Ride the Star Winds

by A Bertram Chandler

  “But, Captain,” cried the missionary, “this is most important.”

  “So is that,” he said, pointing. “I’ve no time to spare for—”

  “That,” she interrupted him, “is what is important.”

  “Mr. Wallasey—” began Listowel.

  “Let her stay,” said Sonya sharply. It was more of an order than a request. “Let her stay.”

  The young officer looked uncertainly at his Captain, at the commodore, at the commodore’s wife. He looked again, questioningly, toward Listowel, But the master’s full attention was on the strange light. It was closing on a converging course. And there was something solid, or apparently solid, in the center of that glowing circle of blue-green mist. A ship? Grimes had found a pair of binoculars, had them to his eyes. Yes, a ship.

  Madam Swithin was speaking again, but the voice was not her own. It was male and had a strange, guttural accent. And the language was one that Grimes did not understand, although it seemed to be of Terran origin. German? No, he decided. Although there were similarities.

  “Who are you?” Sonya was asking. “Speak so that we may understand.”

  “I cannot rest. I must not rest. Effer. To sail der seas vas I condemned, for all eternity, vhereffer and vheneffer dere are ships—”

  The seas? wondered Grimes. But space is a sea . . .

  He could make out the hull now through his glasses—high-pooped, with a tall forecastle. He could see the line of black-gaping gunports and the three masts with the square sails at fore and main, the staysails and the spritsail, the lateen sail at the mizzen . . .

  This was no lightjammer.

  “Kapitan!” that deep, urgent voice was commanding, “Starboard der helm! Starboard der helm!”

  But an alteration of course to starboard would make a collision between Pamir and this apparition inevitable.

  “Kapitan! Starboard der helm!”

  And in the old days when the helm, the tiller, had been put to starboard both rudder and ship had turned to port, Grimes remembered from his reading. Even after the invention and introduction of the ship’s wheel those topsy-turvy steering orders had persisted for quite a long while.

  In the old days, the days of the windjammers . . .

  And hadn’t there been a legend about a Captain Van . . . What was his name? A Dutchman?

  He laughed softly. “A ghost,” he murmured. “A ghost.”

  Listowel laughed with him. “A bloody Rim Ghost. I should have known. I’ve heard enough about them. Phantom ships from alternate universes—”

  “Kapitan! For der luff of Gott, starboard!”

  Listowel laughed again, contemptuously, “That thing can’t hurt us. I’ll not risk my spars and sails, my ship, for a silly, blown-away phantasm!”

  A spurt of orange flame leaped from the archaic ship’s forward gunport, followed by billowing dirty white smoke. The Dutchman had fired a warning shot.

  “Listowel, bring her around to port at once,” ordered Grimes.

  “I’m not running from a ghost ship with ghost cannon, Commodore.”

  “Bring her around, damn you!”

  “And you can’t order me in my own control room—”

  “Legally I can’t—but I do order you.” Had Grimes known how to handle the lightjammer he would have tried to push the younger man from the controls. But he did not know. The only thing in his mind that could be of value in this situation was his memory of the old sailors’ tales.

  “Kapitan! Starboard der helm!” It was a despairing cry in that strange male voice from the lips of the medium.

  “He’s warning us, Listowel!” cried Grimes. “The old legends—you’ve read them. I’ve seen your bookshelf. The appearance of the Flying Dutchman before disaster . . . The Vanderdecken ships were saved from disaster by a ghost ship’s warning! Come to port, Captain! Bring her around to port!”

  Realization dawned on Listowel’s face. With a muttered oath he dropped his hands to the console. He worked fast now that it was almost too late—with desperate urgency. He trimmed the east sails, not bothering about precise angles, bringing all five of the great vanes around as fast as the trimming motors would let him, presenting their light-absorptive surfaces to the radiation of the Llanith sun. Pamir lurched as she fell off to port. The mast whipped violently and the royal was ripped from its yards, flapped ahead and away from the ship like a bat into hell. But the rest held as the ship pivoted about her short axis.

  And Grimes, looking out to starboard, saw the Dutchman vanish like a snuffed candle—but not before he had glimpsed the tall figure on the poop, his long beard streaming in the wind (here, in interstellar space, where there were no winds but the star winds!), his right arm raised in a gesture of farewell.

  “Well,” muttered Listowel shakily. “Well—” Then: “Is it all right for us to resume course, Commodore?”

  “I—I suppose so,” replied Grimes. In a stronger voice he said, “I shall ground the lightjammers until a thorough survey has been made of this sector of space. There was something there. Something we just missed.”

  On the deck where she had fallen, where Sonya was supporting her head and shoulders, Madam Swithin began to stir. Her eyes opened, stared around her. “Where am I? What happened? How did I get here? I came all over queer and I don’t remember any more—”

  “Everything is all right,” Sonya told her.

  “Thank you, dear. Thank you. I shall be feeling better in a couple of jiffs. But I’d be ever so grateful if somebody could bring me a nice cup of—” The expression faded from her plump face and her eyes went vacant. That strange male voice—although now little more than a dying whisper—finished the sentence.

  “—Holland gin,” it said.

  The Last Hunt

  I

  Grimes stood at the wide window of his office, which overlooked the Port Forlorn berthing apron, watched the starship New Bedford coming in. She was a stranger to the Rim Worlds. According to Lloyd’s Register she was owned by the Hummel Foundation of Earth. The Foundation, Grimes knew, had been set up for the intensive study of xenobiology—its Interstellar Zoo, covering hundreds of square miles of Australia’s Central Desert, was famous throughout the Galaxy. Almost equally famous was New Bedford’s master, Captain Haab. He was both master astronaut and big game hunter—an unlikely combination, but a highly successful one.

  And what was Captain Haab doing out on the Rim?

  Grimes could guess.

  Slowly New Bedford dropped down from the clear sky—her arrival had coincided with one of Port Forlorn’s rare fine days. She gleamed dazzlingly in the bright morning sunlight. As she gradually lost altitude the beat of her inertial drive rose from an irritable muttering to a noisy, unrhythmic drumming, frightening the snowbirds—which at this time of the year infested the spaceport—into glittering, clattering flight.

  The commodore picked up binoculars, studied the descending ship. He already knew that she was modified Epsilon Class, but was interested in the extent of the modifications. She looked more like a warship than a merchantman, the otherwise sleek lines of her hull broken by turrets and sponsons. Most of these seemed to be recent additions. She must have been specially fitted out for this expedition.

  No doubt, Grimes thought, Captain Haab would be visiting him as soon as the arrival formalities were over and done with—it would be more of a business than a courtesy call. But everything was ready. The files of reports were still in Grimes’s office, the spools of film, the three-dimensional charts with their plotted sightings and destructions. If Haab wanted information—which he almost certainly would—he should have it.

  New Bedford was almost down now, dropping neatly into the center of the triangle marked by the brightly flashing red beacons. Already the beetlelike ground cars of the spaceport officials—port captain, port health officer, customs—had ventured on to the apron, were waiting to close in. But Haab, with all the resources of the Hummel Foundation behind him, would have no trouble in obtaining in
ward clearance.

  New Bedford was down at last. Her inertial drive complained for the last time, then lapsed into silence. A telescopic mast extended from high on her hull, at control room level, and from it broke out a flag that fluttered in the light breeze. It was not, Grimes realized, the house flag of the Hummel Foundation, a stylized red dragon on a green field. This standard was white and blue.

  Miss Walton, Grimes’ secretary, had come to stand with him at the window. “What a funny ensign—what is it supposed to be? It looks like an airship, a blimp in a blue sky—”

  The commodore laughed. “I think that the blue is supposed to represent sea, not sky. And that’s not a blimp—”

  “What is it, then, Commodore?”

  “It could be a white whale,” Grimes told her.

  “Captain Haab to see you, sir,” announced Miss Walton.

  Grimes looked up from his desk where he had been blue-penciling the stores requisition sent in by the chief officer of Rim Percheron. “Show him in,” he told his secretary.

  The girl returned to the office followed by Haab. The master of New Bedford was a tall man, thin, towering over the little blonde. There was an oddly archaic cut to his tightly fitting black suit, to his stiff, white linen and black stock. His face was gaunt and deeply tanned between his closely cropped black hair and black chin beard. His eyes were a startlingly pale blue. He walked with a peculiarly jerky motion and from his right lee came a strange faint clicking noise.

  Grimes rose to his feet, extended his right hand. “Welcome to Port Forlorn, Captain.”

  Haab took the commodore’s hand in his own almost skeletal claw. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Sit down, Captain. Tea? Coffee?”

  “Coffee if I may, Commodore. Black.”

  “Will you attend to it, please, Miss Walton? Black coffee for two. And did you have a good voyage out, Captain?”

  “A quiet voyage.”

  “First time I’ve seen anybody from the Hummel Foundation out here. Of course, we haven’t much in the way of exotic fauna on the Rim. Not on the man-colonized planets, that is. Most of our animals were raised from Terran stock.”

  “I’m not concerned with any of the lifeforms actually on the planets, Commodore.”

  A grin softened Grimes’s craggy face. “I can guess what you’ve come for, Captain—” Miss Walton brought in the coffee tray, set it on the desk. Grimes said to the girl. “Would you mind having the projection room ready? You know the films we shall want—those that the admiralty lent me.”

  “The ones shot on the Lorn-Llanith route, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  “Very good, sir. Oh, would you mind if I asked Captain Haab a question?”

  “Go ahead, Miss Walton.”

  The girl addressed herself to New Bedford’s master. “I’m interested in flags, sir. What is the one that you have flying from your ship?”

  Haab smiled thinly. “It’s my own personal broad pennant. The Foundation allows me to wear it.”

  “But what is it, Captain?”

  “A white whale,” replied Haab.

  “As I’ve already told you,” grunted Grimes. “And now will you get those films ready?”

  “And could you fill me in while we’re waiting?” Haab asked Grimes.

  “Of course, Captain. I’ll start at the beginning.”

  “As you know,” said Grimes, “we operate lightjammers on the run between the Rim Worlds and the Llanithi Consortium. The lightjammers are the only ships that can have their atomic charges reversed so that they can land on the anti-matter worlds without blowing themselves—and anybody else within ten thousand miles—to glory. The lightjammers had been running into trouble—a strange vessel kept appearing on a collision course, shoving them away to hell and gone off trajectory—”

  Haab smiled. “You’ll probably be hearing from the Rhine Institute about that. But the Hummel Foundation is concerned with living beings, not ghosts, not even such famous ghosts as the Flying Dutchman.”

  “Just as well. Since the navy started cleaning up the shipping lanes old Vanderdecken has been conspicuous by his absence. Maybe he’s found a home on Atlantia. They still go in for sail in a big way there.

  “Well, after the first reports came in I decided I’d better see for myself, so my wife and I took passage from Lorn to Llanith in Pamir. At that time it was thought that the Flying Dutchman was another lightjammer, a foreign ship snooping on our trade routes. But we had with us the Reverend Madam Swithin of the United Primitive Spiritualist Church, going out to Llanith as a missionary. Thanks to her we found out what the Flying Dutchman was and that Vanderdecken was warning us about something.

  “So I grounded the lightjammers and sent a report to Admiral Kravitz, urging him to make a full-scale investigation. He did. Luckily our fleet was out on maneuvers at the time so it all fitted in with the war games that were being played. Instead of the usual Redland versus Blueland it was the armed might of the Confederacy versus the Menace from Intergalactic Space. Mphm.”

  Haab registered strong disapproval. “Not a hunt,” he growled, “but a military operation—”

  “Of course. If one of our lightjammers had run into a herd of those things—or even a single one—there would have been a shocking mess. Don’t forget that the Erikson Drive ships, unlike the Mannschenn Drive jobs, remain in normal Space-Time while accelerating to the velocity of light and return to NST when decelerating. The energy eaters—”

  “Is that what you call them?”

  “What else? The energy eaters were a menace to navigation and they were dealt with as such.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “You’re not master of a lightjammer, Captain. Oh, all right, all right, you’re a big game hunter as well as being a shipmaster. But the EEs don’t have nice, horned heads that you can hang on the wall. They don’t have pretty pelts that can be made into fireside rugs.”

  “I want a living specimen.”

  “I doubt if your marvelous zoo in Central Australia would be able to accommodate it.”

  “A zoo need not be on a planetary surface, Commodore. The plans for an orbital zoo have been drawn up, with lines of magnetic force among a grouping of small artificial satellites forming the bars of a cage. If I capture a specimen the Foundation will have everything ready for its reception when I get it back to Earth.”

  “If you capture a specimen. The navy’s doing a good job.”

  Haab inhaled deeply from the villainous black cigar that he was smoking as a counter measure to Grimes’s foul pipe. He withdrew the thing from his mouth and his right hand, holding it, rested on his knee. Grimes sneezed. There was more than tobacco smoke in those acrid fumes.

  He said hastily, “You’re setting yourself on fire, Captain.”

  The other man looked down at the little charred circle in the cloth of his trousers, beat out the embers with his left hand.

  Grimes said, “You must feel deeply on the subject. You didn’t notice that you were burning yourself.”

  “I do feel deeply, Commodore. But this leg’s prosthetic. I lost the original on Tanganore when a harpooned spurzil took retaliatory action. The Tanganorans fitted me out with this tin leg and, by the time I got back to Earth where I could have had a new flesh-and-blood one grown, I’d gotten used to it. In any case—I couldn’t spare the time for a regeneration job.”

  “Tanganore? That’s in the Cepheid Sector, isn’t it? And what is a spurzil?”

  “A sort of big armor-protected whale. White.”

  “And now you’re hunting Moebius Dick himself.”

  “Moebius Dick, Commodore?”

  “I thought that your private flag was supposed to represent the original Moby Dick.”

  “No. It represents the spurzu that took a piece of me. It’s a reminder to myself to be careful. But Moebius Dick?”

  “Wait until you’ve seen the films, Captain Haab.”

  Grimes sat with Haab in the darkened projection room an
d Miss Walton started the projector. Slowly the screen came alive and in it glowed words: OPERATION RIMHUNT. FOR EXHIBITION TO AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  The credit titles were succeeded by a spoken account of what was happening, by some quite good shots of lightjammers arriving at and departing from Port Erikson, by an excellent shot of Herzogin Cecile making sail. The voice of the commentator said, “But these ships, the pride of our merchant navy and the first vessels successfully to trade with the anti-matter Llanithi Consortium, discovered that all was not plain sailing.” Grimes contrived to wince audibly. “A new menace appeared on the trade routes and only by taking violent evasive action were the lightjammers able to escape certain destruction.”

  “No mention of Vanderdecken,” commented Haab.

  “Our navy refuses to believe in ghosts,” Grimes told him. “Their psychologists have a marvelous theory that the Flying Dutchman was no more than a projection of our own precognitive fears, a visual presentation of a hunch.”

  The commentator went on:

  “Commodore John Grimes of the Rim Worlds naval reserve—also astronautical superintendent of Rim Runners—was a passenger aboard the lightjammer Pamir. He was in her control room when the master, acting upon a hunch, trimmed his sails in order to make a large alteration of course to port—”

  “I like that!” snorted Grimes. “I had to bully the stubborn bastard into making that alteration.”

  “—deciding that there must have been some unseen danger ahead of the ship, Commodore Grimes made a report to Admiral Kravitz, recommending that a thorough survey be made of the trade routes between Lorn and Llanith. At the time the fleet was out on maneuvers off Eblis and the frigates Rim Culverin and Rim Carronade were detached to carry out investigations in the neighborhood of Llanith.”

  The last shot of a lightjammer under sail faded from the screen, was replaced by one of a conventional warship proceeding under Mannschenn Drive, obviously taken from a sister ship. In the background glowed the warped, convoluted Galactic Lens, an oval of luminescence twisted through and into an infinity of dimensions. The outline of Rim Culverin herself was hard and clear.