by John Kippax
And they got her.
As soon as he saw her face, he removed glasses and accent. 'Ah. Did I gather, this afternoon, that our interview was not - ah - totally concluded?'
She smiled. 'I'd almost given you up. Top of the building, where you were this afternoon.'
'Not exactly where?'
'Near enough. I'll clear your entrance, and send some private transport. Fifteen minutes, James?'
The bed was large, circular, and exquisite in all its aspects. It was a pleasure pad; Elsa Niebohr, relaxed, rolled over twice to be near her guest. She contrasted the brown of her own sunburned body with the very light tan upon him. She passed a hand over the thick blond hair; Creighton gave a gentle murmur and, without moving, opened his eyes to look at the woman who was now poised straight-armed above him.
He stroked her flanks. 'Good morning, Elsa.'
'I thought you'd be good.'
'Correction, hungry woman; you knew I'd be good, just as I knew you would be. And adventurous with it.'
She made a movement, the meaning of which was quite clear. He said: 'Let's not spoil anything. Some there are who do best in the morning; I am not one of them.'
'James, I have to kick you out.'
He rose on one elbow, bantering. 'There's a fine thing. No breakfast? No E & B? No toast, marmalade and coffee? Where are the values of yesteryear?'
She walked naked to a gilded hatch in the wall, pressed a button. The panel slid upwards and she came back with two cups of coffee. She sat carefully upon the bed. 'Here. Iron rations.'
'Ah,' Creighton said, 'this will do me a power of good.'
After a few moments of careful sipping, she said: 'Listen. The day after tomorrow we can fly to Hierro. My father's old homestead there is lovely. The swimming's fine. We can have the place to ourselves for a long weekend.'
"No servants? Do I have to wash the dishes? Heavens!'
You're a perfect goof.' She dug him in the stomach, and coffee spilled upon the blue fabric. The servants are there, all right, but very discreet. I trained them.'
'Sounds fine.'
'Settled, then? Can you stand me for a long weekend?'
' "Stand" is certainly the operative word, my beautiful. One snag.'
'What?'
Creighton at once recognized the tone - someone was threatening what she wanted.
'I'm due to join Venturer Twelve: Lieutenant (S) JG James Creighton. How does that grab you?'
She looked at him steadily; her mouth twitched to a smile, then to a chuckle, and then to loud laughter, in which Creighton joined. So, he'd be late. So, what?
Chapter 3
It was proved, long ago, that there are no such things as straight lines. Like many others, you gentlemen will have picked this up in the course of your reading and, again like many others, you dropped it without further examination. In absolute terms, geometry as we learned it at school simply is not. Take a light with a thin and very powerful beam, and send it out into space. After a few million years, the light will shine on the back of your head.
PROFESSOR HANS KONINBURGER, in a lecture at Oxford.
Junius Farragut Carter, World Admiral for the past year, was joy-riding. Bald, barrel-figured and bug-faced, he had latched himself on to one of the rides for VIPs down to the Coats' Land workings. At fifty-nine, behind the tanned- leather face, there still lurked something of the spirit of an impish schoolboy, a spirit which had sustained him throughout his Space Corps career, a spirit which allowed him to ignore, almost, the fact that he had to dose himself with pills eight times a day while a new heart, taken from the basis of his own cells, was being grown for him at the Corps Special Projects (S) Labs in New Jersey. Now, clad in a fur parka which made him look like Father Bear, he gazed down at the icy whiteness and grinned to himself; he loved having enough power to take the day off when he felt like it.
His companion was Captain T. W. Bruce, of Venturer Twelve. He was longer and much slimmer than Carter, and his junior by eighteen years. He had a hard face, grey-ginger hair, and his green eyes compelled truthful answers to pointed questions.
'Just imagine, Tom. The first journeys this way were on foot. Scares the hell out of me.'
Bruce grinned. The Admiral had stock phrases, and the one he had just used turned up regularly.
Carter turned his head to view for a moment the six other passengers in the big flycar. Then he turned front, scowling. 'Pity I didn't get me another flycar and put a bomb on this one.'
'Stop bellyaching, Junius,' Bruce said. 'Senator Detweiler back there with his cronies is a champion of democracy, a defender of the people. For a few months at least, with the stopping of Blue Mountain Project to his credit, he can do no wrong.'
'Credit, my rosy arse,' said the Admiral. 'Do you know, there's one thing which I reckon upsets me more than what Detweiler did?'
'Carry on grousing.'
'I bloody well will. It's the fact that there should exist a private organization like Excelsior which can carry out such a project. There's something indecent about it!'
'So you're insulted.'
'No, I'm just upset.'
'All right, Junius. Now feel more upset. Insult to injury has just happened, according to my information.'
'What the hell are you talking about?'
'One of those controlled leaks of information which our little President manages so well. They're going to gut your old Blue Mountain workings and loan this outfit anything that's useful.'
Carter's face, in the ensuing ten seconds, went from weathered brown to a medium purple. He found two tablets, munched them with distaste. Gradually, his normal colouration reappeared.
'Well,' he said, grudgingly, 'I suppose it is a good idea. I just don't like giving things away.'
'Things like Koninburger?' Bruce suggested.
They were now over a landscape of total white; a rookery of penguins temporarily smudged the scene, then all was white again.
Carter said: 'I admit that Koninburger and I didn't get on at Blue Mountain. I'm used to looking after men in my charge, women tod, come to that. Koninburger doesn't have his feet on the ground, as far as I'm concerned, brilliant though he is.'
'And he wouldn't admit the element of danger.'
'Computer told me that one wrong step - if this thing had to be researched the way some good men think - might cause a spatial shift of around five million tons of this planet, possible break-up, and maybe kicked out of the backyard way past Pluto. Ugh.'
'Helen Lindstrom said a similar thing.'
'Right,' Carter said, 'and then Professor Clever Arse produced his figures and showed that we were talking shit.'
"Wouldn't be the first time any of us had done that. You and me both.'
'Thanks,' grunted Carter. 'Well, there it is. Koninburger is now Excelsior's boy, without any doubt. It's all going to be done his way, Tom. Reckon I'll increase my life insurance.'
'Wait until you've got your new ticker, Junius,' Bruce advised, 'the rates'll be a lot better for you then.'
'Hope so.' Carter frowned.
'You're not worried about it? The technique's very well established.'
'I'm not worried,' Carter asserted, 'any more than I'm worried about your going up to Captain and Helen up to full Commander.' He took a sidelong glance at his companion. 'What'd she say when she got her full ring?'
'As far as I remember,' Bruce said, with some care, 'she made some remark about it now being even easier to save for her rapidly approaching old age.'
'Huhuh.' Carter chuckled.
"When does she get her own ship?'
Carter, who knew the story of the deep love affair between Bruce and Lindstrom, broken off so that there could be nothing personal between a ship captain and his second- in-command, waited before he spoke in measured tones. 'Maybe she'll get it when she's had enough of being bossed around by you.'
Bruce showed a flicker of humour. 'Since you became World Admiral, Junius, you look like being a real old bastard.'
> 'Is that so?' Carter answered. 'You might like to know that my dear wife Velma was the first to say that.'
'And what did you say?'
'I said it was because I'd always been a real old bastard.'
Bruce had an office in the shipyard, one which he shared with Lindstrom, his second-in-command. She used it less than he did. The only other officer so furnished was Lieutenant Commander (S) George Maseba, the senior medic of the ship. Bruce and his engineer. Lieutenant Commander (E) Sergei Kusnetsov, worked with the chief civilian engineer, Chalovsky, a brilliant man who knew his ships through and through, and who could keep his temper in all situations save one - and that was when somebody made a suggestion direct which should have come through his office.
Now, on this sunny June morning, Bruce stood at a window of the office watching Warrant Officer Nick Panos addressing a few words to the newly arrived GD members of the crew, ten men and eight women. Panos was a dark and jowly character in early middle age, built more for comfort than speed. Despite the proximity of the whine, howl, chop, buzz and roar of the work on the semi-gutted starship, Panos's voice, with all the cutting edge of a lumber saw, was plainly audible.
"You will be interviewed by the Captain in due course, but in matters of good order and discipline, you will largely be dealing with me. A word in your ears about that last item. As you have been chosen for crew of Vee Twelve -- and if I hear anyone talking about her as "the old tub" or "the old bus" I shall have to speak to him or her about it -- chosen, I repeat, then we do not expect any discipline troubles at all. None. Got that? In three years, we've had only three entries on the red-edged sheet. That's for the whole crew, I mean. For the next three years I want no entries at all. You're hand-picked, you can give of your best at all times. Despite what others may tell you about me, I'm always ready to help with a problem. Come and see me, and I'll try to get for you what you want - correction. I'll try to get what you need. One final word; what you do in your spare time is your own affair, subject always to the exigencies of the service. Venturer Twelve is the best ship in the Corps; the Captain says so, the second-in- command likewise, and I say so. Soon, you'll say so too.' His voice rose to a stinging snap as he dismissed the squad. Bruce nodded his approval even though Panos did not see him. Bruce remembered what Maseba had said when Panos refused for the fourth time to take commissioned rank. 'His trouble is, he likes people.'
Creighton was flying himself to the shipyard. The weekend with Elsa Niebohr had been dedicated to their physical satisfaction, and they had achieved that every time.
'Take the job with Project Elkan, James,' she urged, 'and I'll throw in me as a bonus.'
He thought of his reply to that, and grinned. As if he would ever let her get in his way! 'You don't throw yourself in as a bonus to anyone. I'm my own man, you're your own woman. We both know what we have to do with our lives, and we can't do it together.'
She shook her head slowly. 'You, taking a junior medic's pay, and wanting to serve under Bruce. Stupid.'
'My sweet, it only seems stupid. I'm sure that in the
future I shall need you greatly, and maybe you'll feel the same about me.'
'What's so special about Venturer Twelve?'
'Bruce commands it,' Creighton said.
So, they had parted. Now, with a smudge on the horizon showing the location of Lake Cities, he turned his mind to the future. He glanced back into the rear of the machine where many small crates and packages were stowed. He contacted Lake Cities Traffic Control, and they provided him with a signal which would take him right down to the shipyard's parking lot.
Although he tried to control the emotion, he could not help but feel wonder at the sight of the great shining oblate spheroid, with its monstrous telescopic legs and feet, and the twin elevators. Bruce was nothing more than the bus driver who would take him, the super specialist, to the destiny which was forever growing in his mind. Creighton saw that his rank was nominal, knew that he would be given a place of his own; he had in mind some modification of the sick bay in which he would, as of right, work alone and undisturbed.
With care Creighton floated down to a hundred feet, switched off the beam, and allowed himself to be directed to a space by the CPO in charge. Even to Creighton's non- Corps mind, it seemed odd that such a bemedalled CPO should be doing a job like this. As he touched down, the CPO limped towards him. For a moment Creighton thought that...
'You'll be Mr - ah - Dr Creighton, sir?'
'Correct.'
'You was expected four or five days ago, sir.'
'What business is that of yours?'
'No offence sir. Just an observation.' CPO Dockridge glanced into the back of the aircraft. 'You got a lot of luggage there. Shall I whistle up an a/g lift and get it up to sick bay for you? Cargo elevator's working.'
Creighton got but. 'Leave it there,' he said, and walked away.
Dockridge watched him go. 'He'll learn,' muttered the CPO.
In Brace's office, he and his senior medic were vastly amused. 'George, I give you A for nerve!' He opened a drawer, took out a bottle and glasses, and poured generous shots. 'Here, this is better than that rotgut you brew on board.' He raised his glass. 'Here's to nerve!'
'No nerve needed. I just walked into Chalovsky's office, put down the drawings and said, "This is how I think the sick bay insulation ought to be improved." I gave him a salute for nothing, and walked out.'
Bruce laughed again; Maseba had an inkling that maybe there was part of the joke he didn't understand. Bruce, his stern face relaxed, told the other: 'Chalovsky didn't say anything because he'd already decided to give you extra insulation on account of the mods he's doing.'
Maseba scowled for a moment, then he assumed his usual cheerful expression. 'What mods?'
'Giving us a speed of four hundred light with a big plus on that for short-period working. He's also doing over the complete fuse system.'
'Making it tougher?'
'No. Making it lighter. It's because—'
At the door there was a double rap, sharp but polite.
'Come in.' Warrant Officer Panos entered, and gave a magnificent salute.
'Dr Creighton is here, sir.'
Maseba could almost feel the temperature drop. He caught a steely glance from Bruce. 'At last, our valued Mr Creighton. You stay, please,' Bruce said to the medic. 'Show our visitor in, Mr Panos, and then remain outside the door.'
"Very good, sir.' Another salute, and Panos turned and went outside, coming back a couple of seconds later. 'Dr Creighton, sir.'
As the new man entered, Maseba rose and went to him, ready to shake hands. Bruce rapped: 'Just a minute.' Maseba stood back, foreseeing the pattern of the interview.
'Where have you been, Dr Creighton?'
Maseba, a natural-bom close observer of the human kind, was giving his attention to the sparking of instant animosity, Bruce for Creighton and Creighton for Bruce. He judged that they had both decided on their attitudes long before they met.
'Been?' Creighton appeared to resent the simple question.
Bruce said, quietly: 'You should have been here five days ago.'
'Oh, yes. But I hardly thought—'
'A fine summation of your general attitude to your new duties. As far as I am concerned, you have begun your commissioned service with a red entry.'
‘Red entry—'
'Absent without leave!' Bruce snapped. Maseba had never seen his chief looking grimmer. 'What about that?'
'I had to prepare for bringing an amount of my personal medical gear—'
'Did you,' Bruce asked, his green eyes boring, 'or did you not sign the Contract of Embodiment? Did you not further sign a declaration on form five seven five stroke E? Did you not receive appropriately dated travel warrants?'
The only thing he can do, Maseba thought, is to stand and take it. But there's no one to tell him—
'I fail to see—'
'Oh, you may fail to see, mister, but shortly all will be made clear to you. Y
ou were given an exact instruction that you were to present yourself to your commanding officer in number one uniform at sixteen hundred hours on the fifth. Is that so?'
'Yes, but—'
'No buts.' Bruce's voice had a stinging quality. 'Am I right, in that last statement?'
'Yes,' Creighton growled. Maseba could see that Creighton
was succumbing, in part, to the needling.
'Yes, sir!' Bruce corrected.
Two angry spots of colour appeared upon Creighton's. cheeks. 'Sir, I must remind you that I am a doctor, and as such I cannot accept that—'
'Shut up.' Bruce was quiet again; his eyes narrowed to slits. 'You are a member of the crew. You obey orders, you help to maintain high discipline. In medical matters you are subordinate to lieutenant-Commander Maseba here. I have only once heard of a case where the medical officer got slapped into the brig, but it could happen again.' He kept his eyes upon the miscreant, and Maseba judged that the younger man was feeling a lot more strain than the older. 'If you had obeyed orders you would have come in here in uniform on the fifth, and slung me a reasonable salute. Right?'
'Ah - yes, sir.'
'Can you salute?'
'I have had no instruction.'
'I thought so.' Bruce called. 'Mr Panos.' The WO entered, once more gave a perfect salute. 'This is Mr Creighton, newly joined. He is a doctor; he lacks the fundamentals of Corps discipline. First, I want you to go with him into temporary quarters, and give any necessary assistance to his putting on his number one uniform. Then, when he is correctly dressed, you will conduct him to number eighteen test hangar, which is empty. You will at all appropriate times address him as "sir". Nevertheless, he will be under your orders. You will instruct him in basic drill movements. You will need your pace stick. Above all, see that he is skilled in saluting. He will salute again and again until you are satisfied with his performance. When - and only when - you are completely satisfied, will you return him to me, when you will have him demonstrate incontestably that he is skilled in the mystery and art of formal service greeting. Clear?'
'Quite clear, sir.'
