“But that should be three-three-delta-ex-four-one-otto point with the vessel’s designation.”
“Doubtless in the star class vessels First Officer Quent is used to,” said Sylla. “Here he will find life less formal.”
“What was the four-ten, Pom?” called a clear, sweet voice.
Quent twisted. Looking up from beside his elbow was a dazzling girl-face framed in copper curls. Quent craned further. The rest of her appeared to meet the wildest demands of a man who had spent the last year on a training ship.
“Huh?” he asked involuntarily.
“Hi,” said the apparition, waving her hand irritably in front of Quent’s nose and continuing to gaze at the commo officer.
“The
Kip,”
said the little man over his shoulder. “That’s the pee-bee
Kipsuga Chomo,
sir,” he waggled his goatee at Quent. “Three hundred hours with some contaminant gas. They sealed up in the bridge but Ikky had to bring ‘em in by himself. Not much air in these here peebees.”
He turned back to his board.
Quent glanced around. Three hundred hours was over two weeks. He shuddered.
“But why didn’t—”
“Why did not someone come to their rescue?” Sylla cut in. “The first officer forgets. Patrol boats are the ones that go to the rescue. Who comes to aid a patrol boat? Only another patrol boat—in this case ourselves, who were sitting at Central awaiting our new first officer.
Tant pis,
they were only a gaggle of Non-Humans—”
Imray swatted the air crossly.
“Now, now, Syll.”
“Soup’s hot,” said the girl. “Ooh! My jam.”
She reached a slim white arm around Quent’s ankles. Quent tracking closely, saw that the parcel he had displaced had collided with the gimbals—together with his hat—and was exuding a rosy goo.
“Tchah!” She snatched it up and departed down the shaft.
Quent picked up his hat and shook it. Jam drops drifted onto his leg.
Captain Imray was clambering into the shaftway.
“The first officer will take the first watch, is that not correct?”
Without waiting for an answer Sylla sailed past the captain and vanished. Only the commo officer remained absorbed in his inaudible dialog.
Quent collected the floating jam in his handkerchief and wedged the cloth under his seat. Then he kicked off on a tour of the cramped bridge. The screens were, he saw, inoperative under drive. He pulled up to the library computer and signaled for their course data display. Instead of the requested data the voder came on.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call—
Quent reached for the erase.
“Don’t do that, sir,” the commo man said.
“Why not? I want some data.”
“Yes, sir. But that’s Lieutenant Sylla’s setup, sir. Very fond of water poetry, he is. Just leave it, sir, Lieutenant Svensk will get whatever you want.”
Quent glared at the computer, which was now reciting:
Degged with dew, dappled with dew,
Are the groins of the braes—
He switched it off.
“Perhaps you would be so good as to inform me of our course and of the parameters of our patrol sector?” he asked icily. “I am Lieutenant Quent, First Officer.”
“Yessir, Lieutenant.” The little man’s face split in a grin that sent his goatee pointing at his buck teeth. “Pomeroy here, sir. Lester Pomeroy, Ensign. Sure is good to see a fellow Human aboard, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Not at all, Ensign,” said Quent.
“I guess maybe you feel a bit put out, sir,” Pomeroy went on in a confidential tone. “Them en-aitches prob’ly never even introduced themselves—right, sir?”
“Well, I haven’t had time to look over the roster yet.”
“What roster?” Pomeroy chuckled. “Anything you want to know, sir, just ask Pomeroy. You want to know the gen? Well, there’s Captain Imray, he’s from Deneb way. Navigator, Lieutenant Sylla—I don’t know exactly where he’s from. He’s what they call a lutroid. Puts out terrible strong when he’s wrought up. And Lieutenant Svensk, he’s Science when he’s set low of course, and conversely he’s Guns when the need arises. His vest, see? And then there’s me for Commo and Morgan for Engines—he don’t say much. Wait till you meet Morgan. And there’s our combat team—but they don’t count.”
“Why not?” asked Quent dazedly.
“They’re froze, that’s why. And froze they’ll stay. Nobody wants to get them boys out.” Pomeroy gave a nervous giggle.
“But I know the one you’re itching to meet, Lieutenant, sir. Miss Mellicent Appleby, Logistical supply. Ain’t she a treat? Cooks up a storm, too. But there’s one thing she don’t supply, I better warn you, sir.” His grin faded. “She don’t supply no Appleby. So far, anyhow.”
Pomeroy paused, waited. Quent said nothing.
“Now, you ask about our patrol beat—no, sir,” he broke off as Quent moved to the display tank. “No use to try that, sir. Svensk has it stressed up as a psoodospace—some crazy snake game. But it’s simple. We’re Sector Twelve, like a big piece of cake, see?” He gestured. “Here we are at the point. That’s Base Central. First stop is right close in—that’s Strugglehome. If they’re all green we go on to Davon Two. If they’re not hurting we swing over to Turlavon and Ed. And if nothing comes up we dock in at Midbase. If they haven’t any grief we hang around and check Route Leo—service the beacons and so forth—and then we hit the Chung Complex. That’s a mess. When we’re through there we make the long hop out to Farbase—and if they’re all quiet we start on around through Goldmine and Tunney and Sopwith and so on, back home to Central. Eighteen mail colonies, one route and two bases. Takes about a hundred and twenty days, provided nothing comes up.”
“What sort of thing is apt to come up, Mr. Pomeroy?”
“Distress calls, wrecks, jitney duty for some royal groundhog going from here to there, wonky beacons, exploding mail, field freeze-ups, ghost signals, flying wombats—you name it, we get it sooner or later.” His poached eyes rolled mournfully. “We’re the boys that do the dirty, sir, you know. If it’s too clobby to mess with, lay it on the poor old pee-bees. Take our last tour. Everything was tight till we hit the Chung Complex. They got a crustal instability on a little water planet and both their big ships blowed out on the other side of the system. So
we
have to ferry the bleeders off—and
they
won’t go without their livestock. Thirty-three days hauling octopuses, that’s what.”
Quent frowned. “In a Space Force vessel?”
“Ah, them en-aitches don’t care,” Pomeroy grimaced.
Quent kicked back to his chair in silence.
“Never you mind, Lieutenant sir,” the little man commiserated and hoisted an amber bulb, his wrinkled neck working.
He wiped the bulb with his shirttail. “Have some Leo Lightning, sir?”
Quent jerked upright. “Drinking on the bridge?”
Pomeroy winked broadly.
“Captain Imray don’t care.”
“Mr. Pomeroy,” said Quent firmly. “I appreciate your intentions—but there will be no drinking on this bridge while I am O.C. Kindly stow that bulb.”
Pomeroy stared blankly.
“Yes, sir,” he said at last and turned to his board.
The bulb remained in plain sight.
Quent opened his mouth, closed it. Muscles flickered in his square unhandsome countenance. A clamor was rising from the wardroom below: Svensk’s clack, Sylla’s waspish tenor, mingled with the captain’s boom. The words could not be distinguished, but his fellow officers were clearly not a harmonious team. Presently they subsided, and the ladder clanked as they retired to rest.
Quent sighed through his teeth and picked up the jam-spattered manual. The
Ethel P. Rosenkrantz,
of which he was first officer, was in full star drive with twenty-three essential operational procedures, all his responsibility, unchecked.
Five hours later the ladder clanked again and the hulk of Captain Imray heaved up to the bridge. He was followed by Lieutenant Sylla in free glide. The lutroid landed in his console with a passing flick that made Pomeroy jump for his bulb.
“Twenty-twenty hours, First Officer Quent relieved by Captain Imray,” said Quent formally to the log.
“Sure, sure, I take her, son,” chuckled Imray, settling himself.
“You go look Appleby,
vernt?”
“I am going to make a preliminary inspection of the ship, Captain.”
“Good.” Imray beamed. “See how conscience the humans, Syll? From them example you could learn.”
“Sans doute,”
snarled Sylla. “It is also possible that our first officer feels a need to familiarize himself with the humble patrol boat, which perhaps did not engage his attention during his training as a future star-class admiral.”
“Now, Syll,” growled Imray.
“Come on, Lieutenant, sir,” Pomeroy pulled Quent’s sleeve.
Quent’s right fist unbailed slowly. He followed the little man into the shaft.
In the wardroom Pomeroy helped himself from a net of wrapped sandwiches and settled down with his bulb at the gimbaled table. Quent surveyed the room. It was a cylinder with walls composed of lockers in which, according to his manual, were stored suits, tools, repair and grappling rigs, fuse panels, and the oxy supply. These could be checked later. On his left was the lock and a slave screen, now blank. Across from the lock was a pantry cubby and the shaftway down which he had first followed Imray.
Quent kicked over to the shaft and started aft. The next section contained the main food stores, a small galley-cum-infirmary, waste intakes and the fore quadrant of the regeneration system which ran through several sections of the hull. He glanced through its hatch panel at a lighted mass of culture trays and continued crab-wise along the dim shaft, vaguely aware that his feet were encountering a filmy substance. He was now passing more sphincters which gave access to cubicles for transient passengers and package mail.
“Must you trample on my laundry, Lieutenant?” inquired a soprano voice in his ear.
Miss Appleby’s head protruded from a port behind him. Her gaze was directed toward his leg, which seemed to be wrapped in turquoise silk.
“Oh. Sorry.” He disentangled, trying not to kick. Tm doing a tour of the ship.”
“Well, do your touring someplace else, please,” she said. “These are my quarters.”
“All these?” He gestured.
“When we haven’t any transients, I don’t see why not.”
He parted a port at random and looked in. The cubicle was draped in fluffy stuff and the hull wall sparkled with holograms. Quent had the impression of an offensively healthy character in ceaseless action. He moved to another cubicle—it proved to be full of bundles tied with bows. Not mail. He tried another, Miss Appleby’s head revolving as she watched him. This one held what appeared to be a private kitchen and it smelled of fudge.
“These wires,” he called back to the head. “Are they authorized?”
“Captain Imray never objected. Please get on with it. I’m trying to take a bath.”
Quent peered. There were indeed rainbow droplets in the curls around her delicate ears. He licked his lips.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said absently, drifting toward her.
“By the way, Lieutenant,” said the charming head. “Did you notice those holos in there?”
“Very nice.” He drifted faster, smiling hopefully.
“Didn’t you recognize them?”
“Should I?” he beamed.
“Yes, I think so,” she said calmly. “That’s my fiancé, Bob Coatesworth. Vice Admiral Robert B. Coatesworth. Think it through, Lieutenant.”
With a soft sucking sound her head vanished back into the cubicle.
Quent halted. He pounded his fist slowly against his head—several times. Then he resumed his journey aft.
Beyond the bulkhead he found emergency pod inlets, which would require a careful check, and the refrigerant storage quadrant he had met before. He peered through the view panel. The drip seemed to have stopped.
The regeneration chamber ended here, giving room for the landleg stabilizers and the
Rosenkrantz’s
small-weapons turrets, all of which he would have to go over in detail later on. This ship was old. The manual referred to it as a heavy-duty, primitive type, equipped for planet side landings. Was the system still operational? Pomeroy had told him that their mail exchange was normally conducted from orbit.
Through the next bulkhead the shaft opened into the echoing gloom of the main cargo hold. This felt dank, perhaps in memory of the octopi. He made his way along the hull past the airsled and the cradles filled with mail pods. He gave the main cargo hatch a brief check and turned to the engine room hatchway.
The hatch refused to open.
“First Officer to Engineer,” he said to the speaker. “Open up.”
The engine room was silent.
“The first officer speaking,” he said more loudly. “Open the hatch.”
The speaker gave a squeal that sounded like “Blow.”
“What’s wrong?” Quent shouted. “Open up.”
“Blo-oo-oo-ow,” moaned the speaker.
“I’m inspecting the ship. Engineer, undog this hatch.”
No reply.
Quent pounded on the grille.
“First Officer Quent,” said Sylla’s voice from the hold voder. “The captain requests that you cease annoying the engineer.”
“I’m not annoying the engineer. He won’t let me in.”
“Better you try some other time, son,” said Imray’s rumble.
“But—yes, sir,” Quent gritted.
He pounded his head again, less gently. Then he started back through the hold, pursued by the dim sound of bagpipes from Engines. The shaft was now empty of Miss Appleby and her laundry. Pomeroy was still in the wardroom, nursing his bulb.
“Morgan throw you out, sir? Them en-aitches got no respect.”
Quent silently helped himself to some sandwiches and a tea bulb and rummaged through the cassette locker until he recognized some Sector Twelve names—Strugglehome, Turlavon, the Chung Complex. He carried the lot to his cubicle, carefully stowed away his stained dress whites and slung his hammock cocoon. The sandwiches turned out to be delicious. Before he had heard through the data on Turlavon his eyelids closed.
“Wake up, Lieutenant.”