First Command

by A Bertram Chandler

  Back in his own quarters he considered sending an initial message to Captain Davinas, then decided against it, even though such a code could never be broken and it would be extremely difficult for anybody to get a fix on such a short transmission. He would wait, he told himself, until he saw which way the cat was going to jump.

  Chapter 17

  It was an unexpected cat that jumped.

  It took the form of suddenly fracturing welding when the old ship was nudged out of her equatorial orbit into the trajectory that, had all gone well, would have been developed into one taking her over north and south poles while the planet rotated beneath her. With the rupturing of her pressure hull airtight doors slammed shut, and nobody was so unfortunate as to be caught in any of the directly affected compartments. But atmosphere was lost, as were many tons of fresh water from a burst tank. Repairs could be carried out in orbit, but the air and water could be replenished only on a planetary surface.

  A landing would have to be made.

  A landing—and a preliminary report to Base?

  A preliminary report to Base followed, all too probably, by the arrival on the scene of an Imperial warship with kind offers of assistance and a cargo of Waverley flags to be planted on very available site.

  So there was no report.

  Meanwhile, there was the landing place to select. Grimes wanted somewhere as far as possible from any center of population, but with a supply of fresh water ready to hand. He assumed that the seas of this world were salt and that the rivers and lakes would not be. That was the usual pattern on Earth-type planets, although bitter lakes were not unknown.

  There was a large island in one of the oceans, in the northern hemisphere, well out from the coastline of its neighboring continent. By day lakes and rivers could be seen gleaming among its mountains. By night there were no lights to be seen, even along the shore, to indicate the presence of cities, towns, or villages—and Discovery’s main telescope could have picked up the glimmer of a solitary candle. With a little bit of luck, thought Grimes, his descent through the atmosphere would go unheard and unobserved. It should be possible to replenish air and water without interference by the natives—and, even more important, without being obliged to interfere with them.

  The repairs were carried out while the ship was still in orbit; Grimes had no desire to negotiate an atmosphere in a ship the aerodynamic qualities of which had been impaired. This essential patching up meant that there was no labor to spare to work on the remaining probe—but in these circumstances a landing would have to be made without too much delay. The closed ecology of the ship had been thrown badly out of kilter by the loss of water and atmosphere, and would deteriorate dangerously if time were spent on preliminary surveys.

  The landing was timed so that touchdown would be made shortly after sunrise. This meant that there would be a full day in which to work before nightfall—and as it was summer in the northern hemisphere the hours of daylight would be long. Also, a low sun casts long shadows, showing up every slightest irregularity in the ground. A spaceship, descending vertically and with tripedal landing gear, can be set down on quite uneven surfaces; nonetheless the vision of a disastrous topple recurs in the nightmares of every survey ship captain.

  During her slow, controlled fall Discovery was bathed in bright sunlight while, until the very last few minutes, the terrain directly below her was still in darkness. To the east of the terminator, where there was full daylight, the sea was a glowing blue and, dark against the oceanic horizon, in silhouette against the bright, clear sky, lifted the mountains of the distant mainland.

  Night fled to the west and the rugged landscape beneath the ship took on form and color. Yes, there was the lake, an amoeboid splotch of liquid silver almost in the center of the periscope screen, its mirrorlike surface broken by a spattering of black islets. The northern shore was cliffy, and inland from the escarpments the forested hillside was broken by deep gullies. To the south, however, there was a wide, golden beach fronting a grassy plain, beautifully level, although there were outcrops of what seemed to be large boulders. There was an area, however, that seemed to be reasonably clear of the huge stones with their betraying shadows and, applying lateral thrust, Grimes maneuvered his ship until she was directly above it.

  “Why not land on the beach, sir?” asked Brabham.

  “Sand can be treacherous,” Grimes told him.

  “But it will be a long way to lug the hoses,” complained the first lieutenant.

  Isn’t that just too bad, thought Grimes.

  He concentrated on his piloting. He might have let the navigator handle a landing at a proper spaceport, with marker beacons and the certainty of a smooth, level surface to sit down on, but Tangye’s reaction times were far too slow to cope with emergencies that might suddenly arise in these circumstances. Tangye was sulking, of course, as was Brabham, and as the bos’n would be when he and his men had to drag the hoses all the way to the lake. There was little wind at this time of the day, and no lateral drift. Grimes found it easy to keep the ship dropping toward the spot that he had selected as his target. He could make out details in the periscope screen now, could see the long grass (it looked like grass) flattening, falling into patterns like iron filings in a magnetic field as the downward thrust of the inertial drive was exerted against blades and stems. There were tiny blue flowers, revealed as the longer growth was pushed down and away. There was something like an armored lizard that scuttled frantically across the screen as it ran to escape from the great, inexorably descending mass of the ship. Grimes hoped the creature made it to safety.

  The numerals of the radar altimeter, set to measure distance from the pads of the landing gear to the ground, were flickering down the single digits. Seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . only three meters to go. But it would still be a long way down, as far as those in the control room were concerned, if the ship should topple. Two . . . one . . . a meter to go, and a delicate balance of forces achieved, with the rate of descent measured in fractions of a millimeter a second.

  “I wish the old bastard’d get a move on,” whispered somebody. Grimes could not identify the voice. Not that it mattered; everybody was entitled to his own opinions. Until he had coped with a landing himself he had often been critical of various captains’shiphandling.

  Zero!

  He left the drive running until he felt secure, then cut it. Discovery shuddered, complained, and the great shock absorbers sighed loudly. She settled, steadied. The clinometer indicated that she had come to rest a mere half degree from the vertical. What was under her must be solid enough. Grimes relaxed in his chair, filled and lit his pipe.

  He said, “All right, Number One. Make it ‘finished with engines,’ but warn the chief that we might want to get upstairs in a hurry. After all, this is a strange and possibly hostile planet. In any case, he’ll be too busy with his pumps to be able to spare the time to take his precious innies apart.”

  “I hope,” muttered Brabham.

  “Then make sure he knows that he’s not to. Mphm. Meanwhile, I shall require a full control room watch at all times, with main and secondary armament ready for instant use. You can man the fire control console until relieved, Major Swinton.”

  “Open fire on anything suspicious, sir?” asked the Marine, cheerfully and hopefully.

  “No,” Grimes told him. “You will not open fire unless you get direct orders from myself.”

  “But, sir, we must make the natives respect us.”

  “What natives? I sincerely hope there aren’t any on this island. In any case, there are other and better ways of gaining respect than killing people. Don’t forget that we are the aliens, that we have come dropping down on this planet without so much as a by-your-leave. And Dr. Brandt—I hope—is the expert on establishing friendly relations with indigenes.”

  “I should hope so, Commander Grimes!” huffed Brandt.

  “And if you go shooting at anything and everybody, Major Swinton,”
went on Grimes, “you’ll be making the good doctor’s job all the harder.” He grinned. “But I don’t think I shall be needing the services of either of you.”

  “Then,” said Swinton sourly, “I may as well cancel my orders to Sergeant Washington to provide an escort for the hose parties. Sir.”

  “You will do nothing of the kind, Major. There may be dangerous wild animals on this planet. An uninhabited island like this is the very sort of place to find them.”

  “Then I and my men have permission to shoot animals, sir?”

  “Yes!” snapped Grimes, but he was beginning to relent. After all, the major was only doing the job for which he had been trained. He turned to Brandt. “I suppose you’d like some specimens, Doctor? Geological, botanical, and so on?”

  “I certainly would, Commander Grimes.”

  “Then you have my permission to call for volunteers from such personnel as aren’t already employed. And you, Major, can tell the sergeant to lay on escorts for them as well as for the working parties.”

  “I can’t spread the few men I have that thinly, sir.”

  “Mphm. Then you and your volunteers, Dr. Brandt, are to stay close to the hose crews at all times. You are not to stray out of sight of the ship. Oh, Number One—”

  “Sir?” acknowledged Brabham.

  “Pass the word to everybody going ashore that they are to return at once if the alarm siren is sounded.”

  “Very good, sir. All right to carry on down to get things organized?”

  “Yes. Carry on.”

  Grimes felt a twinge of envy. He would have liked to have gone ashore himself, to stretch his legs, to feel grass under his feet and sunlight on his skin, to breathe air that had not been cycled and recycled far too many times. But in these circumstances his place was here, in the control room, the nerve center of his ship.

  He got up from his chair and tried to pace up and down, like an old-time surface ship captain walking his bridge. But control rooms are not designed for taking strolls in. Swinton and the officer of the watch regarded him with poorly concealed amusement. He abandoned his attempt at perambulation, made his way through the clutter of chairs and consoles to the viewports overlooking the lake.

  The working parties, under the bos’n, were running the ends of long hoses out to the water. Brabham slouched along beside them, his hands in his pockets, moodily kicking at tufts of grass. A young steward, one of Brandt’s volunteers, was tap-tap-tapping at an outcrop of chalky rock with a hammer. A stewardess was gathering flowers. Among them, around them, in full battle armor, men walking like robots, were Swinton’s Marines.

  Already there was a small party on the beach—young Tangye, three of the junior engineers, and Vinegar Nell. And what were they doing? Grimes asked himself. He lifted the binoculars that he had brought with him to his eyes. The, men and the women were undressing. Oh, well, he thought, there was nothing wrong with that; a real sunbath after the weeks of unsatisfactory, psychologically speaking, exposure to the rays of the ship’s UV lamps. But surely Brabham should have found jobs for these people.

  The idlers were naked now, were sprawling on the fine sand. Grimes envied them. Then Vinegar Nell got up and walked slowly and gracefully into the water. She was followed by Tangye. The junior engineers got to their feet, obviously about to follow the paymaster and the navigator. Grimes growled angrily, ran to the transceiver handling ship-to-shore communication. “Commander Brabham!” he barked.

  He saw Brabham raising his wrist radio to his mouth, taking far too long about it, heard, at last, “Brabham here.”

  “Get those bloody fools out of the water. At once!” Vinegar Nell was well away from the beach now, swimming strongly. Tangye was splashing after her. The engineers were already waist-deep in the shallows.

  “Major Swinton,” ordered Grimes, “tell Sergeant Washington to get his men down to the water’s edge, and to keep their eyes skinned for any dangerous life-forms.” Swinton spoke rapidly into the microphone of his own transceiver, which was hanging about his neck. “Commander Brabham, get a move on, will you?” Grimes went on, into his own microphone.

  “Oh, all right, all right.” That irritable mutter was not meant to be heard, but it was.

  Brabham was down to the beach at last, had his hands to his mouth and was bawling out over the water. The engineers, who had not yet started to swim, turned, waded slowly and reluctantly back to the sand. But Vinegar Nell and Tangye either would not or could not hear the first lieutenant’s shouts.

  “May I, sir?” asked Swinton. There was a nasty little grin under his moustache. “May you what, Major?”

  “Order my men to drag them out.” No, Grimes was about to say, no—but he saw an ominous swirl developing a little way out from the swimmers. “Yes!” he said.

  Four Marines plunged into the lake. They were safe enough. Full battle gear has been described, variously, as armored tanks on legs, as battle cruisers on legs and, even, as submarines on legs. They streaked out toward Vinegar Nell and Tangye, boiling wakes astern of them as they actuated their suit propulsion units. Two of them converged on the paymaster, two on the navigator. There was a flurry of frail naked limbs among the ponderous metal-clad ones. Ignominiously the swimmers were dragged to the shore, carried out onto the dry land. It looked like a scene from somebody’s mythology, thought Grimes, watching through his powerful glasses—the naked man and the naked woman, in the clutches of horrendous scaly monsters.

  “Have them brought up here,” he said to the major.

  He assumed that they would be allowed to dress, but he did not give any orders to that effect, thinking that such would be unnecessary. He should have known better. Vinegar Nell, in a flaming temper, was splendid in her nudity. Tangye, with his unsightly little potbelly, was not. Tangye was thoroughly cowed. Vinegar Nell was not.

  “I demand an explanation, Captain!” she flared. “And an apology. “Was it you who ordered these”—she gestured with a slim, freckled arm toward the armored Marines—”enlisted men to attack me?”

  “To save you,” said Grimes coldly, “from the consequences of your own stupidity.” He grinned without humor. “Your job is to provide meals for the personnel of this vessel, not for whatever carnivores are lurking in the lake.”

  “Ha!” she snorted. “Ha!” She brushed past Grimes to stand at the viewport. “What carnivores?”

  The surface of the water was placid again. But there had been something there.

  “Sir!” called the officer of the watch suddenly, “I have a target on the radar. Bearing 047. Range thirty kilometers. Bearing steady, range closing.”

  “Sound the recall,” ordered Grimes. He went to the intercom. “Captain here. Mr. Flannery to the control room. At once.”

  Chapter 18

  Flannery came into the control room, trailing a cloud of whiskey fumes, as Vinegar Nell and Tangye were hastily leaving. He guffawed, “An’ what’s goin’ on, Captain? An orgy, no less!”

  “Out of my way, you drunken bum!” snarled the paymaster, pushing past him.

  Grimes ignored this. Vinegar Nell and Tangye would keep until later, as could the junior engineers who had followed their bad example. Looking out through the ports he saw that the last members of the shore parties were almost at the foot of the ramp, with Sergeant Washington and his Marines chivying them like sheepdogs. But the end of one hose had been placed in the lake; there was no reason why the pump should not be started. He told the officer of the watch to pass the order down to the engine room.

  “Ye wished for me, Captain?” the telepath was asking.

  “Yes, Mr. Flannery. Something, some kind of flying machine, is approaching.”

  “Bearing 047. Range twenty. Closing,” reported the OOW.

  “It must be an aircraft,” went on Grimes. “The mountains cut off our line of sight to the sea. Could you get inside the minds of the crew? Are their intentions hostile?”

  “I’ll do me best, Captain. But as I’ve told ye an’ told ye—
these people must be the lousiest telepathic transmitters in the entoire universe!”

  “All hands on board, sir,” reported Brabham, coming into the control room. “Shall we reel in the hoses?”

  “No. I’ve already told the engineers to start pumping. If I want to get upstairs in a hurry I shall be using the rockets, and I’ll want plenty of reaction mass. But you can retract the ramp and close the after airlock door.” Tangye—clothed, sheepish—made a reappearance. “Pilot, put the engines—inertial drive and reaction drive—on standby. Warn the chief that I may be wanting them at any second.”

  “Range fifteen. Closing.”

  Grimes raised his glasses to his eyes and looked along the 047 bearing. Yes, there it was in the sky, a black spot against a backdrop of towering, snowy cumulus. An aircraft, all right—but what sort of aircraft? Friendly or hostile? And how armed?

  “All possible weaponry trained on target, sir,” reported Swinton.

  “Thank you, Major. What do you have to report, Mr. Flannery?”

  “I’m tryin’, Captain, indeed I’m tryin’. T’is like lookin’ for truth at the bottom of a well full o’ mud. The odd thought comes bubblin’ up through the ooze—an’ then it bursts, like a bubble, when I try to get ahold of it. But—but I’m gettin’ somethin’. They’re a bit scared—an’ why shouldn’t they be? They’re a bit scared, but they’re determined. They mayn’t look much like us—but they’re men.”

  “Range ten. Closing.”

  “Ship buttoned up, apart from the hoses,” reported Brabham.

  “All engines on standby,” said Tangye. “Enough reaction mass in the tanks for limited use.”

  “How limited?” demanded Grimes testily.

  “He didn’t say, sir. But the pump is still sucking in water.”

  “They’re comin’ on,” muttered Flannery, “although they’re not likin’ the idea of it at all, at all. But—but they—they trust? Yes. They trust us, somehow, not to swat ‘em down out o’ the sky like flies.”