"Admiral," Ted Wilson said, "I know it is against the unwritten rules
to discuss the matter of increase in rank, but I wonder if we mightn't
break them for a minute or two."
"We might if there were proper justification. Why?"
"A commodore's salary is just a bit meager for marriage," said Wilson
unhappily.
Stone's face clouded a bit and he nodded seriously. "I know," he
said. "But there's a reason, Ted. We do prefer to keep our commodores
single so long as they're in active flight service. So long as you are
well-fed, well-clothed, and well-housed yourself, the monetary payment
is sufficient to take care of your personal needs. I know it is not
enough to provide for a wife on top of that. Of course, some men do.
And others manage to marry well-to-do women."
"Mine is not well-to-do, but I don't want to make her do with less."
"Naturally."
"Then how about this rank business? I'm about due."
"You are."
"Then when can I expect it?" asked Wilson.
Admiral Stone looked at him determinedly. "You can hasten that process
yourself, Wilson. By acting a bit more for the benefit of the Service
than you have in the past."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"There's more to rank than merely following orders to the letter. Now,
you've never disobeyed orders, and it has been obvious that when orders
coincide with your personal ideas, you act eagerly and swiftly. But
when orders are opposed to your pleasure you act at the last moment and
follow them reluctantly along the thin outer edge."
"For instance?"
"For instance last November. You had front line tickets to the finish
post of the Armstrong Classic, but you were ordered on a training
flight around and through the Centaurus System, to last no less than
ten days and no more than thirty, at your discretion. You returned in
ten days and four hours, even though you couldn't see the end of the
Armstrong affair. Then, last May you were ordered to Eridanus Seven,
which is a remarkably interesting place as I recall from my early days.
You got home barely under the wire. Twenty-nine days, twenty-three
hours, forty minutes, and a few seconds. Follow?"
Ted nodded slowly. "I felt that my crew would appreciate my attitude,"
he said.
"Certainly. They did. Both times. They also appreciate your stalling
in a stack-circle, waiting for that last half-hour to expire so they'd
draw overtime flight pay. But you've got to remember, Wilson, that
we are running the Space Service for the public weal, not for the
benefit of the spacemen. A parent does not bring up a child knowing
only the pleasant things of life. A balanced program of work and play
is essential. I know that the Centaurian run is no picnic, but it is a
fine training for spacemen. Now, that'll be all. I'm not criticizing
you Wilson. I recall doing similar things myself years ago. It does
draw a crew closer to their commander when he gives them consideration.
But making them work makes them efficient, and they will also love a
commander who mixes well his periods of pleasure with hours of hard
work. Agree?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Fine," said Admiral Stone. "So now that you know, we'll watch you for
a bit. If you come through, you'll get your increase in rank--and your
girl." He smiled. "You're a good commodore, Wilson. But with a little
work and application you could be brilliant. We need brilliant men.
Remember that. Good-by and good luck, Commodore Wilson...."
* * * * *
His name translated from his native tongue, was Viggon Sarri. In
medieval times he might have been called "Sarri the Conqueror" for his
exploits, his conquests. But of course then it was the king, emperor,
or caesar who led his own troops.
In these days the ruler sends out men of military might to fight
his battles, and Viggon Sarri was not a ruler. His position was the
equivalent of space admiral in the Interstellar Service, and though
devoted to his own service, he was only a paid hand.
His home was far across the galaxy from Sol and the sprinkling of
stellar systems colonized by human beings. Viggon Sarri had never met a
human, he did not know that this section of the universe had any trace
of sentient life. He was just out looking for new worlds to exploit,
perhaps to conquer. A new district to colonize, perhaps, or a world of
beings advanced at least to the point where the produce and manufacture
of his homeland could be sold for metal.
Naturally, Viggon Sarri explored space at the head of several hundred
ultra-fast and ultra-hard-boiled fighting spacecraft--fourteen big
battle wagons, two fighter carriers each providing a hundred one-man
space attack craft, and one hunter, a detecting craft. It was loaded to
the astrodome with every device for locating evidences of anything from
advanced races to enemy spacecraft.
Sarri rode in his flagship, one position ahead of the hunter. And so,
when the detecting equipment in the hunter registered that some race in
this sector of the galaxy was advanced enough to be using the power of
the atomic nucleus, Viggon Sarri gave orders for his fleet to spread
out in a big, flat dishlike formation, flatwise toward this section of
the sky.
It came to as near a halt as anything can approach in deep space, and
Viggon Sarri called a conference.
He sat at the head of the table, his two second officers at his left
and right. They were equal in rank, Regin Naylo and Faren Twill. This
irked them both, and for a long time they had been striving to rise
above one another. But only Viggon Sarri knew which was listed in
the sealed orders, to be opened only in the case of the death of the
supreme commander.
At the far end of the table sat Linus Brein, commander-mathematician of
the hunter spacecraft.