"I know you don't like to talk about it, Maise," Harding said, "but we
have to. Something has to be done."
I started to say something, but he raised a hand and hurried on. "I
know, I know," he growled, "command authority, dignity of rank and all
that sort of nonsense and tradition. Sure, I'd like to see some of it,
too. But this is a hopeless case, Maise. Frendon is a sickman. Or a Psi
Corps man if you prefer. Undoubtedly they have some awfully clever
fellows back on Earth to do our thinking for us, but as far as I am
concerned, they might as well have sent us an idiot child to run the
ship in combat. Don't you understand?"
He was looking at me earnestly, the deep concern he felt plain on his
face. I already knew that Harding could be depended upon to reflect the
sentiments of the group, and to say exactly what he felt. It was a
useful bit of knowledge.
"I know what you mean, Harding," I said, "but--"
"Well, think about it then, man," he interrupted sharply. "You're in the
same ship, you know. When we blow up, you do, too. And it isn't just
that we'll all be killed with this incompetent guess-kid in command--we
probably would anyway, sooner or later. But it's the waste of a good
ship. You know as well as I do that it stands to reason combat can't be
run as a game of blind man's bluff. And that's just what Frendon will
make it. If you're going to make proper use of your military potential
it takes brains, like our old skipper had."
"They say the Psi Corps training brings out the most sensitive
intellectual capacities of a man," I replied, quoting from the old
publicity releases on it and keeping my voice level and dispassionate.
"The Central Command Authority believes that it will raise the
possibility of survival from twelve to thirty-two per cent in actual
combat."
Korsakov giggled, belched, hiccupped and finished his drink. "Thirty-two
per cent," he said. "That is one chance in three."
"You don't understand," Harding insisted. "Maybe the guessing games and
tests they run back on Earth do give the sickmen one chance in three of
being right by blind guessing. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking
about us--on our ship in combat and not in a laboratory back on Earth.
We had a captain who ran the ship well, ran it in eighty-seven separate
forays with the aliens and brought us back each time. He got killed
himself on the eighty-eighth. That's the sort of captain we want, Maise.
A man who can use his head and who can bring the ship through eighty-odd
runs safely. And that is going to take something besides guesswork.
Don't forget--if you like to believe in mathematical probability
statistics--our chances should be getting slender after all our combat
experience. Yours, too, for that matter."
"Maybe," I hedged, "your previous captain was a Psi Corps man in
disguise."
"No, he wasn't," Spender cut in calmly. "I knew him for years. We went
through the same service training and served together every minute of
the war. And they didn't start this sick-business until three years or
so ago."
"Well, they say there are natural Psi men who don't need the training so
much."
"Fairy tales," snorted Harding. "That stuff doesn't go. I don't believe
it."
* * * * *
That was clear. And no argument would convince him otherwise, even if I
had felt inclined to give him one, which I didn't.
Korsakov, the silent Russian, thoughtfully rubbed his thick hands
together, and then punched the button calling for another drink. "Once
in three times," he said. "It's all been proved. Out of the next three
missions we go out on, we come back only once." His homely face broke
into a tired grin.
I laughed with him, but Harding did not like the joke. "It isn't funny,"
he growled. "If they can't find a decent captain to send us, why can't
they move up one of us that has at least served with a good commander in
combat, and maybe learned some of his tricks from him. Not that I would
want the job. But it would be better than Frendon. Anything would."
I raised my eyebrows at him skeptically. He got the idea and swore. "You
know I didn't mean that I want the job, so don't go goggling your
righteous eyes at me, Maise. I know my limitations, but I also know a
good captain when I see one. And what do they send us? A kid who not
only is a nut, but he's already so scared he--"
"Once in three times," Korsakov said loudly. He was apparently getting
pretty drunk. "Their computing machines would need an aspirin to handle
that situation. We go out three times but we only come back once." He
turned and peered intently at me, his heavy bushy eyebrows drawn
severely down and wiggling. "Puzzle: complete the figure without
retracing any lines or lifting the pencil from the paper. How do we
manage to go out there the third time when we haven't yet come back from
the second mission, huh?"
"Shut up, Kors," Spender said without emotion. "You're getting a
fixation."
"I'm not the astrogator," Korsakov muttered, laying his head down on the
table. "If you want a fix on our position, you will have to call on Mr.
Harding."
My bourbon was probably good, but I couldn't taste it. There was too
much else to think about. I said, "Well, what are you going to do if he
really is a Psi Corps man?"
"That," Harding said thoughtfully, "is the question."
"Maise, you're the Exec," Spender commented. "It's up to you to work us
a replacement."
"Didn't you see his orders?" I snapped. "They're dated from Central
Command Authority itself. Even if I did know somebody here in Mars
Command--which I don't--it wouldn't do any good."
"He's right," Harding grumbled. "Everybody knows that once they've
assigned a sickman, the only people who can get him reassigned are the
sickmen themselves. Maise couldn't do anything about it unless he was a
member of the Corps himself. But that settles it, though--his orders
being from Central, I mean. Nobody but a sickman would have his orders
cut at Central for a puny little ship like ours. It proves what we
thought about him, anyway."
"I don't think it proves anything," I retorted angrily. "I don't think
the question is whether or not Frendon is a sick--now you've got me
saying it--a Psi Corps man. The question is whether we're going to
settle down and stop whining just because we got a new CO we don't like,
and that we can't do anything about. We're not running this war. They're
running it back on Earth."
"We're fighting it," Spender commented, chewing on a big, raw knuckle.
Harding looked at me skeptically. "How much space-combat have you seen,
Maise?"
"Six years, more or less," I told him. "I've seen plenty of the stuff.
I'd just as soon let somebody else do it from now on in, but nobody
asked me."
Harding grunted: "Well, tell me, have you ever served under a sick
skipper?"
"No."
"Do you want to?"
"Why not? Besides--what can I do about it?"
* * * * *
Harding leaned back and sipped away on the straight whiskey he was
drinking, watching me over the top of the glass and talking directly
into it, making his voice sound muffled and sinister. "You know, Maise,
sometimes you make me tired. Frankly, when they first sent us you, I
didn't like it. None of us did. You were CO then, and we thought maybe
you were a sickman even if you didn't look like it, and you kept sort of
sticking up for the sick corps whenever it was mentioned. Well, that's
all right. New officer in charge, trying to stiffen up discipline, et
cetera and so forth. But now we've got Frendon for CO. You're in the
same boat as the rest of us, and you still keep insisting that the
sickmen are O.K. But you're a liar and you know it."
"Well, what do you want me to do?" I shouted angrily. "Poison the guy?"
There was a sudden sharp hush. Even Korsakov lifted his head from the
table, and looked around with bleary, bloodshot eyes. "Poison?" he said.
Then, as if the effort of thinking was too much, he lay down again and
muttered. "Once in three times. It's a puzzle question, men. Figure it
out."
"Of course, entirely aside from the present argument," Spender stated in
his cold, emotionless voice, staring into his empty glass, "but I do
seem to recall an incident like that. Seems there was a ship just about
like ours. About three months ago. A mechanic told me about it. Seems
they got a new CO assigned to it who was obviously a sickman, just like
us. Somebody managed to sneak a few of the dormant spores lying around
outside the dome into him. Then the sickman really was sick."
I licked my lips. "I didn't mean that," I said. "Besides, they could
always tell if you did anything like that."
"How?" asked Spender.
Harding was listening intently, watching both of us, but he didn't say
anything.
"They can identify the organisms," I pointed out.
"Sure. Easy. But how do they know where he picked them up? They're
laying all around outside the domes here on Mars ever since the first
assault by the aliens twelve years ago. Nobody's had time to
decontaminate this whole planet like they did Earth. Easiest thing in
the world for a new officer on Mars to take a little sight-seeing
excursion outside the domes and to be a little careless."
"There would be an epidemic if he brought back a lot of spores," I
suggested. "Besides, it's out of bounds to leave the dome."
Spender shook his head. "You can get around that out-of-bounds business
without any trouble," he said. "And there are decontamination chambers
in the air locks, which would clean up anything he brought in; so there
would be no epidemic. The exposure would take place outside of the
domes--say if he opened his helmet to smell the perfume of the famous
hypnotic marspoppy, or something like that. Then he would be infected,
and after that it's non-contagious. All we need is somebody to buddy up
to him, and take him out there. Nature and the poppy will do the rest."
"Look," I said angrily, "cut that stuff out, Spender. If you're looking
to me to disable the guy, forget about it. I won't. And I'm telling you
right now that if I find anybody else does, I'll report it."
* * * * *
For once Spender laughed. He turned to face me, and his blue eyes were
dancing in his scarred, old face. He was laughing at me and my
belligerent righteousness, but the real joke, of course, was that unless
somebody actually caught him talking Frendon into going out there, there
wouldn't be the slightest chance of proving he had done it. It was the
simplest thing in the world to sneak out and back without being
observed, and we both knew it.
"All right," I said then. "Have your laugh, Spender. And you, too,
Harding. I don't like the nut we've got any more than you do, but what
you're talking about is mutiny and murder--"
"Oh, he wouldn't necessarily die," Harding commented thoughtfully. "If
he gets the serum within a few hours of the first symptoms, he probably
would be just a very sick man for about a month. Too long to take the
ship out with us when we go." He grinned at me. "And as for mutiny,
nobody would be using any physical force on him. Nor--when you come
right down to the specific matter of his commanding his ship--would
there be any moral force employed either."
"Have it any way you like," I said, standing up. "I don't care for the
tone of this discussion, and I'm getting out of it."
Harding laughed again at that. "O.K., Maise," he said in a friendly tone
of voice. "Sorry. I guess you're right at that." I stood glaring at him.
"Come on, sit down," he continued. "I know there isn't anything else for
you to say about it. Being Exec and all, you pretty well have to stick
up for him, and we don't hold it against you. And don't worry about us
doing anything to your precious Frendon."
His face darkened as he said it, though, and he swore. "Not right now,
anyway. Still, that spore business isn't such a bad--"
"Let it go," Spender cut him off with a mixture of irritation and
affection. "Somebody told me about it, and so I just passed it on. It
isn't as easy as it sounds, because that stuff can kill, and you stand a
pretty good chance of making a mistake and catching it yourself." Then
he looked up at me and smiled again. "You might as well stick around
with us tonight and get drunk, Maise. No place else to go."
I hesitated. It was a genuine offer of comradeship, and God knows I
wanted it. I had been an outcast among these men too long. So I grinned
back at him and slid down into the booth again, pressing the button for
another drink. "I'll have one more, but then I think I have some work to
do. Got to see a man about something."
Korsakov stirred himself. He wasn't as drunk as he seemed, I think. He
raised his head and looked at me carefully for a moment, but then he
mumbled, "Once in three times. How do you figure it?"
* * * * *
I left them soon after, located and spoke to Frendon, and then returned
to the ship. The following morning at nine thirty Commander Frendon
suddenly complained of a fever, and said he was going to the hospital.
A couple of hours later, we received notification of his condition from
the hospital, and at the same time orders from CINCMARS.
Korsakov, eyes still bloodshot from his hangover, took the message out
of the scanner and stared at it. Then he wordlessly handed it over to
me.
I read it. It said that Commander Frendon had contracted the spore
disease, but that his condition was satisfactory due to the speedy
treatment. He would, however, be confined to the hospital for one month.
There was an empty space of three lines, and the orders followed,
addressed to Frendon, to prepare to lift off planet in three days and
rejoin the Seventh Fleet.
Harding, Spender and Korsakov stared at me with awe when I read them the
information. Nobody said anything for a full minute.
"All right," I snapped finally. "Kors, ship out a quickie to CINCMARS
and notify him that we can't join the fleet, because we don't have a
captain, and the orders are to him, personally, and not the ship.
Something has to be changed."
Korsakov thoughtfully pulled on his shaggy, graying eyebrows with his
thick fingers. "Why don't we wait until just before lift time," he
suggested. "Then they won't have time to fish us out another sickman,
and you'll be the skipper, Maise. What do you think of that?"
"Lousy," I said. "A delay like that when they already must have that
information kicking around somewhere might just be the thing to foul up
the deal. This has to be played straight. Besides, I don't think they
are likely to have any unassigned sick--I mean Psi Corps men around on
Mars. Go chop out that report."
He was reluctant, but he didn't waste any time about it. And almost
immediately the reply came back ordering me to report to the Base Morale
Officer and account for Frendon's sudden illness, or accident, or
whatever it was. In the old days, that might not have meant so much; but
now, of course, the Morale Officer is the whole works.
"Well," I said then, "looks like the soup is hot. They're suspicious."
Nobody said anything. They were all waiting, looking at me. "Who," I
continued slowly and carefully, "do you suppose slipped Frendon the
spore? They'll want to know, maybe."
"Why, Maise," Harding said garrulously, "just like Spender told us. He
went outside, the dome on a sight-seeing trip and made the mistake of
looking at a marspoppy without an antihypnotic color filter. He just
accidentally happened to expose himself."
"He might not have gone alone," I suggested. "They'll want to know who
went with him, since he probably didn't know anybody else on the Base."
Korsakov grinned hugely. "We all did, skipper," he said. "They can't
court-martial the whole crew for going out of bounds with him, can they?
It would take a valuable ship out of action."
"They might." I stood up, frowning. "Well, it all depends upon what
Frendon told them, but, of course, he might have been drunk himself at
the time, and a man like him would hesitate to admit something like
that. That shouldn't be too hard to demonstrate. In which case," I
added, letting them see a grin on my face, "he might have gone by
himself after all, and then none of us would have to be even slightly
implicated. Like for instance, if he spent some time with us drinking,
and then went off by himself, how would we know where he was going?"
They all laughed with evident relief. It would be a good story. They
all knew that none of them had induced Frendon to disable himself, and
for them that settled the question of who did it. Their willingness to
take a full share of the blame off me settled the only other question I
myself was concerned about.
And this morning, when CINCMARS confirmed my acting captain status, and
sent us a raw recruit for third officer replacement after moving Harding
up to acting Exec, everybody was satisfied and happy.
As happy as any small group of reluctant soldiers about to go into
battle is ever likely to get, anyway.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Maise dropped the report back on the SR Officer's desk when
he had finished reading it.
"How did you like it?" the SR wanted to know.
"All right," Maise murmured. "It covers it. I just hope they can make
some use of it, so that in the future the assignment of a Psi Corps
officer won't be a general signal for a small-time mutiny."
"That's the whole point of making these reports. They'll work out
something."