"Andy," replied the newcomer. "Andy Laney."
The Old Man's lip curled speculatively. "Well, Andy Laney," he said,
"you don't look like much of a cook to _me_."
But the little mugg just returned the Old Man's gaze coolly. "Which
makes it even," he retorted. "_You_ don't look like much of a skipper
to _me_. Do I get the job, or don't I?"
The captain's grin faded, and his jowls turned pink. I stepped forward
hastily. I said, "Excuse me, sir, shall I handle this?" Then, because
the skipper was still struggling for words: "You," I said to the little
fellow, "are a cook?"
"One of the best!" he claimed complacently.
"You're willing to sign for a blind journey?"
"Would I be here," he countered, "if I weren't?"
"And you have your space certificate?"
"I--" began the youngster.
"Smart Aleck!" That was the Old Man, exploding into coherence at last.
"Rat-tailed, clever-cracking little smart Aleck! Don't look like much
of a skipper, eh? Well, my fine young rooster--"
I said quickly, "If you don't mind, sir, this is no time to worry over
trifles. 'Any port in a storm,' you know. And if this young man _can_
cook--"
The skipper's color subsided. So did he, grumbling. "Well, perhaps
you're right, Dugan. All right, Slops, you're hired. The galley's
on the second level, port side. Mess in three quarters of an
hour. Get going! Dugan, call McMurtrie and tell him we lift gravs
immediately--_Slops!_ What are you doing at that table?"
For the little fellow had sidled across the control-room and now, eyes
gleaming inquisitively, was peering at our trajectory charts. At the
skipper's roar he glanced up at us eagerly.
"Vesta!" he piped in that curiously high-pitched and mellow voice.
"Loft trajectory for Vesta! Then we're trying to run the Alliance
blockade, Captain?"
"None of your business!" bellowed O'Hara in tones of thunderous
outrage. "Get below instantly, or by the lavendar lakes of Luna I'll--"
"If I were you," interrupted our diminutive new chef thoughtfully, "I'd
try to broach the blockade off Iris rather than Vesta. For one thing,
their patrol line will be thinner there; for another, you can come in
through the Meteor Bog, using it as a cover."
"_Mr. Dugan!_"
The Old Man's voice had an ominous ring to it, one I had seldom heard.
I sprang to attention and saluted smartly. "Aye, sir?"
"Take this--this culinary tactician out of my sight before I forget I'm
an officer and a gentleman. And tell him that when I want advice I'll
come down to the galley for it!"
A hurt look crept into the youngster's eyes. Slowly he turned and
followed me from the turret, down the ramp, and into the pan-lined
cubicle which was his proper headquarters. When I was turning to leave
he said apologetically, "I didn't mean any harm, Mr. Dugan. I was just
trying to help."
"You must learn not to speak out of turn, youngster," I told him
sternly. "The Old Man's one of the smartest space navigators who ever
lifted gravs. He doesn't need the advice or suggestions of a cook."
"But I was raised in the Belt," said the little chap plaintively. "I
know the Bog like a book. And I was right; our safest course _is_ by
way of Iris."
Well, there you are! You try to be nice to someone, and what happens?
He tees off on you. I got a little sore I guess. Anyhow, I told the
little squirt off, but definitely.
"Now, listen!" I said bluntly. "You volunteered for the job. Now
you've got to take what comes with it: orders! From now on, suppose
you take care of the cooking and let the rest of us worry about the
ship--Captain Slops!"
And I left, banging the door behind me hard.
* * * * *
So we hit the spaceways for Vesta, and after a while the Old Man called
up the crew and told them our destination, and if you think they were
scared or nervous or anything like that, why, you just don't know
spacemen. From oil-soaked old Jock McMurtrie, the Chief Engineer, all
the way down the line to Willy, our cabin-boy, the _Leo's_ complement
was as thrilled as a sub-deb at an Academy hop.
John Wainwright, our First Officer, licked his chops like a fox in a
hen-house and said, "The blockade! Oboyoboy! Maybe we'll tangle with
one of the Alliance ships, hey?"
Blinky Todd, an ordinary with highest rating, said with a sort of
macabre satisfaction, "I hopes we _do_ meet up with 'em, that's whut I
does, sir! Never did have no love for them dirty, skulkin' Outlanders,
that's whut I didn't!"
And one of the black-gang blasters, a taciturn chap, said nothing--but
the grim set of his jaw and the purposeful way he spat on his callused
paws were mutely eloquent.
Only one member of the crew was absent from the conclave. Our new
Slops. He was busy preparing midday mess, it seems, because scarcely
had the skipper finished talking than the audio hummed and a cheerful
call rose from the galley:
"Soup's on! Come and get it!"
Which we did. And whatever failings "Captain Slops" might have, he
had not exaggerated when he called himself one of the best cooks in
space. That meal, children, was a meal! When it comes to victuals
I can destroy better than describe, but there was stuff and things
and such-like, all smothered in gravy and so on, and huge quantities
of this and that and the other thing, all of them unbelievably
dee-luscious!
Beyond a doubt it was the finest feast we of the _Leo_ had enjoyed in
a 'coon's age. Even the Old Man admitted that as, leaning back from
the table, he patted the pleasant bulge due south of his belt buckle.
He rang the bell that summoned Slops from the galley, and the little
fellow came bustling in apprehensively.
"Was everything all right, sir?" he asked.
"Not only all right, Slops," wheezed Captain O'Hara, "but perfect!
Accept my congratulations on a superb meal, my boy. Did you find
everything O.Q. in the galley?"
"Captain Slops" blushed like a stereo-struck school-gal, and fidgeted
from one foot to another.
"Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you very much. Yes, the galley was in fine
order. That is--" He hesitated--"there is one little thing, sir."
"So? Well, speak up, son, what is it? I'll get it fixed for you right
away." The Old Man smiled archly. "Must have everything shipshape for a
tip-top chef, what?"
The young hash-slinger still hesitated bashfully.
"But it's such a _little_ thing, sir, I almost hate to bother you with
it."
"No trouble at all. Just say the word."
"Well, sir," confessed Slops reluctantly, "I need an incinerator in
the galley. The garbage-disposal system in there now is old-fashioned,
inconvenient and unsanitary. You see, I have to carry the waste down
two levels to the rocket-chamber in order to expel it."
The skipper's brow creased.
"I'm sorry, Slops," he said, "but I don't see how we can do anything
about that. Not just now, at any rate. That job requires equipment we
don't have aboard. After this jump is over I'll see what I can do."
"Oh, I realize we don't have the regular equipment," said Slops shyly,
"but I've figured out a way to get the same effect with equipment we
do have. There's an old Nolan heat-cannon rusting in the storeroom.
If that could be installed by the galley vent, I could use it as an
incinerator."
I said, "Hold everything, Slops! You can't do that! It's against
regulations. Code 44, Section xvi, says, 'Fixed armament shall be
placed only in gunnery embrasures insulated against the repercussions
of firing charges, re-radiation, or other hazards accruent to heavy
ordnance.'"
Our little chef's face fell. "Now, that's too bad," he said
discouragedly. "I was planning a special banquet for tomorrow, with
roast marsh-duck and all the fixings, pinberry pie--but, oh, well!--if
I have no incinerator--"
The skipper's eyes bulged, and he drooled like a pup at a barbeque.
He was a bit of a sybarite, was Captain David O'Hara; if there was
anything he dearly loved to exercise his molars on it was Venusian
marsh-duck topped with a dessert of Martian pinberry pie. He said:
"We-e-ell, now, Mr. Dugan, let's not be too technical. After all, that
rule was put in the book only to prevent persons which shouldn't ought
to do so from having control of ordnance. But that isn't what Slops
wants the cannon for, is it, son? So I don't see any harm in rigging
up the old Nolan in the galley for incineration purposes. Did you say
_all_ the fixings, Slops?"
Maybe I was mistaken, but for a moment I suspected I caught a queer
glint in our little chef's eyes; it might have been gratitude, or, on
the other hand, it might have been self-satisfaction. Whatever it was
it passed quickly, and Captain Slops' soft voice was smooth as silk
when he said:
"Yes, Captain, all the fixings. I'll start cooking the meal as soon as
the new incinerator is installed."
* * * * *
So that was that. During the night watch two men of the crew lugged
the ancient Nolan heat cannon from stores and I went below to check. I
found young Slops bent over the old cannon, giving it a strenuous and
thorough cleaning. The way he was oiling and scrubbing at that antique
reminded me of an apprentice gunner coddling his first charge.
I must have startled him, entering unexpectedly as I did, for when I
said, "Hi, there!" he jumped two feet and let loose a sissy little
piping squeal. Then, crimson-faced with embarrassment, he said, "Oh,
h-hello, Lieutenant. I was just getting my new incinerator shipshape.
Looks O.Q., eh?"
"If you ask me," I said, "it looks downright lethal. The Old Man must
be off his gravs to let a young chuckle-head like you handle that toy."
"But I'm only going to use it," he said plaintively, "to dispose of
garbage."
"Well, don't dump your cans when there are any ships within range," I
warned him glumly, "or there'll be a mess of human scraps littering up
the void. That gun may be a museum piece, but it still packs a wallop."
"Yes, sir," said Slops meekly. "I'll be careful how I use it, sir."
I had finished my inspection, and I sniggered as his words reminded me
of a joke I'd heard at a spacemans' smoker.
"Speaking of being careful, did you hear the giggler about the old maid
at the Martian baths? Well, it seems this perennial spinster wandered,
by accident, into the men's shower room and met up with a brawny young
prospector--"
Captain Slops said, "Er--excuse me, Lieutenant, but I have to get this
marsh-duck stuffed."
"Plenty of time, Slops. Wait till you hear this; it will kill you. The
old maid got flustered and said, 'Oh, I'm sorry! I must be in the wrong
compartment--'"
"If you don't mind, Mr. Dugan," interrupted the cook loudly, "I'm
awfully busy. I don't have any time for--"
"The prospector looked her over carefully for a couple of seconds; then
answered, 'That's O.Q. by me, sister. I won't--'"
"I--I've got to go now, Lieutenant," shouted Slops. "Just remembered
something I've got to get from stores." And without even waiting to
hear the wallop at the end of my tale he fled from the galley, very
pink and flustered.
So there was one for the log-book! Not only did our emergency chef lack
a sense of humor, but the little punk was bashful, as well! Still, it
was no skin off my nose if Slops wanted to miss the funniest yarn of a
decade. I shrugged and went back to the control turret.
* * * * *
All that, to make an elongated story brief, happened on the first day
out of Mars. As any schoolchild knows, it's a full hundred million from
the desert planet to the asteroid belt. In those days, there was no
such device as a Velocity-Intensifier unit, and the _Leo_, even though
she was then considered a reasonably fast little patroller, muddled
along at a mere 400,000 m.p.h. Which meant it would take us at least
ten days, perhaps more, to reach that disputed region of space around
Vesta, where the Federation outposts were sparse and the Alliance block
began.
That period of jetting was a mingled joy and pain in the britches.
Captain Slops was responsible for both.
For one thing, as I've hinted before, he was a bit of a panty-waist.
It wasn't so much the squeaky voice or the effeminate gestures he cut
loose with from time to time. One of the roughest, toughest scoundrels
who ever cut a throat on Venus was "High G" Gordon, who talked like a
boy soprano, and the meanest pirate who ever highjacked a freighter was
"Runt" Hake--who wore diamond ear-rings and gold fingernail polish!
But it was Slops' general attitude that isolated him from the command
and crew. In addition to being a most awful prude, he was a kill-joy.
When just for a lark we begged him to boil us a pot of spaghetti, so we
could pour a cold worm's nest into Rick Bramble's bed, he shuddered and
refused.
"Certainly not!" he piped indignantly. "You must be out of your minds!
I never heard of such a disgusting trick! Of course, I won't be a party
to it. Worms--Ugh!"
"Yeah!" snorted Johnny Wainwright disdainfully, "And _ugh!_ to you,
too. Come on, Joe, let's get out of here before we give Slops bad
dreams and goose-flesh!"
Nor was hypersensitiveness Slops' worst failing. If he was squeamish
about off-color jokes and such stuff, he had no compunctions whatsoever
against sticking his nose in where it didn't belong.
He was an inveterate prowler. He snooped everywhere and anywhere from
ballast-bins to bunk-rooms. He quizzed the Chief about engine-room
practices, the gunner's mate on problems of ballistics, even the
cabin-boy on matters of supplies and distribution of same. He was not
only an asker; he was a teller, as well. More than once during the next
nine days he forced on the skipper the same gratuitous advice which
before had enraged the Old Man. By sheer perseverance he earned the
title I had tagged him with: "Captain Slops."
I was willing to give him another title, too--Captain Chaos. God knows
he created enough of it!
"It's a mistake to broach the blockade at Vesta," he argued over and
over again.
"O.Q., Slops," the skipper would nod agreeably, with his mouth full
of some temper-softening tidbit, "you're right and I'm wrong, as you
usually are. But I'm in command of the _Leo_, and you ain't. Now, run
along like a good lad and bring me some more of this salad."
So ten days passed, and it was on the morning of the eleventh day out
of Sand City that we ran into trouble with a capital trub. I remember
that morning well, because I was in the mess-hall having breakfast with
Cap O'Hara, and Slops was playing another variation on the old familiar
theme.
"I glanced at the chart this morning, sir," he began as he minced in
with a platterful of golden flapjacks and an ewer of Vermont maple
syrup, "and I see we are but an hour or two off Vesta. I am very much
afraid this is our last chance to change course--"
"And for that," chuckled the Old Man, "Hooray! Pass them pancakes, son.
Maybe now you'll stop shooting off about how we ought to of gone by way
of Iris. Mmmm! Good!"
"Thank you, sir," said Slops mechanically. "But you realize there is
extreme danger of encountering enemy ships?"
"Keep your pants on, Slops!"
"Eh?" The chef looked startled. "Beg pardon, sir?"
"I said keep your pants on. Sure, I know. And I've took precautions.
There's a double watch on duty, and men at every gun. If we do meet up
with an Alliance craft, it'll be just too bad for them!
"Yes, sirree!" The Old Man grinned comfortably. "I almost hope we
do bump into one. After we burn it out of the void we'll have clear
sailing all the way to Callisto."
"But--but if there should be more than one, sir?"
"Don't be ridiculous, my boy. Why should there be?"
"Well, for one thing," wrangled our pint-sized cook, "because rich
ekalastron deposits were recently discovered on Vesta. For another,
because Vesta's orbit is now going into aphelion stage, which will
favor a concentration of raiders."
The skipper choked, spluttered, and disgorged a bite of half-masticated
pancake.
"Eka--Great balls of fire! Are you sure?"
"Of course, I'm sure. I told you days ago that I was born and raised in
the Belt, Captain."
"I know. But why didn't you tell me about Vesta before? I mean about
the ekalastron deposits?"
"Why--why, because--" said Slops. "Because--"
"Don't give me lady-logic, you dope!" roared the Old Man, an enraged
lion now, his breakfast completely forgotten. "Give me a sensible
answer! If you'd told me _that_ instead of just yipping and yapping
about how via Iris was a nicer route I'd have listened to you! As it
is, we're blasting smack-dab into the face of danger. And us on the
most vital mission of the whole ding-busted war!"
He was out of his seat, bustling to the audio, buzzing Lieutenant
Wainwright on the bridge.
"Johnny--that you? Listen, change traj quick! Set a new course through
the Belt by way of Iris and the Bog, and hurry up, because--"
What reason he planned to give I do not know, for he never finished
that sentence. At that moment the _Leo_ rattled like a Model AA
spacesled in an ionic storm, rolled, quivered and slewed like a drunk
on a freshly-waxed floor. The motion needed no explanation; it was
unmistakeable to any spacer who has ever hopped the blue. Our ship had
been gripped, and was now securely locked, in the clutch of a tractor
beam!
* * * * *
What happened next was everything at once. Officers Wainwright and
Bramble were in the turret, and they were both good sailors. They knew
their duties and how to perform them. An instant after the _Leo_ had
been assaulted, the ship bucked and slithered again, this time with the
repercussions of our own ordnance. Over the audio, which Sparks had
hastily converted into an all-way, inter-ship communicating unit, came
a jumble of voices. A call for Captain O'Hara to "Come to the bridge,
sir!" ... the harsh query of Chief McMurtrie, "Tractor beams on stern
and prow, sir. Shall I attempt to break them?" ... and a thunderous
_groooom!_ from the fore-gunnery port as a crew went into action ... a
plaintive little shriek from somebody ... maybe from Slops himself....
Then on an ultra-wave carrier, drowning local noises beneath waves of
sheer volume, came English words spoken with a foreign intonation. The
voice of the Alliance commander.
"Ahoy the _Leo_! Calling the captain of the _Leo_!"
O'Hara, his great fists knotted at his sides, called back, "O'Hara of
the _Leo_ answering. What do you want?"
"Stand by to admit a boarding party, Captain. It is futile to resist.
You are surrounded by six armed craft, and your vessel is locked in
our tensiles. Any further effort to make combat will bring about your
immediate destruction!"
From the bridge, topside, snarled Johnny Wainwright, "The hell with
'em, Skipper! Let's fight it out!" And elsewhere on the _Leo_ angry
voices echoed the same defi. Never in my life had I felt such a
heart-warming love for and pride in my companions as at that tense
moment. But the Old Man shook his head, and his eyes were glistening.
"It's no use," he moaned strickenly, more to himself than to me. "I
can't sacrifice brave men in a useless cause, Dugan. I've got to--" He
faced the audio squarely. To the enemy commander he said, "Very good,
sir! In accordance with the Rules of War, I surrender into your hands!"
The firing ceased, and a stillness like that of death blanketed the
_Leo_.
It was then that Andy Laney, who had lingered in the galley doorway
like a frozen figuring, broke into babbling incredulous speech.
"You--you're giving up like this?" he bleated. "Is this all you're
going to do?"
The Old Man just looked at him, saying never a word, but that glance
would have blistered the hide off a Mercurian steelback. I'm more
impetuous. I turned on the little idiot vituperatively.
"Shut up, you fool! Don't you realize there's not a thing we can do but
surrender? Dead, we're of no earthly use to anyone. Alive, there is
always a chance one of us may get away, bring help. We have a mission
to fulfil, an important one. Corpses can't run errands."
"But--but if they take us prisoners," he questioned fearfully, "what
will they do with us?"
"A concentration camp somewhere. Perhaps on Vesta."
"And the _Leo_?"
"Who knows? Maybe they'll send it to Jupiter with a prize crew in
command."
"That's what I thought. But they mustn't be allowed to do that. We're
marked with the Federation tricolor!"
A sharp retort trembled on the tip of my tongue, but I never uttered
it. Indeed, I swallowed it as comprehension dawned. There came to me
the beginnings of respect for little Andy Laney's wisdom. He had been
right about the danger of the Vesta route, as we had learned to our
cost; now he was right on this other score.
The skipper got it, too. His jaw dropped. He said, "Heaven help us,
it's the truth! To reach Jupiter you've got to pass Callisto. If the
Callistans saw a Federation vessel, they'd send out an emissary to
greet it. Our secret would be discovered, Callisto occupied by the
enemy...."
I think he would have turned, then, and given orders to continue the
fight even though it meant suicide for all of us. But it was too late.
Already our lock had opened to the attackers; down the metal ramp we
now heard the crisp cadence of invading footsteps. The door swung open,
and the Alliance commandant stood smiling triumphantly before us.
* * * * *
There are soldiers and soldiers. Fighting men, as a rule, are pretty
decent guys at the core. Having experienced danger, violence and the
crawling horror of death themselves, they know the meaning of mercy.
They respect their foes, and extend a fine magnanimity in the moment of
victory.
Lieutenant-Colonel Ras Thuul, commander of the Third Outer Planets'
Alliance Flotilla, was not this type of enemy. Half-breed spawn of a
Jovian tribal priestess and a renegade Earthman, he retained the worst
characteristics bequeathed by each of his parents.
From his father he had inherited height--he towered a full head above
the squat, gnarled Jovian "runts" he led--and a festering hatred
of the planet Earth. From his priestess mother he had suckled the
milk of sadistic savagery which typified Jovian civilization before
space-spanning Earthlings carried enlightenment to the far-flung
sisterhood of the Sun.
His first words demonstrated clearly how slender was the mercy we might
expect at his hands. To Captain O'Hara he said coldly, bluntly, rudely,
"Your sidearms, Captain!" Then as the Old Man silently proffered
his personal weapons: "You will walk before me, sir, on a tour of
inspection. You might advise your men I hold you as hostage. One
hostile move from any source means your death."
The skipper's reply was richly disdainful.
"I have surrendered myself to you under the Rules of War, Colonel. This
play-acting is childish and altogether unnecessary."
Ras Thuul's swarthy cheeks sallowed; he took a swift step forward and,
before one could guess his intention, slapped the Old Man viciously
across the mouth with his gauntlet. The heavy, asbestos-lined
space-glove cut and bruised; a thin trickle of blood split the
skipper's lips.
"One in your position," snarled the invader, "should learn not to
insult his betters! Now, lead the way, Captain. There is much to be
done, and no time to waste."
Thus began our painful journey through the conquered _Leo_. As Ras
Thuul had said, there was much to be done by his forces--nor had they
delayed in getting about their task. A laboring crew was busily engaged
in stripping the food-stuffs from our supply bins, other workmen were
dismantling all hypo and radio equipment, verifying our belief that the
O.P.A. was desperately in need of such material. Grim-faced Jovians
had herded our marksmen from the gun embrasures, and were quickly
dismantling every piece of ordnance the _Leo_ boasted.
From room to room we went, from passage to sector to cabin. Nothing
escaped the eagle eye of our foeman. By word and sign he designated to
his henchmen those items which were to be removed, those which were to
be destroyed. Only in the control-room was everything left untouched.
It was here that Ras Thuul volunteered the explanation which proved the
depths of his infamy. With a grin of sheer savagery he explained:
"I find it needless to waste energy in smashing this equipment,
Captain. I am sure the rocky fragments of the Bog will do that most
efficiently."
The Old Man stared at him uncomprehendingly.
"You--you mean you're going to wreck the _Leo_ in the Bog? Just turn it
loose and let the grindstone smash it?"