First Command

by A Bertram Chandler

  Brasidus possessed such an organ, and it had twitched at the odor that lingered about Doctor Heraklion.

  Drugs? Could be—although the man himself did not appear to be an addict. But, in his position, he would have access to narcotics, and the peddlers had to get their supplies from somebody.

  Even so, Brasidus was reluctant to pass his suspicions on to his superiors. To begin with, there was no proof. Secondly—and this was more important—he had witnessed what had happened, more than once, to overzealous officers who had contrived to trample on the toes of the influential. To present his captain with a fait accompli, with all the evidence (but of what?) against Heraklion neatly compiled, would be one thing, would almost certainly lead to promotion. To run to him with no more than the vaguest of suspicions, no more than a hunch, actually, could well result in permanent banishment to some dead-end hamlet in the bush.

  Nonetheless, an investigation could bring rewards and, if carried out discreetly and on his own time, would not be too risky. After all, there was no law or regulation to debar any citizen from entry to the créche. Now and again, at the instigation of members like Telemachus, the Council had attempted to encourage visits, although with little success. Perhaps a sudden access of parental feeling would look suspicious—but calling to see a friend, one of the children’s nurses, would not. Too, Achron himself might have noticed something odd, might even be induced to remember and to talk about it.

  “What’s biting you, Sergeant?” asked the bored sentry on duty at the barracks gate.

  Brasidus started. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Oh, come off it!” The man who had served with Brasidus for years and was shortly due for promotion himself, could be permitted liberties. “Anybody’d think you had a solid week’s guard duty ahead of you, instead of your free day.” The sentry yawned widely. “How was the dance, by the way? It’s unlike you to be back so early, especially when you’ve a morning’s lay-in for recuperation.”

  “So-so.”

  “Any good fights?”

  “I don’t know. There seemed to be one starting just as I left.”

  “And you didn’t join in? You must be sickening for something. You’d better see a doctor.”

  “Maybe I’d better. Good night, Leonidas—or should it be good morning?”

  “What does it matter to you? You’ll soon be in your scratcher.”

  On his way to his sleeping quarters Brasidus had to pass the duty sergeant’s desk. That official looked up as he approached. “Oh, Brasidus . . .”

  “I’m off duty, Lysander.”

  “A policeman is never off duty—especially one who is familiar with the routine for spaceport guard duties.” He consulted a pad on his desk. “You, with six constables, are to present yourself at the port at 0600 hours. The men have already been checked off for the duty, and arrangements have been made to have you all called. You’d better get some sleep.”

  “But there’s no ship due. Not for months.”

  “Sergeant Brasidus, you and I are policemen. Neither of us is an expert on astronautical matters. If the Latterhaveneers decide to send an unscheduled ship, and if the Council makes the usual arrangements for its reception, who are we to demand explanations?”

  “It seems . . . odd.”

  “You’re a creature of routine, Brasidus. That’s your trouble. Off with you now, and get some sleep.”

  Once he had undressed and dropped onto the hard, narrow bed in his cubicle he did, rather to his surprise, fall almost at once into a dreamless slumber. And it seemed that only seconds had elapsed when an orderly called him at 0445 hours.

  A cold shower completed the arousing process. He got into his black and silver uniform tunic, buckled on his heavy sandals and then, plumed helmet under his arm, made his way to the mess hall. He was the first one there. He looked with some distaste at the already laid table—the crusty bread, the joints of cold meat, the jugs of weak beer. But he was hungry, and pulled up a form and began his meal. As he was eating, the six constables of his detail came in. He nodded in greeting as they muttered sullenly, “Morning, Sergeant.” Then, “Don’t waste any time,” he admonished. “They’ll be waiting for us at the spaceport.”

  “Let ‘em wait,” growled one of the latecomers. He threw a gnawed bone in the general direction of the trash bucket, missed.

  “That’s enough from you, Hector. I hear that there’s a vacancy for village policeman at Euroka. Want me to recommend you?”

  “No. Their beer’s lousier even than this, and they can’t make wine.”

  “Then watch your step, that’s all.”

  The men got slowly to their feet, wiping their mouths on the back of their hands, halfheartedly dusting the crumbs from the fronts of their tunics. They took their helmets from the hooks on the wall, put them on, then filed slowly from the mess hall to the duty sergeant’s desk. He was waiting for them, already had the armory door unlocked. From it he took, one by one, seven belts, each with two holsters. So, thought Brasidus, this is an actual spaceship landing. Staves and short swords were good enough for ordinary police duties. As the belts were being buckled on, the duty sergeant produced the weapons to go with them. “One stun gun,” he muttered, passing them out. “One projectile pistol. To be used only in extreme urgency. But you know the drill, Sergeant.”

  “I know the drill, Sergeant,” replied Brasidus.

  “We should,” grumbled Hector, “by this time.”

  “I’m telling you,” explained the duty sergeant with ominous patience, “so that if you do something silly, which is all too possible, you won’t be able to say that you weren’t told not to do it.” He came out from behind the desk, inspected the detail. “A fine body of men, Sergeant Brasidus,” he declaimed sardonically. “A credit to the Army. I don’t think. But you’ll do, I suppose. There’ll be nobody there to see you but a bunch of scruffy Latterhaven spacemen.”

  “What if they aren’t from Latterhaven?” asked Brasidus. He was almost as surprised by his question as was the duty sergeant.

  “Where else can they be from? Do you think that the gods have come all the way from Olympus to pay us a call?”

  But if the gods came, it would be, presumably, on the wings of a supernal storm. It would not be a routine spaceship arrival—routine, that is, save for its unscheduled nature.

  The men were silent during the ride to the spaceport.

  Air-cushioned, the police transport sped smoothly over the cobbled streets of the city, the rough roads of the countryside. Dawn was not far off and already the harpies were uttering their raucous cries in the branches of the medusa trees. One of the birds, its wings whirring about its globular body, swept down from its perch and fluttered ahead of the driver’s cab, squawking discordantly. The vehicle swerved. Hector cursed, pulled his projectile pistol, fired. The report was deafening in the still air. The harpy screamed for the last time and fell, a bloody tangle of membrane and cartilage, by the side of the road.

  “Was that necessary, hoplite?” asked Brasidus coldly.

  “You heard what Sergeant Lysander told us, Sergeant.” The man leered. “This was an emergency.”

  Only a bird, thought Brasidus. Only a stupid bird. Even so . . . He asked himself, Am I getting soft? But I can’t be. Not in this job. And in all my relationships I’m the dominant partner.

  The spaceport was ahead now, its latticework control tower looming starkly against the brightening yellow of the eastern sky. Atop the signal mast there was flashing the intense green light that warned of incoming traffic. A ship was due. Latterhaven Venus or Latterhaven Hera? And what would either of them be doing here off season?

  The car halted at the main gates, sitting there on the cloud of dust blown up and around it by its ducts. The guard on duty did not leave his box, merely actuated the mechanism that opened the gateway, waved the police through. As they drove to the Spaceport Security Office, Brasidus saw that the inner barrier was being erected on the concrete apron. He noticed, too, that on
ly one conveyor belt had been rigged, indicating that there would be very little cargo either to load or to discharge. That, at this time of the year, made sense. But why should the ship be coming here at all?

  They were outside the office now. The car stopped, subsided to the ground as its fans slowed to a halt. The constables jumped out, followed Brasidus into the building. To meet them there was Diomedes—corpulent, pallid, with a deceptively flabby appearance—the security captain. He returned Brasidus’ smart salute with a casual wave of his pudgy hand. “Ah, yes. The guard detail. The usual drill, Sergeant. You’re on duty until relieved. Nobody, Spartan or spaceman, to pass through the barrier either way without the Council’s written authority.” He glanced at the wall clock. “For your information, the ship is due at 0700 hours. You may stand down until 0650.”

  “Very good, sir. Thank you, sir,” snapped Brasidus. “If I may ask, sir, which of the two ships is it? “

  “You may ask, Sergeant. But I’m just Security. Nobody ever tells me anything.” He relented slightly. “If you must know, it’s neither of the two regular ships. It’s some wagon with the most unlikely name of Seeker III.”

  “Not like the Latterhaveneers to omit the name of their precious planet,” muttered somebody.

  “But, my dear fellow, the ship’s not from Latterhaven. That’s the trouble. And now, Sergeant, if you’ll come with me I’ll try to put you into the picture. It’s a pity that nobody’s put me into it first.”

  Chapter 4

  THE SHIP THAT WAS NOT from Latterhaven was no more than a glittering speck in the cloudless morning sky when Diomedes, followed by Brasidus and the six hoplites, marched out from the office onto the apron, to the wire mesh barrier that had been erected to define and enclose the strange vessel’s landing place. It was no more than a speck, but it was expanding rapidly, and the rhythmic beat of the inertial drive, faint to begin with, was becoming steadily louder.

  Old Cleon, the port master, was there, his long white hair streaming out in the breeze. With him were other officials, one of whom carried a portable transceiver. Brasidus could overhear both ends of the conversation. He learned little; it was no more than the exchange of messages to be expected with standard landing procedure. Cleon himself did not seem to be very interested. He turned to Diomedes. “Most unprecedented!” he complained. “Most unprecedented. Had it not been for the Council’s direct orders I should have refused permission to land.”

  “It’s not a very large ship,” said Diomedes, squinting upwards.

  “Large enough. Too large, for an intruder. Those rebels on Latterhaven might have let us know that they’ve discovered and colonized other habitable planets.”

  “They, too, must have a security service,” said Diomedes. “Secrets, secrets! How can I run a spaceport when nobody ever tells me anything? Answer me that, Captain!”

  “Descending under full control, to area designated,” reported the man with the transceiver.

  Diomedes turned to his men. “I’ve told Sergeant Brasidus all that I know, and he’s passed it on to you. So keep alert. We’re not expecting any hostile action—but be ready for it. That’s all.”

  Brasidus checked the freedom of his weapons in their holsters. The others followed his example.

  Lower dropped the ship, lower. Even with nothing against which to measure her, it could be seen that she was small—only half the size, perhaps, of Latterhaven Venus or Latterhaven Hera. The gold letters embossed on her side were now readable. “SEEKER III.” (And what, wondered Brasidus, of Seeker I and Seeker II?) And above the name there was a most peculiar badge or symbol. A stylized harpy it looked like—a winged globe surmounted by a five-pointed star. It was nothing like the conventional golden rocker worn on Latterhaven uniforms.

  The ship came at last between the waiting men and the rising sun, casting a long, chill shadow. The throbbing of its engines made speech impossible. And then, suddenly augmenting their beat, there was the drone of other machinery. Slowly, majestically, no less than six of the great airships of the Spartan Navy sailed over the spaceport and then, in line ahead, circled the landing field. Their arrival was clearly not fortuitous. Should Seeker’s crew attempt any hostile action they, and their ship, would be destroyed by a shower of high-explosive bombs—as would be, Brasidus realized, the military ground party and the port officials. The same thought must have occurred to Diomedes. The portly captain looked even unhappier than usual and muttered, “Nobody ever tells me anything.”

  With a crunch of metal on concrete the ship landed, an elongated ovoid quivering on her vaned landing gear, in spite of its bulk somehow conveying the impression that the slightest puff of wind could blow it away. Then, as the engines were shut down, it ceased to vibrate, settled down solidly. There was a loud crack and a jagged fissure appeared in the scarred concrete of the apron. But the strange vessel was not especially heavy. The initial damage had been caused by a clumsy landing of Latterhaven Hera, and Cleon, with months in which to make the necessary repairs, still hadn’t gotten around to it.

  Slowly an airlock door toward the stern of the ship opened. From it, tonguelike, an extensible ramp protruded, wavered, then sought and found the ground. There were beings standing in the airlock chamber. Were they human? Brasidus had read imaginative stories about odd, intelligent lifeforms evolved on other planets—and, after all, this ship could be proof that there were more habitable planets than Sparta and Latterhaven in the universe. Yes, they seemed to be human. Nevertheless, the Sergeant’s hands did not stray far from the butts of his holstered weapons.

  Somebody was coming down the ramp, a man whose attire bore no resemblance to the carelessly informal rig of the Latterhaven spacemen. There was gold on his visored cap, and a double row of gold buttons on his odd tunic, and bands of gold on the sleeves of it. His black trousers were not the shapeless coverings worn for warmth and protection in the hill country, but were shaped to his legs and sharply creased. His black, highly polished footwear afforded complete coverage—and must be, thought Brasidus, wriggling his toes, extremely uncomfortable. He reached the ground, turned and made a gesture toward the open doorway. Another man came out of the airlock, followed the first one to the ground. He, although his uniform was similar, was dressed more sensibly, with a knee-length black kilt instead of the constricting trousers.

  But was it a man, or was it some kind of alien? Brasidus once again recalled those imaginative stories, and the assumption made by some writers that natives of worlds with thin atmospheres would run to abnormal (by Spartan standards) lung development. This being, then, could be deformed, or a mutant, or an alien. Somebody muttered, “What an odd-looking creature!”

  Walking with calm deliberation the two men approached the barrier. The one with the trousered legs called, “Anybody here speak English?” He turned to his companion and said, “That was a silly question to which I should get a silly answer. After all, we’ve been nattering to them on RT all the way in.”

  “We speak Greek,” answered Diomedes.

  The spaceman looked puzzled. “I’m afraid that I don’t. But your English is very good. If you don’t mind, it will have to do.”

  “But we have been speaking Greek all the time.”

  “Something odd here. But skip it. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Commander John Grimes, Interstellar Federation Survey Service. This lady is Doctor Margaret Lazenby, our ethologist . . .”

  Lady, thought Brasidus. Then he must be a member of some other race. The Ladies? I wonder where they come from . . . And such odd names—Johngrimes, Margaretlazenby. But the Latterhaveneers go in for odd names, too.

  Diomedes was making his own self-introduction. “I am Diomedes, Captain of Spaceport Security. Please state your business, Johngrimes.”

  “I’ve already done so. And, as you must know, I received clearance to land.”

  “Then state your business again, Johngrimes.”

  “All right. We’re carrying out the census in this sector of s
pace. Of course, your cooperation isn’t compulsory, but it will be appreciated.”

  “That is a matter for the King and his Council, Lieutenant Commander.”

  “We can wait. Meanwhile, I’d like to comply with all the usual regulations and clear my ship inwards. I’m ready to receive the officers from Port Health and Customs as soon as you like.”

  “We have no need for them here, Lieutenant Commander Johngrimes. My orders are that you and your crew stay on your side of the barrier until such time as you lift off.”

  The strange-looking man was talking to the spaceship commander in a high, angry voice. “But this is impossible, Commander. How can we carry out any sort of survey in these conditions? They distinctly told us that we could land—and now they turn their spaceport into a prison camp just for our benefit. Do something, Commander.”

  Brasidus saw the Captain’s prominent ears redden. Nonetheless, he replied mildly enough, “But this is their world, Miss Lazenby. We’re only guests.”

  “Guests? Prisoners, you mean. A wire barrier around us, and a fleet of antique gasbags cruising over us. Guests, you say!”

  Strange, thought Brasidus, how this peculiar-looking spaceman appears attractive when he’s in a bad temper, while poor Achron and his like just get more and more repulsive . . . And why do I compare him to Achron and the others? A finer bone structure, perhaps, and a more slender body—apart from that shocking deformity—and a higher voice?