Space Service

by Andre Norton

  “Just a second,” said Kurt. “If you have any idea of telling the boys outside to cut the transmission leads from fire control, I wouldn’t advise it. It’s a rather lengthy process and the minute a trouble light blinks on that board, up we go! Now on your way!”

  XIV

  Lieutenant Colonel Blick, acting commander of the 427th Light Maintenance Battalion of the Imperial Space Marines, stood at his office window and scowled down upon the whole civilized world, all twenty-six square kilometers of it. It had been a hard day. Three separate delegations of mothers had descended upon him demanding that he reopen the Tech Schools for the sake of their sanity. The recruits had been roaming the company streets in bands composed of equal numbers of small boys and large dogs creating havoc wherever they went. He tried to cheer himself up by thinking of his forthcoming triumph when he in the guise of the Inspector General would float magnificently down from the skies and once and for all put the seal of final authority upon the new order. The only trouble was that he was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion that maybe that new order wasn’t all that he had planned it to be. As he thought of his own six banshees screaming through quarters, his suspicion deepened almost to certainty.

  He wandered back to his desk and slumped behind it gloomily. He couldn’t backwater now, his pride was at stake. He glanced at the water clock on his desk, and then rose reluctantly and started toward the door. It was time to get into battle armor and get ready for the inspection.

  As he reached the door, there was a sudden slap of running sandals down the hall. A second later Major Kane burst into the office, his face white and terrified.

  “Colonel,” he gasped, “the I.G.’s here!”

  “Nonsense,” said Blick. “I’m the I.G. now!”

  “Oh yeah?” whimpered Kane. “Go look out the window. He’s here and he’s brought the whole Imperial fleet with him!”

  Blick dashed to the window and looked up. High above, so high that he could seem them only as silver specks, hung hundreds of ships.

  “Headquarters does exist!” he gasped.

  He stood stunned. What to do . . . what to do . . . what to do—The question swirled around in his brain until he was dizzy. He looked to Kane for advice but the other was as bewildered as he was.

  “Don’t stand there, man,” he stormed. “Do something!”

  “Yes, sir,” said Kane. “What?”

  Blick thought for a long silent moment. The answer was obvious but there was a short, fierce inner struggle before he could bring himself to accept it.

  “Get Colonel Harris up here at once. He’ll know what we should do.”

  A stubborn look came across Kane’s face. “We’re running things now,” he said angrily.

  Blick’s face hardened and he let out a roar that shook the walls. “Listen, you pup, when you get an order you follow it. Now get!”

  Forty seconds later Colonel Harris stormed into the office. “What kind of a mess have you got us into this time?” he demanded.

  “Look up there, sir,” said Blick, leading him to the window.

  Colonel Harris snapped back into command as if he’d never left it.

  “Major Kane!” he shouted.

  Kane popped into the office like a frightened rabbit.

  “Evacuate the garrison at once! I want everyone off the plateau and into the jungle immediately. Get litters for the sick and the veterans who can’t walk and take them to the hunting camps. Start the rest moving north as soon as you can.”

  “Really, sir,” protested Kane, looking to Blick for a cue.

  “You heard the colonel,” barked Blick. “On your way!” Kane bolted.

  Colonel Harris turned to Blick and said in a frosty voice: “I appreciate your help, colonel, but I feel perfectly competent to enforce my own orders.”

  “Sorry, sir,” said the other meekly. “It won’t happen again.”

  Harris smiled. “O.K., Jimmie,” he said, “let’s forget it. We’ve got work to do!”

  XV

  It seemed to Kurt as if time was standing still. His nerves were screwed up to the breaking point and although he maintained an air of outward composure for the benefit of those in the control room of the flagship, it took all his will power to keep the hand that was resting over the firing stud from quivering. One slip and they’d be on him. Actually it was only a matter of minutes between the time the scout was dispatched to the garrison below and the time it returned, but to him it seemed as if hours had passed before the familiar form of his commanding officer strode briskly into the control room.

  Colonel Harris came to a halt just inside the door and swept the room with a keen penetrating gaze.

  “What’s up, son?” he asked Kurt.

  “I’m not quite sure. All that I know is that they’re here to blast the garrison. As long as I’ve got control of this,” he indicated the firing stud, “I’m top dog, but you’d better work something out in a hurry.”

  The look of strain on Kurt’s face was enough for the colonel.

  “Who’s in command here?” he demanded.

  Krogson stepped forward and bowed stiffly. “Commander Conrad Krogson of War Base Three of the Galactic Protectorate.”

  “Colonel Marcus Harris, 427th Light Maintenance Battalion of the Imperial Space Marines,” replied the other briskly. “Now that the formalities are out of the way, let’s get to work. Is there some place where we can talk?”

  Krogson gestured toward a small cubicle that opened off the control room. The two men entered and shut the door behind them.

  A half-hour went by without agreement. “There may be an answer somewhere,” Colonel Harris said finally, “but I can’t find it. We can’t surrender to you, and we can’t afford to have you surrender to us. We haven’t the food, facilities, or anything else to keep fifty thousand men under guard. If we turn you loose, there’s nothing to keep you from coming back to blast us—except your word, that is, and since it would obviously be given under duress, I’m afraid that we couldn’t attach much weight to it. It’s a nice problem. I wish we had more time to spend on it but unless you can come up with something workable during the next few minutes, I’m going to have to give Kurt orders to blow the fleet.”

  Krogson’s mind was operating at a furious pace. One by one he snatched at possible solutions, and one by one he gave them up as he realized that they would never stand up under the scrutiny of the razor-sharp mind that sat opposite him.

  “Look,” he burst out finally, “your empire is dead and our protectorate is about to fall apart. Give us a chance to come down and join you and we’ll chuck the past. We need each other and you know it!”

  “I know we do,” said the colonel soberly, “and I rather think you are being honest with me. But we just can’t take the chance. There are too many of you for us to digest and if you should change your mind—” He threw up his hands in a helpless gesture.

  “But I wouldn’t,” protested Krogson. “You’ve told me what your life is like down there and you know what kind of a rat race I’ve been caught up in. I’d welcome the chance to get out of it. All of us would!”

  “You might to begin with,” said Harris, “but then you might start thinking what your Lord Protector would give to get his hands on several hundred trained technicians. No, commander,” he said, “we just couldn’t chance it.” He stretched his hand out to Krogson and the other after a second’s hesitation took it.

  Commander Krogson had reached the end of the road and he knew it. The odd thing about it was that now he found himself there, he didn’t particularly mind. He sat and watched his own reactions with a sense of vague bewilderment. The strong drive for self-preservation that had kept him struggling ahead for so long was petering out and there was nothing to take its place. He was immersed in a strange feeling of emptiness and though a faint something within him said that he should go out fighting, it seemed pointless and without reason.

  Suddenly the moment of quiet was broken. From the control room
came a muffled sound of angry voices and scuffling feet. With one quick stride Colonel Harris reached the door and swung it open. He was almost bowled over by a small disheveled figure who darted past him into the cubicle. Close behind came several of the ship’s officers. As the figure came to a stop before Commander Krogson, one grabbed him and started to drag him back into the control room.

  “Sorry, sir,” another one said to Krogson, “but he came busting in demanding to see you at once. He wouldn’t tell us why and when we tried to stop him, he broke away.”

  “Release him!” ordered the commander. He looked sternly at the little figure. “Well, Schninkle,” he said sternly, “what is it this time?”

  “Didn’t you get my message?” quavered the little man.

  Krogson snorted. “So it was you in that scout! I might have known it. We got it all right but Communication still hasn’t got it figured out. What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be back at base keeping knives out of my back!”

  “It’s private, sir,” said Schninkle.

  “The rest of you clear out!” ordered Krogson. A second later, with the exception of Colonel Harris, the cubicle stood empty. Schninkle looked questioningly at the oddly uniformed officer.

  “Couldn’t put him out if I wanted to,” said Krogson. “Now go ahead.”

  Schninkle closed the door carefully and then turned to the commander and said in a hushed voice, “There’s been a blowup at Prime Base. General Carr was hiding out there after all. He hit at noon yesterday. He had two-thirds of the Elite Guard secretly on his side and the Lord Protector didn’t have a chance. He tried to run but they chopped him down before he got out of atmosphere.” Krogson digested the news in silence for a moment. “So the Lord Protector is dead.” He laughed bitterly. “Well, long live the Lord Protector!” He turned slowly to Colonel Harris. “I guess this lets us both off. Now that the heat’s off me, you’re safe. Call off your boy out there and we’ll make ourselves scarce. I’ve got to get back to the new Lord Protector to pay my respects. If some of my boys get to Carr first, I’m apt to be out of a job.”

  Harris shook his head. “It isn’t as simple as that. Your new leader needs technicians as much as your old one did. I’m afraid we are still back where we started.”

  As Krogson broke into an impatient denial, Schninkle interrupted him. “You can’t go back, commander. None of us can. Carr has the whole staff down on his ‘out’ list. He’s making a clean sweep of all possible competition. We’d all be under arrest now if he knew where we were!”

  Krogson gave a slow whistle. “Doesn’t leave me much choice, does it?” he said to Colonel Harris. “If you don’t turn me loose I get blown up, if you do I get shot down.”

  Schninkle looked puzzled. “What’s up, sir?” he asked.

  Krogson gave a bitter laugh. “In case you didn’t notice on your way in, there is a young man sitting at the fire controls out there who can blow up the whole fleet at the touch of a button. Down below is an ideal base with hundreds of techs, but the colonel here won’t take us in and he’s afraid to let us go.”

  “I wouldn’t,” admitted Harris, “but the last few minutes have rather changed the picture. My empire has been dead for five hundred years and your protectorate doesn’t seem to want you around any more. It looks like we’re both out of a job. Maybe we both ought to try to find a new one. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” said Krogson. “I can’t go back and I can’t stay here, and there isn’t any place else. The fleet can’t keep going without a base.”

  A broad grin came over the face of Colonel Harris. “You know,” he said, “I’ve got a hunch that maybe we can do business after all. Come on!” He threw open the cubicle door and strode briskly into the control room, Krogson and Schninkle following close at his heels. He walked over to Kurt who was still poised stiffly at the fire-control board.

  “You can relax now, lad. Everything is under control.”

  Kurt gave a sigh of relief and pulling himself to his feet, stretched luxuriantly. As the other officers saw the firing stud deserted, they tensed and looked to Commander Krogson questioningly. He frowned for a second and then slowly shook his head.

  “Well?” he said to Colonel Harris.

  “It’s obvious,” said the other, “you’ve a fleet, a darn good fleet, but it’s falling apart for lack of decent maintenance. I’ve got a base down there with five thousand lads who can think with their fingers. This knucklehead of mine is a good example.” He walked over to Kurt and slapped him affectionately on the shoulder. “There’s nothing on this ship that he couldn’t tear down and put back together blindfolded if he was given a little time to think about it. I think he’ll enjoy having some real work to do for a change.”

  “I may seem dense,” said Krogson with a bewildered expression on his face, “but wasn’t that the idea that I was trying to sell you?”

  “The idea is the same,” said Harris, “but the context isn’t. You’re in a position now where you have to co-operate. That makes a difference. A big difference!”

  “It sounds good,” said Krogson, “but now you’re overlooking something. Carr will be looking for me. We can’t stand off the whole galaxy!”

  Schninkle interrupted. “You’re overlooking something too, sir. He hasn’t the slightest idea where we are. It will be months before he has things well enough under control to start an organized search for us. When he does, his chances of ever spotting the fleet are mighty slim if we take reasonable precautions. Remember that it was only by a fluke that we ever happened to spot this place to begin with.”

  As he talked a calculating look came into his eyes. “A year of training and refitting here and there wouldn’t be a fleet in the galaxy that could stand against us.” He casually edged over until he occupied a position between Kurt and the fire-control board. “If things went right, there’s no reason why you couldn’t become Lord Protector, commander.”

  A flash of the old fire stirred within Krogson and then quickly flickered out. “No, Schninkle,” he said heavily. “That’s all past now. I’ve had enough. It’s time to try something new.”

  “In that case,” said Colonel Harris, “let’s begin! Out there a whole galaxy is breaking up. Soon the time will come when a strong hand is going to be needed to piece it back together and put it in running order again. You know,” he continued reflectively, “the name of the old empire still has a certain magic to it. It might not be a bad idea to use it until we are ready to move on to something better.”

  He walked silently to the vision port and looked down on the lush greenness spreading far below. “But whatever we call ourselves,” he continued slowly, half talking to himself, “we have something to work for now.” A quizzical smile played over his lips and his wise old eyes seemed to be scanning the years ahead. “You know, Kurt, there’s nothing like a visit from the Inspector General once in a while to keep things in line. The galaxy is a big place but when the time comes, we’ll make our rounds!”

  XVI

  On the parade ground behind the low buildings of the garrison, the 427th Light Maintenance Battalion of the Imperial Space Marines stood in rigid formation, the feathers of their war bonnets moving slightly in the little breeze that blew in from the west and their war paint glowing redly in the slanting rays of the setting sun.

  A quiver ran through the hard surface soil of the plateau as the great mass of the fleet flagship settled down ponderously to rest. There was a moment of expectant silence as a great port clanged open and a gangplank extended to the ground. From somewhere within the ship a fanfare of trumpets sounded. Slowly and with solemn dignity, surrounded by his staff, Conrad Krogson, Inspector General of the Imperial Space Marines, advanced to review the troops.

  5 GALACTIC TRADER: Tom Ramsay

  The life blood of any civilization is trade.

  But what happens in a galaxy-wide civilization when one

  must deal not only with fellow-humans

/>   but with non-human races as well? There can

  be some odd results from commerce

  between two radically different cultures.

  As Tom Ramsay knew when he was pressured into supervising

  the exchange with Delthig IV.

  Implode and Peddle

  BY H.B. FYFE

  When his secretary announced the interstellar telecall, Tom Ramsay was on the balcony outside his office, watching one of his spaceships land. He smiled proudly as it flared down against the hazy background of Delthig IV’s remaining sea.

  Used to think I was big stuff with one interstellar ship, he thought. Now I have three, plus ten locals. Guess I ought to End a buyer for the locals, though, before the Delthigans on III crank up to expand that Planetary State of theirs.

  He glanced with continued satisfaction at his secretary. Tall, willowy, with hair nearly as black as his own short brush but features far easier to look at, Marie Furman was another symbol of his progress in this Terran colony. Then she spoke, and a cold little knot formed in the pit of Ramsay’s stomach.

  “Telecall from Bormek V, Mr. Ramsay. A gentleman named J. Gilbert Fuller, of Sol III.”

  Ramsay hastily checked over in his mind all his recent operations. This, somehow, had become habitual whenever he recalled his one entanglement with the Bureau of Special Trading, during a stop on Terra two years earlier.

  He noticed the girl eyeing the thin scar that ran back from his left temple, and realized that it had become more prominent with the paling of his features.

  “Put it on my desk visor, Marie,” he muttered.

  Whatever he wants, he promised himself, I won’t even splash it with a rocket blast. That guy is always one orbit closer to the heat than anybody else!

  A moment later, the subspace waves were relayed to his desk and he saw Fuller face to face. An almost imperceptible lag after each speech was the only indication of the empty light-years between their physical locations.