The Dutchman - A. Bertram Chandler, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
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//-->Free as the photon gales, Grimes was still haunted by his geneticheritage!A. Bertram ChandlerTHE DUTCHMANIGRIMES was packing his overnight bag without much enthusiasm."Do you have to go?" asked Sonya.He replied rather testily, "I don't have to do anything. But the light-jammers have always been myba-bies and I've always made a point of seeing them in and seeing them out.""But Coldharbor Bay? And in midwinter? There are times, my dear, when I strongly suspect that Imarried a masochist.""If only you were a sadist we'd live happily forever after," he re-torted. "And if you were amaso-chist you'd be coming with me to Port Ericson.""Not bloody likely," she told him. "Why you couldn't have ar-ranged for your precious lightjam-mersto berth somewhere in what passes for the Tropics on this dismal planet is beyond my com-prehension.""There were reasons," he said.Yes, there were reasons, one of the most important being that a lightjammer is a potentialsuper-bomb with a yield greatly in excess of that of the most devastating nu-clear fusion weapon. Theessential guts of a star-sailer is the sphere of anti-matter, contraterrene iron, held suspended in vacuum bypowerful magnetic fields. In theory there is no possibility that the anti-matter will ever come in contactwith normal matter—but history has a long record of disasters giving dreadful proof that theory andpractice do not always march hand in hand. The terminal port for the lightjammers, therefore, waslocated in a region of Lorn unin-habited save by a handful of fur trappers. It would have been at theSouth Pole itself but for the neces-sity for open water, relatively ice-free the year around, to affordlanding facilities for the ships.The first of these weird vessels,Flying Cloud,had been an experi-mental job designed to go a longway in a long time, but with a very low power consumption. The most important characteristic ofanti-matter—apart from its terrifying explosive potential—is anti-mass. A ship with a sphere ofcontraterrene iron incorporated in her struc-ture is weightless and inertialess. With her sails spread to thephoton gale she can attain an extremely high percentage of the velocity of light but cannot, of course,exceed it.The crew ofFlying Cloudhad been, putting it mildly, a weird mob. Somehow they had becomeobsessed with the idea of turning the vessel into a real faster-than--light ship. (The conventional star-ship,proceeding under inertial drive and Mannschenn Drive, is not faster than light, strictly speaking; shemakes light-years-long voyages in mere weeks by, as it has been put, going ahead in space while goingastern in time.) This desirable end they attempted to achieve by means of a jury-rigged rocket drive,using home-made solid fuel, just to giveFlying Cloudthat extra nudge.Fantastically, the idea worked, although it should not have. Not only did it work, but there wereeconomically advantageous side effects. The lightjammer finished up a long way off course, plungingdown to apparently inevitable destruction on Llanith, one of the planets of the anti-matter systems to thegalactic west of the Rim Worlds. But a transposition of atomic charges had taken place. She now wasanti-matter herself, whereas that contraterrene iron sphere was now normal matter.Flying Cloudhad landed on Llanith and had been welcomed by the people, human rather thanmerely humanoid, of that world. She had remained on Llanith until the Llanithian scientists and engineershad worked out just what had happened and why. (The atti-tude of the scientists at first had been that itcouldn't possibly have happened.) Then, after modifica-tions had been made to her control systems andthe makeshift rocket replaced by a properly designed reaction drive, she had returned to Lorn, carryingnot only a sample shipment of trade goods but pas-sengers from the Llanithi Consor-tium.And Rim Runners, the shipping line of the Rim Worlds Con-federacy, had a new trade.GRIMES sat in the forward cabin of the Rim Runners' atmosphere ferry that somebody hadcalled—the name had stuck—the Commodore's Barge. He was not handling the controls himself. His oldfriend and shipmate Billy Williams, master of the deep-space tugRim Malemute,was piloting. Grimeswas admiring the scenery.The landscape unrolling beneath the barge was spectacular enough but cold and forbidding. LakeMisere was well astern now and the craft was threading its way over and through the Great Barrens,skirting the higher, jagged, snow-capped peaks, its inertial drive snarling as Williams fought to maintainaltitude in the vicious downdrafts. The big man cursed softly to himself.Grimes said, "You would insist on coming along for the ride, Billy.""I didn't think you'd make me drive, Skipper.""Rank has its privileges.""No need to rub it in. If it's all the same to you I'll take this little bitch down through the Blackall Pass.It's putting on distance, but I don't feel like risking the Valley of the Winds after what we've been gettingalready.""As you've been saying, you're driving."Williams brought the barge's head around to port, making for the entrance to the pass. The openingwas black in the dark gray of the cliff face, a mere slit that seemed to widen as the aircraft came on to thecorrect line of approach. And then they were plunging through the gloomy, winding canyon—thetor-tuosness of which was an effective wind baffle, although the eddies at every bend made pilotagedifficult. The echoes of the irregular beat of the inertial drive, bouncing back from the sheer granite walls,in-hibited conversation.They broke out at last into what passed for daylight in these high lat-itudes, under a sky which, onthis side of the ranges, was thickly over-cast. Only to the northwest, just above the featureless horizon ofthe Nullarbor Plain, was there a break in the cloud cover, a smear of sullen crimson to mark the setting ofthe Lorn sun.They flew steadily over the deso-late tundra through the gathering darkness. The lights of PortErikson came up at last, bright but cheerless. Beyond them Grimes could see the tiny moving sparks ofwhite and red and green that must be the navigation lanterns of the small icebreaker that, in winter, wasemployed to keep Coldharbor Bay clear of floes and pack ice."Too bloody much seamanship about this job, Skipper," remarked Williams cheerfully."No such thing as too much seamanship," retorted Grimes huffily. He pulled the microphone of theVHF transceiver from its clip. "As-tronautical Superintendant to Port Erikson. Can you read me? Over.""Loud and clear, Commodore. Loud and clear. Pass your message. Over.""My ETA Port Erikson is ten minutes from now. Over.""We're all ready and waiting for you, Commodore.""What's the latest onPamir?""ETA confirmed a few minutes ago. 2000 hours our time.""Thank you, Port Erikson. Over and out."Ahead was the scarlet blinker that marked the end of the airstrip. Williams maintained speed until theflashing light was almost di-rectly beneath the barge, until it looked as though they must crash into thespaceport's control tower. With only seconds to spare he brought the aircraft to a shuddering halt byapplication of full reverse thrust, let her fall, checked her descent a moment before she hit the concrete.Grimes decided to say nothing. After all, he himself was frequently guilty of such exhibitions and allhis life he had deplored the all-too--commonDon't do as I do, do as I say,philosophy.GRIMES and Williams waited in the control tower with Captain Rowse, the harbormaster. (In anormal spaceport his official title would have been port captain, but a normal spaceport does not run to aharbor, complete with wharfage and breakwaters.)"She's showing up now," an-nounced the radar operator."Thank you, Mr. Gorbels," said Rowse.The VHF speaker came to life."Pamirto Port Erikson,Pamirto Port Erikson. Am coming in.Over."Grimes recognized the voice, of course. Listowel had been master of the experimentalFlying Cloudand was now in command ofPamir.A good man, not easily panicked, one who would have been just asat home on the poop of a windjammer as in the control room of a space-ship.The commodore moved so that he could look up through the trans-parent dome that roofed thecontrol tower. Yes, there she was, her navi-gation lights bright sparks against the black overcast, whiteand ruby and emerald, masthead, port and starboard. (Her real masts were retracted, of course, and hersails furled. She was driving herself down through the atmosphere by negative dynamic lift, a dirigibleairship rather than a spaceship.) Faintly Grimes could hear the throb of her airscrews, even above the thinwhining of the wind that eddied about the tower.The ship was lower now, visible through the windows that over-looked Coldharbor Bay. Grimeslifted borrowed night glasses to his eyes, ignoring the TV screen that presented the infrared picture. Theslim, graceful length of her was clearly visible, picked out by the line of lighted ports. Down shecame—down, down, slowly circling, until she was only meters above the dark, white-flecked waters ofthe bay. From her belly extended hoses, and Grimes knew that the thirsty centrifugal pumps would besucking in ballast."Pamirwaterborne," announced Listowel from the VHF speaker. "Am proceeding to berth. Over."Grimes, Williams and Rowse shrugged themselves into heavy overcoats, put on fur-lined caps. Theharbormaster led the way to the elevator that would take them down to ground level. They droppedrapidly to the base of the tower. Outside it was bitterly cold and the wind carried thin flurries of snow.Grimes wondered why some genius could not devise earflaps that would not inhibit hearing—his ownprom-inent ears felt as though they were going to snap off at any moment. But during berthing operationsit was essential to hear as well as to see what was going on.The three men walked rapidly to the wharf, breasting the wind—little, fat Rowse in the lead, chunkyGrimes and big, burly Williams a couple of steps in the rear. The shed lights were on now, as were thepo-sition-marker flashers. Beside each of the latter waited three linesmen, beating their arms across theirchests in an endeavor to keep warm. The berthing master, electric megaphone in his gloved hand, wasstriding up and down energetically.Pamircame in slowly and care-fully, almost hidden by the cloud of spray thrown up by theturbulence induced by her airscrews. She was accosting the wharf at a steep angle at first and thenturned, so that she was parallel to the line of wharfage. The wind did the rest, so that it was hardlynecessary for Listowel to use his line-throwers fore and aft. She fell gently alongside, with her off-shorescrews swiveled to provide transverse thrust against the persistent pressure of the southerly.She lay there, a great, gleaming torpedo shape, gently astir as the slight chop rolled her against thequietly protesting fenders. The hum of motors, the threshing of airscrews, suddenly ceased.From an open window in his con-trol room Listowel called, "Is this where you want me?""Make her fast as she is, Cap-tain," called the berthing master. "As she is," came the reply.A few seconds later a side door opened and the brow extended from the wharf, stanchions comingerect and manropes tautening.Grimes was first up the gangway. After all, as he had said to Sonya. the lightjammers were hisbabies.LISTOWEL received the boarding party in his day cabin.With him was Sandra Listowel, who was both his wife and his catering officer. Rim Runners did not,as a general rule, approve of wives traveling in their husband's ships in any capacity, but Sandra was oneof the originalFlying Cloudcrew and had undergone training in that peculiar mixture of seamanship andairmanship re-quired for the efficient handling of a lightjammer. Grimes often won-dered if she had, overthe years, be-come like so many of the wives of the old-time windjammer masters, a captainde facto-though he did not think that Ralph Listowel would allow such a situation to de-velop.Captain Listowel had changed little over the years. When he rose to greet his visitors he toweredover them. He had put on no weight and his closely cut hair was still dark, save for a touch of gray at thetem-ples. And Sandra was as gorgeous as ever, a radiant blonde, not quite as slim as she had been butnone the worse for that. Her severe, short-skirted, black uniform suited her.Listowel produced a bottle and glasses. He said, "You might like to try this. You look as though youneed warming up. It's something new. Our Llanithi friends acquired a taste for scotch and a local distil-lerthought he'd cash in on it. What he produced is not scotch. Even so, it's good. It might go well on Lornand the other Rim Worlds."Grimes sipped the clear, golden fluid experimentally, then enthu-siastically. "Not bad at all.” Then:"You'd better have some more yourself to soften the blow, Listowel.""What blow, Commodore?""You've a very quick turn-around this time. As you know,Herzogen Cecileis tied up for re-pairs onLlanith—and I'd still like to know just how Captain Palmer got himself dismasted.""I have his report with me, Com-modore.""Good. I'll read it later. And whenLord of The Islescomes in to Port Erikson she's being withdrawnfor survey. Which leaves you andSea Witchto cope." He grinned. "As they used to say back on Earth inthe days of sail, 'Growl you may, but go you must.' ""But we're still in the days of sail, Commodore," said Listowel. "And as one of the sailing ship poetssaid, 'All I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.' ""Very touching, Ralph, very touching," commented Sandra Listowel. "But I'm sure that the ChiefStewards of the ocean-going sailing ships had their problems, just as I have." She turned to Grimes. "Lasttime we were in Port Erikson, Commodore, we enjoyed our usual two weeks alongside—but even thenwe sailed without all our stores. How will it be this time?""Better," promised Grimes. "I'll light a fire under the tail of the Pro-vedore Department back at PortForlorn." He allowed Listowel to fill his glass. "Did you have a good trip, Captain?""Yes. Even so—""Even so what?""I think you might keep us in-formed, sir, of these other lightjam-mers, the experimental ones,clut-tering up the route between Lorn and Llanith."Grimes stared. "What are you talking about, Listowel?""We averted collision by the thickness of a coat of paint. Cap-tain Palmer, inHerzogen Cecile,alsohad a close shave. His emer-gency alteration of course was so violent that it carried away his N and Emasts with all their sails. He limped to Port Listowel on Llanith on S and W only.""Why didn't he report it? The cir-cumstances, I mean.""He must have read your last cir-cular, Commodore."Grimes' prominent ears burned as he flushed angrily. But Listowel was right. He, Grimes, had writtenthat circular under pressure from the Rim Worlds Admiralty—which body was, as he had put it, passingthrough a phase of acting like small boys playing at pirates. The fleet was out—or had been out or wouldbe out—on deep space maneuvers. Masters and officers were reminded that the Carlotti bands werecon-tinually monitored by potentially hostile powers. Therefore no report of any sighting of Rim WorldsNavy warships was to be made over these channels, whatever the cir-cumstances. And so forth."We are the only people with the Erikson-Charge-Reversing Drive," went on Listowel. "So weassumed that what we saw was an experi-mental warship. One of ours. Palmer assumed likewise."Grimes made a major production of filling and lighting his pipe. He said through the swirling cloud ofacrid blue smoke, "The Navy doesn't have any lightjammers, yet. They want some, just in case we everfail to see eye to eye with the Llanithi Consortium. But the first ships of the line, as they are to be called,are still on the drawing board."Listowel murmured thoughtfully, "Nevertheless we saw something—and it as near as dammit hit us.What was it, Commodore?""You tell me," said Grimes. "I'm listening."IILISTOWEL was saying, "We were bowling along under a full press of sail and the Doppler Log wasreading point eight nine seven, so it was nowhere near time to light the fire under our arse—" He coughedapologetically. "That, sir, is the expression we use for starting the reaction drive—""I gathered as much," said Grimes. "But go on.""We were just finishing dinner in the main salon. I had Llawissen and his two wives—he's the newLIa-nithi trade commissioner, as you know—at my table. We were making the usual small talk when Inoticed that the little red warning light in the chandelier had come on.""Sounds very fancy," com-mented Williams."You should have done more time in passenger ships, Billy," Grimes told him. "That signal is to tell themaster that he's wanted in control, but for something short of a full-scale emergency. Carry on, Captain.""So I excused myself, but didn't leave the table in, a hurry. Still, I lost no time in getting to the controlroom. Young Wallasey, the third mate, was O.O.W. He said, 'We've got company, sir.' I said,`Impos-sible.' He pointed and said, `Look.'So I looked."We had company all right. She was out on the starboard beam, just clear of E topmast. She wasonly a light at first, a blueish glimmer, a star where we knew damn well no star should be, could be,hanging just above the distant mistiness of the Lens."'Anything on the radar?' I asked."There wasn't—and these ships aren't fitted with Mass Proximity Indicators.""No need for them," grunted Grimes, "unless you have Mann-chenn Drive.""So— there was nothing on the radar, which is what made me think afterward that this vessel musthave been an experimental warship. The light was getting brighter and brighter, suggesting that theship—I had already decided that it must be a ship—was getting closer."I got the big mounted binocu-lars trained on it. After I got them focused I could make out details,although that fuzzy, greenish light didn't help any. Some sort of force field? But no matter. I'd say thatit—she—wasn't as big asPamiror any of the other commercial light-jammers. She had an odd sort ofrig, too. Instead of having four masts arranged in a cruciform pat-tern she had three, in series. And thesails–what I could see of them—had reflective surfaces on both sides instead of on one side only, as isthe case with ours."And she was getting too bloody close on a convergent course. That was obvious, radar or no radar.Wallasey was calling her, first on the Carlotti set and then on NST, but getting no reply. There wasn'ttime to break out the Morse lamp. Whoever dreamed that we'd need it in deep space?"So I said to hell with this and al-tered course, turning my W sails edge on to the Llanith sun. It wasonly just in time. That bastard was so near that I could see a line of ports with what looked like themuzzles of weapons sticking out of them. If she'd opened fire I wouldn't be here to tell the tale.""Nor would any of us," com-mented Sandra Listowel."And only you and the officer of the watch saw this—thing?" asked Grimes."I'm not in the habit of throwing tea parties in my control room during emergencies, Commodore.""Sorry. And presumably Captain Palmer saw something similar?""He did.""But finish your story, Captain. What happened next?""Nothing. As I've told you, I al-tered course. And when next I was able to snatch a glance out of the
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