The First Theodore R. Cogswell Megapack

by Theodore R. Cogswell

  Sheldon made no effort to conceal the exultation that was blazing inside him. “You may, but on something shrewder than that. I’ve tricked you—you and your whole damned organization. Hasn’t it occurred to you that, according to the terms of my policy, the premium doesn’t fall due until my death? And I’m immortal…immortal!”

  There was a singing wonder to the last word that made him repeat it again and again, as if he didn’t quite believe it.

  Mr. Norman didn’t say anything, but an odd little smile flickered across his face as he bowed politely and vanished.

  Sheldon felt some apprehension which he quickly dismissed. She was gone, gone forever, and he had his new bride and his new fortune to pleasure him through all eternity.

  Slowly, almost timidly, he opened the bedroom door and quietly slipped inside.

  Virginia was so beautiful that his breath caught in his throat and his heart began pounding so wildly that it seemed to him the sound must be echoing through the room like drumbeats. As he knelt beside his bride, her lovely heart-shaped face turned up to his and a little pointed tongue licked full red lips.

  “My darling!” he whispered. “Tell me it’s always going to be like this.”

  Two deep sapphire blue eyes opened and Mrs. Higgens looked out through them at her lover. Slowly, she voluptuously ran her hands over the full rich curves of her new container.

  “‘Till death doth us part,’” she crooned. “Kiss me, lover boy. Kiss me as if you meant it.”

  THE OTHER CHEEK

  All things being considered, Pilot Officer Kit Carpenter was as calm as a young and somewhat unwilling reserve officer who had never seen a planet blown up in anger could be expected to be when his ship was about to be blasted out from underneath him. His only outward sign of agitation was the way in which his eyes kept shifting back and forth as he tried to focus them simultaneously on the image of authority on his number one telescreen and the image of wrath on his number two. He was trying to consult the first about the second but he wasn’t getting very far.

  “Can’t hear you, sir,” he bellowed to the figure on the first screen.

  Commander Simmons’ voice sounded back faintly through the surrounding din. “Turn off your hooter, you knucklehead!”

  Kit gave an abashed start and punched a stud on the control board in front of him. The raucous beep BLOOP beep BLOOP of the alarm siren that had been echoing through the deserted companionways and empty compartments of the old freighter dwindled to a last despairing squawk and silence.

  “Well!” said the commander sourly. He obviously wasn’t happy about wasting his time.

  “WCD! Six o’clock at thirty seven degrees. What do I do now?”

  There was a moment of silence and then Commander Simmons snorted.

  “The first thing you can do is to familiarize yourself with your code book. For your information, WCD means ‘enemy spacecraft preparing to attack.’ When you’ve checked that, you might also take a look at your Officer’s Guide and brief yourself on the proper way to report to a superior officer!”

  “Sorry, sir,” said Kit, “but I thought…”

  “Pilot officers aren’t supposed to think,” growled the other. “They are supposed to pilot. Now if it’s not asking too much —your name, ship, and destination!”

  Kit was trying desperately to sit at attention, but in spite of his best efforts, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the other telescreen.

  “When you’re being addressed by a superior,” the commander continued, “look him square in the face. The service has no place for shifty-eyed officers. Now report!”

  “Pilot Officer Kit Carpenter, sir. Auxiliary freighter Pelican on courier detail. I’m supposed to rendezvous with a guard squadron some place around here and continue on to Saar with them. I’ve a pouch for Space Marshall Kincaide.”

  “That’s better,” said the commander. “We’re the outfit you’re looking for. Now what’s your trouble? It better be serious enough to justify that all-channel alarm you just blatted out or you’re going to find yourself on report.”

  “WCD,” said Kit. “Begging your pardon, sir, but there is an enemy spacecraft preparing to attack.”

  The commander jerked himself erect in his seat. “What!” He swung as if to bark an order and then caught himself and looked back at Kit with a dubious expression on his face.

  “Are you sure you aren’t seeing things? Let’s have a look at what’s out there.”

  After a moment’s fumbling Kit managed to swing his number two plate around on its gimbals so the commander could see it.

  “There she is, sir. She must have on her battle black because all that comes through on visual is a big blur.”

  Commander Simmons sighed and relaxed in his seat “Sorry to disappoint you, Carpenter, but it would take a star class cruiser to throw a smudge that size. And star class cruisers don’t go around jumping on auxiliary freighters. What do you get on your radar scope? Battle black won’t soak up UHF.”

  Kit squirmed unhappily. “Nothing, sir. But…” Kit stammered to an embarrassed stop.

  “Stop stuttering! What’s the matter, your scanner out of kilter?”

  “Not exactly…” The words came out in a rush. “The truth is that I just don’t know how to operate the darn thing. I missed that lecture when I was taking basic.”

  “You what?” howled the commander.

  Kit’s look of embarrassment was becoming chronic. “You see, Commander, I’m a Planetary Ferry Command service pilot and…”

  Simmons clapped his hands dramatically to his head. “Oh, no! Are they going crazy back home? What’s a peefee doing out in deep space?”

  “Couldn’t we go into that later, sir? I’m about to be blown apart.”

  “Stop that nonsense!” snapped the commander. “When a superior officer asks you a question, you will give him a direct answer.”

  Kit looked unhappily at the blur on his other screen. “This was a rush job and there weren’t any fleet pilots available so they punched out a navigation tape for me and sent me out on full automatic. They said once I made contact with you, you’d take me in the rest of the way. I came out of warp ten minutes ago and this baby jumped me. I’ve got three minutes to surrender or else.”

  “For your information.” said the commander with a strained sweetness in his voice, “ships of one system do not attack ships of another without a prior declaration of war. We are not at war. Do I make myself clear? You’ve probably got a bug in your detection gear that’s throwing a shadow on your screen.”

  “Commander,” said Kit doggedly, “maybe we aren’t at war with anybody, but somebody is sure at war with us. Or with me anyway. Fouled up detectors don’t talk. Whatever it is that’s out there does. If I don’t surrender within the next couple of minutes she’s going to open fire!”

  * * * *

  On the innermost planet of the system of Saar, the hundred and twenty-seventh consecutive meeting of the respective liberation forces of the Solar Alliance and the Polarian Empire were under way. In one tent Space Marshall Kincaide, Supreme Commander, Solar Expeditionary Forces, and His Royal Highness, Prince Tarz, Duke of the Outer Marches and War Lord of the Imperial Polarian Fleet, had passed from the table thumping stage and were now busily engaged in trying to out-shout each other. Off in one corner by himself, his usual dignity completely surrendered, sat the unhappy representative of the Saarians, his eyes closed and his hands pressed tightly against his ears. As usual, nobody was paying him the slightest attention.

  Two tents down, the sub-commission on the exchange of civilian prisoners was in full session. Since there were no civilian prisoners to be exchanged, they were passing time by showing each other pictures of wives and fiancées. Both Terrestrials and Polarians were finding the exchange rather stimulating because, though female anatomical structure was the same in both systems, ideas as to which areas of the body should be clothed as a matter of natural modesty varied greatly.

  Back of the cookh
ouse a couple of privates were shooting craps. The Earthman had already taken over the Polarian’s thurk skin and was busy working on his green battle beard. The dice weren’t loaded, but they were a little flat on one side.

  * * * *

  Squadron Commander Simmons knew that Kit couldn’t be in any real trouble, but he found himself wishing half consciously that he were. The commander was facing technological unemployment and he wasn’t happy about it. He had a vested interest in the coming war…and now the coming war wasn’t coming. Once the stellite deposits on Saar—which, as everyone agreed, the Saarians had little use for, having no expensive battle fleet to maintain—were equitably divided between Earth and Polarius, there would no longer be any necessity for a show of force, and the reserve components of the Solar Fleet would be demobilized.

  Squadron Commander Simmons’ permanent rank was Pilot Officer, Senior Grade, and he wasn’t particularly anxious to return to it. He ran his fingers regretfully over the golden comets on his shoulder straps. This was his last mission. Negotiations for an agreement whereby the Saarians would turn over part of their stellite to Earth for protection against the Polarians and the remainder to the Polarians for protection against the Solar Alliance were almost completed. Escorting Space Marshall Kincaide back to Earth would be his last flight as commander. After… His fingers were creeping up to the golden comets again when a crisp voice snapped him out of his reverie.

  “Word from the spotting room, sir. They swept the courier and there is a ship alongside her. A big on! She looks like a Polarian star class cruiser, commander. Her nose turrets show up plain as day!”

  Simmons’ fist crashed down on the general alarm button. “All hands to battle stations! Prepare to proceed under full emergency power! You!” he barked at Kit. “Make a run for it. Throw on your boosters and take evasive action! We’ll get to you as fast as we can.”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” said Kit, “but before I took off they gave me strict orders not to touch the controls. Said I’d get lost for sure if I started fooling around with them.”

  “I don’t give a damn what they said,” roared the commander. “I’m giving you a direct order to make a run for it. And above all, don’t let that pouch fall into enemy hands. If it looks as if you aren’t going to get clear, destroy it. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. But about that pouch…”

  “Carry on,” snapped Simmons. The screen went dark. Kit looked up unhappily at the sweeping second hand of the clock above the instrument panel and prepared to obey orders, to his best ability.

  * * * *

  Squadron 7 hurtled through the gray nothingness of hyperspace in a tight cone. In the lead ship Commander Simmons sat hunched before his blank combat screen, battle ready, his fingers spread over the controls that bound the whole squadron together into a flashing thunderbolt of destruction.

  A flat mechanical voice echoed from the concealed speaker behind him.

  “Request permission to snap out, sir.”

  Without turning his head, Simmons grunted, “Permission granted.” There was a sudden wrenching and then the combat screen lit up as the squadron flipped into normal space. There was the usual exasperating moment of waiting for the detector beams to bridge the distance to the objective and back and then two sharp silhouettes leaped into being. Simmons’ executive officer pointed excitedly at the larger of the two.

  “It’s a Polarian all right, sir!”

  Simmons nodded tensely.

  As the squadron closed in, the smaller silhouette began to move rapidly away from the larger one, zigzagging as it went.

  “He’s making a run for it!”

  For a moment it looked as if the courier might make it. Then with an easy twist like a shark pursuing a mud turtle, the larger silhouette overtook the smaller one.

  Suddenly the battle screen began to shimmer. Action was lost in a spreading cloud of light points. Commander Simmons punched the spotting room call button.

  “What the hell’s going on down there?”

  An apologetic voice answered. “The big ship’s jamming, sir. There’s nothing we can do until we get within range of the visuals.”

  Minutes went by and still the screen remained blank. Then suddenly it cleared and the two ships could be seen again. There was little change in their positions. Then, again, the little ship changed course suddenly and began to pull away. The cruiser made no effort to follow.

  “Two minutes to target, sir,” called a voice from the wall speaker.

  The courier drew farther and farther away. Commander Simmons was just beginning to relax when without warning from the nose of the great cruiser darted a flashing speck.

  “There’s a homing torp after him!”

  The courier seemed to realize its danger and began to take evasive action but the tiny point kept on its trail, closing in; with relentless persistency.

  A second later the two points touched. A blinding burst of actinic light flared up on the screen and then nothing was left but a glowing spreading cloud of radioactive gas.

  The enemy cruiser hung motionless for a moment and then with a flick, vanished as its great converters warped it into hyperspace.

  Commander Simmons’ comets seemed to grip his shoulder tabs as if they had a permanent place there.

  “Set course for Saar! If it’s war they want, war is what they will get!”

  He adjusted his look of command and glared sternly around at such of his staff as were on duty in the control room.

  “Gentlemen, it may take twenty years, but the Pelican will be avenged!” He frowned as he detected a certain lack of enthusiasm in the “Aye, aye, sirs” with which the more civilian-hearted members of his staff responded.

  “Service before Self,” he barked, and then, chest out, shoulders back, and chin in, he marched from the control room.

  * * * *

  On Saar negotiations were proceeding as usual. Prince Tarz and Space Marshall Kincaide were glaring at each other in sullen silence while the Saarian emissary fidgeted forgotten at the end of the table. Finally the little man spoke in a quiet voice.

  “Please, gentlemen, you know how these scenes upset me. Couldn’t we adjourn until you are in a better frame of mind?”

  Kincaide looked down at him in disgust.

  “If you’re not happy here, why don’t you go home? We’ll send word to you when it’s time for you to come back and sign the treaty.”

  Prince Tarz nodded. It was the first time he and Kincaide had agreed upon anything for days.

  “Let’s get back to work,” grunted Kincaide impatiently. He pulled a topographical map of the northern hemisphere toward him and indicated an irregular area marked in red.

  “My government contends that…”

  The Saarian interrupted for the second time. “That area contains some of our best grazing land!”

  Prince Tarz gave a wolfish grin. “It is unfortunate, but think of the protection you’ll be getting. If anyone ever tries to bother you, we’ll drive them out. I don’t see any way that occupation can be avoided—unless of course you’d prefer to detail a couple of your own battalions for defense detail.”

  “You know that we have no troops,” said the Saarian with dignity.

  Tarz winked at Kincaide. “Then draft a few.”

  The little man caught the exchange of amused looks.

  “You find it amusing that our culture is such that my people are incapable of any act of true violence, don’t you? This is not a matter for laughter, but for thought. I have warned you before that if you insist on thrusting yourselves upon us, terrible consequences must follow. On your heads be it, then.”

  “Nuts!” said Kincaide. Turning back to Tarz he stabbed his finger down on the map and protested violently.

  As voices began to rise again, the Saarian shuddered and slipped down in his chair. He didn’t think they would come to the point of actually striking each other, but even the threat of violence nauseated him.

  * * * *

/>   Kit did the best he could but his best wasn’t good enough. Trying to carry on evasive action in an old clunker whose worn plates begin to buckle at a 5G side-thrust is a rather pointless procedure. His run for it lasted exactly fifteen seconds. Then, with an effortless spurt of its great planetary drives, the cruiser flashed up to his side and gripped the Pelican securely with her magnagravs. As he was hauled closer to the great ship, he followed out the last of his orders. The sealed package addressed to Space Marshall Kincaide was tossed regretfully into the incinerator chute.

  Kit wasn’t happy about being captured but there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it so, after switching his number two screen to BOW CLOSE so he could see what was going on, he busied himself with collecting his few belonging in his flight bag.

  Lovingly he took down a framed photo from the bulkhead and gazed regretfully upon his past greatness. There, next to a small shed that bore a very large sign—AJAX CARRIERS— rested the Ajax fleet, an old flare-jetted DeWitt open-system lunar cargo rocket. Beside its open cargo hatch stood the Ajax staff, owner and chief pilot Kittridge Carpenter and his chief of maintenance and supply, Egghead Shirey, who in addition to being the mechanic, kept the books, collected the bills, and loaded and unloaded the ship.

  Kit sighed as he placed the picture gently in his bag. Egghead was doing all he could to keep the business running but he couldn’t swing it alone. It would take Kit’s presence and a fist full of money to get the Ajax Carriers back off the rocks. And now… Kit stared gloomily at the telescreen.

  The cruiser’s midship landing hatch was gaping open, but the man at the magnagrav controls seemed to be having trouble estimating relative speeds. At last after several false swings the Pelican was jockeyed in through the landing hatch and lowered roughly to the hangar floor.

  A clanging vibration ran through the deck plates of the cruiser and up into his ship as the great entrance hatch clanged shut. And then his vision screen went blank as air hissed into the hanger compartment and frosted over the scanner ports. Kit sat watching the external pressure needle climb until it reached Earth normal. When it did, he climbed down into the pressure chamber and unclogged the locks on the outside port. There did not seem any point in hanging around. The actual surrender was only a formality that he might as well get over with. When he stuck his head out the hatch and looked down, he almost changed his mind.