New Writings in SF 10 - [Anthology] Read online

  “Right. It’s semi-political. An order couched as a request from I.G.O. control. You were the nearest ship in that area. I.G.O. Commissar there has some security material to clear. No military ship is due for six months. It’s all in your brief. Where’s the problem?”

  “Do you know the nature of that material ?”

  It was unlike Banister to beat about the bush. He must know as surely as Fletcher himself, that Inter-Galactic Organization affairs carried over-riding priority and that no planetary official could question them.

  “What does it matter what it is? Unless it has a critical weight or an energized structure which will disturb instrumentation, shove it in the safe and do what the man says. Who is it, anyway?”

  Banister kept his temper with an effort. It was all very well for Fletcher, sitting on his backside in chair-bound splendour; but the situation on Sabazius was as peculiar as any he had ever met.

  Interstellar Three-Four had blazed down out of the amethyst sky to a copybook landfall in Jasra’s great circular spaceport to an atmosphere of barely concealed hostility, with inter-galactic goodwill going sour in its bottle. There was no business to transact, unless Earth Consul, notified of their coming, had gathered any special freight for onward movement. It was simply a matter of finding the I.G.O. Commissar, picking up the security material and getting on to his next scheduled stop which was Fingalna.

  This, however, had proved to be a hard thing to do. Mention of it at the port reception area had sent enough significant looks round the circle to stock a repertory company for a season and the place had suddenly filled up with assorted soldiery. Eventually he was told that the man had disappeared. Sunk without trace in the seclusion of his own office headquarters. Seen by his own secretarial staff within an hour and then quite gone.

  Moreover, further enquiries showed that he was not alone in this Indian rope trick eccentricity. Over the past twelve months on Sabazius it had become an occupational hazard for members of the many governmental committees which regulated the affairs of the planet.

  Earth Consul was not over-helpful about it, and was in fact unwilling to sponsor Banister’s suggestion that I.G.O. special branch ought to be brought in as a matter of urgency. He took the view that it was an internal police matter and Sabazians could put their own house in order. Sabazius had, anyway, an unsavoury history of police-state methods and it was unwise for a foreigner to meddle. Its people had accepted the I.G.O. Charter of Human Rights because take-over by a governing mission was the only alternative.

  Banister, thinking of the efforts he had made, in the reeking heat of the small hot planet, to complete his task, said with commendable restraint, “The Commissar was a Cappodanian called Puzur-Sahan, a very able man and liked well enough. As much as any foreigner is liked by this xenophobic lot.”

  ‘‘Was? What’s this was?”

  “That’s basically what I’m on about. He’s disappeared. Not alone either. Eventually they’ll have to bring in the Special Branch on this. But what do I do as of now? Whatever it was that Puzur-Sahan wanted to dispatch isn’t here. The Commissar’s staff don’t know anything about it. Mind you they’re mainly Sabazians and wouldn’t want to help. I have no direct link with I.G.O.

  “Another complication is that they’ve more or less grounded Three-Four. There’s a round-the-clock guard on the pad and I can’t get a signed clearance. The authorities know, of course, that I had to collect something from Puzur-Sahan. I reckon I could break out. But do I do that thing? And if not, how long do I stay on this stinking pad?”

  Fletcher looked at the huge spread of the planetarium which dissolved the only solid wall of his penthouse in an infinity of blue and gold. He keyed the word Sabazius into the operating board on his desk and a luminous silver line ran from Earth Terminal to the point where Banister was. Direct, without the stops Three-Four had made, it was a four-day stint in rationalized time.

  Banister said, “Are you there, Dag?”

  “Sorry. Weighing up the score. You can afford another four days without getting snagged up on the stellar plot. Don’t try anything. I know they have nothing there with a capability of intercepting Three-Four, but they do have some conventional cannon and some military master-minds who would be glad of a chance to blast off at a moving target. You need a covering force. I’ll come and join you.”

  When it was out and said, he knew that it had been in his mind from the beginning. Banister’s pleased acceptance gave it reality and a seal.

  Largely due to his own standing with I.G.O. and pressure on his own Corporation over the years, Northern Hemisphere Space Authority was one of the few civilian organizations in the galaxy with its own defence potential. Interstellar X, an obsolescent military corvette, was standing ready on its pad like a breakdown tender to pull out any one of the regular ships which got out on a limb in an inhospitable corner of the cosmos. Each use of it had to be cleared with I.G.O., but it was regarded by them as a useful supplement to their much-extended peace-keeping force.

  Fletcher dropped into the rhythm of concentrated effort which had made him famous. First, a call on his private link to the great artificial, wandering asteroid which housed the administrative machine of the Inter-Galactic Organization. He was accredited to go to Sabazius. Commissioning status would follow by videgraph. The nearest military unit, was, as he had thought, too far away to be of immediate help. Replacement of Puzur-Sahan was proceeding as a routine matter; but it would be some months before it could be done, He was empowered to make preliminary investigations.

  Then he spoke to Ned Fairclough, filling his old slot as Senior Controller.

  “Ned, what spare crew is there?”

  “Spare crew? You have to be joking, Dag. Three-Nine goes out on the meridian with a navigator light. You know how it is at this time. Maximum wastage. We’re hanging on for the new batch from training wing. For the next month, I’m fighting a rearguard.”

  “Nevertheless I want Interstellar X commissioned and ready to go by sixteen hundred.”

  “Sixteen hundred today ?”

  “Today. Now just get your finger out, Ned, and leap about. It’s a single hop job. Nothing complicated. I’ll manage with a skeleton crew. One navigator, two power, two communications. Pull out two extra final-year cadets for general duties, they can sit in on the armament and get acquainted with it.”

  Ned Fairclough, arguing from the privileged position of twenty years’ friendship said. “Look, Dag, it just isn’t on, and you know it. There isn’t a commander on reserve with the know-how to take up Interstellar X. Unless I go myself and that with all due respect I could not justify.”

  “I’m taking her myself. I’ll settle for half the personnel in final-stage cadets. Sixteen hundred is the deadline. I’ll be seeing you in three hours’ time. Say fourteen hundred for briefing.”

  * * * *

  Two

  Interstellar X entered the gravisphere of Sabazius when Neal Banister had checked off five more of that planet’s short days on his ship’s log. He picked up its etiolated call sign on the private fleet link before Jasra control was aware of the corvette’s presence and was able to tell Fletcher that the local commander had shown his hand in a definitive way by mounting a round-the-clock watch on Three-Four with a battery of sizeable artillery in a half moon on the perimeter of the pad.

  Fletcher said, “Thank you, Neal. Over and out,” and told his communications executive to get on to the diplomatic channel and raise Jasra.

  Susan Brault, working at full stretch in the top communications slot, took all of ten seconds and flipped the Jasra Controller on to her commander’s console like a neatly landed fish. Expecting a Fascist-type official, one who bullies or is bullied, Fletcher made no concession to protocol. He said, “Inter-Galactic Organization Corvette, Interstellar X. Designate landing area. I am coming in as of now. Acknowledge.”

  Acknowledgment carried only minimal goodwill. “You may land. Reference coming up. Out.”

  It was a te
sting time for the scratch crew. In raven-haired Susan Brault, he had a regular junior communications executive, holding temporary rank as lieutenant for this mission. Power was solid though, with a tough veteran, Ray Mortimer; sacrificing retirement leave to make this trip as a special favour to Fletcher. He was assisted by Freeman, a square-built Scot. One of the best students in the final grade. Second navigator was another highly-placed student, Paula Underwood, and one of the major satisfactions of the arrangement for that busy girl was the fact that Arne Richardsen, the apple of whose eye she was, had got himself in as Communications Two.

  She had not been as delighted when she met Susan Brault at the briefing session. But when she saw, in the first hour aboard, that the brilliant, dark-brown eyes of the communications lieutenant followed only the commander about the set, she relaxed and settled for keying in on the net from time to time to check that the communications team kept conversation at strict business levels. Massey and Railton were tough and dependable, working like natural born space crew in the exacting general-duties role. Massey particularly had the ideal build, short, broad, muscled like a professional weight-lifter.

  To this point in space-time, Interstellar X had slid like a bobbin on the fine wire of its computer-spun data. Now Fletcher showed them how finely it would answer under a guiding human hand. He took her down on manual, leaving the retro phase until she was nosing into the first atmospheric layers of the amethyst-blue planet with the surface expanding below them as if in a zoom lens.

  The ship turned once, checked almost to zero momentum and then plunged down to hit the designated pad dead centre, flexing down on hydraulic rams with the last of gravity’s urge; setting them down a hundred metres from the familiar slender column of Interstellar Three-Four and next in line to a small silver Fingalnian, flying a request-clearance pennant.

  Grey cooling gas billowed out. Fletcher was following procedures he had used with a fully-staffed military unit. But the next logical move was out. Normally a landing party would have fanned out in a bridgehead of overwhelming strength to damp down any thought of resistance on the part of a foolhardy local commander. He banked on the effect of the corvette’s presence and its yellow-gold pennant to convince all those present that its potential power was all-systems-go.

  Fletcher said, “Ray, I want Massey and Richardsen with me. Take over. Watch that artillery. Swing a main laser that way and if any gunner bends down near a firing pin, let them have it. Patrol car at the port in five minutes. Massey and Richardsen, ceremonial rig, if you please. Send my compliments to Commander Banister and tell him to be at stand-by readiness as of now.”

  Jasra control had ponderously cleared an official port tender and it was edging out from its parking bay when its journey was made unnecessary by the arrival of the small silver car. Richardsen, a massive Scandinavian type but surprisingly neat and precise in all his movements, homed into a docking collar at the head of a deep bay with iron-nerved panache.

  Like all Sabazian building, the complex was on a concentric circular plan with open vistas through ranks of supporting piers. Fletcher marched into the reception area at the hub of the wheel, looking neither right nor left, flanked by his aides, as though he had arrived to accept an unconditional surrender. He halted at the centre of the high-domed hall where a raised dais on a twenty-metre diameter carried the office layout of the port controller.

  Grey-skinned with the almost completely round head of the Sabazian ethnic stock, eyes flatly set, multifacetted like chiselled obsidian, taller than the Earthmen, heavily muscled for the high gravity load, he walked to the edge of his platform, towering over them with four uniformed guards behind him carrying short carbines at the ready.

  Hearing echoes of the past in the long corridors of his mind, Dag said, “Commander Fletcher, Inter-Galactic Organization Corvette, Interstellar X. Provisional I.G.O. Commissar in this place. I want to see the local military commander.”

  Arne Richardsen had a moment of doubt about this harsh opening gambit. He stood stock still waiting for somebody to say, “No.”

  But in fact he was surprised to find that although no one could call the reception friendly, they were not actively opposed. One of the guards went off at a smart clip and the port controller invited them on to his platform and offered the local equivalent of a cigar and a spittoon.

  Fletcher was not, however, to be charmed into goodwill. He continued to stand, impassive, motionless. Massey, broad and powerful, close-cropped, dark hair, took his cue from his leader. The three Earthmen stared before them in silence.

  In the minutes it took for the local commander to be brought in, Richardsen sensed a change in the atmosphere and paid mental tribute to Fletcher. The Sabazians were becoming uncomfortable. Under the piercing eye of the leading Earthman, the port controller began to shuffle things about on his desk, twice he sat down and stood up again. He walked to the edge of his platform and came back. Then he began to sweat. It was an object lesson in applied psychology. The man looked as guilty as hell.

  One of the weaknesses of the method was that this diffused guilt feeling was likely to make a blanket reaction and mask the real issue; but he was definitely softened up and ready for questioning by the time the military mastermind appeared.

  This one was tougher material. Olive-drab uniform; rank-tabs of a colonel; conical spiked helmet with side-flaps reminiscent of Genghis-Kahn. Marched heavily to the rim of the central platform with a deferential staff-officer half a pace behind and an escort of six guards three metres to the rear.

  Fletcher swivelled slowly to meet them. He said, pitching his voice for all to hear, “Colonel. You will withdraw your troops from the area of this port. It is, for the time being, I.G.O. territory.”

  “If I refuse?”

  “You will not refuse. I shall expect the withdrawal to be completed in one hour, local time. Meanwhile I want transport and an escort to take me to I.G.O. headquarters.”

  Black glittering eyes held Fletcher’s for a long count. Richardsen was sure that his chief had pushed it too far. Then the man spoke. “Colonel Sarpedon, Metropolitan Commandant. Of course, I accept I.G.O. authority. I will withdraw five kilometres from the port. Even so, the I.G.O. charter requires that you work through the governmental channels of a Sovereign state. I shall expect confirmation of this instruction from the Metropolitan Governor.”

  “You will get it. Thank you for your co-operation.”

  Having carried his point, Dag Fletcher felt that he could afford to relax. Even watch, without more than a casual curiosity, the arrival of an imposing Federal Government State tender which decanted a large thick-necked Sabazian in the dark-blue uniform of the diplomatic corps on the step of the central platform itself.

  The new arrival was clearly an important official. Sarpedon threw up a stiff salute, left arm bent from the elbow, palm flat and facing the oncoming man. He said, “Your Excellency, the newly-arrived I.G.O. Commissar has directed that our forces should withdraw from the port.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.” The voice was unexpectedly shrill and high-pitched from such a huge figure. “The Commissar is no doubt anxious to save his small civilian crew from any inconvenience. Nevertheless, he will have to put up with it. Leave your troops in their positions. Neither of the Earth ships have clearance to move except on my express authority.”

  On the dais, he dwarfed the Earthmen and spoke directly to Fletcher. “I will take you to the headquarters of the late Commissar. But I must remind you that your position is very insecure. You will remain for the time being as my guest in the spaceport hotel. Every thought will be given to your comfort, but I am sure you will see that I have to take what precautions I can against a ship with such armament as yours and with only untrained civilian staff to direct it. Please take care that the Inter-Galactic Organization does not lose another representative.”

  Dag Fletcher had suffered reversals enough in his time to be externally unmoved by this one. He walked easily to the waiting car as though he ha
d ordered it himself and ducked under its low roof without a backward look. But his mind was racing through a number of disquieting possibilities. Only I.G.O. and his own inner staff knew the details of his crew manifest. Someone had taken the trouble to put the leak through to Sabazius. Otherwise the bluff of strength could not have failed.

  I.G.O. was solid and Sabazius did not have the kind of Intelligence Service which could crack the I.G.O. codes. It could only be a Space Corporation break. Easy enough when you thought of it. Message to the Sabazian Consulate in Paris, Earth. Or even, and this was more humiliating, a direct call even now while he was here playing out the charade of power. Someone in the ship itself.

  Mortimer? He would stake his life not. Railton or the other cadets? No access to the link. Susan Brault? It could only be Susan and that was ridiculous. Why it was ridiculous he did not stop to analyse, but intuitively, he knew it was so.