The Science Fiction of Mark Clifton, page 10
He stood up and started for the door.
“Most of them conveniently forget,” he said. “But every now and then someone remembers. You might ask Pete to handle the paper work for me to leave for Mars tonight. And have him keep it as quiet as possible. If those boys who were here learn about it, I’m sure there’ll be a directive to keep me Earthbound.”
He turned when he reached the door and added without a smile.
“Purely, you understand, in the interest of saving space for a more vital cargo.”
“What is your purpose of coming to Marsport, Mr. Murray? It has not been cut into your orders.”
Jay came out of his reverie with a start and found he was standing at the admission desk. He had moved up the line without realizing it. Also, without realizing it, he must have handed the clerk his papers.
“Oh,” Jay answered, and then without conscience, “a conference with Admiral Littlefield.”
His plan did include a little discussion with Admiral Littlefield, but the Admiral didn’t know about it. He hoped he wouldn’t be questioned too closely.
The admission officer scratched his head dubiously.
“Funny anything so important wasn’t cut into your orders.”
“In the first place it’s confidential,” Jay said in a low voice. “Possibly I should not have told even you. Secondly, you can call him and confirm it.”
“Are you kidding,” the officer asked drily, and stamped the papers with an okay. He made no effort to check them any further. Any dope in the entire solar system would know he couldn’t pull a bluff in the Admiral’s name and expect to get away with it.
Outside the receiving depot, Jay headed directly for the maintenance building to find the Intersol Maintenance Super. Old Richie had been a maintenance man for forty years, and the last thirty of them had been on space craft. There might be space engineers with more theory, but Jay would lay money that no one knew more about how to get a craft into space and keep it there than Richie.
Yet, out to the left, there lay those twenty-six space liners, unable to rise.
When Jay walked into the maintenance office which had been set aside for the Super, old Richie looked up from his prints with annoyance. When he saw who had invaded his sanctuary, he stood up and stretched out a welcoming hand.
“Sure good to see you, Jay,” he rumbled, and it sounded as if he might really mean it. “What brings you to Mars?”
Jay shook hands with the Super and sank down on a hard plastic chair. His first personnel problem would be to get around Richie, who was a touchy old bas—bird.
“Hear you’re having a little maintenance problem, Rich,” he answered.
“Little problem!” old Richie exploded. There followed a practiced string of descriptive phrases which left no doubt as to what the Super thought of the matter. As with seamen of old, spacemen had collected and enriched the language with more nouns and adjectives of far places and exotic citizens. Richie knew and used them all.
“Still,” he ended with a certain point implication, “it’s my problem.”
“Boss thought there just might be some personnel aspects to it where I could kind of assist you,” Jay said tactfully. He knew in a showdown he could pull rank on the Super, but he had not fallen back on the use of authority for so many years, he felt he wouldn’t know how.
“No, Jay,” Richie answered thoughtfully. “No problem with any of our men. They’re only too anxious to get in and pitch, same as I am.”
“Then why don’t they?”
“What are they going to work with?” Richie looked at him in disgust. “Can’t get replacement parts.” Jay saw they had worn the old codger down until he was ready to unload his troubles.
“No parts!” Jay exclaimed. “Great Scott, man, Marsport has the biggest supply depot of the entire solar system. There’s enough parts on this planet to run us for the next fifty years.”
“Maybe so,” Richie agreed. “But no matter what we want, that’s just what they happen to be out of. You know, well as I do, Space Transport controls supply. So everything we ask for, they’re sorry but they’ll have to requisition Earth. You get out here in a day, but it takes a requisition anywhere from ninety days to six months to clear.”
“How about patch up and repair?” Jay asked, although he knew Richie had been all over the obvious solutions.
“No,” Richie answered shortly. “A new directive. Took me half a day to figure out what it said, but boiling it down, it says that only new parts may be used for replacement and repair. Says every incoming and outgoing ship has to be inspected by an authorized officer of Space Transport. Intersol no longer has authority to pass on what is spaceworthy.”
He narrowed his eyes, stared for a moment out the window, and then looked fixedly at Jay. •
“You won’t believe this, Jay,” he said slowly. “But one of those ships out there,” he waved his hand in their direction. “You know what’s wrong with it? I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it!” Jay could see the anger arising in the old man, flushing his face with violent red. “It’s got a locker hinge loose. That’s all. Ship’s grounded because it has a defective mechanism!”
It was so ridiculous, Jay could hardly suppress an explosion of laughter.
“Put on a new hinge then,” he said.
“Supply hasn’t got one,” Richie was fighting to keep control of his temper. “Have to requisition Earth. Take maybe six months to get that ship repaired. Oh they read me quite a lecture, Jay, on how if they let us blood sucking companies get away with little things, we’ll risk the big ones. Made me feel like a mass murderer, because I wanted to send a space liner out with a loose hinge on a sailor’s clothes locker.”
“What about taking one of the ships and cannibalizing it to get repair parts for the others?” Jay asked.
“Has to be a new part,” Richie reminded him. “A new part is one which has never been taken from its inspection seal. I proposed that and got another lecture on risking the lives of men by trying to use worn out parts.”
“In short,” Jay summarized, “their directives, taken individually, are all sound and logical. In an investigation, the Service would be praised for its precautions in protecting lives and property. Taken collectively, they add up to the fact that Intersol can’t move a ship.”
“Looks like that’s about it,” Richie agreed. “Oh, by the way, a space gram came for you a while ago.” He reached over to one corner of his desk and dug the gram out from under some prints.
Jay opened it and read a confirmation from Sara that she had blasted her way through the Washington secretarial lethargy, and had made contact with an individual who remembered a burnt finger of long ago. He had promised to cooperate—seemed to get a kick out of it, in fact. He would call at a certain time. Jay glanced at the clock, and saw he had about an hour before the call came through. It would take some close timing.
“Look Rich,” Jay looked up from the gram and leaned forward, “you know I never mess around in another man’s department unless I’m asked.”
“Yeah,” Richie admitted grudgingly. “I’ll give you that. Which is more than I can say for most personnel men.”
“All right. Then how about asking me?” Jay grinned.
Old Richie broke through his prejudice against all white collar people and grinned back.
“Consider it asked. So what? What good can that do?”
“I’ve got to be at a certain place at a certain time,” Jay answered. “But first I want you to take me over to the supply depot. I want to see for myself what kind of a reception you get.”
Richie looked at him curiously. “We’ll walk in,” Jay went on, “and you ask for a part you see—something you know they’ve got.”
“Ten to one if they’ve got it they’ll say it’s reserved and we can’t have it,” Richie grumbled, but got to his feet. “We’d better go to the side emergency door, though. Get into the administration office part, and we’ll cool our heels all day to ask for a cotter key.”
Two minutes on the speed track brought them to the side emergency door. They walked in and saw an enlisted man sitting behind a rough table avidly reading a well-thumbed copy of FEMS & BEMS. Apparently it contained hot stuff, for the supply clerk didn’t bother to look up as they came through the door.
Richie nodded and pointed to a box used as a seat by the clerk. Jay noted it was an X-62 auxiliary generator all crated and ready to install. The Super walked up to the table and slammed down his requisition book and emergency withdrawal permit.
“I want an X-62-674839,” he said.
“Haven’t got it,” the sailor answered promptly. “Have to requisition Earth for it.”
Jay stepped forward.
“What’s that you’re sitting on,” he asked.
The sailor looked down at the crate between his legs.
“Oh,” he said. “Is that what that thing is? Well, I guess if it’s an emergency you can have it, and I’ll have to find something else to sit on.” He leaned over to pull it out for them, and they heard him grumbling under his breath.
“Dam’ civilians! Whadda they know about it?”
Admiral Littlefield was a space sailor of the old school. He did not spare himself, neither did he spare his men. Marsport sat straddle of the Space Transport Command supply route. He, as the Chief Operating Executive of that service, sat straddle of Marsport. If any of his staff preferred the more comfortable life of Earth, let him get out of space and back to water paddling.
He rewarded duty well done by ignoring it as being only what was expected. He punished dereliction or slight with the book. Inasmuch as he had not been consulted by Washington on the granting of this contract to Intersol, he felt he had an extra duty and responsibility to see that said company performed its job, to protect Washington from the consequences of its own follies.
He sent one lone directive down through the echelons of his command. Stripped of the several pages of protocol and verbiage, and translated from the incomprehensibilities so dear to the mind of the military officer, it read:
“ ‘Since STC has had no previous experience with Intersol Corporation, we require you give them close instruction and direction to the end that every phase of operation is carried out shipshape.’ ”
No more was needed, for officers are trained to read attitude between the lines. Woe unto the space officer who let the tiniest thing slip through. Down through the pyramid of echelons, directives piled upon directives.
As Jay was ushered into his presence, the Admiral frowned with white eyebrows together until they met over his thin nose and all but obscured the frosty ice of his eyes. His whole attitude conveyed to Jay that he had agreed to see this civilian only because duty required it. And his attitude further conveyed that he considered it an insult for anyone less than the president of That Company to call upon him.
“And what can I do for you, sir?” he inquired frostily and waved Jay to a foam chair.
“I thought I might ask you personally to assist in the matter of releasing parts for the repair of the X-62’s, sir,” Jay answered. Apparently there were to be none of the usual social amenities.
“I, to assist?” the Admiral inquired coldly. “I cannot see why it would be felt necessary for you to come to this office for the purely routine function of requisitioning parts, Mr. Murray. I believe they said your name is Murray? Captain Stanwood is in charge of supply. I am sure that if you civilians would learn the value of utilizing the proper channels, your work and results would be more efficient.” He looked pointedly out of his window to the fleet of grounded ships where they lay glistening in the pale sun.
“Look, Admiral Littlefield,” Jay said easily. “With all due respect to Captain Stanwood, and your proper channels, I want some parts out of that supply depot!”
“And how do you propose to get them, except through the channels?” Jay would not have believed the Admiral’s tone could grow more icy than it had been. “I know of no other way,” the Admiral finished with finality.
“I do, sir,” Jay answered. He had counted on at least a few sentences of greeting, common politeness called for it. His timing was a little off without them. He would have to drag it out.
“The reason I came to you, sir,” he said, “is that I want you to bypass Captain Stanwood and all his pretty paper work. I want a good conscientious petty officer who knows the X-62 from nose to exhaust. I want to take that petty officer, our maintenance supervisors, and a fleet of hand trucks and men. I want to go up and down the aisles of the supply depot. I want physically to take the things we need down off the shelves and put them on the handtrucks. I want parts, not paper work.”
The Admiral was growing purple as Jay progressed. Jay, himself, began to feel his throat constricting as the seconds fled by without his expected signal coming through. Heaven help him if the guy in Washington failed!
He had said what he wanted to say. Now he was frantically wondering what else he could say before the Admiral exploded or had a heart attack. The sound of silence in the room was enormous and reverberating. If he said anything more, he would detract from the impression he had made. He had created that explosive mood for a definite reason. He could see the Admiral fighting with himself, torn between the desire to reduce this upstart with his bare hands, or summon an orderly to throw him out bodily. Jay began to wonder which desire would win.
The space visoplate on the desk glowed its welcome pink. The vivid red emergency flash began to pulsate in the pink. Jay allowed a long slow breath to escape between his lips.
His face still purple with rage, the Admiral snapped the button viciously, expecting to blast some poor officer out of space for his interruption. But instead of a frozen faced officer, there was the genial countenance of the Under Secretary of Space, himself, calling from Washington.
“Oh, hello there, Admiral Littlefield,” the Under Secretary said cordially.
The Admiral composed his face admirably, and answered with his voice under full control.
“Good morning, Mr. Secretary.”
“I have a favor to ask, Admiral,” the Under Secretary said smoothly. “Ordinarily I would go through channels, and not bother you. But this is somewhat urgent, and I felt if you gave your weight to my request—” he ended on a rising note of inquiry.
“Not at all, sir. Certainly, sir,” the Admiral spoke hastily. “I am the proper channel for you to use, sir.”
“Thank you, Admiral. I’ll try not to take advantage of that,” the Secretary said with a cordial smile. “But in this case—however, to business. I understand the Personnel Director of Intersol is either now on Mars or enroute. It is urgent I locate him without delay.”
His assumption of vague knowledge was amusing to Jay, considering the advance relays and vast organization which must have been set up to get his call through with split second precision in timing.
“My, my,” the Admiral was saying. “I wish all my duties were so easily fulfilled, Mr. Secretary. He is sitting here with me now.”
“Fine, Admiral, fine,” the Secretary congratulated. His tone implied the Admiral had performed a noteworthy task. “Would you put him on?”
“Certainly, sir,” the Admiral acceded. “I’ll retire to the next room while you speak with him.”
“No, no,” the Secretary objected hurriedly. “I have a favor to ask him, and it may be you can I assist both of us. Please remain.”
It was a polite order.
Jay stepped into view and stood beside the Admiral. The Under Secretary’s face lit up with surprise and joy. Gone now was the formality.
“Jay!” he exclaimed. “Jay Murray! Boy, it’s good to see you again. Why the devil don’t you ever drop in and see me when you’re in Washington?”
The fellow was really doing it up brown, with trimmings. Jay hoped he wouldn’t overact the part.
“You know how it is, Carl,” he smiled wryly. “You’re busy, I’m busy, one thing and another.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the Admiral’s face shifting its planes of expression to wide-eyed amazement.
“Look, Jay,” the Secretary went on. “I tried to get you at your office here on Earth, and they told me you were headed for Mars. You’re probably on top of the trouble if you’re out there, but I thought I’d better confirm. It’s too serious a situation to leave to chance. You’ve done me favors before, and now I’m back for another one.”
“I’ll be delighted, Carl,” Jay answered. “As always.”
“This transport breakdown is the problem, Jay. We’re in serious trouble if those supply ships don’t get through.”
“The Admiral and I were just discussing it,” Jay said. “It seems the difficulty is lack of repair parts.”
“But that can’t be, Jay,” the Secretary’s voice took on a pleading note. “There’s a first rate scandal brewing here because too many parts have been sent out there. Now if it should turn out that they’re not there after all, Heaven help us. There’ll be a reorganization of Space Control from top to bottom.”
Jay shrugged his shoulders into the visoplate. His expression showed it was no concern of his what they did to reorganize the service. The Admiral’s face showed quite the opposite.
“Admiral Littlefield,” the Secretary continued, “I don’t have to caution your discretion, but I do want to appeal to you, Jay, not to let this leak out. For some time there has been a strong bloc of World Congress wanting to take Space Transport Command away from the military entirely and place it in civilians hands.”
Jay saw the Admiral beside him turn white.
“I genuinely don’t believe we’re ready for that,” the Secretary continued. “But you know politics. Some little thing, such as this temporary maintenance problem, is all the faction would need. Imagine the newspapers if men were threatened with death because somebody on Mars couldn’t find repair parts! The World President has asked for a complete report from our department.
“I want you to prepare Intersol’s side of that report, Jay. Don’t spare anyone. If the Service is at fault, in any remote sense, I want to know about it so we can clear out all the hazards and bottlenecks before that faction learns about them. Can I count on you, Jay?”
