The Floating Zombie, page 6
It did rather more than that.
The company had catered for every situation they could imagine, from playing cards and birthday cakes in the deep-freeze to triplicated lubrication systems in the engine room. One store held a quantity of orange meteorological balloons, fastening clips, and a cylinder of hydrogen, to provide targets. Langley’s announcement was greeted with mild enthusiasm. After action stations, Colmar and Roscorla would shoot with the Adens at balloons, then all four men would try out the Armalites, and then there’d be a competition automatic shoot on the helo deck.
He noticed that Jane Harris listened with interest, and furthering his team-spirit policy, he said, “Would you like to have a go, Miss Harris?”
“Yes—with an automatic pistol. I’d like to.”
Something in her manner made Phil look at her sharply. “Hey, miss, I’ll bet you can handle a gun. Can you?”
“Yes—a bit,” she admitted, then answered their unspoken question. “In the airline they thought it a good idea.”
“Gee—a real-live pistol-packin’ mamma!” The way Colmar said it, the remark was offensive.
Phil’s face hardened, but Langley got in first.
“Let’s hope you’re as fast with a gun as you are with your tongue!”
Instantly the blood drained from Colmar’s face; he fought for self-control. He glared, eyes hard, at Langley, then nodded very slowly. “Could be. That just could be. …”
Not for the first time, Phil thought the guy must be nuts. It was as if Colmar had been skinned alive; the slightest opposition galvanized him into ugly rage.
The shoot began with the Adens, and while proper scoring was out of the question, Langley saw that Phil was no mean shot, closely followed by Colmar. Both he and Jacens tried, but were not up to the same standard, or expected to be, especially Roscorla’s. Colmar’s ability was surprising, but Langley suspected that if the ship had any roll on, the sailor would be ’way out in front. Beyond doubt, at two thousand yards Roscorla would more than earn his corn.
Then they tried with the Armalites. Balloons popped and fell into the sea with satisfying regularity to all of them. On average, of the two weapons, Langley guessed Colmar had the edge; maybe not quite as good as Jacens with the carbine, but he had been streets ahead with the Aden.
Before the Browning shoot, Langley announced the prize would be an hour’s overtime signed on the best shot’s work sheet—and drinks on the loser. He rigged a pint beer can on the end of a cord, suspended over the stern on a broomstick. Bobbing and dancing with the ship’s movement and vibration, it was no easy target.
“The firing point’s the center of the helo pad,” said Langley.
Jacens raised one black eyebrow. “That’s kinda tough with guns we don’t know.”
Langley didn’t answer, but produced a three-foot-square target and hung it on the stern guardrail. “Six calibration shots at that first. Anyone who hits the ship can go home. After calibration, six shots each at the can.”
He went first, punctilious about his safety drill, shooting in the classic competition stance; body at right angles to the target, gun arm straight out, firing with careful precision. His test completed, he stuck paper over his tight knot of holes and nodded to Roscorla.
It was at once painfully obvious that the sailor was far less happy with an automatic than an Aden or an Armalite. Doing his best to copy Langley, his grouping was far from impressive: his first attempt missed the target board completely.
Colmar went next, strolling casually, almost arrogantly up to the firing point. After three shots in the competition stance, he shifted with lightning speed to the “gunman crouch,” body and knees bent, balanced on his toes, gun held before him, level with the pit of his stomach.
Langley’s eyes narrowed; to calibrate like that, you either had to be very good or plain ignorant. With less swagger, Jacens shot the same way, but Langley had no doubts about him. He looked around.
“Miss Harris—would you like to use my gun?”
She had been a silent spectator since the hammer of the Adens told her the exercise had begun. She took Langley’s gun confidently. To him, her hand looked very frail and small. “This one’s new to me,” she confessed. She listened carefully as he explained about the magazine and the safety catch. He handed her a loaded magazine.
“When you’re ready.”
She walked self-consciously to the center of the helo pad, trigger finger flat against the guard in the approved manner. The men watched, half-prepared to dive for cover, a thought that soon went. Feet well apart, facing the target, she held the gun well up, sighting along the barrel, left hand grasping the right wrist. The safety catch snicked off.
“My dear life,” whispered Phil excitedly, “proper job!”
She fired steadily; the grouping was not impressive, but Langley saw that her last two shots were a lot closer to the center, and having shot with the same gun, he recognized she had spotted the error after the first two shots. Among the congratulations, he remained silent. If she was as good as he suspected … He took the gun, giving her a conspiratorial smile, noting she had put on the safety catch after her last shot. She hadn’t learned in a fun fair.
Then came the shoot. Langley went first, hitting the can twice. With a comical, resigned expression, Phil fired, but, beaten before he began, he missed completely, accepting their ironic cheers with a good grace. He was a gunner, not a gunman.
Colmar went next, pausing for a moment before moving to the center of the pad, breathing deeply, his face white. The rest fell silent, sensing his tension, knowing Colmar wasn’t kidding. Four silent, fast steps, and he reached the firing point, dropping into the ugly, lethal crouch, the gun magically in his hand. Almost at once he fired, and fired again. Four times in less than ten seconds he hit the can as it clanged and swung. It was a brilliant display. Briefly, after the last shot, he remained frozen, then straightened up, walked back, grinning sardonically at Jacens. “Fast enough for you—Sarge?” Langley knew the crack was aimed at him.
Jane recalled her inability to place Colmar as a dog. She had been right: Colmar was a cat.
“Mighty fine, son,” agreed Jacens, unmoved. “Mighty fine. … Say, Bill, how about the lady shootin’ next?”
Something in Jacens’s manner stopped Langley asking why. “Sure—if it’s okay with her.”
Colmar sneered: to follow that would be uphill work. Jacens was backing off.
Jane Harris obliged. Colmar outclassed her hopelessly—she’d never seen shooting like it—so she took her time, shooting carefully, slowly, and scored three hits.
Roscorla crowed with delight, and the rest joined in, clapping, including Colmar. Flushed with pleasure, she walked back and returned the automatic to Langley.
“That was nice work, lady.” Jacens smiled, staring deep into her eyes. “One way an another, guess I’ve got my work cut out.”
He strolled over in his slow, loose-jointed, casual way to the firing point, dropping smoothly into the crouch, firing instantly. Five shots ripped off at incredible speed, rewarded by four clangs from the can. Deliberately he threw his concentration away, looking over his shoulder at Jane, smiling slowly. “You want the can as a souvenir, lady?” He waited for the shake of her head, turned again to the target, took deliberate aim, and fired. The cord cut, the mangled remains of the beer can dropped into the white wake of the ship.
“Christ!” said Langley with deep emotion, “talk about how the West was won!”
Jacens ambled back. “Your pardon, ma’am,” he guyed all the westerns ever made. “Yew just haveta forgive us Texans—we’re nothin’ but natural-born show-offs.” Still smiling, he switched to the pallid Colmar. “If yew are kinda unhappy about thet last shot, son, I’d be pleased to accommodate yew with a one-shot shoot-off ’gainst a tossed-up can.”
Colmar met his gaze, hesitated fractionally, and looked away, his words inaudible, but his acceptance of defeat clear.
The small scene reminded Phil of High Noon—except this was for real. After that display he looked at both men in a new and not very comfortable light. Up to this time, soldiers had been, to him, little more than stamping semirobots, but not now. Neither Jacens nor Colmar was slightly comic, both were accomplished killers.
Langley thought on similar lines. “Well, I’ve seen shooting in my time, but nothing like that! I used to think all that Wild West stuff was pure guff, but you two Yanks …” He shook his head.
Colmar’s face was an impassive white mask, giving nothing, unwilling to admit, even to himself, that the Texan was the better shot.
“Aw, hell, no!” Jacens grinned at Colmar in a friendly way. “We Yanks is jest naturally good! I started playing with guns when I was no more than seven.” He nodded toward Colmar, offering a generous olive branch. “Julius here, if he’d had my chances, he’d be ’way outta my class. When did you first grab a gun, Julius?”
Colmar replied grudgingly, “Seven, eight years back.”
“See what I mean? He’s a natural, yes sir!” Jacens felt he had done enough to smooth Colmar. “But that li’l lady is the real surprise packet! If she always shoots that steady, I fer one do not wish to be agin her!”
Jane smiled, hand held protectively before her face. In her own class, she was good, and had a row of trophies to prove it, but when dogs bark, mice stay silent.
Ever ready to be the butt, Phil eased the situation still further. “Well, we all know who’s the lousiest shot! Come on, Sarge, time the bar was open—drinks on the loser. One drink, anyway!”
“That’s a good idea, Phil.” For once Langley had forgotten his beloved drill, and turning, got an unspoken reminder: both Americans had started cleaning their guns.
“Yes.” Langley was angry with himself. “Yes … the bar opens when all guns are cleaned and stowed.”
Colmar looked up from his task, giving Langley a sour grin. The senior man’s evident discomfort did much to restore Colmar to his usual humor.
Jacens declined with a shake of his head. He’d have one later. He went back on watch; the rest trooped below for the loser’s drink. Jane soon slipped away to get on with the cooking, leaving the three men talking. Free from Jacens’s cramping presence, aware of his own brilliance, Colmar was cheerful, lordly, happily accepting Phil’s cracks about “The Ringo Kid.”
Covertly watching, Langley concluded that the core of Colmar’s trouble was a giant-sized inferiority complex. Now he’d demonstrated his undoubted superiority over Phil and himself, maybe he’d ease up; but it had done nothing to improve the situation between Colmar and Jacens. Langley wished the Texan had contented himself with putting the final shot in the can, but it was done, and that was that. If he’d sized up Colmar correctly, Colmar would never forgive that string-cutting bit.
Langley made a mental note to keep a careful eye on those two off-watch. Drink wouldn’t start it, for Colmar seldom drank, and Jacens had a head like a rock. It wouldn’t be sex; he’d swear Colmar wasn’t queer, but on the other hand, there was something about him … Even that ill-advised crack about putting a bag over Jane Harris’ head had not rung true. Silly soldier talk that Colmar repeated parrot-fashion, getting it fractionally out of context, because although he knew the lingo, he didn’t speak it naturally.
It was all nebulous, intangible, and Langley did not like that sort of thought. He’d ask Jane Harris her opinion of Colmar; women were better judges than men.
Only then did he realize she had gone. He tracked her to the galley. Hot and flushed, she looked up from the oven, instinctively moving the scarred side of her face away from him.
Langley didn’t even notice. “Miss Harris, it’s a bit awkward, but I’d like your opinion. It could be a help to me.”
Seeing his troubled expression, she relaxed. “Oh, certainly! Can’t think I’ll be much help, but I’ll try.”
“Well, it’s Colmar.” He spoke confidentially, quite unlike his normal regimental manner. “It’s my job to keep the team together. After that shooting match, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was trouble between him and Tex. Colmar puzzles me; can’t get hold of him, somehow. What d’you make of him?”
She shut the oven and straightened up. “I certainly see your problem, Mr. Langley.” She frowned, collecting her thoughts. “Frankly, I think Colmar is a loner. He’d dearly like to be one of the boys, yet can’t make it. Mark Jacens is a real lone wolf, Colmar isn’t, but from your point of view, in a pinch, Colmar could be your best man.”
That surprised Langley, even as Jane had surprised herself. “You think he’d be better than Tex?”
She looked pensively at him. “It’s hard to explain. Mark is far and away a better man in all respects, and he’s tougher, more experienced, and very probably a lot braver, but Colmar, he’s … he’s got the edge in one respect, I think. He’s pushed by some inner compulsion which makes him quite ruthless.” She laughed self-consciously. “Not very clear, I’m afraid, but be glad Jacens isn’t the same way. If he was, he’d be ten times worse than Colmar. If you told Mark Jacens to shoot to kill, he might hesitate; not Colmar. That’s what I mean.”
“But what is this compulsion?”
“How should I know?” Jane Harris said sharply. “Colmar’s an unusual type in my experience. He’s like a cat, somehow. He’s fanatically clean—I’ll swear he showers and changes three times a day at least. Look at his nails sometime; he must spend a half-hour each day on them. And that’s another thing—have you ever known him to touch anyone, or shake hands?”
Langley frowned, remembering Colmar’s near-hysteria when Jacens grabbed his shirt. “No … you’re right. Look, this is a bit, well … you know. What d’ you think of him as a man?”
Jane smiled. “You mean sex. I honestly don’t know, and with my face, I’m hardly likely to find out. No, don’t be gallant, Mr. Langley, I know only too well what I look like. Colmar … I don’t believe he is queer, gay, or whatever you prefer, yet …” She shook her head. “Maybe he is normal, but low on sexual drive. It’s the nearest I can get. Treat him gently, allow for his touchiness, that’s my advice. If you tread on your dog’s tail, he’ll round on you, but stop himself before he actually bites you. A cat will never let you off the hook.”
VIII
There is little to choose between one teleprinter room and another, anywhere. The company’s setup was no exception. The rare layman visiting, bemused by talk of bauds, tape relay, band slips, and marks, usually found it vaguely disappointing. Air transport has shrunk the world to a mere twenty-four-hour journey, but here, in a deep basement room, anywhere on earth was only seconds away. Endlessly, day and night, the machines chattered quietly, exchanging traffic with ships in the storm-bound North Atlantic, stations in steaming Indonesia, air-conditioned offices in New York, precarious oil rigs off Africa, yet the office had all the dramatic tension of a chiropodist’s waiting room.
Ten printers lined each side of the long room, all facing inward to the wide central aisle. Arranged in pairs, one machine receiving, one sending. Six pairs in each row were in regular use, spanning the globe; four were in reserve for special tasks or breakdown replacement. One of these pairs had been assigned solely to AT1, as the thumbtacked card above the position testified.
Not that the red lettering was really necessary; the supervisors might look casual, but when the in teleprinter started clattering, it got instant attention. The supervisors did not know much about AT1, but they had been told enough—more than enough.
For example, it was common knowledge among the company communicators that this radio teletype link was a lash-up, make-do affair, a technological near-nightmare to the men who made it work. Many floors up, the top brass remained in blissful ignorance of the problems, partially because they were not concerned with such low-level matters, and partially because they lacked the technical background to grasp the very nature of the problems.
From the very start, satellite communications had been planned for AT1 and its successors. That posed no problem at all: warships had used satellites for years; there were many difficulties, but that was not one, a proposition with which—ironically due to a communication failure between designers and aerial specialists—the latter agreed with.
In the early stages, critical path planning went ahead, fixing an entry time for the aerial design, which was discovered to be impracticably late.
The misunderstanding was frighteningly simple, quite beyond the comprehension of those not involved, but all too obvious to those who were. The aerial designers wrongly assumed, on the strength of a badly worded memo, that AT1 would carry a qualified servicing technician. In the blazing row that followed, they panicked, rashly agreeing to redesign and have the aerial ready for the first automated voyage. They failed.
Fortunately, the company’s radio experts privately saw this coming, and AT1 had been fitted with standard HF equipment, computer-directed, before the first human-controlled voyage.
It worked perfectly; owners and insurers were satisfied. HF communications had two disadvantages: interference, human, magnetic, or solar, might garble a signal now and then; secondly, the shore-to-ship computer facility, for technical and security reasons, could not be used. The first snag was met by programming the computer to repeat all messages twice. Nothing could be done about the second, but that would anyway have little importance until there were several AT’s at sea, the facility being designed to reprogram a ship when its destination was changed en route. With only AT1 afloat, this had low priority.
So the supervisors and their colleagues at the distant receiving station which intercepted and piped the signal to the center were particularly watchful, but human nature being the way it is, by July 6 they had come to accept AT1 as just another out-station. At 1155 and 2355 GMT to the second, AT1 would be up, running a call tape. Precisely five minutes later the coded signal began. Another ten minutes, and a red-painted pneumatic carrier cartridge would thump forcefully into the duty officer’s basket, ten floors up. Decoded, AT1’s pin on the wall-sized chart would be moved and the actual position compared very carefully with the intended position.
