The Inheritors (3 page)

"And still trade-school-oriented."

He shrugged. "Have it your way, Maggie. We're just Yahoos. But we do get our ships around." He paused, then delivered his own quotation. " 'Transportation is civilization.' "

"All right," she said at last. "Who wrote that?"

"Kipling."

"Kipling—and science fiction?"

"You should catch up on your own reading some time . . . ." The telephone buzzed sharply. He got up and went rapidly to the handset.

She remarked sweetly,
"Nothing
can happen in deep space . . . ."

"Captain here," said Grimes sharply.

Lieutenant Hayakawa's reedy voice drifted into the day cabin. "Hayakawa, Captain sir . . . ."

"Yes, Mr. Hayakawa?"

"I . . . am not certain. But I think I have detected psionic radiation—not close, but not too far distant.

"It is extremely unlikely," Grimes said, "that we are the only ship in this sector of space."

"I . . . I know, Captain. But—it is all vague, and the other telepath is maintaining a block . . .I . . . I tried at first to push through, and he knew that I was trying . . . . Then, suddenly, I relaxed . . . ."

Psionic judo . . . 
thought Grimes.

"Yes . . . You could call it that . . . But there is somebody aboard that ship who is thinking all the time about . . . Morrowvia . . . ."

"Drongo Kane," said Grimes.

"No, Captain. Not Drongo Kane. This is a . . . young mind. Immature . . . ."

"Mphm. Anything else?"

"Yes . . . . He is thinking, too, of somebody called Tabitha . . . ."

"And who's
she
when she's up and dressed?"

"She is not dressed . . . not as
he
remembers her."

"This," stated Maggie Lazenby, "is disgusting. I thought, in my innocence, that the Rhine Institute took a very dim view of any prying by its graduates into private thoughts. I was under the impression that telepathy was to be used
only
for instantaneous communications over astronomical distances."

"If every Rhine Institute graduate who broke the Institute's rules dropped dead right now," Grimes told her, "there'd be one helluva shortage of trained telepaths. In any case, the Institute allows some latitude to those of its people who're in the employ of a recognized law enforcement agency. The Federation's Survey Service is one such. Conversely, the Institute recognizes the right of any telepath, no matter by whom employed, to put up a telepathic block."

"I still don't like it. Any of it."

"Mr. Hayakawa," said Grimes into the telephone, "you heard all that?"

"Yes, Captain."

"And what are
your
views?"

In reply came a thin chuckle, then, "I try to be loyal, sir. To the Institute, to the Service, to my shipmates, to my captain. Sometimes it is hard to be loyal to everybody at once. But, also, I try to be loyal to myself."

"Putting it briefly," said Maggie Lazenby, "you know on which side your bread is buttered."

"Butter is an animal-derived food, Miss Commander, which I never touch."

"Mr. Hayakawa," asked Grimes, "do you hear anything further from the strange ship?"

"No, Captain. The block has been reestablished."

"Let me know when you do hear anything more." He punched buttons, then spoke again into the instrument. "Captain here, Mr. Timmins. Mr. Hayakawa has reported a vessel in our vicinity, apparently heading for Morrowvia. Have you picked anything up?"

"Just the normal commercial traffic, sir. A Shaara freighter,
Mmoorroomm,
Rob Roy to ZZrreemm.
Empress of Scotia,
Dunedin to Darnstadt.
Cutty Sark,
Carinthia to Lorn.
Schnauzer,
Siluria toMacbeth. And, according to Sector Plot, the following ships not fitted with Carlotti equipment:
Sundowner,
Aquarius to Faraway,
Rim Eland,
Elsinore to Ultimo . . . ."

"Thank you." Then, speaking more to himself than to anybody else,
"Schnauzer . . . 
Dog Star Line . . . cleared for Macbeth . . . . She might finish up there eventually . . . ."

He ignored Maggie's questioning look and went to his playmaster. As its name implied, the device provided entertainment, visual and audio—but this one, a standard fitting in the captain's quarters in all FSS ships, was also hooked up to the vessel's encyclopedia bank. "Get me Lloyd's Register," he ordered. "I want details
on Schnauzer.
Sirian ownership. Dog Star Line . . . ."

The screen lit up, displaying the facsimile of a printed page.

Schnauzer
—a new ship, small, exceptionally fast for a merchantman, defensively armed. (The Dog Star Line had long insisted that its vessels were capable of conducting their own defense on some of the trade routes where piracy still persisted.)

"Mphm," he grunted. Back at the telephone he ordered Timmins to send a coded message to the FSS agent at Port Llangowan, on Siluria, to ask the names of
Schnauzer
's personnel when she cleared outward.

He strongly suspected that the master would be Captain Danzellan.

"Master, Roger Danzellan," the Federation's man on Siluria replied eventually. "First mate, Oscar Eklund. Second mate, Francis Delamere. Third mate, Kathryn Daley. Chief engineer, Mannschenn Drive, Evan Jones. Chief engineer Interplanetary Drives, Ian Mackay. Juniors, H. Smith, B. Ostrog, H. Singh. Purser/catering officer, Glynis Trent . . ." The message went on to say that Captain Danzellan and Mr. Delamere had both been among
Corgi's
complement when she had last been at Port Llangowan. The last piece of information that it contained was that Francis Delamere was the nephew of the Dog Star Line's general manager.

So—obviously, the Dog Star people were interested in Morrowvia. On receiving the report from
Corgi's
master they had acted, and fast. A suitable ship had been shunted off her doubtlessly well-worn tramlines, and Danzellan had been transferred to her command. Probably he had not wished to have Delamere as one of his Officers—but Delamere had pull. Nepotism, as Grimes well knew, existed in the Survey Service. In a privately owned shipping company the climate would be even more suitable to its flourishing.

There was only one thing for Grimes to do—to pile on the Gs and the lumes, to get to Morrowvia before Danzellan. Fortunately, the merchant vessel was not fitted with a Mass Proximity Indicator—the Dog Star Line viewed new navigational aids with suspicion and never fitted them to its ships until their value was well proven. Sooner or later—sooner, Grimes hoped—
Seeker
would pick up
Schnauzer
in her screen and, shortly thereafter, would be able accurately to extrapolate her trajectory.
Schnauzer
would know nothing of
Seeker's
whereabouts or presence.

And Drongo Kane in his
Southerly Buster?
A coded request for information to the Bug Queen brought the news that he had lifted from Port Fortinbras, his refit completed, with a General Clearance. Such clearances were rarely issued. This one must have cost Kane plenty.

Grimes was spending more and more time in his control room. There was nothing that he could
do—
but he wanted to be on hand when
Schnauzer
was picked up. At last she was there—or
something
was there—an almost infinitesimal spark in the screen, at extreme range. Grimes watched, concealing his impatience, while his navigator, hunched over the big globe of utter darkness, delicately manipulated the controls set into the base of the screen. Slowly a glowing filament was extruded from the center of the sphere—
Seeker
' s track. And then, from that barely visible spark just within the screen's limits, another filament was extended.

"Mphm," grunted Grimes.

The display was informative. Relatively speaking,
Schnauzer
was on
Seeker's
port beam, a little ahead of the beam actually, and steering a converging course. Morrowvia was out of range of the M.P.I., but there was little doubt that both ships were headed for the same destination.

"Have you an estimate of her speed yet, Mr. Pitcher?" asked Grimes.

"Only a rough one, sir," replied the tall, thin, almost white-haired young man. "Give me an hour, and . . ."

"Extrapolate now, if you will."

"Very good, sir."

Two beads of light appeared, one on each filament. "Twenty-four hours," said Pitcher. The range had closed slightly but the relative bearing was almost unaltered."Forty-eight hours." The bearing was
changing.
Seventy-two hours."
Schnauzer
was slightly, very slightly, abaft
Seeker's
beam. "Ninety-six hours." There was no doubt about it. At the moment
Seeker
had the heels of the Dog Star ship.

Grimes was relieved. He did not want to drive his ship any faster. An almost continuous sense
of déjà vu
is an uncanny thing to have to live with. The temporal precession field had not yet reached a dangerous intensity, but it had been increased to a highly uncomfortable one. Already there was a certain confusion when orders were given and received. Had they been made? Had they been acted upon?

Grimes waited for Pitcher to answer his question, then realized that he had not yet asked it. "Assuming," he said, "that your first estimate of
Schnauzer's
speed is correct, how much time do we have on Morrowvia before she arrives?"

"Sixty hours Standard, sir. Almost exactly two Morrowvian days."

Not long,
thought Grimes. Not long at all for what he had to do. And not knowing what he had to do didn't help matters. He'd just have to make up the rules as he went along.

He said, "We'll maintain a continuous watch on the M.P.I. from now on. Let me know at once if there's any change in the situation, and if any more targets appear on the screen."

"Drongo Kane?" asked Saul.

"Yes, Mr. Saul. Drongo Kane."

The first lieutenant's eyes and teeth were very white in his black face as he smiled mirthlessly. He said, his deep voice little more than a whisper, "I hope that Drongo Kane
is
bound for Morrowvia, Captain."

"Why, Mr. Saul?" Grimes essayed a feeble jest. "Two's company, three's a crowd."

"Racial hatreds die very hard, Captain. To my people, for many, many years, 'slaver' has been an especially dirty word. Ganda, as you know, was colonized by my people . . . . And some hundreds of them, rescued by Kane's
Southerly Buster
before their sun went nova, were sold by him to the Duke of Waldegren . . . ."

"As I said before," Grimes told him, "they weren't
sold.
They entered the duke's service as indentured labor."

"Even so, sir, I would like to meet Captain Drongo Kane."

"It's just as well," said Grimes, "that he's not a reincarnation of Oliver Cromwell—if he were, Mr. Connery would be after his blood too . . . ."

He regarded his first lieutenant dubiously. He was a good man, a good officer, and Grimes liked him personally. But if
Southerly Buster
made a landing on Morrowvia he would have to be watched carefully. And—who would watch the watchman? Grimes knew that if he wished to reach flag rank in the Service he would have to curb his propensity for taking sides.

"Mphm," he grunted. Then, "I'll leave Control in your capable hands, Mr. Saul. And keep a watchful eye on the M.P.I., Mr. Pitcher. I'm going down to have a few words with Hayakawa."

Lieutenant Hayakawa was on watch—but a psionic communications officer, as any one such will tell you, is
always
on watch. He was not, however, wearing the rig of the day. His grossly obese body was inadequately covered by a short kimono, gray silk with an embroidered design of improbable looking flowers. Scrolls, beautifully inscribed with Japanese ideographs, hung on the bulkheads, although space had been left for a single hologram, a picture of a strikingly symmetrical snow-capped mountain sharp against a blue sky. The deck was covered with a synthetic straw matting. In the air was the faint, sweet pungency of a burning joss stick.

Hayakawa got slowly and ponderously to his feet. "Captain san . . ." he murmured.

"Sit down, Mr. Hayakawa," ordered Grimes. The acceleration—now more than two Gs—was bad enough for him; it would be far, far worse for one of the telepath's build. He lowered himself to a pile of silk cushions. Not for the first time he regretted that Hayakawa had been allowed to break the regulations governing the furnishing of officers' cabins—but PCOs, trading upon their rarity, are privileged persons aboard any ship.

He settled down into a position approximating comfort—and then had to get up and shift the cushions and himself to another site. From the first one he had far too good a view of Hayakawa's psionic amplifier, the disembodied dog's brain suspended in its globe of cloudy nutrient fluid. The view of Mount Fujiyama was much more preferable.

He said, "We have
Schnauzer
on the M.P.I. now."

"I know, Captain."

"You would," remarked Grimes, but without rancor. "And you still haven't picked up any further . . . emanations from her?"

"No. Her PCO is Delwyn Hume. I have met him. He is a good man. What you called my judo technique worked just once with him. It will never work again." Then Hayakawa smiled fatly and sweetly. "But I have other news for you."

"Tell."

"Southerly Buster,
Captain. Myra Bracegirdle is the CPO.
She
is good—but, of course, we are all good. Her screen is as tight as that maintained by Hume or myself. But . . . 

"She is emotional. During moments of stress her own thoughts seep through. She hates the
Buster's
mate. His name is Aloysius Dreebly. Now and again—often, in fact—he tries to force his attentions on her."

"Interesting," commented Grimes. He thought,
This is building up to one of those situations where everybody hates everybody. Mr. Saul hates Captain Kane, although he's never met him personally. Myra hates Aloysius. The way Maggie's been carrying on lately I'm beginning to think that she hates
me.
And I doubt very much if Captain Danzellan feels any great affection for Mr. Francis Delamere . . . .
He grinned.
But Frankie loves Tabbie . . . .