_I smelled the trouble the moment I stepped on
the lift and took the long ride up the side of
the "Lachesis." There was something wrong. I
couldn't put my finger on it but_
five years in the Navy gives a man a feeling for these things. From the
outside the ship was beautiful, a gleaming shaft of duralloy, polished
until she shone. Her paint and brightwork glistened. The antiradiation
shields on the gun turrets and launchers were folded back exactly
according to regulations. The shore uniform of the liftman was spotless
and he stood at his station precisely as he should. As the lift moved
slowly up past no-man's country to the life section, I noted a work
party hanging precariously from a scaffolding smoothing out meteorite
pits in the gleaming hull, while on the catwalk of the gantry standing
beside the main cargo hatch a steady stream of supplies disappeared into
the ship's belly.
I returned the crisp salutes of the white-gloved sideboys, saluted the
colors, and shook hands with an immaculate ensign with an O.D. badge on
his tunic.
"Glad to have you aboard, sir," the ensign said.
"I'm Marsden," I said. "Lieutenant Thomas Marsden. I have orders posting
me to this ship as Executive."
"Yes, sir. We have been expecting you. I'm Ensign Halloran."
"Glad to meet you, Halloran."
"Skipper's orders, sir. You are to report to him as soon as you come
aboard."
Then I got it. Everything was SOP. The ship wasn't taut, she was tight!
And she wasn't happy. There was none of the devil-may-care spirit that
marks crews in the Scouting Force and separates them from the stodgy
mass of the Line. Every face I saw on my trip to the skipper's cabin was
blank, hard-eyed, and unsmiling. There was none of the human noise that
normally echoes through a ship, no laughter, no clatter of equipment, no
deviations from the order and precision so dear to admirals' hearts.
This crew was G.I. right down to the last seam tab on their uniforms.
Whoever the skipper was, he was either bucking for another cluster or a
cold-feeling automaton to whom the Navy Code was father, mother, and
Bible.
[Illustration]
The O.D. stopped before the closed door, executed a mechanical right
face, knocked the prescribed three times and opened the door smartly on
the heels of the word "Come" that erupted from the inside. I stepped in
followed by the O.D.
"Commander Chase," the O.D. said. "Lieutenant Marsden."
Chase! Not Cautious Charley Chase! I could hardly look at the man behind
the command desk. But look I did--and my heart did a ninety degree dive
straight to the thick soles of my space boots. No wonder this ship was
sour. What else could happen with Lieutenant Commander Charles Augustus
Chase in command! He was three classes up on me, but even though he was
a First Classman at the time I crawled out of Beast Barracks, I knew
him well. Every Midshipman in the Academy knew him--Rule-Book
Charley--By-The-Numbers Chase--his nicknames were legion and not one of
them was friendly. "Lieutenant Thomas Marsden reporting for duty," I
said.
He looked at the O.D. "That'll be all, Mr. Halloran," he said.
"Aye, sir," Halloran said woodenly. He stepped backward, saluted,
executed a precise about face and closed the hatch softly behind him.
* * * * *
"Sit down, Marsden," Chase said. "Have a cigarette."
He didn't say, "Glad to have you aboard." But other than that he was
Navy right down to the last parenthesis. His voice was the same dry
schoolmaster's voice I remembered from the Academy. And his face was the
same dry gray with the same fishy blue eyes and rat trap jaw. His hair
was thinner, but other than that he hadn't changed. Neither the war nor
the responsibilities of command appeared to have left their mark upon
him. He was still the same lean, undersized square-shouldered blob of
nastiness.
I took the cigarette, sat down, puffed it into a glow, and looked around
the drab 6 x 8 foot cubicle called the Captain's cabin by ship designers
who must have laughed as they laid out the plans. It had about the room
of a good-sized coffin. A copy of the Navy Code was lying on the desk.
Chase had obviously been reading his bible.
"You are three minutes late, Marsden," Chase said. "Your orders direct
you to report at 0900. Do you have any explanation?"
"No, sir," I said.
"Don't let it happen again. On this ship we are prompt."
"Aye, sir," I muttered.
He smiled, a thin quirk of thin lips. "Now let me outline your duties,
Marsden. You are posted to my ship as Executive Officer. An Executive
Officer is the Captain's right hand."
"So I have heard," I said drily.
"Belay that, Mr. Marsden. I do not appreciate humor during duty hours."
You wouldn't, I thought.
"As I was saying, Marsden, Executive Officer, you will be responsible
for--" He went on and on, covering the Code--chapter, book and verse on
the duties of an Executive Officer. It made no difference that I had
been Exec under Andy Royce, the skipper of the "Clotho," the ship with
the biggest confirmed kill in the entire Fleet Scouting Force. I was
still a new Exec, and the book said I must be briefed on my duties. So
"briefed" I was--for a solid hour.
Feeling angry and tired, I finally managed to get away from Rule Book
Charley and find my quarters which I shared with the Engineer. I knew
him casually, a glum reservist named Allyn. I had wondered why he always
seemed to have a chip on his shoulder. Now I knew.
He was lying in his shock-couch as I came in. "Welcome, sucker," he
greeted me. "Glad to have you aboard."
"The feeling's not mutual," I snapped.
"What's the matter? Has the Lieutenant Commander been rolling you out on
the red carpet?"
"You could call it that," I said. "I've just been told the duties of an
Exec. Funny--no?"
He shook his head. "Not funny. I feel for you. He told me how to be an
engineer six months ago." Allyn's thin face looked glummer than usual.
"Did I ever tell you about our skip--captain?" Allyn went on. "Or do I
have to tell you? I see you're wearing an Academy ring."
"You can't tell me much I haven't already heard," I said coldly. I don't
like wardroom gossips as a matter of policy. A few disgruntled men on a
ship can shoot morale to hell, and on a ship this size the Exec is the
morale officer. But I was torn between two desires. I wanted Allyn to go
on, but I didn't want to hear what Allyn had to say. I was like the
proverbial hungry mule standing halfway between two haystacks of equal
size and attractiveness. And like the mule I would stand there turning
my head one way and the other until I starved to death.
But Allyn solved my problem for me. "You haven't heard _this_," he said
bitterly. "The whole crew applied for transfer when we came back to base
after our last cruise. Of course, they didn't get it, but you get the
idea. Us reservists and draftees get about the same consideration as the
Admiral's dog--No! dammit!--Less than the dog. They wouldn't let a mangy
cur ship out with Gutless Gus."
Gutless Gus! that was a new one. I wondered how Chase had managed to
acquire that sobriquet.
* * * * *
"It was on our last patrol," Allyn went on, answering my question before
I asked it. "We were out at maximum radius when the detectors showed a
disturbance in normal space. Chase ordered us down from Cth for a quick
look--and so help me, God, we broke out right in the middle of a Rebel
supply convoy--big, fat, sitting ducks all around us. We got off about
twenty Mark VII torpedoes before Chase passed the word to change over.
We scooted back into Cth so fast we hardly knew we were gone. And then
he raises hell with Detector section for not identifying every class of
ship in that convoy!
"And when Bancroft, that's the Exec whom you've relieved, asked for a
quick check to confirm our kills, Chase sat on him like a ton of brick.
'I'm not interested in how many poor devils we blew apart back there,'
our Captain says. 'Our mission is to scout, to obtain information about
enemy movements and get that information back to Base. We cannot
transmit information from a vaporized ship, and that convoy had a naval
escort. Our mission cannot be jeopardized merely to satisfy morbid
curiosity. Request denied. And, Mr. Bancroft, have Communications
contact Fleet. This information should be in as soon as possible.' And
then he turned away leaving Bancroft biting his fingernails. He wouldn't
even push out a probe--scooted right back into the blue where we'd be
safe!
"You know, we haven't had one confirmed kill posted on the list since
we've been in space. It's getting so we don't want to come in any more.
Like the time--the 'Atropos' came in just after we touched down. She was
battered--looked like she'd been through a meat grinder, but she had ten
confirmed and six probable, and four of them were escorts! Hell! Our
boys couldn't hold their heads up. The 'Lachesis' didn't have a mark on
her and all we had was a few possible hits. You know how it
goes--someone asks where you're from. You say the 'Lachesis' and they
say 'Oh, yes, the cruise ship.' And that's that. It's so true you don't
even feel like resenting it."
I didn't like the bitter note in Allyn's voice. He was a reservist,
which made it all the worse. Reservists have ten times the outside
contacts we regulars do. In general when a regular and reservist tangle,
the Academy men close ranks like musk-oxen and meet the challenge with
an unbroken ring of horns. But somehow I didn't feel like ringing up.
I kept hoping there was another side to the story. I'd check around and
find out as soon as I got settled. And if there was another side, I was
going to take Allyn apart as a malicious trouble-maker. I felt sick to
my stomach.
* * * * *
We spent the next three days taking on stores and munitions, and I was
too busy supervising the stowage and checking manifests to bother about
running down Allyn's story. I met the other officers--Lt. Pollard the
gunnery officer, Ensign Esterhazy the astrogator, and Ensign Blakiston.
Nice enough guys, but all wearing that cowed, frustrated look that
seemed to be a "Lachesis" trademark. Chase, meanwhile, was up in Flag
Officer's Country picking up the dope on our next mission. I hoped that
Allyn was wrong but the evidence all seemed to be in his favor. Even
more than the officers, the crew was a mess underneath their clean
uniforms. From Communications Chief CPO Haskins to Spaceman Zelinski
there was about as much spirit in them as you'd find in a punishment
detail polishing brightwork in Base Headquarters. I'm a cheerful soul,
and usually I find no trouble getting along with a new command, but this
one was different. They were efficient enough, but one could see that
their hearts weren't in their work. Most crews preparing to go out are
nervous and high tempered. There was none of that here. The men went
through the motions with a mechanical indifference that was frightening.
I had the feeling that they didn't give a damn whether they went or
not--or came back or not. The indifference was so thick you could cut it
with a knife. Yet there was nothing you could put your hand on. You
can't touch people who don't care.
Four hours after Chase came back, we lifted gravs from Earth. Chase was
sitting in the control chair, and to give him credit, we lifted as
smooth as a silk scarf slipping through the fingers of a pretty woman.
We hypered at eight miles and swept up through the monochromes of Cth
until we hit middle blue, when Chase slipped off the helmet, unfastened
his webbing, and stood up.
"Take over, Mr. Marsden," he said. "Lay a course for Parth."
"Aye, sir," I replied, slipping into the chair and fastening the web. I
slipped the helmet on my head and instantly I was a part of the ship.
It's a strange feeling, this synthesis of man and metal that makes a
fighting ship the metallic extension of the Commander's will. I was
conscious of every man on duty. What they saw I saw, what they heard I
heard, through the magic of modern electronics. The only thing missing
was that I couldn't feel what they felt, which perhaps was a mercy
considering the condition of the crew. Using the sensor circuits in the
command helmet, I let my perception roam through the ship, checking the
engines, the gun crews, the navigation board, the galley--all the
manifold stations of a fighting ship. Everything was secure, the ship
was clean and trimmed, the generators were producing their megawatts of
power without a hitch, and the converters were humming contentedly,
keeping us in the blue as our speed built to fantastic levels.
I checked the course, noted it was true, set the controls on standby and
relaxed, half dozing in the chair as Lume after Lume dropped astern with
monotonous regularity.
An hour passed and Halloran came up to relieve me. With a sigh of relief
I surrendered the chair and headset. The unconscious strain of being in
rapport with ship and crew didn't hit me until I was out of the chair.
But when it did, I felt like something was crushing me flat. Not that I
didn't expect it, but the "Lachesis" was worse than the "Clotho" had
ever been.
I had barely hit my couch when General Quarters sounded. I smothered a
curse as I pounded up the companionway to my station at the bridge.
Chase was there, stopwatch in hand, counting the seconds.
"Set!" Halloran barked.
"Fourteen seconds," Chase said. "Not bad. Tell the crew well done." He
put the watch in his pocket and walked away.
I picked up the annunciator mike and pushed the button. "Skipper says
well done," I said.
"He got ten seconds out of us once last trip," Halloran said. "And he's
been trying to repeat that fluke ever since. Bet you a munit to an 'F'
ration that he'll be down with the section chief trying to shave off
another second or two. Hey!--what's that--oh ..." He looked at me.
"Disturbance in Cth yellow, straight down--shall we go?"
"Stop ship," I ordered. "Sound general quarters." There was no
deceleration. We merely swapped ends as the alarm sounded, applied full
power and stopped. That was the advantage of Cth--no inertia. We
backtracked for three seconds and held in middle blue.
* * * * *
"What's going on?" Chase demanded as he came up from below. His eyes
raked the instruments. "Why are we stopped?"
"Disturbance in Cth yellow, sir," I said. "We're positioned above it."
"Very good, Mr. Marsden." He took the spare helmet from the Exec's
chair, clapped it on, fiddled with the controls for a moment, nodded,
and took the helmet off. "Secure and resume course," he said. "That's
the 'Amphitrite'--fleet supply and maintenance. One of our people."
"You sure, sir?" I asked, and then looked at the smug grin on Halloran's
face and wished I hadn't asked.
"Of course," Chase said. "She's a three converter job running at full
output. Since the Rebels have no three converter ships, she has to be
one of ours. And since she's running at full output and only in Cth
yellow, it means she's big, heavy, and awkward--which means a
maintenance or an ammunition supply ship. There's an off phase beat in
her number two converter that gives a twenty cycle pulse to her pattern.
And the only heavy ship in the fleet with this pattern is 'Amphitrite.'
You see?"