The Astounding Science Fiction Anthology

by John W. Campbell Jr.

  “About three light-years down the way you were going,” said Goth. “We only worked it thirty seconds.”

  “Twenty-eight!” corrected Maleen, with the authority of her years. “The Leewit was getting tired.”

  “I see,” said Captain Pausert carefully. “Well, let’s go have some breakfast.”

  III.

  They ate with a silent voraciousness, dainty Maleen, the exquisite Leewit, supple Goth, all alike. The captain, long finished, watched them with amazement and—now at last—with something like awe.

  “It’s the Sheewash Drive,” explained Maleen finally, catching his expression.

  “Takes it out of you!” said Goth.

  The Leewit grunted affirmatively and stuffed on.

  “Can’t do too much of it,” said Maleen. “Or too often. It kills you sure!”

  “What,” said the captain, “is the Sheewash Drive?”

  They became reticent. People did it on Karres, said Maleen, when they had to go somewhere else fast. Everybody knew how there.

  “But of course,” she added, “we’re pretty young to do it right!”

  “We did it pretty good!” the Leewit contradicted positively. She seemed to be finished at last.

  “But how?” said the captain.

  Reticence thickened almost visibly. If you couldn’t do it, said Maleen, you couldn’t understand it either. He gave it up, for the time being. “I guess I’ll have to take you home next,” he said; and they agreed.

  Karres, it developed, was in the Iverdahl System. He couldn’t find any planet of that designation listed in his maps of the area, but that meant nothing. The maps were old and often inaccurate, and local names changed a lot.

  Barring the use of weird and deadly miracle-drives, that detour was going to cost him almost a month in time—and a good chunk of his profits in power used up. The jewels Goth had illegally teleported must, of course, be returned to their owner, he explained. He’d intended to look severely at the culprit at that point; but she’d meant well, after all! They were extremely peculiar children, but still children—they couldn’t really understand.

  He would stop off en route to Karres at an Empire planet with banking facilities to take care of that matter, the captain added. A planet far enough off so the police wouldn’t be likely to take any particular interest in the Venture.

  A dead silence greeted this schedule. It appeared that the representatives of Karres did not think much of his logic.

  “Well,” Maleen sighed at last, “we’ll see you get your money back some other way then!”

  The junior witches nodded coldly.

  “How did you three happen to get into this fix?” the captain inquired, with the intention of changing the subject.

  They’d left Karres together on a jaunt of their own, they explained. No, they hadn’t run away—he got the impression that such trips were standard procedure for juveniles in that place. They were on another planet, a civilized one but beyond the borders and law of Empire, when the town they were in was raided by a small fleet of slavers. They were taken along with most of the local youngsters.

  “It’s a wonder,” he said reflectively, “you didn’t take over the ship.”

  “Oh, brother!” exclaimed the Leewit.

  “Not that ship!” said Goth.

  “That was an Imperial Slaver!” Maleen informed him. “You behave yourself every second on those crates.”

  Just the same, the captain thought as he settled himself to rest in the control room on a couch he had set up there, it was no longer surprising that the Empire wanted no young slaves from Karres to be transported into the interior! Oddest sort of children—But he ought to be able to get his expenses paid by their relatives. Something very profitable might even be made of this deal—Have to watch the record-entries though! Nikkeldepain’s laws were explicit about the penalties invoked by anything resembling the purchase and sale of slaves.

  He’d thoughtfully left the intership communicator adjusted so he could listen in on their conversation in the captain’s cabin. However, there had been nothing for some time beyond frequent bursts of childish giggling. Then came a succession of piercing shrieks from the Leewit. It appeared she was being forcibly washed behind the ears by Maleen and obliged to brush her teeth, in preparation for bedtime.

  It had been agreed that he was not to enter the cabin, because—for reasons not given—they couldn’t keep the Sheewash Drive on in his presence; and they wanted to have it ready, in case of an emergency. Piracy was rife beyond the Imperial borders, and the Venture would keep beyond the border for a good part of the trip, to avoid the more pressing danger of police pursuit instigated by Porlumma. The captain had explained the potentialities of the nova guns the Venture boasted, or tried to. Possibly, they hadn’t understood. At any rate, they seemed unimpressed.

  The Sheewash Drive! Boy, he thought in sudden excitement, if he could just get the principles of that. Maybe he would!

  He raised his head suddenly. The Leewit’s voice had lifted clearly over the communicator:

  “…. not such a bad old dope!” the childish treble remarked.

  The captain blinked indignantly.

  “He’s not so old,” Maleen’s soft voice returned. “And he’s certainly no dope!”

  He smiled. Good kid, Maleen.

  “Yeah, yeah!” squeaked the Leewit offensively. “Maleen’s sweet onthu-ulp!”

  A vague commotion continued for a while, indicating, he hoped, that someone he could mention was being smothered under a pillow.

  He drifted off to sleep before it was settled.

  If you didn’t happen to be thinking of what they’d done, they seemed more or less like normal children. Right from the start, they displayed a flattering interest in the captain and his background; and he told them all about everything and everybody in Nikkeldepain. Finally, he even showed them his treasured pocket-sized picture of Illyla—the one with which he’d held many cozy conversations during the earlier part of his trip.

  Almost at once, though, he realized that was a mistake. They studied it intently in silence, their heads crowded close together.

  “Oh, brother!” the Leewit whispered then, with entirely the wrong kind of inflection.

  “Just what did you mean by that?” the captain inquired coldly.

  “Sweet!” murmured Goth. But it was the way she closed her eyes briefly, as though gripped by a light spasm of nausea.

  “Shut up, Goth!” Maleen said sharply. “I think she’s very swee… I mean, she looks very nice!” she told the captain.

  The captain was disgruntled. Silently, he retrieved the maligned Illyla and returned her to his breast pocket. Silently, he went off and left them standing there.

  But afterwards, in private, he took it out again and studied it worriedly. His Illyla! He shifted the picture back and forth under the light. It wasn’t really a very good picture of her, he decided. It had been bungled! From certain angles, one might even say that Illyla did look the least bit insipid.

  What was he thinking, he thought, shocked.

  He unlimbered the nova gun turrets next and got in a little firing practice. They had been sealed when he took over the Venture and weren’t supposed to be used, except in absolute emergencies. They were somewhat uncertain weapons, though very effective, and Nikkeldepain had turned to safer forms of armament many decades ago. But on the third day out from Nikkeldepain, the captain made a brief notation in his log:

  “Attacked by two pirate craft. Unsealed nova guns. Destroyed one attacker; survivor fled—”

  He was rather pleased by that crisp, hard-bitten description of desperate space-adventure, and enjoyed rereading it occasionally. It wasn’t true, though. He had put in an interesting four hours at the time pursuing and annihilating large, craggy chunks of substance of a meteorite-cloud he found the Venture plowing through. Those nova guns were fascinating stuff! You’d sight the turrets on something; and so long as it didn’t move after that, it was all r
ight. If it did move, it got it—unless you relented and deflected the turrets first. They were just the thing for arresting a pirate in midspace.

  The Venture dipped back into the Empire’s borders four days later and headed for the capital of the local province. Police ships challenged them twice on the way in; and the captain found considerable comfort in the awareness that his passengers foregathered silently in their cabin on these occasions. They didn’t tell him they were set to use the Sheewash Drive—somehow it had never been mentioned since that first day; but he knew the queer orange fire was circling over its skimpy framework of twisted wires there and ready to act.

  However, the space police waved him on, satisfied with routine identification. Apparently, the Venture had not become generally known as a criminal ship, to date.

  Maleen accompanied him to the banking institution that was to return Wansing’s property to Porlumma. Her sisters, at the captain’s definite request, remained on the ship.

  The transaction itself went off without a visible hitch. The jewels would reach their destination in Porlumma within a month. But he had to take out a staggering sum in insurance—“Piracy, thieves!” smiled the clerk. “Even summary capital punishment won’t keep the rats down.” And, of course, he had to register name, ship, home planet, and so on. But since they already had all that information in Porlumma, he gave it without hesitation.

  On the way back to the spaceport, he sent off a sealed message by radio-relay to the bereaved jeweler, informing him of the action taken, and regretting the misunderstanding.

  He felt a little better after that, though the insurance payment had been a severe blow! If he didn’t manage to work out a decent profit on Karres somehow, the losses on the miffel farm would hardly be covered now.

  Then he noticed that Maleen was getting uneasy.

  “We’d better hurry!” was all she would say, however. Her face grew pale.

  The captain understood. She was having another premonition! The hitch to this premoting business was, apparently, that when something was brewing you were informed of the bare fact but had to guess at most of the details. They grabbed an aircab and raced back to the spaceport.

  They had just been cleared there when he spotted a small group of uniformed men coming along the dock on the double. They stopped short and then scattered, as the Venture lurched drunkenly sideways into the air. Everyone else in sight was scattering, too.

  That was a very bad take-off—one of the captain’s worst! Once afloat, however, he ran the ship promptly into the nightside of the planet and turned her nose towards the border. The old pirate-chaser had plenty of speed when you gave her the reins; and throughout the entire next sleep-period, he let her use it all.

  The Sheewash Drive was not required that time.

  Next day, he had a lengthy private talk with Goth on the Golden Rule and the Law, with particular reference to individual property rights. If Councilor Onswud had been monitoring the sentiments expressed by the captain, he could not have failed to rumble surprised approval. The delinquent herself listened impassively; but the captain fancied she showed distinct signs of being rather impressed by his earnestness.

  It was two days after that—well beyond the borders again—when they were obliged to make an unscheduled stop at a mining moon. For the captain discovered he had already miscalculated the extent to which the prolonged run on overdrive after leaving the capitol was going to deplete the Venture’s reserves. They would have to juice up—

  A large, extremely handsome Sirian freighter lay beside them at the Moon station. It was half a battlecraft really, since it dealt regularly beyond the borders. They had to wait while it was being serviced; and it took a long time. The Sirians turned out to be as unpleasant as their ship was good-looking—a snooty, conceited, hairy lot who talked only their own dialect and pretended to be unfamiliar with Imperial Universum.

  The captain found himself getting irked by their bad manners—particularly when he discovered they were laughing over his argument with the service superintendent about the cost of repowering the Venture.

  “You’re out in deep space, captain!” said the superintendent. “And you haven’t juice enough left even to travel back to the Border. You can’t expect Imperial prices here!”

  “It’s not what you charged them!” The captain angrily jerked his thumb at the Sirian.

  “Regular customers!” the superintendent shrugged. “You start coming by here every three months like they do, and we can make an arrangement with you, too.”

  It was outrageous—it actually put the Venture back in the red! But there was no help for it.

  Nor did it improve the captain’s temper when he muffed the take-off once more—and then had to watch the Sirian floating into space, as sedately as a swan, a little behind him!

  An hour later, as he sat glumly before the controls, debating the chance of recouping his losses before returning to Nikkeldepain, Maleen and the Leewit hurriedly entered the room. They did something to a port screen.

  “They sure are!” the Leewit exclaimed. She seemed childishly pleased.

  “Are what?” the captain inquired absently.

  “Following us,” said Maleen. She did not sound pleased. “It’s that Sirian ship, Captain Pausert—”

  The captain stared bewilderedly at the screen. There was a ship in focus there. It was quite obviously the Sirian and, just as obviously, it was following them.

  “What do they want?” he wondered. “They’re stinkers but they’re not pirates. Even if they were, they wouldn’t spend an hour running after a crate like the Venture!”

  Maleen said nothing. The Leewit observed: “Oh, brother! Got their bow-turrets out now—better get those nova guns ready!”

  “But it’s all nonsense!” the captain said, flushing angrily. He turned suddenly towards the communicators. “What’s that Empire general beam-length?”

  “.0044,” said Maleen.

  A roaring, abusive voice flooded the control room immediately. The one word understandable to the captain was “Venture.” It was repeated frequently, sometimes as if it were a question.

  “Sirian!” said the captain. “Can you understand them?” he asked Maleen.

  She shook her head. “The Leewit can—”

  The Leewit nodded, her gray eyes glistening.

  “What are they saying?”

  “They says you’re for stopping,” the Leewit translated rapidly, but apparently retaining much of the original sentence-structure. “They says you’re for skinning alive… ha! They says you’re for stopping right now and for only hanging. They says—”

  Maleen scuttled from the control room. The Leewit banged the communicator with one small fist.

  “Beak-Wock!” she shrieked. It sounded like that, anyway. The loud voice paused a moment.

  “Beak-Wock?” it returned in an aggrieved, demanding roar.

  “Beak-Wock!” the Leewit affirmed with apparent delight. She rattled off a string of similar-sounding syllables. She paused.

  A howl of inarticulate wrath responded.

  The captain, in a whirl of outraged emotions, was yelling at the Leewit to shut up, at the Sirian to go to Great Patham’s Second Hell—the worst—and wrestling with the nova gun adjusters at the same time. He’d had about enough! He’d—

  SSS-whoosh!

  It was the Sheewash Drive.

  “And where are we now?” the captain inquired, in a voice of unnatural calm.

  “Same place, just about,” said the Leewit. “Ship’s still on the screen. Way back though—take them an hour again to catch up.” She seemed disappointed; then brightened. “You got lots of time to get the guns ready!”

  The captain didn’t answer. He was marching down the hall towards the rear of the Venture. He passed the captain’s cabin and noted the door was shut. He went on without pausing. He was mad clean through—he knew what had happened!

  After all he’d told her, Goth had teleported again.

  It was
all there, in the storage. Items of half a pound in weight seemed to be as much as she could handle. But amazing quantities of stuff had met that one requirement—bottles filled with what might be perfume or liquor or dope, expensive-looking garments and cloths in a shining variety of colors, small boxes, odds, ends and, of course, jewelry!

  He spent half an hour getting it loaded into a steel space crate. He wheeled the crate into the rear lock, sealed the inside lock and pulled the switch that activated the automatic launching device.

  The outside lock clicked shut. He stalked back to the control room. The Leewit was still in charge, fiddling with the communicators.

  “I could try a whistle over them,” she suggested, glancing up. She added: “But they’d bust somewheres, sure.”

  “Get them on again!” the captain said.

  “Yes, sir,” said the Leewit, surprised.

  The roaring voice came back faintly.

  “SHUT UP!” the captain shouted in Imperial Universum.

  The voice shut up.

  “Tell them they can pick up their stuff—it’s been dumped out in a crate!” the captain told the Leewit. “Tell them I’m proceeding on my course. Tell them if they follow me one light-minute beyond that crate, I’ll come back for them, shoot their front end off, shoot their rear end off, and ram ‘em in the middle.”

  “Yes, SIR!” the Leewit sparkled. They proceeded on their course.

  Nobody followed.

  “Now I want to speak to Goth,” the captain announced. He was still at a high boil. “Privately,” he added. “Back in the storage—”

  Goth followed him expressionlessly into the storage. He closed the door to the hall. He’d broken off a two-foot length from the tip of one of Councilor Rapport’s overpriced tinklewood fishing poles. It made a fair switch.

  But Goth looked terribly small just now! He cleared his throat. He wished for a moment he were back on Nikkeldepain.

  “I warned you,” he said.

  Goth didn’t move. Between one second and the next, however, she seemed to grow remarkably. Her brown eyes focused on the captain’s Adam’s apple; her lip lifted at one side. A slightly hungry look came into her face.