A Thunder Of Stars Read online

  A very special breed...

  Commander Bruce

  Lt. Commander Helen Lindstrom

  Lieutenant Sharva

  and the other officers and crews who served in the Space Corps.

  The colonists would never know the toll that had been paid to make their paths a little smoother, their lives a little more safe.

  For the Space Corps kept its secrets to itself. Their training was too special, their numbers too few, and what they protected too precious, to permit exposure of their actions to generalized attack.

  Yet this is exactly what Bruce had to risk if he was to save the millions of lives threatened by the runaway reactors on the colony ship Athena.

  It was this kind of decision that made the Space Corps a very special breed ...

  A THUNDER OF STARS

  Dan Morgan and John Kippax

  BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

  Copyright © 1970 by Dan Morgan and John Kippax

  SBN 345-01922-9-075

  All rights reserved

  First Printing: May, 1970

  Cover art by Dean Ellis

  Printed in the United States of America

  BALLANTINE BOOKS, INC.

  101 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10003

  an ebookman scan

  Chapters

  *1*

  *2*

  *3*

  *4*

  *5*

  *6*

  *7*

  *8*

  *9*

  *10*

  *11*

  *12*

  *13*

  *14*

  *15*

  *16*

  *17*

  *18*

  *19*

  End

  Alert for the new, stubborn landing,

  Strong-sinewed in armour and might,

  In brotherhood, see earthmen banding,

  The bringers and guardians of light.

  Here, we work close together, or perish

  On new lands a lifetime from home;

  All other men's skills we must cherish,

  All other men's hearts are our own.

  There is no clear trail of man's making

  Across all the black angry years;

  There is only the sound of forsaking,

  There are only the traces of tears.

  Long past is the pioneers' trailing

  To Jupiter, Venus and Mars;

  Now we leap from old Sol Three failing,

  And we flinch at the thunder of stars.

  Ivan Kovanin.

  Honoured Poet of Earth.

  (2065-2148)

  *1*

  Sex can be regarded as having certain therapeutic and recreational values. However, when a relationship between male and female crew members Is prejudicial to the maintenance of good order and discipline, it must end forthwith.

  (MANUAL FOR SPACE CORPS OFFICERS P. 54 Revised Edition 2160)

  Tom Bruce slept as relaxed as a cat, his lean body stretched naked beside her. A few feet away, on the bedside table, Helen Lindstrom could see the glow of the tiny pilot light on his communicator, could hear the hiss from the tiny loudspeaker, a constant link with patrol HQ. Behind her, on the other side of the bed, her own communicator hissed likewise, giving an occasional splutter when the present sunspot activity made itself felt. This was the measure of their privacy. Neither was ever off duty. The Corps demanded their total allegiance, and would go on demanding until there was no more to give.

  Realizing that sleep would not come unaided, she eased herself from the bed. She was halfway to the door when the light came on. Bruce, raised on one elbow, was watching her.

  "Why not tell me about it?" he said quietly. His green eyes were alert, his lean face attentive.

  Then he had noticed. She stood quite still in the middle of the floor as he surveyed her big, cream and gold body. Now she would have to tell him, revealing a more fundamental nakedness.

  "Statues?" He grinned briefly, then picked up a thin dark cigar and lit it.

  With a slight shrug, she came back to the bed. "The Commissioning Board," she said.

  He drew on his cigar. "What are you worrying about? You've got it made. I gave you a good report."

  "I expected that you would." She lowered herself to the foot of the bed and sat looking at him.

  "This is what you've always wanted, isn't it? Second in Command of Venturer Twelve."

  "Of course, but..."

  "But what, woman?" He rose to a sitting position, his lean body suddenly tense, the outline of the scar on his left cheek pale against his tan. "It wouldn't have got as far as a Commissioning Board interview if they weren't sure you could handle the job. Carter and Suvorov don't waste their time."

  Helen looked steadily at this lean, hard man with his severely regulation-cut, rust-coloured hair and his hard green eyes. She felt a growing tightness in her stomach. He had never said anything about love, neither had she.

  His eyes were looking through, beyond her now, out into the vastness of space, and his voice was almost wistful. "You'll be going farther than any human beings since the beginning of time. New worlds, beyond the imaginings of the prophets."

  "No, Tom—I shan't be going," she said.

  "What do you mean, for God's sake?"

  She looked away, unable to face the hardening of his green eyes. "I've decided not to take* the post. Four, perhaps five years away from Earth . . . away from you."

  "Me? What in hell's name has that got to do with it?"

  She hesitated. It had to be said now, but she was suddenly afraid.

  "This is the chance of a lifetime for you," he said, rising from the bed and walking across to the clothes closet. His wakefulness was now the kind which made further sleep impossible.

  "I love you, Tom," she said.

  He turned, his hard, scarred face startled, as if he had been struck. "Love!”

  "Is that so incredible?" she said. "We've been together now for more than two years. Surely that must mean something?"

  "Of course it means something," he said. "We've had two good years, and that's more than either of us had a right to expect; two years during which our relationship was fortunate enough to coincide with the interests of the Corps."

  "The Corps ... ?"

  From anyone else, such a speech might have sounded pompous, a posture—but she knew this man; knew him as a lover, and as an officer. Tom Bruce did not spare himself, or anyone else, in the course of his duty to the Corps. He meant every word. He was getting dressed now, putting on the uniform of Lt. Commander Thomas Winford Bruce, 556396, Commander, Solar System Patrols, but in his mind he never took it off.

  "You're prepared to give up everything you've worked for because of an itch in your belly? You realize that if you refuse this you'll never get another chance?"

  "I happen to think that you're worth that much of a sacrifice," Helen said. She knew it sounded banal, but it was the truth.

  He stared at her for a moment, as if she were a total stranger, then he said: "Blast you! Blast you to hell! You talk like some sloppy, sub-navel-thinking female with a minus I.Q. Sacrifice! For God's sake! You've no right to try to saddle me with that!"

  Helen tried desperately to cancel out the mistake. "I didn't mean it that way ..."

  "You meant it just that way," Bruce said.

  He fastened the top button of his pale blue uniform jacket. In some lights, and with some expressions, you could call him hatchet faced; he looked like that now. "If the positions were reversed—if I were the one who was going to the Commissioning Board tomorrow— what do you think I would do?" he said.

  The answer was so obvious that she ignored the question. At heart, he was a "deep space" man, discontented t
o be confined to the task of policing the "back yard" of the Solar system—even though that back yard comprised billions of cubic miles of space. In fact, he was the obvious choice for commander of a ship like Venturer Twelve. He had been the obvious choice for Venturer Eleven.

  "I'm sorry, Tom. I've made a mess of it," she said, looking up at him. "I am your woman."

  "You were my woman," he said. "Now it's time for you to remember that you're Lieutenant Lindstrom." He moved toward the door. "Dockridge will collect the rest of my gear tomorrow."

  Fighting back the urge to run after him, she stood quite still as the door closed.

  RADIO MESSAGE (OPEN)

  COLONIZATION SHIP ATHENA TO EXCELSIOR CORPORATION.

  MESSAGE 5 SHIP TIME 1700.

  ALL PASSENGERS NOW THROUGH FIRST DRILLS. SETTLING IN FOR HYPERSPACE BREAKTHROUGH PROCEEDING. SHIP SPEED .1 LIGHT. Lacombe, Capt.

  *2*

  Twinkle, twinkle little star,

  Does your planet have a bar?

  (SPACEMAN'S PRAYER : Trad.)

  In this early morning session, before the Admiral's arrival, Susan Pringle extracted from the cryptic (frequently almost illegible) scribblings on the pad what she interpreted as his wishes.

  At this moment she was talking by vidphone to the civilian foreman in charge of the steelmen who were engaged in the construction of Venturer Twelve. The subject of the conversation was Carter's note: "Stupid bastards overloading A.G. lifts—big stick!"

  "Yes, Mr. Foran—the Admiral quite understands that your men are on a tight schedule," she said, smiling sweetly at the forbidding granite face of the foreman. "But he is insistent that it would be best if more attention were paid to observance of safety regulations."

  "Hell! Lieutenant, these men are professionals," Foran protested. "They know the risks involved if they cut a few corners here and there."

  Sue Pringle stepped up the wattage on an already considerable charm. "Mr. Foran, my Admiral's name is Carter—not Nelson, and his vision is twenty-twenty. Make life easier for us both, huh?"

  Foran's expression melted gratifyingly. "Well, all right, Lieutenant. I'll see what I can do."

  "That's all I ask," purred Pringle. "Thank you, Mr. Foran. Good morning." Cutting the vid, she looked down again at the scribbling pad. The next item read: "Commissioning Board, re Lindstrom. What the hell is Mariano trying to pull?" That, she decided, was one for the Admiral's personal attention.

  Next came the name VELMA, in large capitals, underlined three times. Pringle smiled quietly to herself—another personal item. She must remind the Admiral that his wedding anniversary was due in two weeks' time.

  "Engine Linings—V12. Call Chalovsky." She extracted this one, placing it on her own memo pad.

  "M/F balance of crew. Maranne—too dammed sexy?"

  The outer door opened and Rear Admiral Junius Farragut Carter, O.C. Explorations Division, Earth, entered.

  "Morning, Sue.” Carter was fifty-four, squat as a bug, grizzled, leather faced, with a rare smile that, when it appeared, lapped at least twenty years off his age. He smiled now, as he faced his secretary. His blue uniform was specked with lint and stained here and there with patches of oil. His gray hair, such as remained, stood up in a short, irascible fuzz. On his left breast, taking pride of place in the assorted fruit salad, was the black and gold ribbon of the Space Cross. Junius Carter had been everywhere and seen everything.

  "Morning, sir," said Sue Pringle, returning, his smile with a genuine warmth.

  "Anything from the President's office?" he asked.

  "No, sir—not yet."

  "Hell!" Carter trundled his way toward the door of the inner office. "Come in, will you? There are a couple of memos we ought to get out right away."

  Pringle, dark and willowy, topping her boss by about an inch and a half, followed him inside, notebook in hand.

  As the Admiral lowered himself into his seat behind the big desk, the outside vidphone beeped. He grunted, and pressed the receive button. The picture of a handsome woman of about fifty appeared on the screen.

  "Junius! There you are!"

  Carter's face wrinkled like an abused walnut. "And just where did you expect me to be, Velma? On the tiles with a blonde? Or do you figure I spend all my time in bars?"

  "Junius Carter," said his wife, determinedly. "You have not been home in eight days. I'm thinking of suing you for divorce, and naming that damned ship as correspondent!"

  "Velma, that's a ridiculous—"

  "It is not! Before this one, it was Venturer Eleven, and before that it was Venturer Ten, and ..."

  "Dammit, Velma!" barked Carter. "Be reasonable!"

  But the voice that had made thousands leap to attention had no effect on Velma Carter. "Junius, I have been married to you for thirty-two years and I'm tired of being reasonable. You promised years ago when you got this Earth-based job that I would see more of you. But it just hasn't worked out that way, has it? You're like a little boy with a big constructor set, building those flattened eggs that go into space. As soon as you've done one, you're on to anoth—"

  "That is not so!" Carter averted his attention briefly from the screen and saw that Pringle had moved round toward the wall where the power link for the vidphone was connected. She was waiting, poised, for a signal.

  "You said that you were going to retire ..."

  "Subject to the exigencies of the service."

  "The service," opined Velma Carter, "is just too damned exigent. The truth about you is that you like playing spaceman. If you don't—"

  It was at this point that, in response to a twitch of Admiral Carter's eyebrow, Lieutenant Pringle's dainty foot moved swiftly, disconnecting the power plug of the vidphone. The picture vanished, leaving a blank screen. All was peace, save for the distant grind of operations in Shipyard Seven.

  Carter gave his pps a guilty glance. "Thanks, Pringle. But we can't go on doing that."

  "I’ll have a word with the main switchboard," Pringle said. "Perhaps some new directive on the subject of personal calls?"

  "My wife is a very determined woman."

  "I know, sir."

  "She'd take it up with World Admiral Hoffner, or even with the President, if necessary."

  "I know, sir."

  Carter shrugged. "Maybe we'd better leave things as they are." He looked up at his secretary, his craggy face suddenly serious. "I still love her."

  "Yes—I know that too, sir," Pringle said. Her smile was affectionate. She raised her notebook. 'There was something about a memo?"

  The admiral bared his teeth as he stared up at the big chart that filled half of one wall. The chart showed every post that had to be filled in the commissioning of Venturer Twelve. There remained only a few blank spaces; the rest contained the name and number of a corpsman or woman. The two most significant blanks were at the very top of the pyramid of command.

  "Yes ... a memo," Carter said. "Confidential, to Admiral Suvorov. 'Sam: What the hell is this business about Lindstrom for Second in Command? She wasn't even rated in preliminary discussion. Imperative you see me before meeting.' "

  "Helen Lindstrom?" Pringle said.

  Carter nodded.

  "A first-rate officer; what's wrong with her for the job?"

  Carter blew out his leathery cheeks.

  "I’ve managed to work with the Commissioning Board fairly well, considering that Sam Suvorov is the only real spaceman on it. Mariano, Yow Thin Thang and Ericson are all admin types; they never flew anything bigger than a mark three desk in their lives. All right, I'm prepared to tolerate that, if they're going to start playing politics ..."

  "Politics?"

  "Oh, come on, Sue, don't tell me you haven't recognized this as a typical piece of Mariano finagling," Carter said. "Second in Command of Venturer Twelve —any one of a dozen officers would suit. But there's only one man for the job of Captain—the obvious choice."

  "Lieutenant Commander Bruce?" Pringle said.

  "Of course."

&nb
sp; "I still don't see that the possibility of Helen Lindstrom's getting the Second in Command job constitutes any barrier to Bruce's being Captain," said Pringle.

  "I just hope you're right, Pringle," said the Admiral. "But I have my doubts. I can't see Mariano backing down that way." He glanced up at the wall clock. "Anyway, we shall find out in about an hour's time."

  He rose and walked to the window, where a strong sun glared through the slats of the blind. From there he could see the great silver bulk of Venturer Twelve dominating the lively complex of a thousand skills which made up the shipyard.

  A gentle smile played about Sue Pringle's lips as she watched him.

  *3*

  Let me talk to ships; and out to planets Where human seed, precariously sown, Takes watchful root on alien ground.

  (TELECOMS : I. Kavanin)

  The elevator doors opened silently and Bruce stepped out into the great, vaulted chamber that was Main Control, the nerve centre of System Patrol. Dominating the room from its position in the centre was the macro-simulator, a transparent globe enclosing a three- dimensional reproduction of the Earth/Luna system, with Earth as its centre, and Luna near the outer limits. Scattered in seemingly random pattern throughout the interior of the globe were upward of a hundred pinpoints of light, varying in colour and intensity, some steady, others blinking in bewildering oscillation. Each pinpoint of light was a ship going about its business within a radius of three hundred thousand miles from the centre of Earth.

  Ranged around this central focus were tiers of desks and control consoles, each with its batteries of screens constantly monitoring a sector of space. Behind each of the first row of consoles sat headphoned crewmen or women, watching the screens, and talking quietly into throat mikes as they fed a constant stream of data into the central computer that controlled the moving image within the macro-simulator. In the tiers behind, further consoles, linked with scanning stations on planets and in orbit throughout the solar system, monitored space 10