E c tubb, p.7
E C Tubb, page 7
He did not share her confidence. "Did anything else come from Polar North?"
"Only the update on the computer data I'd asked for. I'll process it once we're on our way. When will that be, Commander?"
"In a hurry to leave?"
"There's no point in hanging around." She turned to the door, pausing to take a deep breath.
Varl looked at her silhouette as she touched the doorknob. "Stacey didn't want you with us. I'm beginning to think he had a point."
"Me?"
"All of you -- the women."
"He's old-fashioned," she said. "A thousand years out of date. Hasn't he heard of equality?"
"It doesn't exist and never has. Having legal equality doesn't make us the same. If it did I could have babies, too. Do you know what I'm getting at?"
Erica glanced down at her contours. "I think so."
"All we men know you are different; you don't have to keep reminding us. I want the women dressed in clothing which doesn't emphasize their femininity. No makeup. No perfume. What they do off-watch in the privacy of their cabins is their business, but I don't want them taking the minds of the men off their jobs. That goes for you too."
For a moment she tensed as if about to argue, then shrugged. "I'll see to it. Shapeless coveralls -- I guess you won't object to belts?"
"Don't let them be worn too tight."
"For God's sake! Do you think I've picked a load of strumpets? We have better things to do than seduce you men. Maybe you should warn your side not to yield to temptation -- Or can't you resist an opportunity to rape?"
Varl stared at her face, at the anger glistening in her eyes, then said quietly, "I've a reason for ordering this, and you should know what it is. Or have you forgotten what happened in here after we came aboard?"
"No." Her eyes moved from his face to glance at the bunk, and a tinge of red brushed her cheeks.
"No, I haven't forgotten."
"The other side of the coin," he said. "Nature's way of keeping a balance. The sight of pain and blood and death triggers the desire to create. Wars bring an increase in population. It's something basic in our makeup, a thing we can't really control. Conditions in the _Odile_ are going to be tense. Add titillation and you beg for trouble. Not just the distraction, but the envies and jealousies and the primitive need to survive. The genetic urge to breed -- need I say more?"
"No, Professor, you've said enough."
"I'm serious, Major!"
"I know you are, Commander." For a moment she glared at him, then she shook her head. "Is there anything you haven't thought of, Kurt? Anything at all?"
"I hope not," he said. "We leave in ten minutes."
In the control room he took his place in the pilot's chair, sweeping the controls with experienced eyes, starting the checks with a curt nod at Cole on communications. The reports were too slow, and he slammed his hand on the console.
"Cancel! Recommence checks, and this time remember we aren't playing a game. Start!"
He listened to the responses, watching the telltales, then snarled his anger again, slamming his hand on the panel.
"Cancel! I want full response. It isn't enough to press a button -- a bulb could have blown, a wire snapped, anything. I want both vocal and electronic systems check. Again!"
In the engine room, a man looked at Asner and raised his eyebrows. At the life-support monitor board a woman pursed her lips and whispered to her duty mate.
"Now I know what I've heard is true -- we've got ourselves a real martinet."
"A real bastard, you mean."
"I was being polite." She winced as Varl's voice snarled from the speakers, canceling the check again. "So much for schedules! At this rate we'll never leave the ground."
When they did, the ship lifted with a jerk.
Kreutzal's first ship had risen like a bubble to hang poised before vanishing; it had been a frail skin lightened by hydrogen, and the _Odile_ was a structure of massive proportions in comparison. But the hydee was as advanced as the ship and more than equal to the strain.
"Power!" Varl snapped as he watched the meters. "Engage first level!"
He could have done it himself from the chair, but he had his own reasons for involving the others. As a telltale flared into ruby life a thin, keening whine began to fill the vessel, a note which climbed and stung the ears before it passed above audible range. In the engine room a paradox came into being.
Kreutzal's invention was a machine with no moving parts. Instead, a complex mesh of energy fields was created within the framework of symmetrical coils immersed in liquid hydrogen and framed by massive armatures. Supercooled conductors, shaped to harmonize with others of similar nature, created a field of mutual induction. When enough power was supplied, an irresistible force met an immovable object.
Power, seeking to escape, created the very conditions that made it impossible for it to do so.
Plasma-like field pressures developed to form a complex node which could not logically exist within the framework of the known universe. The energy could not dissipate, nor could it change. Instead it went somewhere else -- into hyperspace. With it went the engine that created it, the ship in which it was held, and everything contained within the hull, living or dead. A section of normal space moved into a region which was still a mystery.
"Watch the sync!" Varl scowled as the ship jerked and lights flared on the panel. "Engineer! Check your levels!"
"Steady now, sir!" Asner made his report. "Level evened!"
"Rate?"
"Twelve."
''Increase to fifteen."
Kreutzal had drifted high up before gambling with the direction. There was no longer any gamble involved; a slow lift was achieved with a stream of millipulses on the initial field level which gave the crew the opportunity for slow but close maneuvering. Even so, the _Odile_ streaked for the upper atmosphere faster than any pre-D rocket, to soar high above the Van Allen belts and, safe from the turbulence of the magnetic field, to swing into a synchronous orbit.
"Check all systems." Varl was taking no more chances than he had to on an untried vessel.
"Navigator! Stand by for TD tests." He waited until all reports were in and in the green. 'TD testing. One second. On five. Mark!" He counted. "...Two! One! On!"
The screens blurred, cleared after a second to show the vista of normal space. Machen checked the apparent diameter of Earth, compared it to what it had been, and computated the distance the _Odile_
had traveled in the time the hydee had been engaged. He would run another dozen on the time and duration tests before he would dare to plot a course, and while he did so he was in command of the ship.
Finally he looked up. "Initial calc completed. Where to, Commander?"
Varl wanted a short flight for further testing of the ship and the navigator's skill. "The belt. Take us to the asteroids."
He sat patiently as Machen made his calculations. The asteroid belt was rife with dangers: masses of rock in complex orbits and smaller scraps of planetary debris swinging like tiny moons. Too close and the ship could drop from hydee to be smashed into ruin by the impact of jagged boulders, riddled with the shot of gravel, or penetrated by bullet-like pebbles. Possibilities Varl did not mention; the navigator should know his job.
Machen did. "How close, Commander?"
"Close."
"To the north of the elliptic then. Ceres is in close proximity to the belt just now, and I'll use it for a marker. On five. Mark!"
The screens blurred again with the eerie grayness of hyperspace. Kreutzal had reached Mars in a matter of minutes; the major time spent on his journey had been in landing and finding his way back to Earth. He had been armored in ignorance, with more luck than any human had ever deserved -- luck which need never be repeated.
Varl tensed in his chair, hands on the controls, eyes on the screens. Should the _Odile_ emerge too close to a rock, he must fire the rockets to blast them from danger. A ship took that gamble every time it jumped, but so close to a region like the belt it could be near suicide.
The screens filled with normal space again, the alarms remained silent, the ship held still.
"Made it." Machen blew out his breath. "But too high and too far. The levels must be wrong. We'll have to recalibrate before heading out. Have we time?"
"Take all you want," Varl said. "The rest of us will be busy."
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*CHAPTER 11*
STACEY woke to the blare of the alarm and rolled from his bunk, cursing, his minor irritation deepening to anger as he banged his elbow. Damn Varl and his endless drills! He had not had a clear off-watch since they had reached the asteroids, and neither had anyone else. Fatigue was beginning to show in heightened tension, mounting irritation, and general discourtesy among the crew. Maintained, such fatigue could lead to verbal abuse and physical violence; already it had led to quarrels and a loss of comradeship. A hell of a way to maintain morale!
As he reached the passage the clangor died to be replaced by a harsh voice from the speakers.
"Lower hold penetrated. Power loss in forward section! Attack in upper right quadrant! Battle alert!
Move!"
Varl playing god, he thought. It had to be another drill, of course, but how could he be sure? A stray meteor could have penetrated the lower hold and power could be lacking from the forward section and an attack could be lancing in from the upper right quadrant. The ship echoed to the sound of running feet as the crew raced to take up their stations. In the sick bay Singh Garewell, the medical orderly, looked up as Stacey entered.
"All right, Doctor?"
He had laid out the emergency equipment: hypodermics, swabs, dressings, and instruments were all neatly tucked beneath their clips. Garewell was a good man who had learned fast, but how he would perform under actual surgical conditions was another matter. The drills provided pretended casualties but not real blood, real pain, or real death.
"Fine." Stacey rubbed his eyes and glanced at the oxygen bottle. A few deep breaths would clear his head but would also set a poor example to the aide -- if the crunch came neither should have to rely on stimulants. "I'm busy on a patient when a casualty is brought in with a broken arm and stomach
lacerations, and coughing blood. What do you do?"
"Ignore the arm," Garewell said without hesitation. "Check the stomach for arterial bleeding, and if none is obvious, concentrate on the chest."
"And?"
"Immobilize with anesthetics and use suction to clear accumulated fluids." He added, "I'd also check the trachea for injury."
"Extensive bleeding from severed arteries?"
"Pressure on relative checkpoints and apply one or more tourniquets."
"Splinters of glass in an eye?"
"Anesthetize and bandage for your later attention."
"And if I'm dead?"
Garewell hesitated. "Take a chance."
"You wait for relative quiet," Stacey corrected. "You check up on the medical books and do what you can to the full extent of your knowledge and skill. With a patient you never take chances." He smiled wryly. "At least you never admit it. Now, as the medical officer of the _Odile_, I prescribe two ounces of medicinal brandy to us both. You'll find -- " He broke off as the alarm blared again. "Now what's wrong?"
The attack had broken through the defenses and the gun turrets in the upper right quadrant and midsection had been put out of action. Another compartment had been penetrated and sealed. All hands were ordered to emergency stations.
Garewell ran off to man a gun. Had there been patients, Stacey would have had to complete emergency treatment before running to the lower left quadrant to man a laser. The area was sealed, and he ran to another sector, to throw himself into an empty turret, to reach for the controls and to curse as a red lamp flared to signal both his and the gun's destruction.
"Drill completed," Varl announced. "All hands restore ship to normal running." After a pause he said acidly: "Had the attack been genuine you would all have been dead by now."
Back in the sick bay, Stacey sat on the operating table and waited for the usual stream of minor casualties. The first to arrive was a woman with a badly grazed forearm. "Another souvenir of our commander's hope of perfection," she said as he examined her wound. "Does he expect to build a naval fighting crew in a few days?"
"It's been two weeks."
"And basic training in any military establishment is what? Six weeks? Eight?"
"I guess Varl is in a hurry." He nodded at Garewell, who had returned to resume his duties. "Singh will take care of it. Next?"
The man had a pair of badly bruised eyes. "I slipped," he explained. "Trod on something which was supposed to be blood. Damn near busted my neck. And I had something special going on my next off-watch."
"She won't see you in the dark." Stacey applied a salve. "Next?"
Mboto winced as Stacey examined his shoulder. "I think it's dislocated, Doc."
"It is. How did it happen?" Mboto, like the other man, had slipped in a pool of simulated blood, tried to save himself, and had wrenched his arm from its socket as he fell. "Here!" Stacey thrust a rolled-up bundle beneath the injured arm. "I'm going to apply leverage -- this will act as a fulcrum. Here we go!"
He was fast, and before Mboto knew what was happening, his arm had been moved, the limb extended, aligned, and released for the normal pull of ligaments and muscles to restore it to its proper seating.
"Hell!"
"Hurt a little, uh?" Stacey nodded. "It'll be tender for a while, so carry it in a sling. Use it, but don't apply strain. These will help." He shook three tablets from a bottle. "Drink?"
"When there's something to celebrate."
"As my first dislocation on this trip, you have. Three glasses, Singh -- this time let's hope there are no more phony attacks."
The brandy was good, and Stacey savored it as he did the relative calm. Mboto had gone to his
cabin to sleep off the effects of the drugs and drink. Singh was busy with a medical book; he was a man who could be a doctor given time and opportunity, and Stacey decided he would get both.
A bell chimed. "My watch, Singh," Stacey said. "Get off now -- and get what sleep you can."
Garewell nodded and, taking the book with him, left the sick bay. Alone, Stacey poured himself another drink and looked at the golden fluid and the face that stared back at him from its depths.
No longer young yet not old enough to be as cynical as it was, the face was a combination of planes and curves that betrayed the man -- or a mask behind which he lived. It was a face which held disappointment and the touch of disillusion which had known how to smile but was reluctant to invite hurt.
The face vanished as he lifted the glass and drank, and felt the remembered glow of liquid fires.
In the control room, Varl studied the reports of the recent drill: The computer-simulated attack had resulted in the total loss of the _Odile_.
"You can't blame the crew," Owen said. "They were hit on all sides. Once the hold was penetrated and power lost -- "
"Those things don't happen in combat?"
"At times, yes, but -- "
"And the enemy never take advantage of them?"
"Be fair, Commander," Cole said. "No matter how strong the ship or well trained the crew, you can always devise a system which will reduce them both to total loss. The point is -- "
"I'm not making points," Varl snapped. "I'm trying to save lives -- yours, mine, that of every man and woman in the _Odile_. Have you forgotten what could happen to us? If an attack comes I want to be ready for it. I want the crew to know what they're doing and why. To be able to use their initiative and not run around in panic. Look at the reports! Seconds lost between manning the turrets and opening fire.
Minutes between the initial alarm and full battle alert. Suggestions?"
"They know it's a drill," Owen said. "That tends to slow them down."
"But they've had practice on the guns. Why the delay?" Varl frowned. "Response time," he decided.
"They reach for the controls and then take time to settle instead of triggering the guns. They want to know what they're firing at instead of just blasting at what's out there regardless of what it is. Well, that can be cured." He leaned back in his chair, not too displeased, knowing he had asked more from the crew than they could give. He knew, too, that pressure constantly maintained could defeat its own objective. "We'll alter the schedule. Switch to suit drill and target practice. How long before you can arrange a computer simulation based on external defense?"
Cole shrugged. "As soon as I get access to the machines. Erica has hogged the system ever since Piers completed the calibration."
"That's right," Machen said. "She's a glutton for work."
Varl made no comment. "Dan?"
"No trouble with the guns." Owen looked again at the reports. "I'll pick out the slowest and give them individual tuition. Maybe arrange a team competition -- that always brings out the best."
Varl nodded, conscious of his fatigue. The drills had broken every watch, and he had been on the bridge during each drill. He knew he was trying to do too much too soon, but he also knew that at a certain point all would fall in line and the crew and the ship would become a composite unit. Then the confusion of the moment would be lost in the smooth efficiency learned in training. But until then he could not bring himself to relax.
"The drill's over," he said. "Off-duty officers leave the control room. The rest get about your business."
Alone aside from Machen, Varl looked at the vista on the screens. A mass of pitted rock turned in a slow rotation, dark seams and fissures showing in the adamantine stone. Other asteroids were close, many bearing the marks of gunfire; freshly made craters or patches fused by lasers.
Varl lifted his eyes to the distant sheen of nebulae, the cold glitter of countless stars. Jupiter was close, a mottled ball of vapor blotched with the turbulence of the Red Spot. Ganymede and Io moved with the other satellites in a celestial saraband around the giant. They were small worlds still guarding their secrets as did the planets of Uranus and Neptune -- worlds too close, too cold, too hostile. The environs
