5
“Master, Roger Danzellan,” the Federation’s man on Siluria replied eventually. “First mate, Oscar Eklund. Second mate, Francis Delamere. Third mate, Kathryn Daley. Chief engineer, Mannschenn Drive, Evan Jones. Chief engineer Interplanetary Drives, Ian Mackay. Juniors, H. Smith, B. Ostrog, H. Singh. Purser/catering officer, Glynis Trent . . .” The message went on to say that Captain Danzellan and Mr. Delamere had both been among Corgi’s complement when she had last been at Port Llangowan. The last piece of information that it contained was that Francis Delamere was the nephew of the Dog Star Line’s general manager.
So—obviously, the Dog Star people were interested in Morrowvia. On receiving the report from Corgi’s master they had acted, and fast. A suitable ship had been shunted off her doubtlessly well-worn tramlines, and Danzellan had been transferred to her command. Probably he had not wished to have Delamere as one of his Officers—but Delamere had pull. Nepotism, as Grimes well knew, existed in the Survey Service. In a privately owned shipping company the climate would be even more suitable to its flourishing.
There was only one thing for Grimes to do—to pile on the Gs and the lumes, to get to Morrowvia before Danzellan. Fortunately, the merchant vessel was not fitted with a Mass Proximity Indicator—the Dog Star Line viewed new navigational aids with suspicion and never fitted them to its ships until their value was well proven. Sooner or later—sooner, Grimes hoped—Seeker would pick up Schnauzer in her screen and, shortly thereafter, would be able accurately to extrapolate her trajectory. Schnauzer would know nothing of Seeker’s whereabouts or presence.
And Drongo Kane in his Southerly Buster? A coded request for information to the Bug Queen brought the news that he had lifted from Port Fortinbras, his refit completed, with a General Clearance. Such clearances were rarely issued. This one must have cost Kane plenty.
Grimes was spending more and more time in his control room. There was nothing that he could do—but he wanted to be on hand when Schnauzer was picked up. At last she was there—or something was there—an almost infinitesimal spark in the screen, at extreme range. Grimes watched, concealing his impatience, while his navigator, hunched over the big globe of utter darkness, delicately manipulated the controls set into the base of the screen. Slowly a glowing filament was extruded from the center of the sphere—Seeker’ s track. And then, from that barely visible spark just within the screen’s limits, another filament was extended.
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes.
The display was informative. Relatively speaking, Schnauzer was on Seeker’s port beam, a little ahead of the beam actually, and steering a converging course. Morrowvia was out of range of the M.P.I., but there was little doubt that both ships were headed for the same destination.
“Have you an estimate of her speed yet, Mr. Pitcher?” asked Grimes.
“Only a rough one, sir,” replied the tall, thin, almost white-haired young man. “Give me an hour, and . . .”
“Extrapolate now, if you will.”
“Very good, sir.”
Two beads of light appeared, one on each filament. “Twenty-four hours,” said Pitcher. The range had closed slightly but the relative bearing was almost unaltered.”Forty-eight hours.” The bearing was changing. Seventy-two hours.” Schnauzer was slightly, very slightly, abaft Seeker’s beam. “Ninety-six hours.” There was no doubt about it. At the moment Seeker had the heels of the Dog Star ship.
Grimes was relieved. He did not want to drive his ship any faster. An almost continuous sense of déjà vu is an uncanny thing to have to live with. The temporal precession field had not yet reached a dangerous intensity, but it had been increased to a highly uncomfortable one. Already there was a certain confusion when orders were given and received. Had they been made? Had they been acted upon?
Grimes waited for Pitcher to answer his question, then realized that he had not yet asked it. “Assuming,” he said, “that your first estimate of Schnauzer’s speed is correct, how much time do we have on Morrowvia before she arrives?”
“Sixty hours Standard, sir. Almost exactly two Morrowvian days.”
Not long, thought Grimes. Not long at all for what he had to do. And not knowing what he had to do didn’t help matters. He’d just have to make up the rules as he went along.
He said, “We’ll maintain a continuous watch on the M.P.I. from now on. Let me know at once if there’s any change in the situation, and if any more targets appear on the screen.”
“Drongo Kane?” asked Saul.
“Yes, Mr. Saul. Drongo Kane.”
The first lieutenant’s eyes and teeth were very white in his black face as he smiled mirthlessly. He said, his deep voice little more than a whisper, “I hope that Drongo Kane is bound for Morrowvia, Captain.”
“Why, Mr. Saul?” Grimes essayed a feeble jest. “Two’s company, three’s a crowd.”
“Racial hatreds die very hard, Captain. To my people, for many, many years, ‘slaver’ has been an especially dirty word. Ganda, as you know, was colonized by my people . . . . And some hundreds of them, rescued by Kane’s Southerly Buster before their sun went nova, were sold by him to the Duke of Waldegren . . . .”
“As I said before,” Grimes told him, “they weren’t sold. They entered the duke’s service as indentured labor.”
“Even so, sir, I would like to meet Captain Drongo Kane.”
“It’s just as well,” said Grimes, “that he’s not a reincarnation of Oliver Cromwell—if he were, Mr. Connery would be after his blood too . . . .”
He regarded his first lieutenant dubiously. He was a good man, a good officer, and Grimes liked him personally. But if Southerly Buster made a landing on Morrowvia he would have to be watched carefully. And—who would watch the watchman? Grimes knew that if he wished to reach flag rank in the Service he would have to curb his propensity for taking sides.
“Mphm,” he grunted. Then, “I’ll leave Control in your capable hands, Mr. Saul. And keep a watchful eye on the M.P.I., Mr. Pitcher. I’m going down to have a few words with Hayakawa.”
***
Lieutenant Hayakawa was on watch—but a psionic communications officer, as any one such will tell you, is always on watch. He was not, however, wearing the rig of the day. His grossly obese body was inadequately covered by a short kimono, gray silk with an embroidered design of improbable looking flowers. Scrolls, beautifully inscribed with Japanese ideographs, hung on the bulkheads, although space had been left for a single hologram, a picture of a strikingly symmetrical snow-capped mountain sharp against a blue sky. The deck was covered with a synthetic straw matting. In the air was the faint, sweet pungency of a burning joss stick.
Hayakawa got slowly and ponderously to his feet. “Captain san . . .” he murmured.
“Sit down, Mr. Hayakawa,” ordered Grimes. The acceleration—now more than two Gs—was bad enough for him; it would be far, far worse for one of the telepath’s build. He lowered himself to a pile of silk cushions. Not for the first time he regretted that Hayakawa had been allowed to break the regulations governing the furnishing of officers’ cabins—but PCOs, trading upon their rarity, are privileged persons aboard any ship.
He settled down into a position approximating comfort—and then had to get up and shift the cushions and himself to another site. From the first one he had far too good a view of Hayakawa’s psionic amplifier, the disembodied dog’s brain suspended in its globe of cloudy nutrient fluid. The view of Mount Fujiyama was much more preferable.
He said, “We have Schnauzer on the M.P.I. now.”
“I know, Captain.”
“You would,” remarked Grimes, but without rancor. “And you still haven’t picked up any further . . . emanations from her?”
“No. Her PCO is Delwyn Hume. I have met him. He is a good man. What you called my judo technique worked just once with him. It will never work again.” Then Hayakawa smiled fatly and sweetly. “But I have other news for you.”
“Tell.”
“Southerly Buster, Captain. Myra Bracegirdle is the CPO. She is good—but, of course, we are all good. Her screen is as tight as that maintained by Hume or myself. But . . .
“She is emotional. During moments of stress her own thoughts seep through. She hates the Buster’s mate. His name is Aloysius Dreebly. Now and again—often, in fact—he tries to force his attentions on her.”
“Interesting,” commented Grimes. He thought, This is building up to one of those situations where everybody hates everybody. Mr. Saul hates Captain Kane, although he’s never met him personally. Myra hates Aloysius. The way Maggie’s been carrying on lately I’m beginning to think that she hates me. And I doubt very much if Captain Danzellan feels any great affection for Mr. Francis Delamere . . . . He grinned. But Frankie loves Tabbie . . . .
He said, “And is Southerly Buster bound for Morrowvia?”
“I cannot say, Captain. But she is around. And just before you came in I ‘heard’ Myra Bracegirdle think, “Thank the gods there’re only seven more days to go before we arrive!’ “
And that, Grimes told himself, means that she gets there at the same time as us . . . .
He clambered laboriously to his feet, went to Hayakawa’s telephone. He punched, first of all, for Lieutenant Connery’s quarters, but the engineering officer was not there. He called the engine room, and found him.
“Captain here, Chief. Can you squeeze out another half lume?”
“I can’t.” Connery’s voice was sharp. “The governor’s playing up, an’ we’re havin’ to run the Drive on manual control. If I try to push her any more we’ll finish up last Thursday in the middle of sweet fuck all!”
“Can’t you fix the governor?”
“Not without stoppin’ her an’ shuttin’ down. If you want to carry on, it’ll have to wait until we get to Morrowvia.”
“Carry on the way you’re doing,” said Grimes.