"The first lieutenant's in the wardroom. Sir. The PA system is working."
Grimes refrained from telling her what to do with the public-address system. He merely repeated his order, adding, "And I mean
now.
"
"Aye, aye, sir, Captain, sir."
Insolent little bitch,
thought Grimes, watching the twitching rump in the tight shorts vanishing through the doorway.
He settled down to wait again. Nobody in this ship seemed to be in any hurry about anything. Eventually Brabham condescended to appear. The first lieutenant was a short, chunky man, gray-haired, very thin on top. His broad, heavily lined face wore what looked like a perpetual scowl. His faded gray eyes glowered at the captain. The colors of the few ribbons on the left breast of his shirt had long since lost their brilliance and were badly frayed. Grimes could not tell what decorations—probably good attendance medals—they represented. But there were plenty of canteen medals which were obvious enough—smudges of cigarette ash, dried splashes of drinks and gravies—to keep them company. The gold braid on Brabham's shoulder boards had tarnished to a grayish green.
A gray man,
thought Grimes.
A gray, bitter man.
He said, extending his hand, "Good morning, Number One."
"Good morning. Sir."
"Sit down, Number One." Grimes made a major operation out of refilling and lighting his pipe. "Smoke, if you wish." Brabham produced and ignited an acrid cigarette. "Mphm. Now, what's our condition of readiness?"
"Well, sir, a week at the earliest."
"A
week?
"
"This isn't an Insect Class Courier, sir. This is a
big
ship."
Grimes flushed, but held his temper in check. He said, "Any Survey Service vessel, regardless of size, should be ready, at all times, for almost instant liftoff."
"But, to begin with, there's been the change of captains. Sir."
"Go on."
"And Vinegar Nell—Miss Russell, I mean—isn't very cooperative."
"Mphm. Between ourselves, Number One, I haven't been impressed by the standard of efficiency of her staff."
Or,
he thought,
with the standard of efficiency of this ship in general. But I shall have to handle people with kid gloves until I get the feel of things.
Brabham actually grinned. "I don't think that Sally was overly impressed by you, sir."
"Sally?"
"The captain's tigress. She used to be Commander Tallis' personal servant." Brabham grinned again, not very pleasantly. "Extremely personal, if you get what I mean, sir."
"Oh. Go on."
"And we're still trying to get a replacement for Mr. Flannery's psionic amplifier. He insists that only the brain of an Irish setter will do."
"And what happened to the old one?"
Brabham permitted himself a small chuckle. "He thought that it should share a binge. He poured a slug of Irish whiskey into its life-support tank. And then he tried to bring it around with black coffee."
"Gah!" exclaimed Grimes.
"Then he blamed the whiskey for the demise of the thing. It wasn't
real
Irish whiskey, apparently. It was some ersatz muck from New Shannon."
Grimes succeeded in dispelling the vision of the sordidly messy death of the psionic amplifier from his mind. He said firmly, "To begin with, Miss Russell will just have to pull her finger out. You're the first lieutenant. Get on to her."
"I'd rather not, sir."
Grimes glared at the man. "I'm not being funny, Mr. Brabham. Shake her up. Light a fire under her tail. And as for Mr. Flannery, hell just have to be content with whatever hapless hound's brain the Stores Department can dig up—even if it comes from an English bulldog!"
"Then there are the engines, sir."
"The engines? What about them?"
"The chief has taken down both inertial drive-units. There're bits and pieces strewn all over the engine room deck."
"Was the port captain informed of this immobilization?"
"Er, no, sir."
"And why not?"
"I didn't know what the chief had done until he'd already done it."
"In the captain's absence you were the officer in charge. You should have known. All right, all right, the chief should have come to you first. Apparently he didn't. But as soon as you knew that this rustbucket was immobile you should have reported it."
"I—I suppose I should, sir."
"You suppose! Why didn't you?"
A sullen flush spread over the grayish pallor of Brabham's face. He blurted, "Like the rest of us in this ship, MacMorris has been in quite enough trouble of various kinds. I didn't want to get him into any more. Sir."
Grimes repressed a sigh. It was obvious that this ship was a closed shop, manned by the No Hopers' Union, whose members would close ranks against any threatened action by higher authority, no matter how much they bickered among themselves. And what was he, Grimes? A No Hoper or a pillar of the Establishment? In his heart of hearts, which side was he on? While he was sorting out a reply to make to Brabham a familiar bugle call, amplified, drifted through and over the ship's PA system.
Brabham shifted uneasily in his chair.
"Are you coming down to lunch, sir?" he asked.
"No," decided Grimes. "You carry on down, and you can ask—no,
tell—
Miss Russell to send me some sandwiches and a pot of coffee up here. After lunch I shall see Lieutenant Commander MacMorris, Miss Russell, and Mr. Flannery, in that order. Then I shall see you again.
"That is all."
It was the little blonde stewardess, Sally, who brought up Grimes's lunch. While he was eating it she set about stripping Tallis' calendars from the bulkheads, performing this task with a put-upon air and a great deal of waste motion. Grimes wondered if she had made the sandwiches and the coffee in the same sullenly slapdash way. No, he decided after the first nibble, the first sip. She must have gone to considerable trouble with the simple meal. Surely all the available bread could not have been as stale as the loaf that had been used. Surely it must have been much harder to spread butter so extremely thinly than in the normal manner. And where had she found that stringy, flavorless cold mutton? The coffeepot must have been stood in cold water to bring its weak contents to the correctly tepid stage.
"Will that be all? Sir?" she asked, her arms full of calendars.
"Yes," Grimes told her, adding, "Thank you," not that she deserved it. He decided that he would tell Miss Russell to let him have a male steward to look after him. Obviously this girl would give proper service only to those who serviced her, and she was too coarse, too shop-soiled for his taste, apart from the obvious disciplinary considerations.
Almost immediately after she was gone there was a knock at the door. A big man entered. He was clad in filthy, oil-soaked overalls. A smear of black grease ran diagonally across his hard, sullen face. More grease was mixed with his long, unruly yellow hair. His hot blue eyes glared down at Grimes.
"Ye wanted to see me, Captain? I'm a busy man, not like some I could mention."
"Lieutenant Commander MacMorris?"
"Who else?"
"Commander MacMorris, I understand that this ship is immobilized."
"Unless ye intend to take her up on reaction drive, she is that."
"By whose authority?" demanded Grimes coldly.
"Mine, o' course. Both the innies was playin' up on the homeward passage. So I'm fixin' 'em."
"Didn't you inform the first lieutenant before you started taking them down? He was in charge, in the absence of a captain."
"Inform
him?
He looks after whatever control room ornaments look after. I look after my engine room."
"As long as I'm captain of this ship," snapped Grimes, "it's my engine room. How long will it take you to reassemble the inertial drive-units?"
Grimes could almost read MacMorris' thoughts as the engineer stood there. Should he or should he not angrily protest the captain's assumption of proprietorial rights? He muttered at last, "If I do all that has to be done, a week."
"A week? Just to put things together again?"
"A week it will be."
"Normal in-port routine, I suppose, Commander MacMorris . . . 0800 to 1700, with the usual breaks . . . I see. But if you work double shifts . .. ?"
"Look, Captain, you're not suggesting—"
"No, Commander MacMorris. I'm not suggesting. I'm ordering."
"But we all have friends on the Base, and the last cruise was a long one."
"You will work double shifts, Chief, longer if necessary. I'll want this vessel ready for Space no more than three days from now."
MacMorris grunted wordlessly, turned to go.
"Oh, one more thing," said Grimes.
"Yes? Sir."
"In the future you are to ask me for permission before you immobilize the engines. That is all."
The engineer left sullenly. Grimes carefully filled and lit his battered pipe. What was it that somebody, some girl, had called it, some time ago?
The male pacifier.
Well, he needed pacifying. He disliked having to crack the whip, but there were occasions when it was unavoidable. MacMorris was known to be a good engineer—but he was one of those engineers to whom a ship is no more than a platform existing for the sole purpose of supporting machinery. Grimes thought, not for the first time, that captains had it much better in the days of sail. Even then there were technicians—such as the sailmaker—but a competent wind ship master would be able to repair or even to make a sail himself if he absolutely had to.
There was another knock at the door.
"Come in!" he called.
"I see you're still smoking that filthy thing!" sniffed Vinegar Nell
She had hardly changed at all, thought Grimes, since when they had last been shipmates—and how many years ago was that? She was slim, still, almost to the point of thinness. Her coppery hair was scraped back severely from her broad brow. Green eyes still glinted in the sharp, narrow face. Her mouth was surprisingly wide and full. She could have been very attractive were it not for her perpetually sour expression.
Grimes said stiffly, "Must I remind you, Miss Russell, that I am the captain of this ship?"
"And so you are, sir.
And
a full commander. I never thought you'd make it."
"That will do, Miss Russell." Belatedly he remembered his manners. "Sit down, will you?" The legs displayed when her short uniform skirt rode up were excellent. "Now, Miss Russell, I want
Discovery
ready for Space in three days."
"You're asking a lot, Captain."
"I'm not, Paymaster. You know the regulations as well as I do. At least as well." He quoted, "All fleet units shall be maintained in a state of instant readiness."
"But there are provedore stores to be loaded. The farm needs a thorough overhaul; the yeasts in numbers two and three vats went bad on me last trip, and I'm not at all happy about the beef tissue culture. The pumping and filtration systems for the hydroponic tanks need a thorough clean out."
"You can write, can't you?"
"Write?" The fine eyebrows arched in puzzlement.
"Yes. Write. It's something you do on a piece of paper, such as an official form, with a stylus. Make out the necessary requisitions. Mark them
urgent.
I'll countersign them."
"Commander Tallis," she told him, "always wanted all re pairs and maintenance carried out by the ship's personnel."
"One way of making sure that you get longer in port. But my name is Grimes, not Tallis. I don't like to loaf around Base until the stern vanes take root Make out those requisitions."
"All right," she said flatly.
"Oh, and that stewardess . . . Sally, I think her name is."
"Your servant."
"My ex-servant Have her replaced by a male steward." A smile that was almost a sneer flickered over her full mouth as she looked around at the bulkheads, bare now, stripped of their adornment of blatantly bare female flesh. "Oh, I see. I never thought that you were
that
way in the old days, Captain."
"And I'm not now!" he snarled. "It's just that I don't like insolent sluts who can't even make a decent sandwich. On your way down, tell Mr. Flannery that I want him, please."
"Nobody wants Mr. Flannery," she said. "But we're stuck with him."
Flannery finally put in an appearance. He looked as though he had been dragged out from a drunken slumber. He was red-haired, grossly fat, and his unhealthily pale face was almost featureless. His little eyes were a washed-out blue, but so bloodshot that they looked red. The reek of his breath was so strong that Grimes, fearing an explosion, did not relight his pipe.
"Mr. Flannery?"
"An' who else would it be, Captain?"
"Mphm." The temperamental telepaths had always to be handled carefully and Grimes did not wish to provoke the man into insubordination, with its inevitable consequences. It would take much too long to get a replacement. Once the ship was up and away, however—"Mphm. Ah, Mr. Flannery, I believe that you're unable to get a suitable psionic amplifier to replace the one that, er, died."
"An' isn't that the God's truth, Captain? Poor Terence, he was more than just an amplifier for me feeble, wanderin' thoughts. He was more than just a pet, even. He was a brother."
"Mphm?"
"A dog from the Ould Sod, he was, a sweet Irish setter. They took his foine body away, bad cess to 'em, but his poor, naked brain was there,, in that jar o' broth, his poor, shiverin' brain an' the shinin' soul o' him. Night after night we'd sit there, out in the dark atween the stars, just the pair of us, a-singin' the ould songs. The Minstrel Boy to the war has gone. . . .
An' ye are that Minstrel Boy, Paddy,
he'd say to me, he'd
think
to me,
an' you an' me is light-years from the Emerald Me, an' shall we iver see her again?
"
Grimes noted with embarrassed disgust that greasy tears were trickling from the piggy eyes. "I'm a sociable man, Captain, an' I niver likes drinkin' alone, but I'm fussy who I drinks with. So ivery night I'd pour a drop, just a drop, mind ye, just a drop o' the precious whiskey into Terence's tank . . . he liked it, as God's me guide. He loved it, an' he wanted it. An' wouldn't ye want it if the sweet brain of ye was bare an' naked in a goldfish bowl, a-floatin' in weak beef tea?"