“Is zis,” spat Blanchard, ready to sling it through the nearest port if Cassidy would first donate the two pins.
Working his way down the sheet, Cassidy got nearer and nearer while nervous tension built up. Then he reached the critical point and said, “V1098. Offog, one.”
“Morbleu!” said Blanchard, shooting sparks from his eyes, “I have say before an’ I say again, zere never was—”
“The offog is in the radio room, sir,” McNaught chipped in hurriedly.
“Indeed?” Cassidy took another look at the sheet. “Then why is it recorded along with galley equipment?”
“It was placed in the galley at time of fitting-out, sir. It’s one of those portable instruments left to us to fix up where most suitable.”
“Hm-m-m! Then it should have been transferred to the radio room list. Why didn’t you transfer it?”
“I thought it better to wait for your authority to do so, sir.”
The fish-eyes registered gratification. “Yes, that is quite proper of you, Captain. I will transfer it now.” He crossed the item from sheet nine, initialed it, entered it on sheet sixteen, initialed that. “V1099. Inscribed collar, leather . . . oh, yes, I’ve seen that. The dog was wearing it.”
He ticked it. An hour later he strutted into the radio room. Burman stood up, squared his shoulders but could not keep his feet or hands from fidgeting. His eyes protruded slightly and kept straying toward McNaught in silent appeal. He was like a man wearing a porcupine in his britches.
* * * *
“V1098. Offog, one,” said Cassidy in his usual tone of brooking no nonsense.
Moving with the jerkiness of a slightly uncoordinated robot, Burman pawed a small box fronted with dials, switches, and colored lights. It looked like a radio ham’s idea of a fruit machine. He knocked down a couple of switches. The lights came on, played around in intriguing combinations.
“This is it, sir,” he informed with difficulty.
“Ah!” Cassidy left his chair and moved across for a closer look. “I don’t recall having seen this item before. But there are so many different models of the same things. Is it still operating efficiently?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s one of the most useful things in the ship,” contributed McNaught, for good measure.
“What does it do?” inquired Cassidy, inviting Burman to cast a pearl of wisdom before him.
Burman paled.
Hastily, McNaught said, “A full explanation would be rather involved and technical but, to put it as simply as possible, it enables us to strike a balance between opposing gravitational fields. Variations in lights indicate the extent and degree of unbalance at any given time.”
“It’s a clever idea,” added Burman, made suddenly reckless by this news, “based on Finagle’s Constant.”
“I see,” said Cassidy, not seeing at all. He resumed his seat, ticked the offog and carried on. “Z44. Switchboard, automatic, forty-line intercom, one of.”
“Here it is, sir.”
Cassidy glanced at it, returned his gaze to the sheet. The others used his momentary distraction to mop perspiration from their foreheads.
Victory had been gained.
All was well.
For the third time, hah!
* * * *
Rear Admiral Vane W. Cassidy departed pleased and complimentary. Within one hour the crew bolted to town. McNaught took turns with Gregory at enjoying the gay lights. For the next five days all was peace and pleasure.
On the sixth day, Burman brought in a signal, dumped it upon McNaught’s desk, and waited for the reaction. He had an air of gratification, the pleasure of one whose virtue is about to be rewarded.
Terran Headquarters to Bustler. Return here immediately for overhaul and refitting. Improved power plant to be installed. Feldman. Navy Op. Command. Sirisec.
“Back to Terra,” commented McNaught, happily. “And an overhaul will mean at least one month’s leave.” He eyed Burman. “Tell all officers on duty to go to town at once and order the crew aboard. The men will come running when they know why.”
“Yes, sir,” said Burman, grinning.
Everyone was still grinning two weeks later when the Siriport had receded far behind and Sol had grown to a vague speck in the sparkling mist of the bow starfield. Eleven weeks still to go, but it was worth it. Back to Terra. Hurrah!
In the captain’s cabin, the grins abruptly vanished one evening when Burman suddenly developed the willies. He marched in, chewed his bottom lip while waiting for McNaught to finish writing in the log.
Finally, McNaught pushed the book away, glanced up, frowned. “What’s the matter with you? Got a bellyache or something?”
“No, sir. I’ve been thinking.”
“Does it hurt that much?”
“I’ve been thinking,” persisted Burman in funereal tones. “We’re going back for overhaul. You know what that means? We’ll walk off the ship and a horde of experts will walk onto it.” He stared tragically at the other. “Experts, I said.”
“Naturally they’ll be experts,” McNaught agreed. “Equipment cannot be tested and brought up to scratch by a bunch of dopes.”
“It will require more than a mere expert to bring the offog up to scratch,” Burman pointed out. “It’ll need a genius.
McNaught rocked back, swapped expressions like changing masks. “Jumping Judas! I’d forgotten all about that thing. When we get to Terra we won’t blind those boys with science.”
“No, sir, we won’t,” endorsed Burman. He did not add “any more,” but his face shouted aloud, “You got me into this. You get me out of it.” He waited a time while McNaught did some intense thinking, then prompted, “What do you suggest, sir?”
Slowly the satisfied smile returned to McNaught’s features as he answered, “Break up the contraption and feed it into the disintegrator.”
“That doesn’t solve the problem,” said Burman. “We’ll still be short an offog.”
“No, we won’t. Because I’m going to signal its loss owing to the hazards of space-service.” He closed one eye in an emphatic wink. “We’re in free flight right now.” He reached for a message-pad and scribbled on it while Burman stood by vastly relieved.
Bustler to Terran Headquarters. Item V1098, Offog, one, came apart under gravitational stress while passing through twin-sun field Hector Major-Minor. Material used as fuel. McNaught, Commander. Bustler.
Burman took it to the radio room and beamed it Earthward. All was peace and progress for another two days. The next time he went to the captain’s cabin he went running and worried.
“General call, sir,” he announced breathlessly and thrust the message into the other’s hands.
Terran Headquarters for relay all sectors. Urgent and Important. All ships grounded forthwith. Vessels in flight under official orders will make for nearest spaceport pending further instructions. Welling. Alarm and Rescue Command. Terra.
“Something’s gone bust,” commented McNaught, undisturbed. He traipsed to the chart room, Burman following. Consulting the charts, he dialed the intercom phone, got Pike in the bow and ordered, “There’s a panic. All ships grounded. We’ve got to make for Zaxtedport, about three days’ run away. Change course at once. Starboard seventeen degrees, declination ten.” Then he cut off, griped, “Bang goes that sweet month on Terra. I never did like Zaxted, either. It stinks. The crew will feel murderous about this, and I don’t blame them.”
“What d’you think has happened, sir?” asked Burman. He looked both uneasy and annoyed.
“Heaven alone knows. The last general call was seven years ago when the Starider exploded halfway along the Mars run. They grounded every ship in existence while they investigated the cause.” He rubbed his chin, pondered, went on, “And the call before that one was when the entire crew of the Blowgun went nuts. Whatever it is this time, you can bet it’s serious.”
“It wouldn’t be the start of a space war?”
“Agains
t whom?” McNaught made a gesture of contempt. “Nobody has the ships with which to oppose us. No, it’s something technical. We’ll learn of it eventually. They’ll tell us before we reach Zaxted or soon afterward.”
They did tell him. Within six hours. Burman rushed in with face full of horror.
“What’s eating you now?” demanded McNaught, staring at him.
“The offog,” stuttered Burman. He made motions as though brushing off invisible spiders.
“What of it?”
“It’s a typographical error. In your copy it should read off. dog.”
The commander stared owlishly.
“Off. dog?” echoed McNaught, making it sound like foul language.
“See for yourself.” Dumping the signal on the desk, Burman bolted out, left the door swinging. McNaught scowled after him, picked up the message.
Terran Headquarters to Bustler. Your report V1098, ship’s official dog Peaslake. Detail fully circumstances and manner in which animal came apart under gravitational stress. Cross-examine crew and signal all coincidental symptoms experienced by them. Urgent and Important. Welling. Alarm and Rescue Command. Terra.
In the privacy of his cabin McNaught commenced to eat his nails. Every now and again he went a little cross-eyed as he examined them for nearness to the flesh.
* * * *
Copyright © 1955 by Street and Smith Publications, Inc. Reproduced by permission of Pollinger Limited and the Estate of Eric Frank Russell.
JAMES H. SCHMITZ
(1911–1981)
James Schmitz is probably best-remembered for the novel that grew out of “The Witches of Karres.” Nearly all of his writing is set in the same Hub universe as this story. He had a knack for space opera filled with quirky humor, strong female characters, and odd bureaucracies. In recent years, his work has seen something of a revival, with new editions published by Baen, as edited and revised by Eric Flint.
Born abroad to American parents, Schmitz lived in Germany until shortly before the outbreak of World War II, then spent the war as a photographer with the U.S. Army Air Force. His first story, “Greenface” was published during the war, though he didn’t become a full-time writer until 1959.
It’s easy to forget how atypical this story was in 1949, when female characters were most likely to be bringing male characters drinks on trays or being menaced by aliens. Unlike many stories with lighter tones, the humor here has aged very well.
THE WITCHES OF KARRES, by James H. Schmitz
First published in Astounding Science Fiction, December 1949
I.
It was around the hub of the evening on the planet of Porlumma when Captain Pausert, commercial traveler from the Republic of Nikkeldepain, met the first of the witches of Karres.
It was just plain fate, so far as he could see.
He was feeling pretty good as he left a high-priced bar on a cobbled street near the spaceport, with the intention of returning straight to his ship. There hadn’t been an argument, exactly. But someone had grinned broadly, as usual, when the captain pronounced the name of his native system; and the captain had pointed out then, with considerable wit, how much more ridiculous it was to call a planet Porlumma, for instance, than to call it Nikkeldepain.
He then proceeded to collect an increasing number of pained stares as he continued with a detailed comparison of the varied, interesting, and occasionally brilliant role Nikkeldepain had played in history with Porlumma’s obviously dull and dumpy status as a sixth-rate Empire outpost.
In conclusion, he admitted frankly that he wouldn’t care to be found dead on Porlumma.
Somebody muttered loudly in Imperial Universum that in that case it might be better if he didn’t hang around Porlumma too long. But the captain only smiled politely, paid for his two drinks, and left.
There was no point in getting into a rhubarb on one of these border planets. Their citizens still had an innocent notion that they ought to act like frontiersmen—but then the Law always showed up at once.
He felt pretty good. Up to the last four months of his young life, he had never looked on himself as being particularly patriotic. But compared to most of the Empire’s worlds, Nikkeldepain was downright attractive in its stuffy ways. Besides, he was returning there solvent—would they ever be surprised!
And awaiting him, fondly and eagerly, was Illyla, the Miss Onswud, fair daughter of the mighty Councilor Onswud, and the captain’s secretly betrothed for almost a year. She alone had believed in him!
The captain smiled and checked at a dark cross-street to get his bearings on the spaceport beacon. Less than half a mile away—He set off again. In about six hours, he’d be beyond the Empire’s space borders and headed straight for Illyla.
Yes, she alone had believed! After the prompt collapse of the captain’s first commercial venture—a miffel-fur farm, largely on capital borrowed from Councilor Onswud—the future had looked very black. It had even included a probable ten-year stretch of penal servitude for “willful and negligent abuse of entrusted monies.” The laws of Nikkeldepain were rough on debtors.
“But you’ve always been looking for someone to take out the old Venture and get her back into trade!” Illyla reminded her father tearfully.
“Umm, yes! But it’s in the blood, my dear! His great-uncle Threbus went the same way! It would be far better to let the law take its course,” Councilor Onswud said, glaring at Pausert who remained sulkily silent. He had tried to explain that the mysterious epidemic which suddenly wiped out most of the stock of miffels wasn’t his fault. In fact, he more than suspected the tricky hand of young Councilor Rapport who had been wagging futilely around Illyla for the last couple of years!
“The Venture, now—!” Councilor Onswud mused, stroking his long, craggy chin. “Pausert can handle a ship, at least,” he admitted.
That was how it happened. Were they ever going to be surprised! For even the captain realized that Councilor Onswud was unloading all the dead fish that had gathered the dust of his warehouses for the past fifty years on him and the Venture, in a last, faint hope of getting some return on those half-forgotten investments. A value of eighty-two thousand maels was placed on the cargo; but if he’d brought even three-quarters of it back in cash, all would have been well.
Instead—well, it started with that lucky bet on a legal point with an Imperial official at the Imperial capital itself. Then came a six-hour race fairly won against a small, fast private yacht—the old Venture 7333 had been a pirate-chaser in the last century and still could produce twice the speed her looks suggested. From then on the captain was socially accepted as a sporting man and was in on a long string of jovial parties and meets.
Jovial and profitable—the wealthier Imperials just couldn’t resist a gamble, and the penalty the captain always insisted on was that they had to buy!
He got rid of the stuff right and left! Inside of twelve weeks, nothing remained of the original cargo except two score bundles of expensively built but useless tinklewood fishing rods and one dozen gross bales of useful but unattractive all-weather cloaks. Even on a bet, nobody would take them! But the captain had a strong hunch they had been hopefully added to the cargo from his own stocks by Councilor Rapport; so his failure to sell them didn’t break his heart.
He was a neat twenty percent net ahead, at that point—
And finally came this last-minute rush delivery of medical supplies to Porlumma on the return route. That haul alone would repay the miffel farm losses three times over!
* * * *
The captain grinned broadly into the darkness. Yes, they’d be surprised—but just where was he now?
He checked again in the narrow street, searching for the port beacon in the sky. There it was—off to his left and a little behind him. He’d gotten turned around somehow!
He set off carefully down an excessively dark little alley. It was one of those towns where everybody locked their front doors at night and retired to lit-up enclosed courtyards at the backs o
f the houses. There were voices and the rattling of dishes nearby and occasional whoops of laughter and singing all around him; but it was all beyond high walls which let little or no light into the alley.
It ended abruptly in a cross-alley and another wall. After a moment’s debate the captain turned to the left again. Light spilled out on his new route a hundred yards ahead where a courtyard was opened on the alley. From it, as he approached, came the sound of doors being violently slammed and then a sudden loud mingling of voices.
“Yeee-eep!” shrilled a high, childish voice. It could have been mortal agony, terror, or even hysterical laughter. The captain broke into an apprehensive trot.
“Yes, I see you up there!” a man shouted excitedly in Universum. “I caught you now—you get down from those boxes! I’ll skin you alive! Fifty-two customers sick of the stomach-ache—YOW!”
The last exclamation was accompanied by a sound as of a small, loosely built wooden house collapsing, and was followed by a succession of squeals and an angry bellowing, in which the only distinguishable words were: “…threw the boxes on me!” Then more sounds of splintering wood. “Hey!” yelled the captain indignantly from the corner of the alley.
All action ceased. The narrow courtyard, brightly illuminated by a single overhead light, was half covered with a tumbled litter of empty wooden boxes. Standing with his foot temporarily caught in one of them was a very large, fat man dressed all in white and waving a stick. Momentarily cornered between the wall and two of the boxes, over one of which she was trying to climb, was a smallish, fair-haired girl dressed in a smock of some kind which was also white. She might be about fourteen, the captain thought—a helpless kid, anyway.
“What you want?” grunted the fat man, pointing the stick with some dignity at the captain.
Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction Page 267