Space Service

by Andre Norton

  Xyl worked at the navigation table until he found the course. He said curtly, “Okay,” out of the side of his mouth, then poured himself into the seat and began to manipulate the instruments. Ben. and the guard stood behind him. Once he turned and grinned and then he laughed in a crazy way—more to himself than to the others.

  The guard was a beefy man with bluish jowls and shortcropped black hair. His voice was a strident bass. He turned to Ben and said, “I don’t like it. I don’t like it one damn bit.”

  “Me, either,” Ben said. He scratched his cheek. He shifted his stance. Seemed to him the backs of his knees prickled. He watched and waited.

  Hard to tell what was happening. The big burning eye of the sun was still to the left, so they seemed to be on course. Xyl, controlling, merely sat most of the time and watched dials and indicators. Once in awhile he pushed a button, moved a scale. He could be taking them out into eternal nothing for all Ben knew. He dropped that suspicion only when he saw the bright oval of Earth begin to grow in the front plates.

  Ben said to the guard, “He’s on course.”

  The guard said, “Yeah.”

  And Ben knew by the tone of the guard’s voice that they were both thinking the same thing. Xyl might be going to Earth, all right, but he might just deliberately forget to decelerate. He might hang the nose on a course to Earth’s big fat bosom—and just keep going. That might appeal to his sense of humor.

  Ben said, “There’s nothing we can do about it. We’ve got to take the chance he’ll bring us in. We’ve got to stand here and wait.”

  The guard said, “Yeah.”

  Both shifted their feet again.

  They neared Earth. They could see the continents and the oceans and the night shadow line moving against the planet’s rotation. It was in the Atlantic. The telesight showed, enlarged, their own target—the state of New Mexico in the North American continent where the spaceport lay.

  “So far so good,” said Ben.

  The guard merely nodded this time.

  Once Xyl turned his face to Ben. That insane grin was still on it. He looked steadily and impudently at Ben for a moment, then said, “How come you saved my life from that combat-loony character, boy?”

  If Ben had been able to find the words to explain it he probably wouldn’t have liked the sound of them anyway. For an answer he shrugged.

  Xyl said, “I see,” and turned back to the controls.

  The image of Earth filled the front plates before Xyl readied for his orbit turn. Again he looked at the other two. His wise-cracking manner was gone now. His dead pan was still there.

  “In the cradles,” he said. He reached for the lever that would tilt his own control seat into a vertical, spring-supported affair. He pressed the warning bell for the passengers.

  Ben and the guard took two of the cradles in the crew quarters. They could watch Xyl from there. They could see him manipulate the controls like an organist at a six-part fugue. They could hear him swear—they could see the times when he was puzzled and unsure.

  Ben called across the aisle to the guard. “He doesn’t know this type of ship. He’s running on a prayer.”

  “Yeah,” the guard said. He watched Xyl flatly.

  The ship’s gravity lagged the change of direction and the cradles swung gently as it curved to the left to enter a standard orbit. They heard the faint hiss of the decelerators, still on low. Then there was a swing over to the right and the ship was on a wide involute spiral around the earth.

  From his cradle Ben could see the third planet’s surface move by. The ship, still at space-speed, curved around to center lightside. The sun glared in through the port windows.

  Ben heard the creaking and felt the terrible heat first. He recognized it immediately. He brought his head up fast. “We’ve hit atmosphere!” he yelled at Xyl. “Your coolers! Get ’em on!”

  Xyl pounced on the cooling switch. The hull plates kept creaking—the tech manual didn’t recommend switching the coolers on with more than 250 C. on the outside plates. Ben looked up and eyed the patched shell hole anxiously.

  Then the roar of the decel jets pounded in his ears. He was jolted. He felt himself swing in the cradle. He felt the straps bite into his limbs and body. He swore. A hardened space pilot could decel this fast with a cargo of freight—but not with passengers. Then he laughed a little crazily. Those passengers back there would be lucky if they landed alive and here he was worrying about their comfort.

  The roar got louder. It filled everything everywhere. It became one overwhelming mass of vibration. Ben began to get sick and dizzy. He tightened his lips. First time he’d had landing or blast-off sickness in ages. He swore again and forced himself to relax.

  Blackness came suddenly and washed over him like a breaker.

  The roar was still all about him when he awoke. He came to with most of his senses and the blurred objects in his sight came quickly into focus. He was still in the cradle. Xyl was still at the fore-plates, hunched over the control console. Earth loomed beyond him. Earth close and solid—Ben could see the shadow side of a mountain range, could even make out faintly the greener areas. The whole of it seemed to slam toward the ship.

  Too fast—he’s going too fast, Ben thought.

  The guard across the way yelled. “Hey—look out!”

  There was a crash.

  Ben didn’t go into blackness this time. He fell into a swirling kaleidoscopic unreality. It was like coming home late at night very drunk, lying on the bed, closing your eyes and feeling that the room went round and round.

  Later he discovered that he was moving although he wasn’t sure how or where and he didn’t remember getting himself out of the cradle. The full use of his senses came back to him slowly. The first thing he noticed was that he was standing on ground—good firm ground—Earth ground.

  That was a thrill you never quite lost, no matter how many planetfalls you made. He was outside then. He could smell Earth—he could smell growing things. He breathed deeply. His vision cleared and he saw the ship, plowed deep and at an angle in a mountainside. He saw some of the other passengers wandering about, some in a daze very much like his own.

  He had something in his hand. With mild surprise he looked at it. It was the thing he had taken away from Eddington during the fight.

  And there was the sound of a step beyond his elbow and he turned and saw Eddington standing there. Eddington had his palm out. There wasn’t any more wild look in his big eyes. He was grinning faintly.

  “You can give that back to me now, buddy. After this it’ll be just a souvenir.”

  Ben smiled back and handed him the thing. He said, “Where’s Xyl?”

  Eddington jerked his thumb at the ship. “He got in the blast of a decel jet when we hit. No more Xyl. But even if there was I wouldn’t use this.” He held up the object. “A spiky leaf from a Jovian cactus,” he said. “The only thing besides acid that can kill one of those guys. Well—it’ll look good in the living room some day. I’ll look at it and remember you, buddy—and Xyl.”

  “Sure,” said Ben. “Sure you will.” But he wasn’t really listening. He was looking around at the other passengers, who were beginning to form groups and come toward him. They were looking at him. They were waiting for him to tell them what to do—they depended on him to get them off the mountainside and back to some kind of civilization. They’d been depending on him all along.

  Ben Harlow smiled and drew his shoulders back and got ready to give them a little briefing speech. He knew that this one—and any after it—would finally sound right in his own ears.

  4 SPACE MARINE: Kurt Dixon

  The traditions of a special force are strong.

  They can hold a man or men to duty for years—or centuries.

  Could they keep a forgotten regiment ready

  and waiting to serve for generations?

  Kurt Dixon of the 427th Light Maintenance Battalion of the

  Imperial Space Marines might answer that.

/>   The Specter General

  BY THEODORE R. COGSWELL

  I

  “Sergeant Dixon!”

  Kurt stiffened. He knew that voice. Dropping the handles of the wooden plow, he gave a quick “rest” to the private and a polite “by your leave, sir” to the lieutenant who were yoked together in double harness. They both sank gratefully to the ground as Kurt advanced to meet the approaching officer.

  Marcus Harris, the commander of the 427th Light Maintenance Battalion of the Imperial Space Marines, was an imposing figure. The three silver eagle feathers of a full colonel rose proudly from his war bonnet and the bright red of the flaming comet insignia of the Space Marines that was painted on his chest stood out sharply against his sun-blackened, leathery skin. As Kurt snapped to attention before him and saluted, the colonel surveyed the fresh-turned earth with an experienced eye.

  “You plow a straight furrow, soldier!” His voice was hard and metallic but it seemed to Kurt that there was a concealed glimmer of approval in his flinty eyes. Dixon flushed with pleasure and drew his broad shoulders back a little farther.

  The commander’s eyes flicked down to the battle-ax that rested snugly in its leather holster at Kurt’s side. “You keep a clean side-arm, too.”

  Kurt uttered a silent prayer of thanksgiving that he had worked over his weapon before reveille that morning until there was a satin gloss to its redwood handle and the sheen of black glass to its obsidian head.

  “In fact,” said Colonel Harris, “you’d be officer material if—” His voice trailed off.

  “If what?” asked Kurt eagerly.

  “If,” said the colonel with a note of paternal fondness in his voice that sent cold chills dancing down Kurt’s spine, “you weren’t the most completely unmanageable, undisciplined, over-muscled and under-brained knucklehead I’ve ever had the misfortune to have in my command. This last little unauthorized jaunt of yours indicates to me that you have as much right to sergeant’s stripes as I have to have kittens. Report to me at ten tomorrow! I personally guarantee that when I’m through with you—if you live that long—you’ll have a bare forehead!”

  Colonel Harris spun on one heel and stalked back across the dusty plateau toward the walled garrison that stood at one end. Kurt stared after him for a moment and then turned and let his eyes slip across the wide belt of lush green jungle that surrounded the high plateau. To the north rose a great range of snow-capped mountains and his heart filled with longing as he thought of the strange and beautiful thing he had found behind them. Finally he plodded slowly back to the plow, his shoulders stooped and his head sagging. With an effort he recalled himself to the business at hand.

  “Up on your dying feet, soldier!” he barked to the reclining private. “If you please, sir!” he said to the lieutenant. His calloused hands grasped the worn plow handles.

  “Giddiup!” The two men strained against their collars and with a creak of harness the wooden plow started to move slowly across the arid plateau.

  II

  Conrad Krogson, Supreme Commander of War Base Three of Sector Seven of the Galactic Protectorate stood at quaking attention before the visiscreen of his space communicator. It was an unusual position for the commander. He was accustomed to having people quake while he talked.

  “The Lord Protector’s got another hot tip that General Carr is still alive!” said the sector commander. “He’s yelling for blood; and if it’s a choice between yours and mine, you know who will do the donating!”

  “But, sir,” quavered Krogson to the figure on the screen, “I can’t do anything more than I am doing. I’ve had double security checks running since the last time there was an alert, and they haven’t turned up a thing. And I’m so shorthanded now that if I pull another random purge, I won’t have enough techs left to work the base.”

  “That’s your problem, not mine,” said the sector commander coldly. “All that I know is that rumors have got to the Protector that an organized underground is being built up and that Carr is behind it. The Protector wants action now. If he doesn’t get it, heads are going to roll!”

  “I’ll do what I can, sir,” promised Krogson.

  “I’m sure you will,” said the sector commander viciously, “because I’m giving you exactly ten days to produce something that is big enough to take the heat off me. If you don’t, I’ll break you,. Krogson. If I’m sent to the mines, you’ll be sweating right alongside me. That’s a promise!”

  Krogson’s face blanched.

  “Any questions?” snapped the sector commander.

  “Yes,” said Krogson.

  “Well don’t bother me with them. I’ve got troubles of my own!” The screen went dark.

  Krogson slumped into his chair and sat staring dully at the blank screen. Finally he roused himself with an effort and let out a bellow that rattled the windows of his dusty office.

  “Schninkle! Get in here!”

  A gnomelike little figure scuttled in through the door and bobbed obsequiously before him.

  “Yes, commander?”

  “Switch on your thinktank,” said Krogson. “The Lord Protector has the shakes again and the heat’s on!”

  “What is it this time?” asked Schninkle.

  “General Carr,” said the commander gloomily, “the ex-Number Two.”

  “I thought he’d been liquidated.”

  “So did I,” said Krogson, “but he must have slipped out some way. The Protector thinks he’s started up an underground.”

  “He’d be a fool if he didn’t,” said the little man. “The Lord Protector isn’t as young as he once was and his grip is getting a little shaky.”

  “Maybe so, but he’s still strong enough to get us before General Carr gets him. The Sector Commander just passed the buck down to me. We produce or else!”

  “We?” said Schninkle unhappily.

  “Of course,” snapped Krogson, “we’re in this together. Now let’s get to work! If you were Carr, where would be the logical place for you to hide out?”

  “Well,” said Schninkle thoughtfully, “if I were as smart as Carr is supposed to be, I’d find myself a hideout right on Prime Base. Everything’s so fouled up there that they’d never find me.”

  “That’s out for us,” said Krogson. “We can’t go rooting around in the Lord Protector’s own backyard. What would Can’s next best bet be?”

  Schninkle thought for a moment. “He might go out to one of the deserted systems,” he said slowly. “There must be half a hundred stars in our own base area that haven’t been visited since the old empire broke up. Our ships don’t get around the way they used to and the chances are mighty slim that anybody would stumble on to him accidentally.”

  “It’s a possibility,” said the commander thoughtfully, “a bare possibility.” His right fist slapped into his left palm in a gesture of sudden resolution. “But by the Planets! At least it’s something! Alert all section heads for a staff meeting in half an hour. I want every scout out on a quick check of every system in our areal”

  “Beg pardon, commander,” said Schninkle, “but half our light ships are red-lined for essential maintenance and the other half should be. Anyway it would take months to check every possible hideout in this area even if we used the whole fleet.”

  “I know,” said Krogson, “but we’ll have to do what we can with what we have. At least I’ll be able to report to sector that we’re doing something! Tell Astrogation to set up a series of search patterns. We won’t have to check every planet. A single quick sweep through each system will do the trick. Even Carr can’t run a base without power. Where there’s power, there’s radiation, and radiation can be detected a long way off. Put all electronic techs on double shifts and have all detection gear double-checked.”

  “Can’t do that either,” said Schninkle. “There aren’t more than a dozen electronic techs left. Most of them were transferred to Prime Base last week.”

  Commander Krogson blew up. “How in the name of the Bloody B
lue Pleiades am I supposed to keep a war base going without technicians? You tell me, Schninkle, you always seem to know all the answers.”

  Schninkle coughed modestly. “Well, sir,” he said, “as long as you have a situation where technicians are sent to the uranium mines for making mistakes, it’s going to be an unpopular vocation. And, as long as the Lord Protector of the moment is afraid that Number Two, Number Three, and so on have ideas about grabbing his job—which they generally do—he’s going to keep his fleet as strong as possible and their fleets so weak they aren’t dangerous. The best way to do that is to grab techs. If most of a base’s ships are sitting around waiting repair, the commander won’t be able to do much about any ambitions he may happen to have. Add that to the obvious fact that our whole technology has been on a downward spiral for the last three hundred years and you have your answer.”

  Krogson nodded gloomy agreement. “Sometimes I feel as if we were all on a dead ship falling into a dying sun,” he said with rare candor. His voice suddenly altered. “But in the meantime we have our necks to save. Get going, Schninkle!”

  Schninkle bobbed and darted out of the office.

  III

  It was exactly ten o’clock in the morning when Sergeant Dixon of the Imperial Space Marines snapped to attention before his commanding officer.

  “Sergeant Dixon reporting as ordered, sir!” His voice cracked a bit in spite of his best efforts to control it.

  The colonel looked at him coldly. “Nice of you to drop in, Dixon,” he said. “Shall we go ahead with our little chat?”

  Kurt nodded nervously.

  “I have here,” said the colonel, shuffling a sheaf of papers, “a report of an unauthorized expedition made by you into Off Limits territory.”

  “Which one do you mean, sir?” asked Kurt without thinking.