"You're the expert. I just want to be sure that you're prepared to, quote, advise, unquote, with your little pink paws on the actual keyboard of your battle organ."
"That's just the way that I propose to advise."
"Good. Fix it up to suit yourself, then. I should be able to let you have a mechanic shortly to give you a hand."
"Before we go any further, sir, I'd like to make an inspection of the weapons themselves. Just in case . . ."
"Just in case I've made some fantastic bollix, eh?" Craven was almost cheerful. "Very good. But try to make it snappy. It's time we were on our way."
"Yes," said Jane, and it seemed that the Captain's discarded somberness was hanging about her like a cloud. "It's time."
AT ONE TIME, before differentiation between the mercantile and the fighting vessel became pronounced, merchant vessels were built to carry a quite considerable armament. Today, the mounting of weapons on a merchantman presents its problems. After his tour of inspection Grimes was obliged to admit that Captain Craven had made cunning use of whatever spaces were available— but Craven, of course, was a very experienced officer, with long years of service in all classes of spacecraft. Too—and, perhaps, luckily—there had been no cannon among the Survey Service ordnance that had been requisitioned, so recoil had not been among the problems.
When he was finished, Grimes returned to the Control Room. Craven was still there, and with him was Jane Pentecost. They had, obviously, been discussing something. They could, perhaps, have been quarreling; the girl's face was flushed and her expression sullen.
"Yes?" snapped the Captain.
"You've done a good job, sir. She's no cruiser, but she should be able to defend herself."
"Thank you. Then we'll be on our way."
"Not so fast, sir. I'd like to wire up my control panel properly before we shove off."
Craven laughed. "You'll have time, Mr. Grimes. I still have a few last duties to discharge aboard
Delta Orionis.
But be as quick as you can."
He left the compartment, followed by Jane Pentecost. She said, over her shoulder, "I'll send Mr. Baxter to help you, John."
The Rim Worlder must have been somewhere handy; in a matter of seconds he was by Grimes' side, an already open tool satchel at his belt. As he worked, assisting deftly and then taking over as soon as he was sure of what was required, he talked. He said, "Mum wanted to come along, but I soon put the damper on that. But I was bloody amazed to find
you
here."
"Were you?" asked Grimes coldly.
"You bet I was. Never thought you were cut out to be a bloody pirate." He cursed briefly as a spatter of hot metal from his sizzling soldering iron stung his hand. "A cold weld'd be better, but it'd take too much time. But where was I? Oh, yes. The shock to me system when I saw you comin' aboard this wagon."
"I have my quite valid reasons," Grimes told him stiffly.
"You're tellin' me. Just as my missus had quite valid reasons for wantin' to come with me. But she ain't a gunnery expert." He added piously, "Thank Gawd."
"And I am one," said the Ensign, trying to change the drift of the conversation before he lost his temper. "Yes. that's right. Just stick to the color code. The blue wiring's the ALGE . . ."
"I know," Baxter told him. "Tell me, is it any good?"
"Yes.
Of course, if an enemy held us in her beams for any prolonged period we should all be cooked, but as far as it goes it's effective enough."
"Hope you're right." He made the last connections, then replaced the panel on the open shallow box. "Here's yer magic cabinet, Professor. All we have ter see now is what rabbits yer can pull outer the hat."
"Plenty, I hope," said Captain Craven, who had returned to Control. "And are you ready now, Mr. Grimes?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Then we'll make it stations. If you will take the copilot's chair, while Mr. Baxter goes along to look after his rockets."
"Will do, Skipper," said the engineer, packing away his tools as he pulled himself toward the exit hatch.
The ship's intercom came to life, in Jane Pentecost's voice. "Connection between vessels severed. Airlock door closed."
"We're still connected," grumbled Craven.
"Delia O'Ryan
still has her magnetic grapnels out." He spoke into the transceiver microphone:
"Epsilon Sextans
to
Delta Orionis.
Cast off, please. Over."
"Delta Orionis
to
Epsilon Sextans.
Casting off." Through a viewport Grimes could see one of the bright mooring wires snaking back into its recess. "All clear, Captain."
"Thank you,
Captain
Kennedy." And in a softer voice, "And I hope you keep that handle to your name, Bill."
"Thank you, sir. And all the best, Captain, from all of us, to all of you. And good hunting."
"Thanks. And look after the old
Delia,
Captain. And yourself. Over—and out."
"Delta Orionis
to
Epsilon Sextans.
Over and out."
(There was something very final, thought Grimes, about those outs.)
He was aware that the ships were drifting slowly apart. Now he could see all
of Delta Orionis
from his viewport. He could not help recalling the day on which he had first seen her, at the Woomera spaceport. So much had happened since that day. (And so much was still to happen—he hoped.) He heard Craven say into the intercom, "Stand by for temporal precession. We're desynchronizing." Then, there was the giddiness, and the off-beat whine of the Mannschenn Drive that pierced his eardrums painfully, and beyond the viewports the great, shining shape of the other ship shimmered eerily and was suddenly warped into the likeness of a monstrous Klein flash—then vanished. Where she had been (where she still was, in space but not in time) shone the distant stars, the stars that in this distorted continuum were pulsing spirals of iridescence.
"Mannschenn Drive.
Cut
!"
The thin, high keening died abruptly. Outside, the stars were glittering points of light, piercingly bright against the blackness.
"Mr. Grimes!" Craven's voice was sharp. "I hope that you take more interest in gunnery than you do in ship handling. In case it has escaped your notice, I would remind you that you are second in command of this vessel, and in full charge in the event of my demise."
"Sorry, sir," stammered Grimes. Then, suddenly bold, "But I'm not your second in command, sir. I've signed no Articles."
Surprisingly, Craven laughed. "A spacelawyer, yet! Well, Mr. Grimes, as soon as we get this vessel on course we'll attend to the legal formalities. Meanwhile, may I request your close attention to what I am doing?"
"You may, sir."
Thereafter he watched and listened carefully. He admired the skill with which Craven turned the ship on her directional gyroscopes until the red-glowing target star was centered exactly in the cartwheel sight. He noted that the Captain used his reaction drive at a longer period and at a higher rate of acceleration than usual, and said as much. He was told, the words falling slowly and heavily in the pseudo-gravity, "They . . . will . . . expect . . . us . . . to . . . be . . . in . . . a . . . hurry. We must . . . not . . . disappoint . . . them."
Speed built up, fast—but it was a velocity that, in the context of the interstellar distances to be traversed, was no more than a snail's crawl. Then—and the sudden silence was like a physical blow—the thunder of the rockets ceased. The screaming roar had died, but the ship was not quiet. The whine of the Mannschenn Drive pervaded her every compartment, vibrated through every member of her structure. She was falling, falling through space and time, plunging through the warped continuum to her rendezvous with Death . . . .
And whose death?
wondered Grimes.
He said, "I should have asked before, sir. But how are . . . how are
they
going to find us?"
"I don't know," said Craven. "I don't know. But they've found other ships when they've wanted to. They've never used the old pirate's technique of lying in wait at breaking-out points. A Mass Proximity Indicator? Could be. It's theoretically possible. It could be for a ship under Mannschenn Drive what radar is for a ship in normal space-time. Or some means of homing on a temporal precession field? That's more like it, I think, as this vessel was able to escape when she went random.
"But if they want us—and they will—they'll find us. And then"—he looked at Grimes, his blue gaze intense—"and then it's up to you, Ensign."
"To all of us," said Grimes.
SHE WAS UNDERMANNED, this
Epsilon Sextans,
but she functioned quite efficiently. Craven kept a Control Room watch himself, and the other two watchkeepers were Grimes and Jane Pentecost. Four on and eight off were their hours of duty— but there was plenty of work to be done in the off duty periods. The Captain, of course, was in over-all charge, and was trying to bring his command to the pitch of efficiency necessary for a fighting ship. Jane Pentecost was responsible for meals—although these, involving little more than the opening of cans, did not take up too much of her time. She had also taken over biochemist's duties, but called now and again upon Grimes to help her with the ATREG unit. Its operation was simple enough, but it was inclined to be temperamental and, now and again, allowed the carbon dioxide concentration to reach a dangerous level. Grimes' main concern was his armament. He could not indulge in a practice shot—the expulsion of mass by a ship running under interstellar drive is suicidal; even the employment of laser weapons is dangerous. But there were tests that he could make; there was, in the ship's stores, a spare chart tank that he was able to convert to a battle simulator.
Craven helped him, and set up targets in the tank, glowing points of light that were destroyed by the other sparks that represented Grimes' missiles. After one such drill he said, "You seem to know your stuff, Ensign. Now, what's your grasp of the tactical side of it?"
Grimes considered his words before speaking. "Well, sir, we
could
use laser with the Drive in operation—but we haven't got laser. The pirates have. They can synchronize and just carve us up at leisure. This time, I think they'll go for the interstellar drive engine room first, so that we can't get away by the use of random precession."
"Yes. That's what they'll do. That's why I have that compartment literally sealed in a cocoon of insulation. Oh, I know it's not effective, but it will give us a second or so of grace. No more."
"We can't use our reflective vapor," went on Grimes. "That'd be almost as bad, from our viewpoint, as loosing off a salvo of missiles. But, sir, when this ship was first attacked there must have been a considerable loss of mass when the atmosphere was expelled through the rents in the shell plating . . . the Drive was running. How was it that the ship wasn't flung into some other space-time?"
"Come, come, Mr. Grimes. You should know the answer to that one. She was held by the powerful temporal precession fields of the drive units of the two pirates. And then, of course, when the engineers managed to set up their random precession there was no mass left to be expelled."
"H'm. I see. Or I think I see. Then, in that case, why shouldn't I use my ALGE as soon as we're attacked?"
"No. Better not. Something might just go wrong—and I don't want to become one of my own ancestors."
"Then . . . ?"
"You tell me, Mr. Grimes."
"Cut our Drive . . . ? Break out into the normal continuum? Yes . . . it could work." He was becoming enthusiastic. "And then we shall be waiting for-them, with our missile batteries, when
they
break out."
"We'll make an admiral of you yet, young Grimes."
WITH WATCHKEEPING and with off-watch duties time was fully occupied. And yet there was something missing. There was, Grimes said to himself, one hell of a lot missing. Jane Pentecost had her own watch to keep, and her own jobs to do when she was not in the control room—but she and Grimes had some free time to share. But they did not share it.
He broached the subject when he was running a test on the artificial chlorophyll in the ATREG. "Jane, I was hoping I'd see more of you."
"You're seeing plenty of me."
"But not enough."
"Don't be tiresome," she snapped. Then, in a slightly softer voice, "Don't . . . "
" . . . spoil everything?" he finished for her sardonically.
"You know what I mean," she told him coldly.
"Do I?" He groped for words. "Jane . . . Damn it all, I hoped . . . After what happened aboard the
Delia O'Ryan . . .
"
"That," she said, "was different." Her face flushed. "I tell you this, Grimes, if I'd known that you were coming along with us it never would have happened."
"No?"
"NO!"
"Even so . . . I don't see any reason why we shouldn't . . ."
"Why we shouldn't what? Oh, all right, all right. I know what you mean. But it's out of the question. I'll tell you why, in words of one syllable. In a ship such as
Delta Orionis
discreet fun and games were permissible, even desirable. No shortage of women—both crew and passengers. Here, I'm the only female. Your friend Mr. Baxter has been sniffing after me. And Mr. Wolverton, the Interstellar Chief.
And
his Second. And even, bereaved though he is, the Bearded Bastard.
He
might get away with it—the privileges of rank and all that. But nobody else would—most certainly not yourself. How long would it remain a secret if we went to bed together?"
"I suppose you're right, but . . ."
"But what? Oh John, John, you
are
a stubborn cow."
"
Cow
?"
"Sorry. Just Rimworldsese. Applicable to both sexes."
"Talking of sex . . ."
"Oh, shut
up
!"
"I'll not." She looked desirable standing there. A small smudge of grease on her flushed cheek was like a beauty spot. "I'll not," he said again. She was close to him, and he was acutely conscious that beneath the thin uniform shirt and the short shorts there was only Jane. He had only to reach out. He did so. At first she did not resist—and then exploded into a frenzy of activity. Before he could let go of her a hard, rough hand closed on his shirt collar and yanked him backwards.