New Writings in SF 6 - [Anthology]

by Ed By John Carnell

  An orderly-robot laid a communication-flimsy by his plate as he joined his staff-heads for lunch. He made his hand be steady as he took it up to read. The news was bad, but not a disaster, merely an irritation. He said as much as he passed the message across to Dannard by his side.

  “As if we didn’t already have enough to worry about. Your concern mainly, Dannard.”

  “Observers!” the major grumbled, casting his quick eye over the words. “Expect and entertain, hah! HQ can certainly get a lot into a little space. Partial paralysis for a couple of days, at least, while we stop to explain everything, and then another day or two to get back into the swing.”

  “No!” Barclay sharpened his voice. “I’ve had observers before, but not with you as my second. Perhaps I’d better explain. To everyone!” He rapped with a spoon for quiet, cast a hard eye over his assembled staff-chiefs.

  “Gentlemen! We are pawns in the hands of a body known as the Appropriations Committee for Colonization and Re-Settlement. They provide the funds. We do the work. From time to time they send watchbirds to see how their funds are being spent. A party of observers is descending upon us today, this afternoon. Not just us. All Units. So far, so fair. Now let me tell you how the Committee thinks, because this influences the attitude of the watchers.” Barclay paused to arrange his words. In moments like these he was completely at ease and confident. Analysis came easily to him. Difficulties came when he had to convert reasoning into action, because it was then that he stumbled over the irrationality of other people.

  “If we fall behind what they think is a proper schedule, then we are wasting time, hence money. If we get ahead of that same schedule, then we are overdoing something, hence wasting money in some other way. If we beat their schedule, and at the same time conclusively demonstrate that we are within our budget, then we are cutting corners, or cheating in some way. In short, they are right, always. We are wrong, always. And they are out to find whatever it is we are trying to hide. That’s their attitude.” He scanned the faces, saw wry and understanding grins begin to spread, and permitted himself a thin smile of understanding.

  “You take my point, I see. Now there is only one way to deal with a situation like this. The other Units may be making special arrangements to fawn on their observers. That’s up to them. We will do nothing like that. We will carry on exactly as always. We are a crack Unit, and we know it. We have nothing to hide. If you are asked, you will answer rational questions as briefly as possible. Be civil, but be brief. If they show any signs of getting in the way, usher them out. Again, be civil, but firm. We’ve a job to do and we’re going to do it. I want them to see us doing it. In the event of any difficulty, get in touch with me, at once. That’s all, thank you.” He shifted his gaze to Surgeon-Captain Willerby and changed his tone.

  “About your interiors, Willerby. I think you should be all ready to start setting up your therapy-rooms tomorrow. ...”

  Major Dannard lingered after the others had quit the meal-table. His dog-like devotion was almost as repellent as Rikki’s, Barclay thought. “He thinks me a superman, and so I might be, with my backside in a chair, talking. But without Rikki it’s just talk.”

  “You really want us to take a tough line with the observer group, sir?”

  “It’s the only way, Dannard. I’ve had ‘em before. The more you try to humour them, the more suspicious they get. How many have we been assigned, anyway? Does it say?”

  “Three, I think.” Dannard peered at the flimsy. “Yes. Unit Three—General Powley, Citizen Wake, and D. Honey, Miss. A woman?”

  “That’s not too uncommon. There’s a certain class of female, Dannard, for whom the very thought of an isolated community of hard-working men, out on a frontier, has a dreadful fascination. Two classes, rather. One’s the sympathetic, mothering kind. I needn’t describe the other. Either is a pain in the neck. You’d better make her your special care. Let the other two make their own way. I fancy Accountancy Section will draw them like a magnet. I shall be out taking a look at the perimeter screens. I’d like to feel sure they are all in first-class order.” He spoke to Dannard, but his attention was on Caddas, still gorging himself on the last of the sweet cakes. Rikki would sometimes respond to a hint like this, would raise some meaningless objection to a suggested plan. But not this time. Barclay concealed a sigh of relief. It looked as if he could count on a quiet afternoon at least.

  The quiet time ended at four-thirty. Barclay came back from his tour of the perimeter screens feeling unusually content. Oloron boasted a fair number of predators, all of them big enough to be bothersome to a man, and it was a comfort to know that a secure fence of muscle-knotting power ringed the Settlement area and was in first-class working order. The squads responsible were assembling their equipment and would be following him within the hour. He could count on that many more useful hands on site, from tomorrow. Plus the double gain of not needing to post sentries, and the psychological effect of added security. As the ground-car slid to a stop before the executive mess-hall he felt easier in mind than he had done since the first ground had been broken. Dannard met him in the entrance, his manner unusually buoyant.

  “The observer team asked to have a private table set, sir, to one side, and would like you to join them. Is it all right?”

  “I suppose so. They’d want to talk to me naturally. Any snags?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “All right.” Barclay bent a patient eye on Lieutenant Caddas, who had snored shamelessly throughout the afternoon’s drive, and looked no more than half-awake now. “Smarten up just a bit, Rikki, please,” he said. “We’re meeting influential guests!”

  “I suggest Lieutenant Caddas ought to join us at the main table,” Dannard made his tone polite, but there was no hiding the undercurrent of disapproval in it. Barclay ignored him, waiting silently as the drooping Caddas did futile things to his hair and collar and put on a look of childish impatience. Dannard more than anyone could not understand his idol’s odd concern for this utterly useless person. In arguments with his peers he chose to maintain the belief that Caddas was some sort of poor relation whom Barclay had sworn to protect, but in his own mind he regarded the “secretary” as a leech and bloodsucker, someone who had some kind of “hold” on the colonel. In his more fanciful moments he saw himself somehow “getting rid of” Caddas, and thus earning his colonel’s gratitude. Barclay suspected something of the kind, but ignored it. He led the way into the mess-hall and to the little table over by the window.

  “General Powley...” he nodded to a small white-haired man with a keen eye, “Citizen Wake...” this a large florid man wreathed in an aura of wealth, “and Miss...” his voice failed him as he saw her, properly, for the first time.

  “Miss Dahlia Honey,” she supplied, with a nod and a bright smile. “I think we’ve met, Colonel. A long time ago.”

  Barclay kept his face straight, although it hung in front of a blank for a moment. Then he recovered enough to introduce “My secretary, Lieutenant Caddas. Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.”

  “Fine organization, Colonel.” Powley produced a surprisingly deep voice. “Most impressed. You run a taut unit, sir.”

  “Thank you, General, I try to. I imagine you could teach me a trick or two, though, if you wanted to. I’ve seen your name in the records, surely?” It was a flat lie. Barclay hadn’t so much as heard the name before that morning. But as an opening gambit it was absolutely safe. Powley swelled visibly. Barclay shifted his attention to the Citizen, who was less fulsome.

  “Remarkable accident record,” he murmured. “One expects a certain percentage of error, you know. Human fallibility, and all that. But your unit seems to be immune, or almost. How d’you account for it?”

  “Very simply.” The platitudes came to Barclay’s mouth without conscious effort. “I have a rule which I impress on all my staff. Do it right. Be sure it’s right, even if it means taking longer and double checking. Because it means you won’t have it to do
over again. And that, in the long run, is a lot faster.” It was a platitude, but it was unanswerable, and Barclay knew it. So did Citizen Wake, after a moment or two of thought. The conversation drifted, became general, and Barclay was able to soothe the turmoil that had come from being confronted with a ghost from his own past, the very solid flesh-and-blood ghost who now sat by his right hand, murmuring to Rikki. Dahlia Honey she called herself now. She had been Dally Hawk the last time he’d seen her. A newshound with a devastating knack of seeming to be transparently honest and sincere while turning her victims inside out with ease. A dangerous woman. Already, as he could hear, she had Rikki telling her all about his perpetual sufferings and tribulations.

  “Now that we’ve seen the accounts,” Wake was declaring, “my chief interest, naturally, is in the welfare of the people who are going to live here. I’d like to see the living quarters.”

  “Dwelling-units,” Barclay corrected politely. “Of course. And you, sir?”

  “I’d got my eye on the feeding centre. Nothing keeps a man’s spirit up like good food. You can face a lot of hardship with a good meal inside.”

  “Quite so. Very well, Major Dannard can see to that, as soon as you feel ready.”

  “Today?” Wake sounded surprised. “You run a long working day, then?”

  Barclay smiled, knowing well that Wake was more accustomed to a day which began at nine and ended at noon, with only token labour to fill even that short interval. “We work seven to seven,” he exclaimed. “Sun-up to sundown, in old-fashioned terms.”

  “What d’you give your men for recreation?” Powley demanded. Barclay smiled again. Here it was refreshing to be able to tell the plain truth.

  “Nothing at all, sir. Work hard, and save their play for when the job is complete. They are free to do what they wish, of course, but most of them find enough in a chat, a sit and relax, and then bed. I’ve had no complaints. I find it gives them incentive to work, and something to look forward to.”

  He saw them off with Dannard, then sat again. Dahlia Honey seemed not to notice that her companions had gone about their business.

  “... all working so hard, so relentlessly, it’s rather overpowering. And you must work as hard as anybody, as you’re so close to the colonel all the time. I’m sure you don’t get nearly enough rest.” Her voice invited confidence. Barclay curled a lip as he heard the indecision in Rikki’s reply.

  “Well ... it’s true, I don’t sleep very well. Oh, I hate this field work, really. Always in knock-up cabins, no real comforts, everything crude and unfinished. I hate it!”

  “What a shame! But surely the medical people can give you something for your insomnia?”

  “I hate doctors, too. Can’t bear them. They’re so inquisitive, all the time. Wanting to cure me!”

  “Cure you? Of what?”

  “That’s just the point.” Caddas was shrilly emphatic. “There’s nothing at all the matter with me. I’m sensitive, that’s all. I worry about things. I have nightmares, often. And I worry a lot about things that could go wrong. There are so many things that can go wrong, Miss Honey, you’d never believe. But Jack takes care of everything. I tell him, you see, and he fixes it. And there’s really nothing wrong with me at all.”

  “Jack? Oh, you mean Colonel Barclay ?”

  “Myself.” Barclay decided to intervene, and Miss Honey’s head came round in a guilty jerk. “Shall we adjourn to my quarters ? The rob-servs are waiting to clear.” He seized the moment when Miss Honey needed to powder her nose.

  “Watch it!” he warned. “Every word you say is being engraved on a highly-trained memory-pad.”

  “I like her.” Caddas was sullen. “She’s friendly and understanding.”

  “Of course. That’s her job. She used to be a newshound, and she knows her stuff. But she is also on the side of the top brass. Be careful how you reveal to her your ‘peculiarities’. That’s the way the psycho-boys work. They encourage you to talk, and before you know where you are”—he snapped his ringers and Caddas winced—”there’s the strait-jacket. And the needles.”

  “She wouldn’t!”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it, lad.” Barclay deliberately held back from over-emphasis, not wanting to prick rebellion. Rikki looked undecided. Miss Honey came hurrying back, smiling her apologies. Barclay felt the first chill touch of fear. As Dally Hawk she had been neither beautiful nor pretty, and now as Miss Dahlia Honey, age had not improved her looks, but she still had that odd quality of radiant charm that seemed to reach out and lay hands on the person she smiled at. “And before you know where you are,” he mused, “you’re in a judo lock, and helpless.” A dangerous woman.

  “You’re an oddly mismatched pair,” she declared, settling into a chair and making no secret of her curiosity. “I’m fascinated. You always were a lone-wolf type, Jack. Hard driving, ruthless, efficient, with no tolerance for any human weaknesses. And yet here you are teamed up with Rikki.” She shifted her smile to Caddas, cementing the familiarity of such short acquaintance. “He’s hardly the type for this kind of project, let alone the sort of person to work so closely with you. Especially as a secretary!” She emphasized the last word. “Isn’t that rather archaic? I mean, you have dictatype facilities, and full data-retrieval by computer. What in sanity d’you need a secretary for?”

  “Rikki pulls his weight.” Barclay was guarded but positive. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  Caddas found his tongue. “You two know each other well?”

  “Very well,” she nodded, her smile taking a slight edge. “It’s a long time ago, now, but Jack was just as single-minded then as he is now. No time for troublesome encumbrances or distractions. He was on the way up. I was no more than an incident to him.”

  “That is so completely a reversal of the truth that it’s almost funny.” Barclay kept his temper. “You were Dally Hawk, then. A name. A somebody. To you, other people’s feelings were the raw material of success-sensation stories, material to be ripped up and put together again according to your ideas of what the public wanted to read. So far as I can see, you’ve grown a little older, but nothing else has changed. About you, that is. But I don’t tear as easily as I used to. And you’re wasting your time on him....”

  A shrill bleat at his wrist cut him short. He lifted the speaker to his ear at once, pressing a switch.

  “Barclay here. What?”

  “Number Three Dining Block. Condition is red, repeat red!” He was on his feet and hurrying before the repeat was spoken, out of the door and into the ground-car, cancelling the automatics with a rough hand, seizing the manual controls, driving his foot to the floor. The car whined into speed and fled along the highway to the dining centre so swiftly that he had barely time to get the stark outlines of the situation through his radio before the reality was before him. A milling crowd folded back out of the way as he swooped the car to a halt at the entrance of Dining Block Three. A spidery framework of steel towered five stories high, supporting a robot-roofer which had been in the process of spraying foam-concrete to finish the flat roof. The delivery pipe, as thick through as a man’s body, had split under the three hundred pounds per square inch pressure. A fan of grey-white slurry spouted from the split, was still spouting.

  “Shut the damned thing off!” Barclay yelled, almost falling out of his car, then, seeing the lead-footed paralysis that had taken the gang, he put his chin down and charged for the base of the tower, gagging on the stink of the ammoniacal liquid which carried the slurry. The edge of the spray twitched at his arm as he reached, craning to one side and found the trip-master. Pumps wailed into silence. The spray dwindled, became a slipping drip. Barclay drew back, whirled to find someone to bawl out, and saw where the side-fanning-spray had built a mound in the corner nook of the entrance. Intuition told him the rest of it, but he asked, just to be sure.

  “Who’s under that lot?”

  “The two observers, sir. And Major Dannard. They were just standing there...” Barc
lay ran, the foam-crete on his sleeve already hard and cracking away. Quick-drying stuff. Speed was essential. But that was as far as his mind would take him. His feet were heavy as he realized that he had not the ghost of a notion what to do next. This was the first, in a long time, of emergencies that happened without warning, with no time to work out a plan. The blunt tip of the mound was some nine feet high, and tapered out so far at the foot that he had to fall on it to get close enough to beat with his fist. The grey-white stuff was soggy-hard already.

  “Dannard! Dannard! Can you hear me?” He knocked aside his cap and pressed his head against the stuff.

  “Colonel!” the reply was very faint, but clear. “All right, so far. Not much time. Get crowbars, lever the stuff away—from walls—before it sticks...”

  “All right!” Barclay flung himself away from the potential tomb and spun on the gaping men. “Pinch-bars!” he rapped. “Three of you. One either side, one on top. Quickly, damn you!” He stepped clear as three men came forward to do as he said. He swept the crowd. ‘Two more. Ease it away from the ground. You!” He pinned with a finger one man in a yellow helmet. “Get medical emergency. You, a truck and hoist. You, get solvent. Any air-picks available? Yes? Get three and stand by.” The men with the crowbars were straining and heaving in futile disorder. He yelled at them, got them to understand, gave a coordinating shout. They strained together. Again. Once more, and the lumpy mass shuddered and inched away from the walls.