"I said we've had it. I just saw the new CO, walking over from the
Operations office."
"What about it?" I asked sharply.
Harding shook his heavy, balding head, staring at the floor. "It's
written all over him," he said bitterly.
"No!" muttered Spender.
"Yep," Harding growled. "Just wait until you lay eyes on him."
He stood up and faced me, his expression bleak and cold. "A sickman, Mr.
Exec," he snarled. "Just as sure as death."
As previously noted, discipline was very lax, but I had been trying to
restore it as much as possible. So I said, "I don't know whether the
new CO is a member of the Psi Corps or not, Harding, but cut out this
nickname of 'sick.'"
Harding mumbled: "That's what everybody calls them. I didn't invent the
name. But I think it is plenty appropriate."
"Well cut it out."
Harding glared at me. "I suppose you're glad to have one of the
guess-kids running this ship."
"Nobody wants to be involved in any guessing games, but we're not
running the war here, so stow it."
Spender broke in then with his customary cold, quiet speech. "A sickman,
eh? Then we have approximately one chance in three of living through our
first encounter with the enemy when we leave here. That is according to
the statistics, I believe. But to the best of my recollection, our
previous captain brought us through eighty-eight skirmishes before
anyone got hurt." He shook his head and thoughtfully contemplated the
big, raw knuckles of his hand.
As is perfectly obvious from the above, the situation was ill-suited for
a new officer to take command of the ship. I would have liked to settle
the matter a little more before he got there, but there was nothing I
could do about it then. Besides, it wasn't my worry any more, I realized
gratefully. The problem of loyalty and confidence was now the business
of the new CO. I did not envy him his job, but it had to be done.
* * * * *
At the very first glance, you could see what Harding had been talking
about. Commander Frendon was the absolute epitome of every popular
physiological cliché associated with people of unusual psi endowment for
the past century that it has been known. At least ten years younger than
any of the rest of us, he was of medium height, extremely skinny and
nervous, his eyes glancing about with a restless uncertainty. It seemed
almost too obvious on him, I thought, and wondered who had been
responsible for assigning him to anything at all in the armed forces.
He grinned slightly at us when he came in, dearly unsure of himself, and
made a valiant but artificial-sounding effort. "Hello men," he said. "My
name is Frendon. I'm the new CO."
"Yeah," muttered Harding, "we see that you are."
"What's that lieutenant?" Frendon's voice was suddenly sharp, and the
wavering grin had vanished.
"I said, yes sir," Harding replied sullenly. "Welcome aboard."
Frendon nodded curtly, and glanced around at the rest of us, at no time
looking anyone directly in the eyes. I stood up and held out my hand.
"Maise, here," I said. "Your Exec." And naturally I added the
traditional welcome.
Spender introduced himself, and as he was speaking, the remaining crew
man walked in to find out what was up. He took one look at Frendon,
understood, and turned to leave again.
"And the man in the lead-lined tunic is Lieutenant Korsakov," I said
quickly. "He's your engineer."
Korsakov sullenly said hello and waited. And Frendon also waited, all
the time standing stiff and sensitive. One got the impression that he
was in a nervous agony, but unable to help himself or to receive help
from anybody else. When the introductions were long since completed,
Frendon still stood uncertainly, and an unpleasant silence developed.
"Sit down, captain," I suggested. "How about some coffee?"
Frendon nodded and jerkily moved to the seat I had vacated. The eyes of
the other men followed him, studying his uniform. Although it was clear
by now that he was wearing the ordinary insignia of the SCS, nobody was
particularly reassured, because we had all heard of the new arrangement
under which the Psi Corps operated.
So Frendon sat. The silence continued. Everybody stared at him, and he
looked helplessly around. I worked up what I felt was a friendly grin,
and his gaze finally found itself on me and stayed there, almost
pleading.
"You'll have to forgive us, captain," I told him. "We're an old bunch of
mangy veterans, and it's going to be a little strange for a while having
a bright new captain."
"Certainly," Frendon said, his voice hardly above a whisper. "I
understand." He hesitated and then added in a quick defensive rush of
words, "But, of course, you must understand that this isn't the first
ship I've commanded, and I've been in combat before too, and so I don't
see why I should be so doggone strange."
That's what he said. Doggone.
"Well," I murmured and cleared my throat. "Of course, captain."
* * * * *
Harding broke off his steady, hostile glare, and fumbled in his pocket
for a cigarette.
"Captain," he started, a little uncertainly, which was unusual for
Harding, "can I ask you a frank question?"
"Huh?" Frendon looked at the Astrogator blankly. "Why ... why, er,
certainly, lieutenant. Harding you say your name is? Certainly, Harding,
go right ahead."
Lieutenant Harding carefully lighted his cigarette. Then he said,
"Captain, will you tell us whether or not you are a sickman--I mean a
Psi Corps officer?"
"Why?" Frendon leaned forward tensely, then relaxed self-consciously.
"Why do you ask that, Harding? Aren't you familiar with the insignia of
your own branch of service?"
"Yes, sir," Harding replied blandly, "but there have been a number of
reports that they were going to assign a sick ... I mean a Psi Corps
officer to the command of all new Combat Devices, only they would be
wearing SCS insignia. Since we have been outfitted fresh and all, we
probably come under the heading of new Devices."
"What if I were a Psi Corps officer?" Frendon demanded truculently, his
long, skinny frame taut with excitement.
Harding considered that question, or rather statement, and puffed
thoughtfully on his cigarette. Finally he shrugged. He reached over and
meticulously crushed out the cigarette in an ash tray.
"For the benefit of you, lieutenant"--Frendon's bitter gaze swept the
entire room--"and the rest of you, I am not now nor have I ever been a
member of the Psi Corps. Does that satisfy you?"
"Yes, sir," I said quickly. Nobody else said anything.
Frendon stood up and stalked tensely to the door. There he spun around
and said, "But there is a branch of the military service designated as
the Psi Corps, and if you wish to discuss it in the future, kindly refer
to it by its official title or abbreviation, and not by that atrocious
nickname of 'sick.' I am sure the Central Command Authority knows what
it is doing, and if they did intend to assign such personnel they must
have very good reasons for it. Understand?"
There was a general nodding of heads and a scattered, sullen, "Yes,
sir."
"Now then, you may call out the ship's company, Mr. Maise," Frendon said
to me.
"Well, captain," I replied, "we're all here." Then sure enough, Frendon
made us all stand at attention while he read his orders to us, just like
it says in the book at the academy. After which, happily, he went to his
cabin, and let us go back to our work.
* * * * *
That was the introduction of Commander Frendon to the crew. He made a
distinct impression. Entirely bad. Veteran small-ship personnel in this
war have shown themselves to be extremely clannish, at best, deriving
their principal sense of security not from the strength of the fleet
which they never see and rarely contact, but from their familiarity with
and confidence in each other's capabilities. Now these men had a new CO
who was not only a stranger, but one who they felt sure was a member of
the feared and mistrusted Psi Corps, a sickman, a man whose battle
tactics were reputedly nothing but a bunch of blind, wild guesses.
Previously, I had been the unwanted and suspected stranger, so I knew
how Frendon would feel.
The situation developed rapidly, probably because we had only six days
before our scheduled departure into the combat zone. That afternoon,
Korsakov and Harding were supposed to be checking the wiring of
fire-control circuits. Base mechanics had installed the gear and tested
it, but it is standard operating procedure for the ship's crew to do
their own checking afterwards, the quality of the work by electronics
mechanics on planetary assignment being what it is these days.
I found them sitting on the deck, engaged in a desultory, low-voiced
conversation. They had stripped the conduit ducts of plating, but there
was no sign that they had done anything further.
"All right, you guys," I said. "Get up and finish that check. We may
have to use those missiles one day soon, and I'd like to be sure they go
where they are sent."
Korsakov looked up at me, his broad, thick mouth spread in an unpleasant
toothy grin and his bushy eyebrows raised. "What difference will it
make, my friend?"
"None," supplied Harding. Then he added, "As a matter of fact, it might
even be better to leave them scrambled. If we strike an alien, our new
captain is going to close his eyes and punch buttons at random,
probably. Why shouldn't we leave the fire controls at random, too?"
"They might," Korsakov said, still grinning inanely, "even cancel out
his error."
"Cut it out," I said. "You know better than that."
"Maybe you do, Maise." Harding replied, "but we don't."
My face must have telegraphed my mood, because he lurched to his feet
and quickly added, "Now wait a minute, Maise. Don't get excited. You're
not in command any more, so you don't have to stick to that authority
line now. Oh sure, I know you're the Exec, but what the hell, Maise."
I stared at him for a moment, then said quietly, "Come on Kors. On your
feet, too. Get that work done."
"Ha," said Korsakov, but he stood up.
* * * * *
Harding moved closer to me. "Confidentially, Maise," he said, "what do
you really think?"
"About what?"
"You know--Frendon."