Grimes Winds Of If by A. Bertram Chandler

Author:A. Bertram Chandler [Chandler, A. Bertram]
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Sci-Fi Short
Published: 2010-03-07T20:36:58.109000+00:00

CHAPTER 12

SO there we were, bowling along under full sail, running the easting down. In some ways the Erikson Drive was a vast improvement over the Mannschenn Drive. There was not that continuous high whine of the ever-precessing gyroscopes, there was not that uneasy feeling of deja vu that is a side effect of the Mannschenn Drive's temporal precession field. Too, we could look out of the Control Room and see a reasonable picture of the Universe as it is and not, in the case of the Galactic Lens, something like a Klein Flask fabricated by a drunken glass blower. She was an easy ship, once the course had been set, once she was running free before the photon gale. She was an easy ship—as a ship, as an assemblage of steel and plastic and fissioning uranium. But a ship is more than the metals and chemicals that have gone into her construction. In the final analysis it is the crew that make the ship—and Flying Cloud was not happy.

It was the strong element of sexual jealousy that was the trouble. I did my best to keep my own yardarm clear, but I could observe—and feel jealous myself. It was obvious that Sandra was Captain's lady. It was obvious, too, that both Martha Wayne and Peggy Simmons had aspired to that position and that both were jealous. And Doc Jenkins couldn't hide the fact, for all his cynicism, that he would have welcomed Martha's attentions. The only one who was really amused by it all was Smethwick. He drifted into the Control Room during my watch and said, "Ours is an 'appy ship."

"Are you snooping?" I demanded sharply. "If you are, Claude, I'll see to it, personally, that you're booted out of the service." He looked hurt. "No, I'm not snooping. Apart from the Regulations, it's a thing I wouldn't dream of doing. But even you must be sensitive to the atmosphere, and you're not a telepath."

"Yes," I agreed. "I am sensitive." I offered him a cigarette, took and struck one myself. "But what's fresh? Anything?"

"The flap seems to have died down on Lorn," he told me. "We're a fait accompli. Old Grimes got Livitski—he's the new Port Forlorn Psionic Radio Officer—to push a message through to wish us well and to tell us that he has everything under control at his end."

"Have you informed the Master ?" I asked.

"He's in his quarters," he said. "I don't think that he wants to be disturbed."

"Oh," I said.

We sat in silence—there was still enough acceleration to enable us to do so without using seat belts—smoking. I looked out of the transparency at the blackness, towards the faint, far spark that was the Grollor sun. Claude looked at nothing. I heard the sound of feet on the Control Room deck, turned and saw that the faint noise had been made by Peggy Simmons. She said, "I'm sorry. I ... I thought that you were alone, Peter ..."

"Don't let me interfere with love's young dream," grinned Smethwick, getting to his feet.

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