by William Tenn
The second officer had come up. "With your permission, Captain Scott, I believe I could handle it. I specialized in industrial naval techniques at the academy. Converters are my own potatoes."
"Take over, then. Requisition any of the crew to help as you see fit."
The second officer barged out. I leaned a bit too close to Didangul. He seized the carafe. Captain Scott tore over and ripped it out of his claws.
"We'll need all the mass we can spare, Mr. Butler. That water these lizards have been wallowing in will be going into the converter." He chuckled. "Let them drink soup."
Wisnowski made a wry face as the Martian drooped in a corner. "I feel sort of sorry for the guy. After all the grilling he's been through, the least we could do is let him wet his whistle."
"Ship emergency," the captain was declaring into the communicator panel. "Heads of departments will extend every cooperation to the second officer and see that he has all the men and materials he requires to adequately complete his task.
"All personnel whose work is no longer essential will report to the bridge immediately. The prisoners will be bound carefully and also brought up here. We are facing a spacerip, men. We don't know exactly what its effects will be or whether our hull can withstand it. Our only hope for survival is to get everyone into the bridge, which is in the exact center of the ship; this will provide a maximum of bulkhead armor."
—|—
Three hours later, Cummings called abruptly. "Captain Scott, these beetles are trying to walk away with the grampus and the hundred switches!"
Three weary electricians stood near the quartermaster. "Orders," said one of them laconically, brandishing an electronics wrench.
"Just a moment," the captain hurried over. "We've got to set the best possible course first. Uh—thirty-nine, five-eight, thirty."
"Thirty-nine, five-eight, thirty," Cummings repeated. "On arc, you danged blacksmiths!" He skipped off the control dais as the electricians began tearing the equipment out of the floor and ceiling.
The bridge was getting crowded with everybody from the mess detail, their hands still greasy, to the sleepy dog watch. Jimmie Trokee came in and got the other two tightly bound Martians up against a wall with Didangul.
Rafferty and Goldfarb were howling about the loss of their chess-board. The creaking of the ship was now a definite whine as the bulkheads seemed to vibrate in place. I prayed that the second officer would get the necessary mass into the converters before the ship shook itself apart.
"Mr. Wisnowski," the captain was yelling above the din of irritated mumbling as men shoved against each other. "Mr. Wisnowski, I hope you're keeping a record of this in the rough log."
"Sorry, sir," Wisnowski called. "The rough log just went into the converter. And that's the chart table going out now."
Captain Scott stared after the two men pushing their way out through the crowd and shook his head. "Well, give orders then that the visiscreens are to be left in place. If we live through it, this may be man's only chance to describe a spacerip at short range."
Hmmm, I thought. That was so. I jostled through cursing spacemen and got my face up against the quivering screen. Captain Scott was already there. Together, we watched the huge, uneven mass which filled half the screen grow even larger.
"If that second officer doesn't hurry—" the captain began. "I haven't thanked you, as yet, for your assistance, Mr. Butler. I'll forward a complete report to Terran Army Command if and when we land. A complete report." Then he smiled at me. I didn't like that smile.
A terrific thudding boom from somewhere. A thick, palpitating blob of orange which was the ship's gyrospeed drive appeared on the screen behind the tiny coruscating dot that signified neutronium. It arced away and past the proximity shell. Everyone stopped breathing.
Slowly, very slowly, one oddly outlined edge of the shell turned around. The entire evil contraption seemed to revolve on its axis. Then—I noticed it was growing smaller. It was pursuing the neutronium!
Feet pounded in the corridor outside as the second officer came in with the last of the engine room crew.
"Wish we had enough spacesuits to go around," the captain said restlessly. "Of course, the Navy reinforced the Sunstroke to withstand anything short of direct hit on a vital spot with atomic channels. I'd take this ship into practically anything, even—"
Sound abruptly disappeared in the room. A tremendous orange glow spilled across the screen. It was followed by an expanding cone of the ugliest, deepest, most hopelessly depressing black the mind of man ever shudderingly refused to imagine.
I found my muscles were locked in place. I seemed to have jelled into a creature of no time, no movement, and slow, impossibly tortured thought. Then my body slammed against the screen, whipped away from it.
Sound—horrible screaming sound as if the very universe was shrieking—battered my head with the insane force of a mallet in the hands of a lunatic, as every electron in the ship fought to maintain its identity. I crawled abjectly into unconsciousness with a last, frantic impression of men's bodies rolling off the wrinkled screen. The screen held that fantastically blinding spot of white light where space, ripped apart, was pathetically trying to roll back upon itself. Empty space, never meant to be opened...
"Butler's all right," Wisnowski was yelling. My head was on the hard bump of his knee. The screens were hanging in dripping shards of plastic around the bridge. Men crawled to their feet, groaning. The floor had bellied up into an immense, irregular mound.
"Everyone's okay," Wisnowski said as he helped me to my feet. "Couple of broken bones and maybe some internal injuries, but nothing to cry about. Nobody killed. But the ship—the old man's keening over it. Second officer just came back and reported that not one square inch of the hull is left. The bridge and half the center level are intact—rest of the vessel is breathing vacuum."
"The radarito?"
"Oh, we got the auxiliaries functioning. They're raising a lunar base now. The spacerip would have attracted attention in any case. We're all set. Just a matter of time now, before the rescue party gets here."
I saw to my prisoners. They were dry, unhappy, and a little bruised in their golden bonds. But they were in sound enough condition to be executed as soon as the formalities of trial were over. I was all set. I'd even won the approbation of a jet-happy naval character like Captain Scott.
Only I didn't figure just how much of his approbation I'd won. On his recommendation, Terran Army Command revoked my discharge when we reached Earth. Yeah—revoked my discharge! They said I'd proved my value in handling the Martians too much for them to let me go until the trial was over. They said Captain Scott's recommendation showed I was far too useful, a man of far too high caliber. Spacewash!
That was five years ago. Didangul and his scaly friends were convicted all right, but they still have fifty-four of their sixty-one points of appeal to be considered. They're fighting for their lives with the best legal talent available—they're not so dumb themselves. I've been trying to figure—if seven points of appeal are turned down in five years, how long before fifty-four—
I had to go and be clever, I tell myself as I cry over the discharge they gave me on Mars hanging on the barracks wall. A discharge? A dud, brother, a dud.
CONFUSION CARGO
Captain Andreas Steggo had commanded a light negship in the late war before peace and retirement had given him the master's position aboard the Sagittarian Line's Reward. He was big, slightly brutal and accustomed to absolute obedience from his crews.
On the other hand, the crew hastily signed on by the Aldebaranian office were all ex-cargo jockeys of the twenty-five-planet system thrown out of work by the sudden cessation of hostilities. They were rough, fast-thinking and terrifically independent.
Excepting myself, there were no passengers. The voyage was to be especially long—two months; the cargo was particularly nasty—ten tons of stinking viscodium.
Anyone with half an ounce of brain would have known t
here would be trouble. Unfortunately the requirements for an official of the Sagittarian Line include a university degree and galactic license; nothing about half an ounce of brain.
First we discovered the viscodium, instead of being sealed in dellite drums, was stored in a large tank with an overflow lid. That made for economy in shipping space, but also for certain discomfort in such useful functions as breathing. I'd lie awake at sleep period thinking of what would happen if the lid fell off and the green slime came churning through the loose hatches.
Then one of the loading pipes developed a leak under the strain of acceleration. The Reward was an old ship and she had been hastily serviced for this, her first trip in five years. Breen, the ship's welder, burst the pipe while repairing it and we tossed him, stiff within the congealed mass of viscodium, through an airlock. No second welder either; so when the plumbing...
After the burial service, a delegation from the crew visited Captain Steggo and accused him of negligence in not having the loading pipes inspected for residual viscodium immediately after the take-off. They demanded their protest be logged. Steggo had all five of them clapped in restrainons. He then announced that full-dress discipline would be observed until we arrived; all ship's officers were to go armed at all times. I heard angry men in cheap hwat suits muttering after that about punishment half-meals and longer watches for a smaller active crew.
Mr. Skandelli, the chief engineer, visited me and offered a sawed-off shmobber. I looked at the foot-long weapon and declined. "Never touch the stuff."
"More than this may be touched before we warp in," he said grimly. "When Aldebaranian riff-raff gets snappish, I start using the armory. And passengers are classed with officers."
"That's no compliment on the Reward."
He looked at me, holstered the shmobber and left.
An hour later, I was presented with the captain's compliments and asked to attend him on the bridge. The whole business was beginning to annoy me more than slightly, but under the peculiar circumstances of my status I didn't feel like arousing any unnecessary antagonism. I went, determined not to be enlisted on either side—if it had come to choosing sides.
Steggo overflowed a huge armchair. A faint stubble covered his chin which, considering the cheapness of a depilosac, was unnecessarily filthy.
"Mr. Skandelli tells me you have no desire to be classed with the officers. However," he waved a huge paw to forestall my objections, "that's beside the point. You are Dr. R. Sims, late of Naval Research?"
"Yes. Robert Sims, physical chemist grade 2, Aldebaranian Project CBX-19329." I tried to keep my voice from quavering. This man wanted to bollix my papers.
He smiled and studied my questionnaire. "I am interested, Dr. Sims, in why a person of your standing chooses to travel on an uncomfortable cargo ship when the fastest negships and government cruisers are at his disposal."
"I am going home to visit my family, whom I haven't seen in more than three years." I hoped my voice sounded confident. "Naval employees are not allowed aboard negships for matters of personal convenience. It would be six months before obtainable priorities would get me a cabin on a reconverted liner. Since my leave starts immediately, the Reward looked damn good."
Papers rustled as he held them up to the light. "The seal is genuine enough. Ordinarily, the matter would not have come to my attention. But remember, we are still traveling under the mercantile sections of the articles of war. After your amazing outburst to Mr. Skandelli—who approached you at my instigation, by the way—I thought you merited looking into."
"I told Mr. Skandelli what any passenger in his right mind would have. Having paid for my passage, my protection is in your hands and not in mine." I touched the door button. "May I go?"
"One moment." He turned his massive head slowly. "Mr. Ballew, bring in the prisoners."
Ballew was the astrogator. He was a thin, fair-haired fellow who had been hunched over his charts during the interview. He grimaced and left, returning in a few seconds with five men.
The first of them was the tallest man I'd ever seen, not excluding the captain. The yoke of the restrainon about his neck barely seemed able to cover his body with its lines of force. His head was free to permit breathing, and the machine had been adjusted above his knees, enabling him to shuffle along in an odd, broken-legged fashion. The other four were likewise yoked.
Steggo introduced them to me.
"Ragin, whom I have logged as the leader of an abortive mutiny. The other woebegone gentlemen have names I either can't pronounce or don't choose to remember."
I waited, wondering how I came into this situation.
Suddenly the tall man spoke. The words seemed to come with difficulty because of the restrainon pressing upon his diaphragm. "You'll remember us, Steggo, if I have to hunt you straight across the galaxy."
The captain smiled. "A shmobber squad on Earth will quiet you. And it will be shmobbers for you after my report is in."
Ragin glared and shuffled rapidly across the small room. His intention was obviously to hurl himself against the captain. Steggo lurched out of his chair and placed it in front of the moving man. Ragin hit the chair, bounced off it and was hurled against a bulkhead. I heard the thud as his head smashed into metal. The astrogator helped him to his feet.
"That, too, will go into the log," Steggo puffed. "Now, Dr. Sims, if you will please come this way."
I followed him, disagreeably conscious of the murderous thoughts swirling about in the bridge.
He walked to the ship's visor, fiddled with the dial and snapped it on. I gasped.
"That, as you see, is the hold. I was looking through at the hold where our Mr. Ragin and his little playmates were being kept. I thought I saw somebody bending over Ragin, feeding him. Mr. Skandelli was sent to investigate with the second officer and my suspicions were proven correct. The ship was then searched and six others found. Five of these are the wives of these men here; two belong to other members of the crew who are now being placed in restrainons themselves."
"Women!" I muttered. "Aboard a ship. Stowaways!"
"Ah, you are familiar with the mercantile sections of the articles of war. 'Any person of the feminine gender found aboard a ship engaged in interstellar flight without naval or military guard shall be subject to death or such other punishment as a court martial may direct.' That is the law, is it not?"
"But, Captain," I protested. "That law was directed against members of the Fino Feminist League who cooperated with the enemy during the war. It has never been used against civilians."
"Which is not to say it does not apply to civilians. I am fully aware that women have participated in our government during the entire conflict and even served with distinction during the Battle of the Dead Star. But the law is specific. It considers the costly sabotage at the time we were attacked and forbids women aboard ships on a blanket basis."
His heavy face seemed unusually thoughtful. He snapped off the visor.
"What do you want me to do?"
He pointed to the open log. "I've entered the entire incident; the fact that these men and two others, prior to the attempt at mutiny, did willfully smuggle their wives on board, in knowing violation by all parties concerned of space law." Ragin snorted heavily in the background. "I want you to sign the entry, testifying to the physical presence on ship of these women."
"But I'm not an officer. I'm not even an employee of the line!"
"That is precisely why I want your signature. It provides disinterested evidence. If you refuse, in the light of the emergency conditions now revealed as well as your semi-official naval status, I shall be forced to conclude you favor the mutinous elements. You will then be placed—"
He didn't have to finish. I signed.
Steggo followed me courteously to the door. "Thank you. Dr. Sims. Mr. Ballew, please assemble the court martial."
Ballew had turned a fiery red. "But, sir, you aren't going to court-martial them before we reach Earth!"
"I am, Mr.
Ballew. And you will sit on the court. Remember the mercantile sections: 'Any merchant ship in priority categories 1AA, 1AB or 1AC, whether proceeding with or without military or naval escort, shall be considered to be on military or naval status for the purpose of discipline at the discretion of the master.' A viscodium cargo is sufficiently delicate to place us in category 1AC. And our Dendro drive prohibits radio communication even if a ship this size carried an interstellar transmitter, which it doesn't. Please assemble the court."
As Ballew, breathing hard, hurried from the bridge, I thought of what a space lawyer we had for a captain. He'd probably been an administration officer until near the end when the bottom of the barrel was carefully scraped. Early retirement usually pointed to such a background. Mr. Discipline, himself!
"You appreciate the fact, Captain, that the priority categories as well as the mercantile sections which you quote so glibly were all wartime measures?"
"I do. Wartime measures which have not yet been repealed. Now, Dr. Sims, if you would return to your cabin?"
I left, trying to throw some passing comfort at Ragin while the door closed behind me. He was staring at my parplex jumper oddly, his brows knitted as if he were trying to decide something very important. I was wearing the naval pi with three palms.
My cabin had been searched. Officers or crew? I didn't know. It was no fun being a neutral, as many small and sorrowful planets have discovered.
The suitcase and toilet articles had been hastily rifled, clumsily put back into place. I felt the head of the bed. The invisible blusterbun still reposed on the top of the ledge. Obviously no search scanners or even colored powder had been employed.
Amateurs. A stellective would have used powder, at least.
I pocketed the tiny, completely transparent weapon and stretched out on the bed. My toilet articles caught my eye. The half-empty container of depilosac had been probed for hidden articles. White drippings of the stuff stained the red shelf. Well, they hadn't found anything there.
