Ride the Star Winds

by A Bertram Chandler

  But the blimp was patched up and again made airworthy—as airworthy as she ever would be, ever could be—and we carried on with our training. And we got the feel of the brute. We neither respected nor loved her, but we came to understand what she could and could not do and, when Ralph had decided that we all (including himself) had passed for Part B of our certificates we proceeded, in the little airship, to Port Erikson on the southern shore of Coldharbor Bay.

  There’s one thing you can say in favor of the Survey Service boys who first made landings on the Rim Worlds, and you can say the same thing in favor of the first colonists. When it came to dishing out names they were realistic. Lorn . . . Port Forlorn . . . Lake Misere . . . the Great Barrens . . . Mount Desolation . . . Coldharbor Bay . . .

  The trip was not a happy one. In spite of the heat from the single diesel the cabin was bitterly cold as we threaded our way over and through the Great Barrens, skirting the jagged, snow-covered peaks, fighting for altitude in the higher passes, jettisoning ballast when dynamic lift proved insufficient and then perforce being obliged to valve gas for the long slant down over the dreary tundra that somebody in the First Expedition had named the Nullarbor Plain.

  And there was Coldharbor Bay ahead, a sliver of dull lead inset in the dun rim of the horizon. There was Coldharbor Bay, leaden water under a leaden sky, and a huddle of rawly new buildings along its southern shore, and something else, something big and silvery, somehow graceful, that looked out of place in these drab surroundings.

  “The ship,” I said unnecessarily. “Flying Cloud.”

  “Flying Crud!” sneered Doc Jenkins. He was not in a good mood. His normally ruddy face was blue with cold, and a violent pitch and yaw of the ship a few minutes since had upset a cup of scalding coffee (prepared, somehow, by Sandra in her cramped apology for a galley) in his lap. “And what ruddy genius was it,” he demanded, “who decided to establish a spaceport in these godforsaken latitudes? Damn it all, it isn’t as though we had the Ehrenhaft drive to contend with and lines of magnetic force to worry about. And both old Grimes and you, Ralph, have been harping on the fact—or is it only a theory?—that these fancy lightjammers will be far easier to handle in an atmosphere than a conventional spaceship.”

  “True,” admitted Ralph. “True. But, even so . . . just remember that on Lorn every major center of population is on or near the equator. And there’s a certain amount of risk in having conventional spaceports near cities—and the conventional spaceship isn’t one per cent as potentially dangerous as a lightjammer.”

  “I don’t see it,” insisted Doc. “To begin with, there’s a much smaller pile. A lightjammer is far less dangerous.”

  “Don’t forget what’s in the heart of her,” said Ralph quietly. “That core of anti-iron. Should the casing be breached, should the anti-matter come into contact with normal matter . . .”

  He lifted his gloved hands from the wheel in an expressive, explosive gesture. The ship swung off course, dipped and rolled. It was my turn to get a lapful of hot coffee. I decided that there was a lot to be said in favor of the despised drinking bulbs used in deep space.

  “Any more questions,” asked Ralph, “before we make it landing stations?”

  “If you insist on answering with your hands,” I said, “no.”

  He grinned ever so slightly. “All right, then. Now remember, all of you, that this won’t be the real thing—but it’ll be as near to real as we can make it. To begin with—an upwind approach . . .”

  “I can see the windsock,” said Sandra, who was using binoculars.

  “Where away?”

  “A degree or so to starboard of the stern of the ship. On that tower.”

  “And wind direction?”

  “As near south as makes no difference. A following wind.”

  “Good. Now, Peter, you’re in charge of the gas valves, and you, Doc, can handle the ballast . . .”

  “The tank’s dry,” grumbled Jenkins.

  “Anything with mass is ballast. Anything. Open a port and have a pile of odds and ends ready to dump. And you, Mr. Smethwick, stand by the hose and pump . . .”

  We were over the spaceport now. We could see the administration buildings and the warehouses, the long wharf alongside which lay Flying Cloud. We could see the little waving figures of people. And we could hear, from our telephone, the voice of Commodore Grimes speaking from spaceport control: “What are your intentions, Captain Listowel? The ground crew is standing by for your lines.”

  “I intend to land on the Bay, sir, to make this a rehearsal of landing the big ship.”

  “A good idea, Captain. Berth ahead of Flying Cloud. Berth ahead of Flying Cloud.”

  Ralph brought the blimp round in a long curve and lined her up for the beacon at the end of the wharf. He said sharply, “Don’t valve any gas unless I tell you, Peter. That’s one thing we shan’t be able to do in the real ship.” I saw that he was using the control surfaces to drive us down, and I heard the complaining of structural members. But the surface of the water was close now, closer with every second.

  “Mr. Smethwick, the hose!”

  I couldn’t see what was happening, but I could visualize that long tube of plastic snaking down towards the sea. I felt the blimp jump and lift as contact was made and, at Ralph’s barked order, valved a cubic centimeter or so of helium. I heard the throbbing whine as the ballast pump started.

  We were down then, the boat bottom of the cabin slapping (or being slapped by) the crests of the little waves, and then, a little heavier, we were properly waterborne and taxiing in towards the raw concrete of the new wharf.

  It was a good landing—and if good landings could be made in a misshapen little brute like the blimp, then equally good ones should be made in the proud, shining ship that we were approaching.

  I thought, with a strong feeling of relief, There’s nothing to worry about after all.

  I don’t know if that sentence is included in any collection of famous last words. If it’s not, it should be.

  Chapter 7

  We made fast to a couple of bollards at the foot of the steps at the end of the wharf. The blimp lay there quietly enough, her wrinkled hide twitching in the light, eddying breeze; the high warehouse inshore from the quay gave us a good lee. The linesmen ran out a light gangway and we maneuvered the end of it through the cabin door. Smethwick, who had suffered from airsickness during our northward flight, started to hurry ashore. Ralph halted him with a sharp order. Then he said, in a gentler voice, “We all of us have still a lot to learn about the handling of lighter-than-air ships. One thing always to bear in mind is that any weight discharged has to be compensated for.” He turned to me, saying, “Peter, stand by the ballast valve. We shouldn’t require the pump.”

  I opened the valve, allowing the water to run into the tank below the cabin deck. I shut it when the water outside was lapping the sill of the open door. Smethwick scrambled out and the ship lurched and lifted. I opened the valve again, and it was Sandra’s turn to disembark. Doc Jenkins followed her. Ralph took my place at the valve and I followed the doctor. Finally Ralph, having satisfied himself with the blimp wasn’t liable to take off unmanned, joined us on the wharf.

  Commodore Grimes was there, muffled in a heavy synthefur coat. With him were two women similarly clad. The super greeted us and then said to Ralph, “A nice landing, Captain Listowel. I hope you do as well with Flying Cloud.”

  “So do I, sir.”

  Grimes laughed. “You’d better.” He gestured towards the slender, gleaming length of the big ship. “She cost a little more than your little gasbag.”

  We all stared at her. Yes, she did look expensive. I suppose that it was because she was new. The ships to which we had become used out on the Rim were all second- and even third-hand tonnage, obsolescent Epsilon Class tramps auctioned off by the Interstellar Transport Commission.

  Yes, she looked expensive, and she looked new, and she looked odd. She didn’t look like a spaceship—or, if
she did look like a spaceship she looked like one that, toppling on its vaned landing gear, had crashed on to its side. And yet we felt that this was the way that she should be lying. She reminded me, I decided, of the big commercial submarines used by the Llarsii on their stormy, watery world.

  Grimes was still talking. “Captain, I’d like you to meet your new shipmates for the maiden voyage. This is Miss Wayne, of the Port Forlorn Chronicle. And Miss Simmons, your donkeyman . . .”

  I looked at the girls curiously and, I must confess, hopefully. Perhaps the voyage would be even more interesting than anticipated. Oh, I know that most planetlubbers have wildly romantic ideas about the function of a catering officer in a starship—but let me assure you that there’s precious little romance. Bear in mind that the catering officer is the ship’s dietician—and as such she can determine what the behavior of her male shipmates will be. And in most of the ships that I’ve sailed in the men have conducted themselves like well-behaved geldings. The exceptions have been vessels in which the catering officers, all too conscious of the passage of years and the fading of charms, have taken steps to insure that they, as women, will not be unappreciated. You may not recall the Duchess of Atholl scandal, but I do. Several innocent people took the blame for that unsavory affair and I was one of them. And that was the reason I left the employ of the Waverly Royal Mail and came out to the Rim.

  Anyhow, I looked at the two women, thinking (and hoping) that with a little competition in the ship Sandra might ginger up our diet a bit. Martha Wayne was a tall, slim, sleek brunette—and how she managed to look sleek and slim in her shaggy and bulky furs was something of a mystery. But sleek and slim she was. I had read some of her articles in the Chronicle, usually towards the end of a voyage, during that period when any and every scrap of hitherto unread printed matter is seized upon avidly. They’d been just the usual woman’s page slush—Home Beautiful, Kitchen Functional, Menu Exotic and all the rest of it. Anyhow, she extended her hand to Ralph as though she expected him to make a low bow and kiss it. He shook it, however, although without much warmth.

  Then there was Miss Simmons. (“Call me Peggy,” she said at once.) She was short, dumpy in her cold weather clothing. She had thrown back the hood of her parka, revealing a head of tousled, sandy hair. Her face was pretty enough, in an obvious sort of way, and the smudge of dark grease on her right cheek somehow enhanced the prettiness.

  “Commodore,” said Ralph slowly, “did I understand you to say that Miss Simmons is to be our donkeyman?”

  “Yes, Captain.” Grimes looked slightly embarrassed. “A little trouble with the Institute,” he added vaguely.

  I could guess right then what the trouble was, and I found later that my guess was right. The Institute of Spatial Engineers would be taking a dim view of the improved Erikson drive, the system of propulsion that would rob its members of their hard-won status. They would refuse to allow even a junior member to sign as donkeyman—and, no doubt, they had been able to bring pressure to bear on other engineering guilds and unions, making sure that no qualified engineer would be available.

  But a woman . . .

  “It’s quite all right, captain,” the girl assured him brightly. “I’m it. I had an oil can for a feeding bottle, and when other kids were playing with dolls I was amusing myself with nuts and bolts and wrenches.”

  “Miss Simmons,” explained Grimes, “is the daughter of an old friend of mine. Simmons, of Simmons’s Air Car Repair Shop in Port Forlorn. Her father assures me that Peggy is the best mechanic he has working for him.”

  “Even so . . .” said Ralph. Then—“How is it that Mr. Simmons can bear to part with such a treasure? Objectively speaking, this will be a long voyage.”

  “The usual trouble, captain,” Grimes told him. “A new stepmother . . .”

  “I hate the bitch,” declared Peggy Simmons. She added quietly, “She’s young. No older than me. But when this ship comes back to Lorn I’ll still be young, and she—”

  “Peggy!” snapped Grimes.

  “But it’s true, Uncle Andy.”

  “That will do. I don’t think that Captain Listowel is interested in your personal problems. All that he wants is a competent mechanic.”

  Her face lost its ugly hardness. “And I’m just that, skipper,” she grinned.

  “All right,” said the super briskly. “That’s that. Now, if you feel up to it after your flight in that makeshift contraption, I suggest that we make an inspection of the ship.”

  “Even so . . .” began Ralph.

  “Even so,” flared Grimes, “I’ve got you a donkeyman, and a damn good one. And Miss Wayne has been commissioned to write the journal of the maiden voyage, but she’s willing to make herself useful. She’ll be signing as assistant purser.”

  “All right, Commodore,” said Ralph coldly. “You can hand over the ship.”

  Chapter 8

  Normally, handing over a spaceship is a lengthy business.

  But these, we learned, were not normal circumstances. Lloyd’s of London had issued a provisional certificate of spaceworthiness—but this, Grimes told us, was liable to be canceled at the drop of a hat. The great majority of Lloyd’s surveyors are engineers, and Flying Cloud was an affront to those arrogant mechanics. She, as far as they were concerned, was an impudent putting back of the clock, an insolent attempt to return to those good old days when the master, in Lloyd’s own words, was “master under God” and, in effect, did as he damn well pleased. The speed of a windjammer was in direct ratio to the skill of her master. The speed of a lightjammer would be in direct ratio to the skill of her master. The donkeyman of a windjammer held petty officer’s rank only, messing with the boatswain, carpenter and sailmaker. The donkeyman of a lightjammer would be a junior officer only because the merchant navy doesn’t run to petty officers. So the Institute of Spatial Engineers didn’t like lightjammers. So they had run, squealing piteously, to Lloyd’s. So the heirs and successors to that prosperous little coffee house proprietor, acting on the advice of their prejudiced surveyors, would sooner or later—and, quite probably, sooner—get around to revoking that provisional spaceworthiness certificate.

  Flying Cloud was Grimes’s baby. He had brought back the anti-matter from the anti-matter systems. He had worked out a way in which it might be used. He had succeeded in convincing his employers that a lightjammer would be the most economical form of interstellar transport. Now it was up to us to prove him right. Once the maiden voyage was completed successfully, Lloyd’s would have no excuse for not granting a full certificate.

  So we joined a ship already spaceworthy in all respects. While we had been playing around in the catamaran and the blimp, Grimes had achieved wonders. Flying Cloud was fully stored and provisioned. Algae, yeast and tissue cultures were flourishing. The hydroponic tanks would have been a credit to an Empress Class liner. The last of the cargo—an unromantic consignment of zinc ingots for Grollor—was streaming into the ship by way of the main conveyor belt.

  We had to take Grimes’s word for it that everything was working as it should. Grimes’s word, and the word of the Simmons girl, who assured us that she, personally, had checked every piece of machinery. We hoped that they were right, especially since there was some equipment, notably the spars and sails, that could not be actually tested inside an atmosphere in a heavy gravitational field.

  Anyhow, that was the way of it. Ralph affixed his autograph to the handing-over form and I, as mate (acting, probably temporary, but not unpaid) witnessed it. And Martha Wayne, as representative of the Port Forlorn Chronicle, made a sound and vision recording of the historic moment. And Doc Jenkins suggested that the occasion called for a drink. Ralph frowned at this and said stiffly that we, who would shortly be taking an untested ship into space, would be well-advised to stay sober. Grimes told him not to be so bloody silly, adding that takeoff wasn’t due for all of twelve hours. So Sandra went to the little bar at one side of the wardroom and opened the refrigerator and brought out two b
ottles of champagne. Grimes opened them himself, laughing wryly as the violently expanding carbon dioxide shot the corks up to the deckhead. “And this,” he chuckled, “will be the only reaction drive as far as the ship’s concerned!” And then, when the glasses were filled, he raised his in a toast. “To Flying Cloud,” he said solemnly, “and to all who sail in her.” He emphasized the word sail. “To Flying Cloud,” we repeated.

  The commodore drained his glass and set it down on the table. There was a sudden sadness in his manner. He said quietly, “Captain Listowel, I’m an outsider here. This is your ship. I’ll leave you with your officers to get the hang of her. If you want to know anything, I shall be in my office ashore . . .”

  He got slowly to his feet.

  “Even so, sir . . .” began Ralph.

  “Even so be damned. This is your ship, Listowel. Your donkeyman knows as much about the auxiliary machinery as I do, probably more. And as far as the handling of the sails is concerned, you’ll have to make up the rules as you go along.” He paused, then said, “But I shall be aboard in the morning to see you off.”

  He left us then.

  “He should have sailed as her first master,” said Ralph.

  “And returning, still a relatively young man, to find his wife an old woman and his son his senior,” said Jenkins. “I can see why we were the mugs. We have no ties.”