Upon a Sea of Stars (3 page)
Read Upon a Sea of Stars Online
Authors: A. Bertram Chandler
Chapter 4
A WEEK PASSED,
and for Commodore Grimes it was an exceptionally busy one.
Rim Mammoth
—ex-
Beta Geminorum
—had berthed, and that ship, as usual, was justifying her reputation as the white elephant of Rim Runners’ fleet. A large consignment of fish had spoiled on the passage from Mellise to Lorn. The Chief Reaction Drive Engineer had been beaten up in the course of a drunken brawl with the Purser. The Second, Third and Fourth Officers had stormed into the Astronautical Superintendent’s presence to aver that they would sooner shovel sludge in the State Sewage Farm than lift as much as another centimeter from a planetary surface under the command of the
Mammoth
’s Master and Chief Officer. Even so, Grimes found time to initiate his preliminary inquiries. To begin with, he had his secretary draw up a questionnaire, this asking for all relevant data on the sighting of Rim Ghosts. It seemed to him that Sonya Verrill would require for her crew personnel who were in the habit of sighting such apparitions. Then, having come to the reluctant conclusion that a lightjammer would be the most suitable research ship, he studied the schedules of such vessels as were in operation, trying to work out which one could be withdrawn from service with the minimal dislocation of the newly developed trade with the anti-matter systems.
Rather to his annoyance, Miss Willoughby issued copies of the questionnaire to the crew of the only ship at the time in port—
Rim Mammoth
. The officers of that vessel were all in his black books, and it had been his intention to split them up, to transfer them to smaller and less well-appointed units of the fleet. Nonetheless, he studied the forms with interest when they were returned. He was not surprised by what he discovered. The Master and the Chief Officer, both of whom had come out to the Rim from the Interplanetary Transport Commission’s ships, had no sightings to report—Captain Jenkins, in fact, had scrawled across the paper,
Superstitious Rubbish!
The Second, Third and Fourth Officers, together with the Psionic Radio Officer, were all third generation Rim Worlders, and all of them had been witnesses, on more than one occasion, to the odd phenomena.
Grimes ceased to be annoyed with Miss Willoughby. It looked as though the manning problem was already solved, insofar as executive officers were concerned. The Second, Third and Fourth Mates of
Rim Mammoth
were all due for promotion, and Captain Jenkins’ adverse report on their conduct and capabilities could well result in the transfer of their names to the bottom of the list. So there was scope for a little gentle blackmail. Volunteers wanted for a Rim Ghost hunt! You, and you, and you!
But there was a snag. None of them had any sail training. How soon would Sonya Verrill want her ship? Would there be time to put the officers concerned through a hasty course in the handling of lightjammers? No doubt he would be able to find a team of suitably qualified men in the existing lightjammer fleet, but all of them were too useful where they were.
It was while he was mulling this problem over in his mind that Commander Verrill was announced. She came into his office carrying a long envelope. She held it out to him, grinning. “Sealed orders, Commodore.”
Grimes accepted the package, studying it cautiously. It bore the crest of the Rim Confederation.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“What’s the rush?” he grunted.
But he picked up the paper knife from his desk—it had been the deadly horn of a Mellisan sea unicorn—and slit the envelope, pulling out the contents.
He skipped the needlessly complicated legal language while, at the same time, getting the gist of it. As a result of talks between the President of the Rim Worlds Confederation and the Ambassador of the Interstellar Federation, it had been decided that the Confederation was to afford to the Federation’s Survey Service all possible assistance—at a price. One Commodore Grimes was empowered to negotiate directly with one Commander Verrill regarding the time charter of a suitable vessel and the employment of all necessary personnel. . . .
Grimes read on—and then he came to the paragraph that caused him to raise his eyebrows in surprise.
Commodore Grimes was granted indefinite leave of absence from his post of Astronautical Superintendent of Rim Runners, and was to arrange to hand over to Captain Farley as soon as possible. Commodore Grimes was to sail as Master of the vessel chartered by the Survey Service, and at all times was to further and protect the interests of the Rim Confederation. . . .
Grimes grunted, looked up at the woman from under his heavy eyebrows. “Is this your doing, Sonya?”
“Partly. But in large measure it’s due to the reluctance of your government to entrust one of its precious ships to an outsider.”
“But why me?”
She grinned again. “I said that if I were obliged to ship a Rim Confederation sailing master, I insisted on exercising some little control over the appointment. Then we all agreed that there was only one Master of sufficiently proven reliability to meet the requirements of all concerned . . .” She looked a little worried. “Aren’t you glad, John?”
“It’s rather short notice,” he replied tersely and then, as he watched her expression, he smiled. “Frankly, Sonya, before you blew in aboard
Star Roamer
I’d decided that I was sick and tired of being a desk-borne Commodore. This crazy expedition of yours will be better than a holiday.”
She snapped, “It’s not crazy.”
His eyebrows went up. “No? An interstellar ghost hunt?”
“Come off it, John. You know as well as I that the Rim Ghosts are objective phenomena. It’s a case of paranormal physics rather than paranormal psychology. It’s high time that somebody ran an investigation—and if you people are too tired to dedigitate, then somebody else will.”
Grimes chuckled. “All right, all right, I’ve never seen a Rim Ghost myself, but the evidence is too—massive?—to laugh away. So, while Miss Willoughby starts getting my papers into something like order for Captain Farley—he’s on leave at present, so we won’t have long to wait for him—we’ll talk over the terms of the charter party.
“To begin with, I assume that you’ll be wanting one of the lightjammers.
Cutty Sark
will be available very shortly.”
She told him, “No. I don’t want a lightjammer.”
“I would have thought that one would have been ideal for this . . . research.”
“Yes. I know all about Captain Ralph Listowel and what happened to him and his crew on the maiden voyage of
Aeriel
. But there’s one big snag. When
Aeriel
’s people switched Time Tracks, they also, to a large extent, switched personalities. When I visit the Universe next door I want to do it as me, not as a smudged carbon copy.”
“Then what sort of ship do you want?”
She looked out of the window. “I was hoping that your
Faraway Quest
would be available.”
“As a matter of fact, she is.”
“And she has more gear than most of your merchant shipping. A Mass Proximity Indicator, for example . . .”
“Yes.”
“Carlotti Communication and Direction Finding Equipment?”
“Yes.”
Then, “I know this is asking rather much—but could a sizeable hunk of that anti-matter iron be installed?”
He grinned at her. “Your intelligence service isn’t quite as good as you’d have us believe, Sonya. The
Quest
has no anti-matter incorporated in her structure yet—as you know, it’s not allowed within a hundred miles of any populated area. But there’s a suitably sized sphere of the stuff hanging in orbit, and there it stays until
Faraway Quest
goes upstairs to collect it. You know the drill, of course—the antimatter, then an insulation of neutronium, than a steel shell with powerful permanent magnets built into it to keep the anti-matter from making contact with normal matter. A neutrino bombardment and, presto!—anti-gravity. As a matter of fact the reason for the
Quest’s
refitting was so that she could be used for research into the problems arising from incorporating anti-gravity into a ship with normal interstellar drive.”
“Good. Your technicians had better see to the installing of the anti-matter, and then ours—there’s a bunch of them due in from Elsinore in
Rim Bison
—will be making a few modifications to the Carlotti gear. Meanwhile, have you considered manning?”
“I have. But, before we go any further, just what modifications do you have in mind? I may as well make it clear now that the Carlotti gear will have to be restored to an as-was condition before the ship comes off hire.”
“Don’t worry, it will be. Or brand new equipment will be installed.” She paused and glanced meaningfully at the coffee dispenser. Grimes drew her a cup, then one for himself. “Well, John, I suppose you’re all agog to learn what’s going to happen to your beloved
Faraway Quest
, to say nothing of you and me and the mugs who sail with us. Get this straight, I’m no boffin. I can handle a ship and navigate well enough to justify my Executive Branch commission, but that’s all.
“Anyhow, this is the way of it, errors and omissions expected. As soon as the necessary modifications have been made to the ship, we blast off, and then cruise along the lanes on which Rim Ghost sightings have been most frequent. It will help, of course, if all members of the crew are people who’ve made a habit of seeing Rim Ghosts . . .”
“That’s been attended to,” said Grimes.
“Good. So we cruise along quietly and peacefully—but keeping our eyes peeled. And as soon as Ghost is sighted—Action Stations!”
“You aren’t going to open fire on it?” demanded Grimes.
“Of course not. But there will be things to be done, and done in a ruddy blush. The officer of the watch will push a button that will convert the ship into an enormously powerful electro-magnet, and the same switch will actuate the alarm bells. Automatically the projector of the modified Carlotti beacon will swing to bring the Ghost into its field. The boffins tell me that what
should
happen is that a bridge, a temporary bridge, will be thrown across the gulf between the Parallel Universes.”
“I see. And as
Faraway Quest
is an enormously powerful magnet, the other ship, the Ghost, will be drawn into our Universe.”
“No,” she said impatiently. “Have you forgotten the anti-matter, the anti-gravity? The
Quest
will have one helluva magnetic field, but no mass to speak of. She’ll be the one that gets pulled across the gap, or through the curtain, or however else you care to put it.”
“And how do we get back?” asked Grimes.
“I’m not very clear on that point myself,” she admitted.
The Commodore laughed. “So when I man the
Quest
it will have to be with people with no ties.” He said softly, “I have none.”
“And neither have I, John,” she told him. “Not any longer.”
Chapter 5
CAPTAIN FARLEY
was somewhat disgruntled at being called back from leave, but was mollified slightly when Grimes told him that he would be amply compensated. As soon as was decently possible the Commodore left Farley to cope with whatever problems relative to the efficient running of Rim Runners arose—after all, it was Miss Willoughby who really ran the show—and threw himself into the organizing of Sonya Verrill’s expedition. What irked him was the amount of time wasted on legal matters. There was the charter, of course, and then there was the reluctance of Lloyd’s surveyors to pass as space-worthy a ship in which Mannschenn Drive and antimatter were combined, not to say one in which the Carlotti gear had been modified almost out of recognition. Finally Sonya Verrill was obliged to play hell with a Survey Service big stick, and the gentlemen from Lloyd’s withdrew, grumbling.
Manning, too, was a problem. The Second, Third and Fourth Mates of
Rim Mastodon
agreed, quite willingly, to sign on
Faraway Quest’s
articles as Chief, Second and Third. The Psionic Radio Officer was happy to come along with them. After a little prodding at the ministerial level the Catering and Engineering Superintendents supplied personnel for their departments. And then the Institute of Spacial Engineers stepped in, demanding for its members the payment of Danger Money, this to be 150% of the salaries laid down by the Award. Grimes was tempted to let them have it—after all, it was the Federation’s taxpayers who would be footing the bill—and then, on second thoughts, laid his ears back and refused to play. He got over the hurdle rather neatly, persuading the Minister of Shipping and the Minister for the Navy to have
Faraway Quest
commissioned as an auxiliary cruiser and all her officers—who were, of course, reservists, called up for special duties. Like Lloyd’s, the Institute retired grumbling.
As a matter of fact, Grimes was rather grateful to them for having forced his hand. Had the
Quest
blasted off as a specialized merchant vessel only, with her crew on Articles, his own status would have been merely that of a shipmaster, and Sonya Verrill, representing the Survey Service, would have piled on far too many gees. Now he was a Commodore on active service, and, as such, well and truly outranked any mere Commander, no matter what pretty badge she wore on her cap. It was, he knew well, no more than a matter of male pride, but the way that things finally were he felt much happier.
So, after the many frustrating delays,
Faraway Quest
finally lifted from her berth at the Lorn spaceport. Grimes was rusty, and knew it, and allowed young Swinton—lately Second Officer of
Rim Mammoth
, now Lieutenant Commander Swinton, First Lieutenant of R.W.S.
Faraway Quest
—to take the ship upstairs. Grimes watched critically from one of the spare acceleration chairs, Sonya Verrill watched critically from the other. Swinton—slight, fair-haired, looking like a schoolboy in a grown-up’s cut-down uniform—managed well in spite of his audience. The old
Quest
climbed slowly at first, then with rapidly increasing acceleration, whistling through the overcast into the clear air beyond, the fast thinning air, into the vacuum of Space.
Blast-off time had been calculated with considerable exactitude—“If it had been more exact,” commented Grimes, “we’d have rammed our hunk of anti-matter and promptly become the wrong sort of ghosts . . .”—and so there was the minimum jockeying required to match orbits with the innocent-looking sphere of shining steel. The
Quest
had brought a crew of fitters up with her men with experience of handling similar spheres. Working with an economy of motion that was beautiful to watch they gentled the thing in through the special hatch that had been made for it, bolted it into its seating. Then it was the turn of the physicists, who set up their apparatus and bathed the anti-iron in a flood of neutrinos. While this operation was in progress, two tanker rockets stood by, pumping tons of water into the extra tanks that had been built into the
Quest’s
structure. This, Grimes explained to his officers, was to prevent her from attaining negative mass and flying out of her orbit, repelled rather than attracted by Lorn and the Lorn sun, blown out of station before the landing of the assorted technicians and the loading of final essential items of stores and equipment.
At last all the preliminaries were completed.
Faraway Quest
was fully manned, fully equipped, and all the dockyard employees had made their transfer to the ferry rocket. This time Grimes assumed the pilot’s chair. Through the viewports he could see the globe that was Lorn, the globe whose clouds, even from this altitude, looked dirty. Looking away from it, he told himself that he did not care if he never saw it again. Ahead, but to starboard, a lonely, unblinking beacon in the blackness, was the yellow spark that was the Mellise sun. The commodore’s stubby fingers played lightly over his control panel. From the bowels of the ship came the humming of gyroscopes, and as the ship turned on her short axis the centrifugal force gave a brief illusion of off-center gravity.
The Lorn sun was ahead now.
“Sound an alarm, Commander Swinton,” snapped Grimes.
The First Lieutenant pressed a stud, and throughout the ship there was the coded shrilling of bells, a succession of Morse R’s short-long-short, short-long-short.
R is for rocket,
thought Grimes.
Better than all this civilian yapping into microphones.
Abruptly the shrilling ceased.
With deliberate theatricality Grimes brought his fist down on the firing button. The giant hand of acceleration pushed the officers down into the padding of their chairs. The Commodore watched the sweep-second hand of the clock set in the center of the panel. He lifted his hand again—but this time it was with an appreciable effort—again brought it down. Simultaneously, from his own control position, Swinton gave the order, “Start Mannschenn Drive.”
The roar of the rockets cut off abruptly, but before there was silence the keening song of the Drive pervaded the ship, the high-pitched complaint of the ever-spinning, ever-precessing gyroscopes. To the starboard hand, the great, misty lens of the Galaxy warped and twisted, was deformed into a vari-colored convolution at which it was not good to look. Ahead, the Mellise sun had taken the likelihood of a dimly luminous spiral.
Grimes felt rather pleased with himself. He had a crew of reservists, was a reservist himself, and yet the operation had been carried out with naval snap and efficiency. He turned to look at Sonya Verrill, curious as to what he would read in her expression.
She smiled slightly and said, “May I suggest, sir, that we splice the mainbrace?” She added, with more than a hint of cattiness, “After all, it’s the Federation’s taxpayers who’re footing the bill.”
