E C Tubb, page 11
The radio still was not working. He jerked open his helmet and snapped the switches on the intercom.
"Asner? Owen? Mboto? Answer if you can. Answer!"
From her station at the life-support panel a woman said, "Why don't you let Frank do that, Commander?"
She was pale, unkempt hair framing her face in the open helmet; Margot Noventes had been friendly with Cole. Incredibly she had not seen him vanish.
Neither had Machen.
"Where is he?" Machen's voice was high as he opened his helmet. "Commander?"
"He's dead," Varl said bluntly.
"Dead?" Margot drew in her breath, eyes wide with disbelief. "Killed? But how? He -- "
"Something hit him. He vanished. I saw him go." Varl terminated the explanation and turned to Machen. "Take sights, make checks, find out where we are. Margot, get back to your board. Check all life-support systems. Move!"
Varl hoped work would provide an anodyne to soften the pain of her loss. He returned to the intercom. "Asner?"
"No." The voice was weak. "Lydon here. I'm afraid the engineer has been hurt."
"Badly? Is he dying?"
"Bleeding and unconscious."
"Do what you can to stanch the blood. Owen? How are the guns?"
"Some operational, but all need checking. That was rough, Commander."
"Do what you can. Erica?" Varl released his breath in a sigh as she answered. "Get help to Asner.
Top priority. How are things in your section?"
"We're holding our own. You?"
"I was lucky. Give Stacey all the help he needs. If anyone asks, tell them we're out of danger."
"And the screens?"
"Affected by wild radiation." Impatience sharpened his tone. "Let's not complicate matters. Panic is something we can do without. Later we'll have a conference to discuss the matter and clarify the situation.
Now we have to clean up the mess."
"Safeguard the ship, you mean?"
"Yes."
"And bury the dead?"
"Yes," he said again. "But they can wait."
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*CHAPTER 17*
SAM Mboto kept the record.
Lille Finch, who had been afraid of men and who had ended a broken heap of flesh and bone. A girl who had barely tasted life and who had suffered too much, she could finally rest in peace.
Joe Manfield, who had loved women and had enjoyed life, had ended a charred ruin, his once handsome features a mask of blackened skin, his eyes pits of dark emptiness. He too could rest in peace.
Arnold Valdemar, who had worked like a maniac to maintain the seal on a bulkhead, had been hurt when a plate had torn free to slice his suit and rip his stomach. His pleas for help had not been answered, for the air loss was too great and the compartment he was in had been sealed, leaving him to die alone.
At least he had made his sacrifice.
As had Lucy Bland.
As had Tony Cachou and Elsa Hoetmar and Brad Quimper and Amrik Taylor.
And Frank Cole, of course -- but he had simply vanished, as had three others.
Mboto wondered if they had known what had hit them.
Lydon was chosen to speak the service, because of his affinity with the realms beyond and because no one else could be spared to do the job. He did it well, with due reverence, odd in a man who did not believe that death existed. Watching him, Erica could appreciate the way he catered to others, to Shelia Laudert, who had been close to Brad, and to Margot Noventes, who had loved Cole. She wondered if she would have been comforted had Varl been enclosed in one of the sacs now waiting to be evicted.
She quickly dismissed the thought.
She was glad when the service ended. Kurt should have been present for the disposal -- a captain should pay his last respects to those of his crew who had died -- but he was outside checking the hull, and Machen had taken his place. At the navigator's signal, the sacs were lifted, and shoved through the lock one after the other, dumped into space like so many bags of rubbish.
Locked within the confines of his suit, Varl watched the sacs go. He was fastened by a line to the _Odile_, along with Owen and Carter, an engineer. Caught in the gust of evicted air, he hung at the end of the taut line as the sacs drifted past to vanish into the unknown.
"That's it." Owen sounded bitter. "Good men and women soon to be forgotten."
"As are we all." Carter was a philosopher. "Their turn today, ours tomorrow. It's all the same in the end."
"Let's get back to work," Varl said.
They communicated over direct connections that provided telephonic contact; the radios still were not functioning and would not until the ruined transistors had been replaced. Now, pulling on his line, Varl drew himself closer to the hull, to the wreckage which had once been turrets, the holes which. had once been solid plate.
"Fused," Carter judged. "Intense heat locally applied. And something hard and sharp smashed in the hull over there -- the metal's spiked and indented in a ring formation. It'll be easier to weld a plate over the hole from out here rather than try internal repairs. Let's see what else we've got."
They found a scored place as if a giant comb had created ridges over the smooth plating, a patch of burn pebbled with globules of fused alloy, a turret which had been ripped and elongated as if the stubborn metal had been softened wax.
"Bad," Carter announced. "It will have to be replaced -- there's not enough there to rebuild. Even the gun is useless."
"We've lost half our armament," Owen said. "Almost the entire port side is stripped of weapons, and most of the launching tubes can't be used. What the hell was it that hit us?"
Whatever it was had been too big and too dangerous, but it had not been responsible for all the damage; the cascade of energy released by Varl had created the burn, the patch of roughness, and the oddly peaked effect near the stern. The pattern had been made by vaporized metal coming into contact with a ridged surface, then cooling, to freeze in alien contours.
Yet the control room was intact. Nowhere could Varl see any signs of penetration -- so how had Cole died?
He shelved that question in the face of greater urgency. "The first priority is to seal the hull. Work from out here. That'll allow others to take care of what has to be done inside."
"I'll need help," Carter said.
"Pick the men you need. Owen, how do you suggest we defend the port side?"
"Without turrets?"
"We can't use what we haven't got."
"How about shifting a couple from the starboard quarter? They could cover the blind spots." He added, regretfully, "I guess it would be a long job."
"Too long." Varl lifted an arm, pointing. "We can adjust those launchers to cover this sector, but they're for long range only. For the rest we'll have to cut away the wreckage and fit external guns."
"No sights," Owen said. "No protection. Just a man riding the hull. One strapped to a seat and aiming with open sights. Right?"
"We've no choice," Varl said. "We have to use what we've got. And at close quarters it should be good enough."
"Against what hit us?" Owen paused. "It would be suicide. Normally a suit is a second line of defense, but the man wouldn't have a first. One cut, a rip or tear, and he'd be out of action. That or dead."
"Do you have any better suggestion?" Varl turned to look at the blazing colors of the alien space.
The enigmatic shapes seemed to be closer now, larger. One, a spiral daubed with green and pink like a giant stick of candy had turned to point at the _Odile_. "We'll fit a pod in each ruined turret," he said. "An airtight cover. A lock beneath it so a man can take up his position. If we're threatened, he can blow the pod and cut loose. At short range he can't miss and he'll have the element of surprise."
"And after?" Owen glanced into space after the sacs. "More fruit for the sowing?"
"If necessary." Varl began to pull himself closer to the ship. "But they'll be in good company."
Erica met him as he entered the ship. She looked drawn, her tangled golden hair smeared with dirt and dust. Her eyes were red-rimmed, dusted with circles of fatigue.
"Asner's bad, Kurt. Stacey thinks he could die."
The engineer lay on a cot in the engine room, his face pale, eyes closed, chest barely moving.
Garewell, checking the pulse, shook his head as Varl questioned him with his eyes.
"He's low, Commander. Blood loss, shock, burns, neural distortion -- when the hydee cascaded he caught a hell of a blast."
"Where's Stacey?"
"There's nothing more he can do. He's -- "
"Where the hell is he?"
The doctor was in the sick bay sitting at his desk, head in hands, shirt stained with blood. More blood lay on the operating table, touched equipment with red, lay in crusted smears on the floor --
evidence of furious activity as the man himself radiated fatigue. He looked up as Varl came close.
"Commander? Something wrong?"
"Asner. I want him on his feet."
"The difficult we do at once -- the impossible takes a little longer," Stacey said dryly. "I can't work miracles, and your wanting one doesn't make it so. Sorry."
"I thought you and Jarl were friends."
"That still doesn't give me a magic wand."
"Find one or you'll be in a coffin. We'll all be in coffins." Varl gripped the other's shoulder and dragged him upright. "You want a better incentive? How about this?" His hand slapped against a flaccid cheek. "Or this?" Again -- his palm left red welts to mar the skin. "Wake up, damn you! Come alive!"
"You bastard!" Stacey wrenched himself free from Varl's grasp. "You lousy bastard!"
"Feeling better?"
"Go to hell!"
"And find good company? Clean company?" Varl looked at the dried blood, the mess. "This place stinks. Instead of sitting feeling sorry for yourself, why don't you clean it up? Or are you too big a man to soil your hands?"
"Don't get sick," the doctor warned. "Don't get hurt. If you do, by God, you'll pay for this!"
"We'll all pay if Asner doesn't get to work."
"How can he? He's a sick man. He could die."
"Then what have we to lose?" Varl stared at the other. "Stop nursing him and stop being soft. Blood can be replaced. Burns can be covered and pain blocked. Shock and neural distortion can be treated by directed stimulus to the cortex. Am I wrong?"
"No, but he could lose his mind."
"Then it happens. As I said, what have we to lose?"
Much later, Asner sat upright and winced, then managed to stand.
Erica confronted Varl. "Why, Kurt? You aren't a sadist, and you know Stacey's been working so hard he had no time to clean up. Why slap him around like that?"
"He told you?"
"He didn't have to; those welts on his face tell the story. Do you want him to hate you?"
"I want him to find his guts." Varl turned to look at her. "You lied about him, and I'm wondering why. He's weak and you know it, and we've no place for weaklings aboard my ship. No place for liars either."
"Is that what you think I am?"
"What else would you call someone who can't deliver what she promised?" Varl turned as the engineer approached. "Jarl? You all right?"
"I'm fine." Asner managed to smile. "A new skin, a set of new nerves, a blood change or two -- how bad is it, Commander?"
"I had to trip the emergency release and drain the hydee. You got caught in the blast. Sorry about that, but there was no way I could warn you. The point is we're stuck, aside from rocket power, until it's repaired or replaced. And we need it fast. Can you manage?"
"If I said I couldn't?"
"Don't," Varl said. "Just do your best. And ask for anything you need."
Hours later, Varl went to his cabin to stand in the semi-gloom, feeling the screaming tension of his nerves, the demands of his body for rest, demands he could no longer withstand. He swayed a little, jerking awake as he was about to fall, and throwing out a hand to support himself against a bulkhead.
He thought of the gray expanse now bright with pictures; small sacs vanishing into rainbows; a pale face marred with his blows; a man near death rising from his cot to bring them all life; alien shapes edging close; guns set on flimsy supports; the screams he had heard and the blood he had seen.
"Kurt?" Erica had opened the door so quietly he had not heard. "Are you asleep? I -- " She caught her breath as he turned to face her. "Kurt! I didn't see you! You should have warned me!"
"What do you want?"
"To talk. To share a drink. We both need it."
He looked at the bottle she had brought with her, the glasses. As he watched, she poured them both half full and handed him one.
"Take it," she urged. "Give thanks we're alive, if nothing else."
"A libation to the gods?"
"Why not? Some of the old superstitions had value. Can we afford to ignore them?"
"Not in our present situation." He lifted the glass. "To life!"
"To life!"
The brandy warmed him, washing away his fatigue so that he felt a momentary exuberance. He felt himself respond to the warm proximity of her body.
"Kurt!" She stepped closer, her glass falling to hit the bunk and bounce from the covers. "Remember what you said about the effect of danger and strain? How it stimulates desire and the need to create?"
She embraced him. "We've been through hell, Kurt. And, darling, I need."
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*CHAPTER 18*
CARTER killed the torch. Inches from his darkened faceplate, the spot of incandescence began to fade. He knew the weld was good, but he could not be sure how it would stand up to strain. The metal had changed in subtle ways -- heat retention was different than it had been, the flux was hard to manipulate -- but the new bonds should hold the gun.
"Stan?" Max Ovidio called from where he crouched at the far side of the turret. "Like to check this?"
He had finished the mount that would hold the thin cover. Carter doubted the covers would be used
-- the effort was not worth the reward and the guns would ride naked on their mounts. He was casual in his inspection.
"It'll do. How about the lock?"
"Finished. The outer panel just needed replacing, and we fixed the inner before coming out." Ovidio glanced at the gun, the gunner's seat, and the straps that would hold the gunner fast. "How about the power connections?"
Carter seated himself at the laser. The gimbals were imperfect but they would serve; the gun itself was relatively light. A shot projector would have been too heavy for rapid aligning, a factor which had dictated the choice.
"Attack at three o'clock high!" Ovidio snapped the warning. "Fire!"
Automatically Carter obeyed, swinging the gun with thrusts of his feet, gloved hands clamped on the release, withholding the final pressure until he spotted the target. He saw none and cursed with belated understanding.
"Max, you fool! Call that a joke?"
"I just wanted to see if you were ready." Ovidio knew he had gone too far. "Sorry, Stan, I shouldn't have done it."
"Damned right you shouldn't!"
"It won't happen again. But you sure moved fast. The gun's OK, uh?"
"As good as we're going to get it." Carter swung the barrel, spun the weapon, lifted it, spun again to leave it at rest in its original position. "No power as yet, but that won't take long. Just as well you didn't see an attack for real."
He had moved fast, but had he moved fast enough? Could he have aligned the gun and fired and destroyed whatever it could have been before it reached him? And, if not, what then? The answer took no imagination.
Carter rose from the seat, feeling the chill of imagined death, his skin crawling in the trapped heat of his suit. Body warmth had accumulated to bead his face with sweat and to soak the layer of absorbent fabric worn next to his skin. A man exposed as the gunner would be had no chance at all -- if he was slow, if he missed, he would be dead.
"Volunteers," Ovidio said. "Owen spoke of using volunteers. Think he'll get any?"
"Not unless they're crazy."
"They'd be heroes," Ovidio mused. "The girls would line up to please them. And they'd have a damned fine view."
The view was unique to the _Odile_, and Carter looked out at it. The bright colors and enigmatic shapes spread in all directions, drifting in a lambent sea of vivid hues, a sea which, while colored, was oddly transparent so that his vision went on and on as if reaching into the endless immensity of space.
The region was alien and he felt oddly disturbed, torn from his familiar environment of empty darkness and distant stars.
"Like a dream," Ovidio said. "A fantasy. I had a fever once and lay in delirium for three days before they could reach me with antibiotics. I was on a surveying trip in the Atlas mountains, checking out chopper sites. A rockfall crushed the medical kit, and when I got a fever there wasn't anything anyone could do aside from sponging me down."
Carter grunted, not interested, but knowing the other wanted to talk, to maintain contact with another human even if it was over the newly repaired radios in their suits.
"So?"
"So I was delirious and saw all manner of crazy things. Stuff like that." He gestured at the shapes around them. "Objects that moved and grew mouths and came after me and other assorted horrors. They told me afterward that I screamed and jerked around like a madman. Maybe I was -- mad, I mean --
what I saw was crazy enough." His voice changed. "Stan, do you think we're going to get out of this?"
"Sure."
"What makes you so certain?"
"We've got a good captain," Carter said. "He'll see to it."
"Like he saw to Asner?" Ovidio sounded dubious. "You hear about that? Slapped the doc around to get him at work and said he didn't give a damn if Asner died as long as he did his job."
"He got him at it, didn't he?"
"Sure, but -- "
"You ever own a horse? Sometimes you give it the spur and sometimes a handful of sugar. Too much of either alone is no good." Carter looked again at the alien space in which the _Odile_ drifted, then at the gun in its naked mount. "Sometimes people need driving, and Varl's the man to do just that.
That's why this gun will be manned when the time comes and he won't waste time begging for volunteers.
