now, with yer left hand, put the cards down. Face down. Cut the pack. An’ again, so we have three piles.”

  Grimes obeyed.

  “An’ now, the Indicator.”

  Flannery turned over the first stack, revealing the nine of diamonds, then the second, to show the eight of the same suit, then the third, exposing the two of spades.

  “Ah, an’ what have we here? The unexpected gift, an’ the journey that’s made possible. The cards don’t lie, Captain. Didn’t the man Davinas give ye that star chart? An’ the eight o’ sparklers—a lucky card for the explorer. But what’s this mean? The deuce o’ gravediggers. Could it be that yer famous luck is goin’ to turn sour on ye? Change, disruption, an’ voyages to far places. What are ye runnin’ from, Captain? Are ye runnin’ away, or are ye bein’ thrown out from somethin’? Good luck, an’ bad luck, an’ isn’t that the way with ivery mother’s son of us? But with you—the good outweighin’ the bad.”

  Rubbish, thought Grimes, not quite convincing himself. “Go on,” he said.

  “Ye’re in this too.” Flannery swept the cards, with the exception of the King of Clubs, back into one pack. “Take ‘em, Captain. Shuffle again. Now give ‘em back to me.” Working widdershins, Flannery placed eight cards around the King in the form of an eight-pointed star. Then he gave the pack back to Grimes, telling him to put two more cards on each of the eight points.

  “An’ now,” he said, “we shall see what we shall see.” He turned up the three cards at the top of the star. “Aha! The King o’ Sparklers, the four o’ blackberries, an’ the seven o’ gravediggers. Someone’s workin’ against ye, Captain. A military man, a soldier, an’ there’s the warnin’ o’ danger ahead, an’ another warnin’, too. A woman could land ye in the cactus.”