“Uh, how are your feet?”
“Bandages and bedroom slippers. But the Surgeon did a fine job. I’ll be dancing tomorrow.”
“Don’t rush it.”
She looked at his stripes and his chest. “You should talk.”
Before he could answer the unanswerable Walther leaned over and said quietly, “We’re ready, Captain.”
“Oh. Go ahead.” Walther tapped on a water glass.
The First Officer explained the situation in calm tones that made it seem reasonable, inevitable. He concluded by saying, “ . . . and so, in accordance with law and the custom of space, I have relinquished my temporary command to your new captain. Captain Jones.”
Max stood up. He looked around, swallowed, tried to speak, and couldn’t. Then, as effectively as if it had been a dramatic pause and not desperation, he picked up his water tumbler and took a sip. “Guests and fellow crewmen,” he said, “we can’t stay here. You know that. I have been told that our Surgeon calls the system we are up against here ‘symbiotic enslavement’—like dog to man, only more so, and apparently cover ing the whole animal kingdom on this planet. Well, men aren’t meant for slavery, symbiotic or any sort, but we are too few to win out now, so we must leave.”
He stopped for another sip and Ellie caught his eye, encouraging him. “Perhaps someday other men will come back—better prepared. As for us, I am going to try to take the Asgard back through the . . . uh, ‘hole’ you might call it, where we came out. It’s a chancy thing. No one is forced to come along—but it is the only possible way to get home. Anyone who’s afraid to chance it will be landed on the north pole of planet number three—the evening star we have been calling ‘Aphrodite.’ You may be able to survive there, although it is pretty hot even at the poles. If you prefer that alternative, turn your names in this evening to the Purser. The rest of us will try to get home.” He stopped, then said suddenly, “That’s all,” and sat down.
There was no applause and he felt glumly that he had muffed his first appearance. Conversation started up around the room, crewmen left, and steward’s mates quickly started serving. Ellie looked at him and nodded quietly. Mrs. Mendoza was on his left; she said, “Ma—I mean ‘Captain’—is it really so dangerous? I hardly like the thought of trying anything risky. Isn’t there something else we can do?”
“No.”
“But surely there must be?”
“No. I’d rather not discuss it at the table.”
“But . . .” He went on firmly spooning soup, trying not to tremble. When he looked up he was caught by a glittering eye across the table, a Mrs. Montefiore, who preferred to be called “Principessa”—a dubious title. “Dolores, don’t bother him. We want to hear about his adventures—don’t we, Captain?”
“No.”
“Come now! I hear that it was terribly romantic.” She drawled the word and gave Ellie a sly, sidelong look. She looked back at Max with the eye of a predatory bird and showed her teeth. She seemed to have more teeth than was possible. “Tell us all about it!”
“No.”
“But you simply can’t refuse!”
Eldreth smiled at her and said, “Princess darling—your mouth is showing.” Mrs. Montefiore shut up.
After dinner Max caught Walther alone. “Mr. Walther?”
“Oh yes, Captain?”
“Am I correct in thinking that it is my privilege to pick the persons who sit at my table?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In that case—that Montefiore female. Will you have her moved, please? Before breakfast?”
Walther smiled faintly. “Aye aye, sir.”
21
THE CAPTAIN OF
THE ASGARD
They took Sam down and buried him where he had fallen. Max limited it to himself and Walther and Giordano, sending word to Ellie not to come. There was a guard of honor, but it was armed to kill and remained spread out around the grave, eyes on the hills. Max read the service in a voice almost too low to be heard—the best he could manage.
Engineering had hurriedly prepared the marker, a pointed slab of stainless metal. Max looked at it before he placed it and thought about the inscription. “Greater love hath no man”?—no, he had decided that Sam wouldn’t like that, with his cynical contempt of all sentimentality. He had considered, “He played the cards he was dealt”—but that didn’t fit Sam either; if Sam didn’t like the cards, he sometimes slipped in a whole new deck. No, this was more Sam’s style; he shoved it into the ground and read it:
IN MEMORY OF
SERGEANT SAM ANDERSON
LATE OF THE
IMPERIAL MARINES
“He ate what was set before him.”
Walther saw the marker for the first time. “So that’s how it was? Somehow I thought so.”
“Yes. I never did know his right name. Richards. Or maybe Roberts.”
“Oh.” Walther thought over the implication. “We could get him reinstated, sir, posthumously. His prints will identify him.”
“I think Sam would like that.”
“I’ll see to it, sir, when we get back.”
“If we get back.”
“If you please, Captain—when we get back.”
Max went straight to the control room. He had been up the evening before and had gotten the first shock of being treated as captain in the Worry Hole over with. When Kelly greeted him with, “Good morning, Captain,” he was able to be almost casual.
“Morning, Chief. Morning, Lundy.”
“Coffee, sir?”
“Thanks. About that parking orbit—is it set up?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Then forget it. I’ve decided to head straight back. We can plan it as we go. Got the films?”
“I picked them up earlier.” They referred to the films cached in Max’s stateroom. Simes had managed to do away with the first set at the time of Captain Blaine’s death; the reserve set was the only record of when and where the Asgard had emerged into this space, including records of routine sights taken immediately after transition.
“Okay. Let’s get busy. Kovak can punch for me.”
The others were drifting in, well ahead of time, as was customary in Kelly’s gang. “If you wish, sir. I’d be glad to compute for the Captain.”
“Kovak can do it. You might help Noguchi and Lundy with the films.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Data flowed to him presently. He had awakened twice in the night in cold fright that he had lost his unique memory. But when the data started coming, he programmed without effort, appropriate pages opening in his mind. The problem was a short departure to rid themselves of the planet’s influence, an adjustment of position to leave the local sun “behind” for simpler treatment of its field, then a long, straight boost for the neighborhood in which they had first appeared in this space. It need not be precise, for transition would not be attempted on the first pass; they must explore the area, taking many more photographic sights and computing from them, to establish a survey that had never been made.
Departure was computed and impressed on tape for the autopilot and the tape placed in the console long before noon. The ship had been keeping house on local time, about fifty-five standard minutes to the hour; now the ship would return to Greenwich, the time always kept in the control room—dinner would be late and some of the “beasts” would as usual reset their watches the wrong way and blame it on the government.
They synchronized with the power room, the tape started running; there remained nothing to do but press the button a few seconds before preset time and thereby allow the autopilot to raise ship. The phone rang, Smythe took it and looked at Max. “For you, Captain. The Purser.”
“Captain?” Samuels sounded worried. “I dislike to disturb you in the control room.”
“No matter. What is it?”
“Mrs. Montefiore. She wants to be landed on Aphrodite.”
Max thought a moment, “Anybody else change his mind?”
“No, sir.”
“They were all notified to turn in their names last night.”
“I pointed that out to her, sir. Her answers were not entirely logical.”
“Nothing would please me more than to dump her there. But after all, we are responsible for her. Tell her no.”
“Aye aye, sir. May I have a little leeway in how I express it?”
“Certainly. Just keep her out of my hair.”
Max flipped off the phone, found Kelly at his elbow. “Getting close, sir. Perhaps you will take the console now and check the set up? Before you raise?”
“Eh? No, you take her up, Chief. You’ll have the first watch.”
“Aye aye, Captain.” Kelly sat down at the console, Max took the Captain’s seat, feeling self-conscious. He wished that he had learned to smoke a pipe—it looked right to have the Captain sit back, relaxed and smoking his pipe, while the ship maneuvered.
He felt a slight pulsation and was pressed more firmly into the chair cushions; the Asgard was again on her own private gravity, independent of true accelerations. Moments later, the ship raised, but with nothing to show it but the change out the astrodome from blue sky to star-studded ebony of space.
Max got up and found that he was still holding an imaginary pipe, he hastily dropped it. “I’m going below, Chief. Call me when the departure sights are ready to compute. By the way, what rotation of watches do you plan on?”
Kelly locked the board, got up and joined him. “Well, Captain, I had figured on Kovak and me heel-and- toe, with the boys on one in three. We’ll double up later.”
Max shook his head. “No. You and me and Kovak. And we’ll stay on one in three as long as possible. No telling how long we’ll fiddle around out there before we take a stab at it.”
Kelly lowered his voice. “Captain, may I express an opinion?”
“Kelly, any time you stop being frank with me, I won’t have a chance of swinging this. You know that.”
“Thank you, sir. The Captain should not wear himself out. You have to do all the computing as it is.” Kelly added quietly, “The safety of your ship is more important than—well, perhaps ‘pride’ is the word.”
Max took a long time to reply. He was learning, without the benefit of indoctrination, that a commanding officer is not permitted foibles commonplace in any other role; he himself is ruled more strongly by the powers vested in him than is anyone else. The Captain’s privileges—such as chucking a tiresome female from his table—were minor, while the penalties of the inhuman job had unexpected ramifications.
“Chief,” he said slowly, “is there room to move the coffee mess over behind the computer?”
Kelly measured the space with his eye. “Yes, sir. Why?”
“I was thinking that would leave room over here to install a cot.”
“You intend to sleep up here, sir?”
“Sometimes. But I was thinking of all of us—you shave up here half the time, as it is. The watches for the next few weeks do not actually require the O.W. to be awake most of the time, so we’ll all doss off when we can. What do you think?’’
“It’s against regulations, sir. A bad precedent . . . and a bad example.” He glanced over at Noguchi and Smythe.
“You would write it up formal and proper, for my signature, citing the regulation and suspending it on an emergency basis ‘for the safety of the ship.’”
“If you say so, sir.”
“You don’t sound convinced, so maybe I’m wrong. Think it over and let me know.”
The cot appeared and the order was posted, but Max never saw either Kelly or Kovak stretched out on the cot. As for himself, had he not used it, he would have had little sleep.
He usually ate in the control room as well. Although there was little to do on their way out to rendezvous with nothingness but take sights to determine the relations of that nothingness with surrounding sky, Max found that when he was not computing he was worrying, or discussing his worries with Kelly.
How did a survey ship find its way back through a newly calculated congruency? And what had gone wrong with those that failed to come back? Perhaps Dr. Hendrix could have figured the other side of an uncharted congruency using only standard ship’s equipment—or perhaps not. Max decided that Dr. Hendrix could have done it; the man had been a fanatic about his profession, with a wide knowledge of the theoretical physics behind the routine numerical computations—much wider, Max was sure, than most astrogators.
Max knew that survey ships calculated congruences from both sides, applying to gravitational field theory data gathered on the previously unknown side. He made attempts to rough out such a calculation, then gave up, having no confidence in his results—he was sure of his mathematical operations but unsure of theory and acutely aware of the roughness of his data. There was simply no way to measure accurately the masses of stars light-years away with the instruments in the Asgard.
Kelly seemed relieved at his decision. After that, they both gave all their time to an attempt to lay out a “groove” to the unmarked point in the heavens where their photosights said that they had come out—in order that they might eventually scoot down that groove, arriving at the locus just below the speed of light, then kick her over and hope.
A similar maneuver on a planet’s surface would be easy—but there is no true parallel with the situation in the sky. The “fixed” stars move at high speeds and there are no other landmarks; to decide what piece of featureless space corresponds with where one was at another time requires a complicated series of calculations having no “elegant” theoretical solutions. For each charted congruency, an astrogator has handed to him a table of precalculated solutions—the “Critical Tables for Charted Anomalies.” Max and Kelly had to fudge up their own.
Max spent so much time in the control room that the First Officer finally suggested that passenger morale would be better if he could show himself in the lounge occasionally. Walther did not add that Max should wear a smile and a look of quiet confidence, but he implied it. Thereafter, Max endeavored to dine with his officers and passengers.
He had of course seen very little of Eldreth. When he saw her at the first dinner after Walther’s gentle suggestion, she seemed friendly but distant. He decided that she was treating him with respect, which made him wonder if she were ill. He recalled that she had originally come aboard in a stretcher, perhaps she was not as rugged as she pretended to be. He made a mental note to ask the Surgeon—indirectly, of course!
They were dawdling over coffee and Max was beginning to fidget with a desire to get back to the Worry Hole. He reminded himself sharply that Walther expected him not to show anxiety—then looked around and said loudly, “This place is like a morgue. Doesnanyone dance here these days? Dumont!”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Let’s have some dance music. Mrs. Mendoza, would you honor me?”
Mrs. Mendoza tittered and accepted. She turned out to be a disgrace to Argentina, no sense of rhythm. But he piloted her around with only minor collisions and got her back to her chair, so timed that he could bow out gracefully. He then exercised the privilege of rank by cutting in on Mrs. Daigler. Maggie’s hair was still short but her splendor otherwise restored.
“We’ve missed you, Captain.”
“I’ve been working. Short-handed, you know.”
“I suppose so. Er . . . Captain, is it pretty soon now?”
“Before we transit? Not long. It has taken this long because we have had to do an enormous number of fiddlin’ calculations—to be safe, you know.”
“Are we really going home?”
He gave what he hoped was a confident smile. “Absolutely. Don’t start any long book from the ship’s library; the Purser won’t let you take it dirtside.”
She sighed. “I feel better.”
He thanked her for the waltz, looked around, saw Mrs. Montefiore and decided that his obligation to maintain morale did not extend that far. Eldreth was seated, so he went to her. “Feet still bothering you, Elli
e?”
“No, Captain. Thank you for asking.”
“Then will you dance with me?”
She opened her eyes wide. “You mean the Captain has time for po’ li’l ole me?”
He leaned closer. “One more crack like that, dirty face, and you’ll be tossed into irons.”
She giggled and wrinkled her nose. “Aye aye, Captain, sir.”
For awhile, they danced without talking, with Max a little overpowered by her nearness and wondering why he had not done this sooner. Finally she said, “Max? Have you given up three-dee permanently?”
“Huh? Not at all. After we make this transit I’ll have time to play—if you’ll spot me two starships.”
“I’m sorry I ever told you about that. But I do wish you would say hello to Chipsie sometimes. She was asking this morning, “Where Maxie?”
“Oh, I am sorry. I’d take her up to the control room with me occasionally, except that she might push a button and lose us a month’s work. Go fetch her.”
“The crowd would make her nervous. We’ll go see her.”
He shook his head. “Not to your room.”
“Huh? Don’t be silly. I’ve got no reputation left anyhow, and a captain can do as he pleases.”
“That shows you’ve never been a captain. See that vulture watching us?” He indicated Mrs. Montefiore with his eyes. “Now go get Chipsie and no more of your back talk.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
He scratched Chipsie’s chin, fed her sugar cubes, and assured her that she was the finest spider puppy in that part of the sky. He then excused himself.
He was feeling exhilarated and oddly reassured. Seeing Mr. Walther disappearing into his room, he paused at the companionway and on impulse followed him. A matter had been worrying him, this was as good a time as any.
“Dutch? Are you busy?”
The First Officer turned. “Oh. No, Captain. Come in.”
Max waited during the ceremonial coffee, then broached it. “Something on my mind, Mr. Walther—a personal matter.”
Starman Jones Page 23