The Space Opera Megapack: 20 Modern and Classic Science Fiction Tales

by John W. Campbell

  “Mr. Benrum,” she said to the Vergian navigator, “how much time has passed since the power failure?”

  “2.18 minutes.”

  “Ms. Welton, how much time do we have?”

  “Eight minutes of consciousness, maybe. A few more minutes before brain damage… or death.”

  Lyria felt odd, unable to react to the thought. She went on automatically, “We are cut off. If the entire ship is not dead, we have eight minutes to attract attention.” Perhaps I’m going to die, too.

  “This room is soundproof and thought-shielded,” said Welton.

  “The door?” Benrum suggested.

  “If we could bang on it,” said Welton, “the vibration might carry. In fact, if we can pound on anything—”

  Vron, the Arcadian chief accountant, said, “I can maneuver in free fall. Stay near the floor, lest we fall if gravity returns.”

  Before they could move, however, emergency lighting came on. MacGregor, the second vice-chairman, gave such a start that he floated up from his chair, arms and legs flailing grotesquely. In a fluid motion, Vron rose beside him, captured him, and reseated him, saying, “Hold on. They’ll have gravity back on at any moment.”

  The hiss of ventilators began first—then suddenly there was “up” and “down” again, and the world returned to normal. The door slid open to admit Edgar Wolfe, who demanded, “Are you all right? I’ve never seen a failure like that. Everything was out—even the computer!”

  “The whole ship?!” asked Welton.

  “No—just the board room. When I couldn’t get in, or raise you, I started investigating.”

  MacGregor was sweating now, reacting after the fact. “A good thing,” he said shakily. “You saved our lives.”

  “Lyria,” said Welton, “I’ll get on it right away. I can’t imagine what could have caused such a failure.”

  “Engineering’s working on it,” said Wolfe.

  “Then wait please, Jane,” said Lyria. “Our meeting will be brief, and then it will be…all over.”

  The meeting had only one order of business: the final report on the death of Captain William Reading. Until the Board appointed a new Captain, who would bring with him his own Secretary, it was still Lyria’s job to verify what went into the log.

  No one sat in the Captain’s chair. Ranged around the table were Vron, Chief Accountant and First Vice-Chairman; Benrum, the Vergian Chief Navigator; and the humans who made up most of the officers as their species made up most of the crew: Ian MacGregor, looking more like a grizzled spacer than Second Vice-chairman; Edgar Wolfe, young, energetic, Vice-Chairman in charge of Sales and one of the most successful salesmen the Corporation had; Ship’s Engineer Jane Welton; and Katrina Sharf, Purchasing Agent.

  Benrum presented a sheaf of printouts. “Captain Reading was a capable navigator,” he said gravely, his kewpie doll features almost unrecognizable without his usual sunny smile. Vergians were the friendliest, most likable race of intelligent beings known to humans. Their natural buoyancy and love of life made them popular on Corporation starships.

  Lyria had never seen Benrum so serious. The usual vivid blue of his skin was gray with sorrow as he said, “I have checked and rechecked the orbit Captain Reading calculated for his shuttle—it could not have resulted in that crash.”

  Welton reported, “Engineering studied everything that was left of the shuttle. The malfunction must have been in a part that was completely destroyed in the accident.”

  “You conclude that it was an accident?”

  “There was no sign of sabotage. Every molecule of substance in the shuttle is accounted for.”

  “Is everyone agreed that it was an accident, then?” asked Vron.

  Lyria wondered why he stressed that. The evidence had been studied yesterday, after computer enhancement had failed to decipher the flight recording. Today’s meeting was a mere formality. “Do you have new information to offer, Mr. Vron?” she asked.

  The Arcadian’s great yellow eyes studied her dispassionately. “No, I have nothing to add.”

  Vron spoke Standard fluently, but it was necessary to listen to him carefully, as his voice was designed for song, not speech. His race were telepaths, for whom sound was a medium for abstract art. When Vron spoke, he sometimes allowed melodic considerations to outweigh vocal inflection.

  Lyria was glad the Arcadian did not wish to lengthen the discussion. Surprisingly, neither did MacGregor. He usually had some trivial matter to bring up—mostly, Lyria thought, because he would otherwise have nothing to say. Today, though, everyone wanted the painful job done quickly. Probably they also wanted to get out of the board room until Engineering could verify its safety.

  They filed out silently. Everyone had offered condolences to Lyria earlier, at the memorial service. This final meeting was an embarrassment as far as the Captain’s Secretary was concerned. They would all be at the next ship’s board meeting. Lyria would not.

  Outside the board room, a team from Engineering had torn a panel from the wall. Jane Welton joined them, saying to a rather pretty young woman, “Hardin, what are you doing here? You’re confined to quarters.”

  “It’s an emergency,” the woman replied.

  “What did she do?” Ed Wolfe asked.

  “Hacked her way past the codes into records she’s not cleared for,” Welton told him.

  “It was only to reach the ship’s library,” Hardin protested. “What do you care what I read in my leisure time?”

  Welton gave Hardin a warning glare and continued, “During the last emergency, we had to page the whole ship for her. She’s a brilliant engineer, but a real discipline problem.”

  The young woman in question looked annoyed, but did not miss the opportunity to flash Wolfe a smile. Two of a kind, Lyria thought, although Ed Wolfe seemed to be overcoming his youthful indiscretions and settling into responsibility. Bill had had high hopes for him.

  She hurried away from the scene, avoiding a public display of her feelings. The “last emergency” Welton had mentioned was Bill’s death.

  Ian MacGregor was standing hesitantly in the corridor, looking toward the scene in front of the board room. He still looked pale. “Are you all right, Ian?” Lyria asked.

  “Oh, yes—of course,” he replied brusquely, and turned down another corridor toward the flight deck.

  Back in her quarters, Lyria set about packing, another way of postponing having to think. Finally, however, she could put it off no longer. She had to decide what to do now that Bill was dead. For the past five years, neither of them had thought of a future without the other.

  She sat quietly staring at the small pile of objects that summed up her life: her contract, voided by Bill’s death; her identification card; her bank card and credit stamp; her stock certificates. That was it, the story of a lifetime.

  No…one more thing. Slowly, she removed the stargem ring from her left hand, placing it on the pile. Now that Bill was gone, it no longer symbolized commitment; it was just another asset.

  Numbly, she spoke into the computer. “Request value estimate.”

  “1038 CR ± 98.”

  She could live for a year on that. With her abilities, she would have a new position well before a year was up. She was certain, in fact, that the Corporation would give her a job aboard another starship. A good Secretary never lacked work, and she had been a Ship’s Secretary. Some other executive officer would certainly want someone with her experience.

  The door buzzed. “Come in,” she said mechanically.

  When the door opened, and she heard no footstep before the sound of it sliding shut again, she looked toward the outer cabin and saw Vron standing there. He moved so quietly because Arcadians could not wear shoes over their clawlike feet.

  “Yes, Mr. Vron?” she asked politely. The chief accountant would not intrude on her without a purpose; he was the most private person on board.

  “Ms. Melladin.” Lyria concentrated on his melodious tone, seeking something on which
to focus her mind. He continued, “I have received a message from the Board. They have placed me in command of this ship.”

  Lyria nodded. “An obvious decision; you were second-in-command. Congratulations.”

  The Arcadian’s yellow eyes blinked. “The Corporation has never before given a non-human command. I did not expect it.”

  “Oh, you’ll manage,” she said casually, wishing he would leave so she could return to her state of numbness.

  “No, I do not think so.”

  Words and inflection matched in flat-ness. Lyria stared at the Arcadian, but there was nothing to be told from his face. Except for those which opened and shut eyes and mouth, there seemed to be no muscles in it. His head, shaped much like a human’s, was covered with the same velvet fur as the rest of him. Only the fur saved him from appearing reptilian. His large yellow eyes had pupils that opened and shut like a cat’s, closing to an unreadable slit in bright light. Not that they were readable now, even though they were open almost to circles in the subdued light of Lyria’s quarters.

  Below the eyes, Vron’s face was a flat ovoid: no nose, no lips, although the slitted mouth could form words. It could not smile or sneer, though. Lyria had heard that telepaths like the Arcadians had no need of facial expressions.

  “You…don’t think you will succeed as Captain?” she asked in surprise.

  “Not without help,” he replied. “Please, Ms. Melladin, may I consult with you?”

  Curiosity—the first feeling to penetrate the lid she had capped over her grief—made her say, “Yes, of course. Please come in. Sit down…Captain.”

  Vron took her desk chair, turned it and sat straddling it, facing her, his arms resting on the back. It was the only way an Arcadian could sit comfortably in a contour chair designed for humans. Otherwise, his wings got in the way.

  They were not bird or bat wings, but membranes like those of the flying fox, stretching from the outer edge of either hand in great folds of skin, down the arms, the sides of the body, legs, and feet. In the confines of a starship they were nonfunctional and immensely inconvenient—the reason, no doubt, that Lyria had never heard of another Arcadian working in such an environment.

  “Ms. Melladin,” said Vron, “I know you plan to leave the Venture. Have you another position waiting?”

  “No, but I’ll find one easily enough.”

  “Would you consider remaining aboard, as my Secretary?”

  “I don’t think that would work out,” she said, not knowing why she refused so automatically until Vron replied.

  “Then you do expect me to fail.”

  She looked into the unreadable face. “I had not truly considered it.”

  “But you know how the Board of Directors thinks. When I received my notice, I had to stop and consider why the Board chose me over the available human officers. You, a human, perceive it without having to reason it out.”

  “And how do you think the Board reached its decision?” she asked, curious again.

  “There are two human officers who could have been promoted over me. MacGregor was third-in-command, but he is nearing retirement. He has years of experience, yet has never risen beyond third on any ship. He has already realized his full potential. Wolfe, on the other hand, has great potential, but is too young to be given his own ship.

  “My executive ability has never been tested, but I am a reliable accountant. The Board undoubtedly expects me to maintain business until Wolfe matures enough for command. If I fail soon, MacGregor can take over temporarily. If I simply do not succeed very well, the Board will phase me out in a year or two, when Wolfe is ready.”

  “And what if you should succeed?” asked Lyria.

  “You admit that possibility?”

  “I didn’t think you understood human thought processes so well, Vron. You just might succeed. What do you think the Board would do then?”

  “They have already set a precedent with my promotion. If the Venture turns a profit, I don’t think the Board Members will care who is in command.”

  Lyria studied him. “Do you want the job?”

  “No.”

  “Then…?”

  “I do not wish to be phased out. If I refuse the promotion…you know the Board’s opinion of such an attitude.”

  “Yes. They would find a way to get rid of you.”

  “So I must succeed at command…or leave the Venture. I do not wish to leave.”

  Lyria wondered why. Life among humans deprived the Arcadian both mentally and physically. A telepath had to keep constant blocks against the mental static of non-telepaths, while a winged man—

  “Aren’t you very uncomfortable on board a starship?”

  “Uncomfortable? Ah, you mean being unable to fly. It is inconvenient, but acceptable. I exercise regularly…and I have learned not to go about knocking things over. I have no intention of leaving the Venture if I can avoid it. Ms. Melladin…why this concern?”

  “Curiosity,” she explained. “I suppose it is also curiosity that prompts me to agree to remain as Ship’s Secretary.”

  Vron’s face showed nothing, but something in his musical voice suggested relief. “Thank you. Please write yourself a generous contract. I shall depend heavily on your expertise. You should be suitably compensated.”

  “So that I won’t decide to work against you?” Such was the power of the Ship’s Secretary—and the reason that a new Captain always brought his own trusted Secretary with him.

  “Under Captain Reading,” said Vron, “the Venture has seen little infighting. Your reputation for honesty and discretion matches Bill’s. I assume that if you could not accept without reservation, you would tell me so.”

  She noticed his use of Bill’s first name. The Arcadian was always studiously formal. Was there a friendship there she had not known of?

  “You’re right,” she said. “I would refuse.”

  “Then I shall rely on you. You were most efficient when the power failed in the board room today. Your calm command of the situation prevented panic.”

  “Thank you…but I wasn’t really calm. I didn’t care that much if I died.”

  “I hope you will once more recognize the value of your life, Ms. Melladin.”

  “Value,” she said sardonically. “Yes, I can be of value to you, to the Corporation. For the time being, perhaps that will be enough.”

  “I did not mean monetary value,” said Vron.

  “I know you didn’t. I’m sorry. I haven’t been thinking straight since Bill’s death. Work should enable me to get back to normal.” She thought a moment. “Normally, I would have ordered a scan of the board room after today’s incident, before the Engineering crew were allowed in.”

  “A scan of the interior? Except for the terminal operator, no one in the room could have caused the power to be shut off…and you did not cause it, did you?”

  “No…but I want to find out what did.”

  “Order the scan, then,” said Vron, “and let me know if you find anything unusual.”

  The board room looked as it had when they left it. As the furniture was immovable, Lyria could not tell if it had been cleaned until she ducked to see the fingerprints across the table’s shiny surface. Good. She was not too late to find any evidence the room had to offer.

  Sitting at the terminal, Lyria watched the information play across the screen. Nothing on the ceiling. Oil, sweat, soap, lotions, normal and easily identified substances on the table, chairs, and lower walls. The floor yielded a few more items: a staple, a hairpin, several threads, innumerable hairs, a stylus…and a capsule.

  A capsule?

  “Identify and scan for fingerprints,” Lyria directed.

  It was an oxygen capsule…bearing Ian MacGregor’s fingerprints.

  She remembered MacGregor’s startled thrashing when the lights returned. Caught in the act of taking the capsule? Why did he have one? Had he expected the power failure?

  Lyria called up MacGregor’s medical records. There it was: emphys
ema from a compression failure fourteen years ago, not severe enough for a medical pension or to require treatment other than occasional oxygen. Presumably he would always carry capsules, and today fright must have made him feel the same choking sensation she had—especially with his memories of a compression failure.

  But the lights had definitely startled him. Guilt? Perhaps, for the capsule would give him—

  “How long could a seventy-five-kilo human male survive on such a capsule with no other source of oxygen?” she asked the computer.

  “Thirty to thirty-eight minutes,” came the toneless reply.

  So he had nervously dropped the capsule, probably hoping no one would notice that he could have had extra time had rescue been delayed.

  At that moment, Lyria Melladin wanted more than anything to believe she understood exactly what had happened. The power failure was an accident, just as Bill’s death was an accident. MacGregor’s reactions were due to bad memories.

  But she could not let it go at that. Suppose Bill had been murdered?

  Benrum had said he checked the orbit Captain Reading calculated. At the meeting, Lyria’s mind had not been working. Now it was. Was the orbit he calculated the one programmed into the shuttle’s console?

  She spoke the proper codes to release the information. Her fingers played over the console, seeking the clues to whether the program had been falsified. It had been, very skillfully. Who could do such a thing? Who had the skill? She had. Vron had. Ian MacGregor definitely did not.

  Edgar Wolfe. The only ship’s executive who had not been in the board room also had the skill to substitute another shuttle orbit for the one Bill had calculated.

  Lyria put the two orbits side by side on the screen. The false one ran so close to the correct one until the last few seconds that the man in the shuttle would have discovered his danger too late for manual override.

  Oh, Bill!

  Edgar Wolfe had the knowledge, and the motive. With Bill out of the way, he stood a good chance of promotion to Captain. But why today’s incident? To get rid of the other candidates? Again her fingers flew, seeking beneath the carefully coded programming to find out how all power to this one room had failed—including power to the computer, whose source was independent of the life-support systems.