To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga (52 page)

This is all I need . . .
thought Grimes, listening to the sudden, irregular warbling of the Manneschenn Drive, recognizing the symptoms of breakdown, time running backward and
déjà vu.
He had another vision—but this time he was not an elderly Survey Service Lieutenant; he was an even more elderly Rim Runners Third Mate. They’d be the only outfit in all the Galaxy that would dream of employing him—but even they would never promote him.

The thin, high keening of the Drive faded to a barely audible hum, then died as the tumbling, ever-precessing gyroscopes slowed to a halt. From the bulkhead speakers came Slovotny’s voice—calm enough, but with more than a hint or urgency. “Captain to Control, please. Captain to Control . . .”

“On my way!” barked Grimes into the nearest speaker/microphone. “Carry on with emergency procedure.”

“All hands secure for Free Fall. All hands secure for Free Fall. The inertial drive will be shut down in precisely thirty seconds.”

“What is happening, Mr. Grimes?” demanded the Commissioner.

“It should be obvious, even to you.”

“It is. Just what one could expect from this ship.”

“It’s not the ship’s fault. She’s had no proper maintenance for months!”

He pushed past the women and the robot, dived into the axial shaft. The greater part of his journey to Control was made in Free Fall conditions. He hoped maliciously that the Commissioner was being spacesick.

At least neither the Commissioner nor her robots had the gall to infest the control room. Grimes sat there, strapped into the command seat, surrounded by his officers. “Report, Mr. Vitelli,” he said to the engineer, who had just come up from the engine room.

“The Drive’s had it, Captain,” Vitelli told him. A greenish pallor showed through the engineer’s dark skin, accentuated by a smear of black grease. “Not only the governor bearings, but the rotor bearings.”

“We have spares, of course.”

“We should have spares, but we don’t. The ones we had were used by the shore gang during the last major overhaul, as far as I can gather from Mr. McCloud’s records. They should have been replaced—but all that’s in the boxes is waste and shavings.”

“Could we cannibalize?” asked Grimes. “From the inertial drive generators?”

“We could—if we had a machine shop to turn the bearings down to size. But that wouldn’t do us much good.”

“Why not?”

“The main rotor’s warped. Until it’s replaced the Drive’s unusable.”

Beadle muttered something about not knowing if it was Christmas Day or last Thursday. Grimes ignored this—although, like all spacemen, he dreaded the temporal consequences of Mannschenn Drive malfunction.

“Sparks—is anybody within easy reach? I could ask for a tow.”

“There’s
Princess Helga,
Captain. Shall I give her a call?”

“Not until I tell you. Mr. Hollister, have you anything to add to what Mr. Slovotny has told me?”

“No, sir.” The telepath’s deep-set eyes were smoldering with resentment, and for a moment Grimes wondered why. Then he realized that the man must have eavesdropped on his quarrel with the Commissioner, had “heard” Grimes’ assertion that he, Hollister, had carried tales to Mrs. Dalwood.
I’m sorry,
Grimes thought.
But how was I to know that that blasted robot was a mind-reader?

“I should have warned you, sir,” admitted Hollister. The others looked at Grimes and Hollister curiously. Grimes could almost hear them thinking,
Should have warned him of what?

“
Princess Helga . . .
” murmured Grimes.

“Light cruiser, Captain,” Slovotny told him. “Royal Skandian Navy.”

“And is the Federation on speaking terms with Skandia?” wondered Grimes audibly. He answered his own question. “Only just. Mphm. Well, there’s no future—or too bloody much future!—in sitting here until somebody really friendly chances along. Get the
Princess
on the Carlotti, Sparks. Give her our coordinates. Ask her for assistance. Perhaps her engineers will be able to repair our Drive, otherwise they can tow us to the nearest port.”

“Shouldn’t we report first to Base, Captain?” asked Slovotny.

Yes, we should,
thought Grimes.
But I’m not going to. I’ll put out a call for assistance before Her Highness shoves her oar in. After that—
she
can have a natter to Base. He said,
“
Get the signal away to Princess Helga.
Tell her complete Mannschenn Drive breakdown. Request assistance.
You
know.”

“Ay, Captain.” Slovotny busied himself at his Carlotti transceiver. The pilot antenna, the elliptical Mobius strip rotating about its long axis, quivered, started to turn, hunting over the bearing along which the Skandian cruiser, invisible to optical instruments, unreachable by ordinary radio—which, in any case, would have had far too great a time lag—must lie.

“Locked on,” announced the radio officer at last. He pushed the button that actuated the calling signal. Then he spoke into the microphone. “
Adder
to
Princess Helga. Adder
to
Princess Helga.
Can you read me? Come in, please.”

There was the slightest of delays, and then the swirl of colors in the little glowing screen coalesced to form a picture. The young woman looking out at them could have been Princess Helga (whoever
she
was) herself. She was blue-eyed, and hefty, and her uniform cap did nothing to confine the tumbling masses of her yellow hair.

“
Princess Helga
to
Adder.
I read you loud and clear. Pass your message.”

“Complete interstellar drive breakdown,” said Slovotny. “Request assistance—repairs if possible, otherwise tow. Coordinates . . .” He rattled off a string of figures from the paper that von Tannenbaum handed him.

The girl was replaced by a man. He should have been wearing a horned helmet instead of a cap. His eyes were blue, his hair and beard were yellow. He grinned wolfishly. He demanded, “Your Captain, please.”

Grimes released himself from his own chair, pulled himself into the one vacated by Slovotny. “Lieutenant Grimes here, Officer Commanding Courier Ship
Adder.
”

“Captain Olaf Andersen here, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”

“Can your engineers repair my Drive?”

“I doubt it. They couldn’t change a fuse.”

“What about a tow to Dhartana?”

“Out of the question, Captain. But I can take you in to my own Base, on Skandia. The repair facilities there are excellent.”

Grimes weighed matters carefully before answering. Skandia, one of the small, independent kingdoms, was only just on speaking terms with the Interstellar Federation. At the very best the Skandians would charge heavily for the tow, would present a fantastically heavy bill for the repair work carried out by their yard. (But he, Grimes, would not be paying it.) At the worst,
Adder
and her people might be interned, could become the focus of a nasty little interstellar incident, a source of acute embarrassment to the Survey Service.
And so,
Grimes asked himself mutinously,
what?
That Promotion List had made him dangerously dissatisfied with his lot, the Commissioner had strained what loyalties remained to the breaking point. The Commissioner . . .

“What exactly
is
going on here?” she asked coldly.

So she was getting in his hair again.

“I’m arranging a tow,” Grimes told her. “The alternative is to hang here . . .” he gestured towards the viewports, to the outside blackness, to the sharp, bright, unwinking, distant stars . . . “in the middle of sweet damn all, thinking more and more seriously of cannibalism with every passing day.”

“Very funny, Lieutenant.” She stared at the screen. “Is that officer wearing
Skandian
uniform?”

“Of course, Madam,” replied the Skandian Captain, who seemed to be very quick on the uptake. “Captain Olaf Andersen, at your service.” He smiled happily. “And you, if I am not mistaken, are Mrs. Commissioner Dalwood, of the Federation’s Board of Admiralty. According to our latest Intelligence reports you are
en route
to Dhartana.” He smiled again. “Delete ‘are.’ Substitute ‘were.’”

“Mr. Grimes, I forbid you to accept a tow from that vessel.”

“Mrs. Dalwood, as commanding officer of this ship I must do all I can to ensure her safety, and that of her people.”

“Mr. Slovotny, you will put through a call to Lindisfarne Base at once, demanding immediate assistance.”

Slovotny looked appealingly at Grimes. Grimes nodded glumly. The grinning face of the Skandian faded from the screen, was replaced by a swirl of color as the pilot antenna swung away from its target. Sound came from the speaker—but it was a loud warbling note only. The radio officer worked desperately at the controls of the Carlotti transceiver. Then he looked up and announced, “They’re jamming our signals; they have some very sophisticated equipment, and they’re only light minutes distant.”

“Are you sure you can’t get through?” demanded the Commissioner.

“Quite sure,” Slovotny told her definitely.

She snorted, turned to Hollister. “Mr. Hollister, I’ll have to rely on you.”

“What about your own chrome-plated telepath?” Grimes asked her nastily.

She glared at him. “John’s transmission and reception is only relatively short range. And he can’t work with an organic amplifier, as your Mr. Hollister can.”

“And
my
organic amplifier’s on the blink,” said Hollister.

“What do you mean?” demanded Grimes.

The telepath explained patiently. “There has to be a . . . relationship between a psionic communications officer and his amplifier. The amplifier, of course, is a living dog’s brain . . .”

“I know, I know,” the Commissioner snapped. “Get on with it.”

Hollister would not be hurried. “The relationship is that which exists between a kind master and a faithful dog—but deeper, much deeper. Normally we carry our own, personal amplifiers with us, from ship to ship, but mine died recently, and so I inherited Mr. Deane’s. I have been working hard, ever since I joined this ship, to win its trust, its affection. I was making headway, but I was unable to give it the feeling of security it needed when the temporal precession field of the Drive started to fluctuate. The experience can be terrifying enough to a human being who knows what is happening; it is even more terrifying to a dog. And so . . .”

“And so?” demanded the woman.

“And so the amplifier is useless, possibly permanently.” He added brightly, “But I can get in touch with
Princess Helga
any time you want.”

“You needn’t bother,” she snarled. Then, to Grimes, “Of all the ships in the Survey Service, why did I have to travel in this one?”

Why?
echoed Grimes silently.
Why?

Even the Commissioner was obliged to give Captain Andersen and his crew full marks for spacemanship.
Princess Helga
emerged into normal space-time only feet from the drifting
Adder.
At one moment there was nothing beyond the courier’s viewports but the blackness of interstellar space, the bright, distant stars—at the next moment she was there, a vague outline at first, but solidifying rapidly. She hung there, a great spindle of gleaming plastic and metal, the sleekness of her lines marred by turrets and antennae. Another second—and the shape of her was obscured by the tough pneumatic fenders that inflated with almost explosive rapidity. Another second—and
Adder’s
people heard and felt the thump of the magnetic grapnels as they made contact.

Andersen’s pleasant, slightly accented voice came from the transceiver. “I have you, Captain. Stand by for acceleration. Stand by for resumption of Mannschenn Drive.”

“I suppose that your temporal precession field will cover us?” asked Grimes.

“Of course. In any case there is physical contact between your ship and mine.”

“Where are you taking us?” demanded Mrs. Dalwood.

“To Kobenhaven, of course, Madam. Our Base on Skandia.”

“I insist that you tow us to the nearest spaceport under Federation jurisdiction.”

“You insist, Madam?” Grimes, looking at the screen, could see that Andersen was really enjoying himself. As long as somebody was . . . “I’m sorry, but I have my orders.”

“This is piracy!” she flared.

“Piracy, Madam? The captain of your ship requested a tow, and a tow is what he’s getting. Beggars can’t be choosers. In any case, Space Law makes it quite plain that the choice of destination is up to the officer commanding the vessel towing, not the captain of the vessel towed.”

She said, almost pleading but not quite, “In these circumstances the Federation could be generous.”

Andersen lost his smile. He said, “I am a Skandian, Madam. My loyalty is to my own planet, my own Service. Stand by for acceleration.”

The screen went blank. Acceleration pushed the group in
Adder’s
control room down into their chairs; Mrs. Dalwood was able to reach a spare seat just in time. Faintly, the vibration transmitted along the tow wires, they heard and felt the irregular throbbing of
Princess Helga’s
inertial drive—and almost coincidentally there was the brief period of temporal-spatial disorientation as the field of the cruiser’s Mannschenn Drive encompassed both ships.

“You realize what this means to your career,” said the Commissioner harshly.

“What was that?” asked Grimes. He had been trying to work out how it was that
Princess Helga
had been able to start up her inertial drive before the interstellar drive, how it was that there had been no prior lining up on a target star.

“You realize what this means to your career,” repeated the woman.

“I haven’t got one,” said Grimes. “Not any longer.”