"Any situation?"
"Mr. Morton, in deep space, or on alien planets, there is no room for formality," Carter said harshly. "Men die out there; suddenly and horribly, they die. Therefore, although the Space Corps must maintain a formal chain of command, it must at the same time make sure that each man or woman of each crew is capable of operating as an efficient individual survival unit"
Morton said: "There seems to me to be some element of paradox involved here. The concept of each member as an individual, decision-making unit appears to be in direct opposition to the idea of 'chain of command.' "
"You, Mr. Morton, are not Space Corps," Carter said, curtly putting the lawyer in his place.
Morton bowed his head briefly with undeceptive humility. "I must ask you to bear with the ignorance of a mere layman and answer my question about this seeming paradox and how it is overcome."
Helen Lindstrom, watching the proceedings on the monitor screen, stirred uneasily. "What's he getting at?" she asked.
Tom Bruce relaxed, lighting another cigar, and said: "Don't worry, old Junius can take care of himself."
Carter eyed his questioner warily. "As in all things, Mr. Morton, there are times when it is necessary to compromise."
"Compromise." Morton leapt on the word like a terrier grabbing at a long-awaited rat. "I see, Admiral. Then tins system is not, in fact, infallible?"
"I don't follow you."
"Well then, let me put it this way," Morton said. "There must be occasions when, despite training and experience, an individual member of the Corps makes a wrong, even disastrous decision."
The Admiral remained silent, a suspicious gleam in his eye, as he regarded the lawyer. Those who knew Carter recognized the signs of an impending explosion.
Judge Alote Jones intervened. "Please do not waste the court's time on generalities."
"My apologies, Your Honour," Morton said, unruffled. "But if the court will bear with me for a few more minutes, my point will be clear."
The Judge nodded.
Morton turned back to Carter. "Assuming that we are agreed on the point that the Space Corps is made up of human beings, is it not possible that at some time or other, one of these human beings might make a mistaken decision, a wrong judgment?"
"There may be such occasions," Carter said.
"Oh, come now, Admiral, may be," pursued Morton. "Surely there must have been at least one such incident during your long career as an officer of Space Corps?"
"Any moment now, Junius is going to blow his top," said Tom Bruce with some relish.
Helen Lindstrom dug her nails into the upholstery of her chair.
Admiral Carter, glaring, cleared his throat loudly. But before he had time to say anything, Morton was in on him again, thrusting home the dart.
"I suggest to you, Admiral, that, in the face of outside investigation, the Corps would maintain its solidarity to the extent of suppressing, even falsifying, any evidence that might be considered damaging to the Corps."
Any answer that Carter might have made was lost, completely drowned in the general uproar that followed the Excelsior lawyer's speech.
"Clever bastard!" growled Tom Bruce as Helen turned down the roaring volume of sound that poured out of the screen. "Alote Jones can rule him out of order, strike what he has said from the record, but as far as the world is concerned he's made his point. By implication, at least, he's discredited any evidence offered by the Space Corps in this inquiry."
"You must be wrong," Helen said. "You've got to be. After all, we've two of our own people on the judiciary, Suvorov and Mariano."
"Two out of seven," Bruce said.
"Alote Jones ..."
"Is an ambitious man, bucking for Chief Supreme Court Justice, a post that holds Vice-Presidential status," Bruce said coldly. "He might play the big, bold champion of impartial justice, but in the long run he'll have to bow to popular opinion."
"You're a cynical sod, Tom Bruce," she said.
"No," he said, with a sudden grin. "Just a realist. They're going to nail somebody's hide to the wall— make no mistake about that—and I'm the prime candidate."
"No, Tom, no!" she revolted against his apparent acceptance of defeat. "We were out there in that scout ship together; the responsibility is as much mine as yours."
He leaned forward, grabbing her by the shoulders and digging his strong fingers in until they hurt. "That's not the way we play it in the Corps, Commander," he said. "If you make the slightest attempt to assume any responsibility when you're on the witness stand, I shall scotch you publicly. You were Second in Command of that scout; / was the one who made the decisions, and I want no bloody sacrifices from you. Understood?"
His angry, green eyes looked hard into hers for a long moment, then he released his grip. Thrusting her away from him, he strode out of the room.
She watched him go. How could you ever love a man like that? How could you ever get close enough?
In space depots, training centres and schools, in installations near enough to get pictures, men and women on and off duty asked: "How much more is he going to dig up?" "What was it Bruce did?" "The Kilroy story? That's a fable." "Something in it. Look, Bruce got Star of Honour at Sandpoint, and see how slow his promotion is."
Carter said to Pringle's picture, "So what's in that's new? You been watching the inquiry, girl?"
On the screen, she looked as fresh as she had first thing in the morning. "Me? I have no time for looking at video, sir."
"Like hell," said Carter, pleasantly. "How did we do?"
"I was very impressed by your personality," she answered.
"Leave that," Carter ordered, "and fill me in."
"Verdict on Baker confirmed," she said, becoming more serious. "Death by misadventure. Direction that the whole question of a/g lift maintenance should be gone into."
"Expected," Carter growled. "Next?" ^ ^
"Space College point out that they are entitled to send two fourth-year cadets on first trip of V.12, and propose to submit names for interview."
"We must bear it. Next?"
"Surgeon-Lieutenant Maseba is still not satisfied with the noise insulation in his sick bays. He has put in a four oh two stroke M."
"Has he? He means it, then. Has Chalovsky said anything?"
"Nothing I'd like to repeat, even to you. But Maseba said that he was entitled to make the complaint formal, so he did. He told me that there was nothing personal in it."
"Huh," Carter grunted. "All right, medicos are in a class of their own. We can't argue. Oh, was Lieutenant de Witt—what's her name—OK'd for second doc?"
"Yes, and her husband for astrogator. Special permission came through. They both realize that it will probably be only one trip they'll have together."
"Memo—to OC Space College—meet me re organization astrogation training and recruitment; possible circulation of mathematics men in universities. I'll be told that it's not my business directly, but have a go. Next?"
"Panos' documents have arrived."
"Right. Next?"
"I'm all on my own tonight My Ivan's on duty."
Said the admiral: "I think I'll get me a fifth of whisky, and retire to bed with it and the "March of Space' omnibus edition on the vid."
"I ought to come over and console you," she suggested.
Damn, Carter thought, there's many a true word. He said, "You're too young. Now, if your mama was anywhere as good looking as her daughter—" He barked. "Pringle, stop wasting official time. Ring you tomorrow."
"Good luck," she said, "and watch the adjectives."
Her pert face faded from the screen. "There she goes again," Carter growled to himself. "Where the hell does she get that odd idea about the sort of man I am?"
Then he decided to phone a woman who did know what sort of a man he was. He would ring Velma, and she would talk of domestic nothings and of the children and the grandchildren. A good dose of that would stop the old hulk from drifting off into forbidden ports.
> *16*
We are concerned that too many earthmen seek for substitutes and reject reality, accept palliatives when they should demand cures, cling to lies instead of loving the truth. Against this great wrong, our faith earnestly desires to work with others of like mind.
(The Dalai Lama, guest of honour at the World Council of Buddhists, Rangoon. June 2161)
Helen Lindstrom stood at the "down" elevator of the seventh-level roll-road. The night was warm and humid, and sulkily grumbling thunderstorms were building up over the entire lakes area. North of her, she could see where the far lights over Michigan Water weaved, changed and flickered, blotted out irregularly by the steel and concrete towers of the great conurbation. Traffic hummed and throbbed above and below her. People passed on the roll-road, laughing and talking; somewhere nearby a drunk was singing tunelessly. A police hovervan droned over, its red and green lights flashing steadily.
She had thought, when the day's session was over, that she would stay in the hotel, eat, read and maybe see a show, then go to bed. But those final minutes alone in the monitor room with Tom Bruce had shattered her already crumbling illusion of composure. Now she knew that what she had really been waiting for was
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some gesture, some indication from him, so that she could, without a complete sacrifice of all self-respect, go to him. Any other plans had been a sop to her pride which would have been readily abandoned. But his gesture had not been the one she had hoped for. His cold anger had only served to confirm his rejection of her, and she was once more alone.
She opened her shoulder bag, took out a slim cigar and lit it. She was coming to need tobacco. What would be next, she wondered, alcohol, drugs? And with the thought, the gaunt face with its clownishly inept makeup loomed again in her mind. Sarah Baker, in the manner of her dying, had come to live forever with Helen Lindstrom. Moving quickly, in an effort to shake off the encroaching associations of remorse and fear, she stepped into the lift, which took her down to the pleasure grounds of the Little Loop.
Down in the lower levels there were no roll-roads, and pedestrians only were allowed. Police patrolled discreetly and only interfered in cases of violence, which, even including plain, ordinary mugging, were not very common. There was no telling who these people were, or what was their occupation; they wore bright, off-duty clothes, and their purpose was pleasure. Helen strolled casually along a street lined on either side with bars and restaurants.
"Hey!" A man's voice came from close behind her. "In a hurry?"
She ignored the clumsy pick-up attempt, refusing to be drawn out of her determined relaxation.
"You with the orange pants ..." It was a big- sounding voice, and he was nearer.
A hand stroked her buttock.
Damn the fool! Why couldn't he see that she wanted to be left alone?
The hand slipped round her waist.
Almost without conscious thought, her trained-body moved into self-protective action. Grabbing at the wrist, she dragged the man forward, off-balance and gasping his surprise. He was thick-set, close cropped, with a snarling bully's face.
"Hey!"
She twisted the arm as he lurched past, shifted grip and braced herself, bringing his forearm across her thigh. The man screamed as his limb snapped like a rotten branch, and he rolled to the sidewalk, yelping in pain and fury.
Shocked by her own reflex violence, she turned and began to walk away.
"Just a minute!"
She stopped and turned. The police patrolman was small and springy, unobtrusively loaded with telecoms gear and small armament. "Yes?"
"This way." He led her back to where a small crowd was gathered round the injured man. "Now, how did this happen?"
A brown, flat-nosed man in bright blue, with a flower in his thick fuzzy hair said: "I saw it, patrolman. Self-defense. Assault on the person. She's clear."
The patrolman addressed Helen. "Is that so?"
She nodded. "He couldn't keep his hands to himself."
"He will now, for a while," the patrolman said. "Right. I'll accept the self-defence plea." He spoke the details into his hand recorder. "But there has been an injury, so 111 need names. Card, please, witness."
The fuzzy-haired man passed over his identity card, and the patrolman read it. The crowd, seeing that this was routine sidewalk justice, began to melt away. The injured man lay quiet now, his eyes staring their impotent hate at Helen.
The patrolman passed back the card of the witness and spoke politely to Helen. "Yours, please?"
She produced it. On the outside it was no different from anyone else's. The patrolman looked at it, then sharply back at her. Then he read it again, and handed it back.
"O.K., ma'am. I'll remember that. Put it on record later." He saluted, then pressed a button on his communicator and called medical services.
"Thank you, patrolman." She turned and walked on along the sidewalk, eager to get away from the scene of the encounter and the curious eyes that still studied her. She felt sorry for the man whose arm she had broken, but he had asked for it. Perhaps he would be more careful next time.
She quickened her pace, hurrying along through thronged, garishly lighted streets, past bars, dance shows, strip joints, gambling clubs, each offering their own particular brand of oblivion or excitement. It seemed to her, as she walked, that the ghost of Sarah Baker sat firmly on her shoulders, whispering to her of her own loneliness, of the barren life that lay ahead of her as an officer of the Corps.
She stopped at a wide intersection, joining a crowd who were watching a wiry brown man, clad only in a scrap of lastex, performing adagio acrobatics with two girls similarly exposed. She stood and watched the tirelessly graceful trio.
"They do it for kicks," said a voice at her elbow. "They're all three computer programmers, but they come here every fine Tuesday in the summer. Compensatory activity, I suppose."
The speaker was the little patrolman. He was disposed to be helpful. "They got that guy to the hospital, ma'am."
"Good. Thanks for what you did."
Nothing. Just one point, ma'am ..."
"Yes?"
"I don't want any trouble on my patch."
She found herself liking this earnest, obviously sincere little man. "Do you think I'm going to make trouble?" she said, smiling.
"No, of course not, not you." He was respectful, even slightly embarrassed. "But—well, you noticed I just remembered your name and number, to put it on tape later?"
"I see ..."
"You're a striking looking person ma'am. Like, you don't take what you've got off with a uniform. I mean, you just are noticeable. There have been a lot of pictures in the papers, and on TV."
"As far as I can tell, you're the only person who's recognized me so far," she said.
"Maybe so, but there's a lot of feeling stirred up by this inquiry..." He looked at her pleadingly.
"Thanks, I appreciate your concern," she said warmly. "But tonight is just one time when I don't feel like sitting on my own in a hotel room. I'm sorry. And thanks again."
She walked on her way.
Turning a corner, she found a bar. Inside, the atmosphere was good and normal. The lights were soft, and there were two live musicians playing old Spanish music on guitars. One of them announced their next piece: "Zapateado de las Camparias."
She sat at a corner table and ordered a large bourbon. When it came, she drank it quickly and ordered another, not because she wanted to get drunk rapidly, but because she wanted peace and a stilling of the voices that nagged inside her head.
When the musicians finished she applauded and made a request: " 'Recuerdos de la Alhambra,' por favour?"
The musicians were delighted. Among a mass of indifferent philistines, they had found an aficionado. They beamed at her and prepared to play again.
They never got to it.
As the guitarists were discussing a fine point of tuning, a thin figure in gray coveralls suddenly appeared in front of her table.
"Show me your face," he demanded.
She looked up, startled, into an emaciated visage whose principle feature was a pair of burning, intense eyes.
"Your name's Lindstrom!"
She stood up, and found that she matched him in height. "Yes?"
"You killed my brother—you and that murderous bastard Bruce!" The too-bright, hot eyes remained on her as he called: "Jovanka, here's one of them! Laszlo— here!"
A man and a woman, poorly dressed, grim of face, left another table and came toward her.
"Yes, she's the one. I seen a hundred pictures of her," said the second man.
"Haughty bitch!" the woman said quietly. "I'll tear her guts out!"
The first man kept looking at Helen with his mad eyes. Still looking, he flung away the table which separated them and aimed a brutal kick at her stomach.
Helen caught the foot as it rose. It was almost too easy. Pulling on the foot, she sent the man bowling backward. The woman came forward with a bottle and threw it. Helen ducked, and it shattered against the wall behind her. The second man swore and sprang forward, aiming a blow at her chin. She rolled back to avoid it and slipped.
As she fell, her head struck the edge of a chair. Her senses reeled, but she did not lose consciousness. She stayed on her hands and knees, shaking her head, aware of a pandemonium of shouts and screams around her, thinking vaguely that maybe this was what she had come here for, deliberately to offer herself for punishment so that she could in some manner exorcise the guilt that plagued her.
An enormously powerful arm came round her waist and lifted her to her feet. She remained limp, docile as an animal about to be slaughtered, as she waited for the blow to fall. But no blow came. She was dumped into a chair. Blinking, shaking her head, she gazed around her. The men and the woman who had attacked her were lying on the floor unconscious. The other customers in the bar stood watching as a big man talked into a communicator.
It was Sharva.
He finished talking into the instrument and came to her.
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