Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (79 page)

“I am fully aware of the fact. But I want to know exactly why you volunteered.” He waited a bit, urged, “Come on, speak up! I won’t penalize a risk-taker for giving his reasons.”

Thus encouraged, Leeming said, “I like action. I like working on my own. I don’t like the time-wasting discipline they go in for around the base. It gives me a pain in the seat. Stand here, stand there, put your chest out, pull your belly in, polish your shoes, get a haircut, take that silly look off your face, who’d you think you’re speaking to? I’m a fully trained scout pilot and not a dressed-up dummy for uniformed loudmouths to bark at. I want to get on with the work for which I am suited and that’s all there is to it.”

Markham showed no ire. On the contrary, he nodded understandingly. “So do most of us. Terrans always were an impatient bunch. Do you think I’m not frustrated sitting behind a desk while a major war is being fought?” Without waiting for a response he added, “I’ve no time for a man who volunteers because he’s been crossed in love or wants to do some heavy bragging or anything like that. I want a competent pilot who is an individualist afflicted with the fidgets.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You seem to fit the part all right. Your technical record is first-class. Your disciplinary record stinks to high heaven.” He eyed his listener blank-faced. “Two charges of refusing to obey a lawful order. Four for insolence and insubordination. One for parading with your cap on back to front. What on earth made you do that?”

“I had a bad attack of what-the-hell, sir,” explained Leeming.

“Did you? Well, it’s obvious that you’re a confounded nuisance. The space-base would be better off without you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As you know, we and a few allies are fighting a big combine led by the Lathians. The size of the opposition doesn’t worry us. What we lack in numbers we more than make up for in competence and efficiency. Our war-potential is great and rapidly growing greater. We’ll skin the Lathians alive before we’re through.”

Leeming offered no comment, having become tired of yessing.

“We’ve one serious weakness,” Markham informed. “We lack adequate information about the enemy’s cosmic hinterland. We know how wide the Combine spreads but not how deep into the starfield it goes. It’s true that the enemy is no wiser with regard to us, but that’s his worry.”

Again Leeming made no remark.

“Ordinary warships haven’t flight-duration sufficiently prolonged to dig deep behind the Combine’s spatial front. That difficulty will be overcome when we capture one or more of their outpost worlds with repair and refueling facilities. However, we can’t afford to wait until then. Our Intelligence Service wants some essential data just as soon as it can be got. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir."

“Good! We have developed a new kind of superfast scout-ship. I can’t tell you how it functions except that it does not use the normal cesium-ion form of propulsion. Its type of power-unit is a top secret. For that reason it must not fall into the enemy’s hands. At the last resort the pilot must destroy it even if it means also destroying himself.”

“Completely wrecking a ship, though a small one, is much more difficult than it seems.”

“Not this ship,” Markham retorted. “She carries an effective charge in her engine-room. The pilot need but press a button to scatter the power-units piecemeal over a wide area.”

"I see."

“That charge is the sole explosive aboard. The ship has not a gun, not a guided missile, no armament of any sort. It’s a stripped-down vessel with everything sacrificed for the sake of speed and its only defense is to scoot good and fast. That, I assure you, it can do. Nothing in the galaxy can catch it providing it is squirting from all twenty propulsors.”

“Sounds good to me, sir,” approved Leeming, licking his lips.

“It is good. It’s got to be good. The unanswered question is that of whether it is good enough to take the beating of a long, long trip. The tubes are the weakest part of any spaceship. Sooner or later they burn out. That’s what bothers me. The tubes on this ship have very special linings. In theory they should last for months. In practice they might not. You know what that means?”

“No repairs and no replacements in enemy territory, no means of getting back,” Leeming offered.

“Correct. And the vessel would have to be destroyed. From that moment the pilot, if still surviving, has isolated himself somewhere within the mists of Creation. His chance of seeing humankind again is remote enough to verge on the impossible.”

“There could be worse situations. I’d rather be alive someplace else than stone-dead here. While there’s life there’s hope.”

“You still wish to go through with this?”

“Sure thing, sir.”

“Then upon your own head be it,” said Markham with grim humor. “Go along the corridor, seventh door on the right, and report to Colonel Farmer. Tell him I sent you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And before you go try that damned zipper again.”

Obediently, Leeming tried it. The thing slid all the way as smoothly as if oiled. He stared at the other with a mixture of astonishment and injured innocence.

“I started in the ranks and I haven’t forgotten it,” said Markham, pointedly. “You can’t fool me.”

Colonel Farmer, of Military Intelligence, was a beefy, florid-faced character who looked slightly dumb but had a sharp mind. He was examining a huge star-map hung upon one wall when Leeming walked in. Farmer swung around as if expecting to be stabbed in the back.

“Haven’t you been taught to knock before you enter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I forgot, sir. My mind was occupied with the interview I’ve just had with Fleet-Admiral Markham.”

“Did he send you to me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, so you’re the long-range reconnaissance pilot, eh? I don’t suppose Commodore Keen will be sorry to see you go. You’ve been somewhat of a thorn in his side, haven’t you?”

“No, sir,” denied Leeming. “I have been a pain in his seat—every time he’s tried to sit on me.”

“In the armed forces one must get used to that sort of thing.”

“Sorry, sir, but I don’t agree. One joins the forces to help win a war and for no other purpose. I am not a juvenile delinquent called up for reformation by the Commodore or by anyone else.”

“He’d differ from you there. He’s a stickler for discipline.” Farmer let go a chuckle at some secret joke, added, “Keen by name and keen by nature.” He contemplated the other a short while, went on more soberly, “You’ve picked yourself a tough job.”

“That doesn’t worry me,” Leeming assured. “Birth, marriage and death are tough jobs.”

“You might never come back.”

“Makes little difference. Eventually we’ll all take a ride from which we’ll never come back.”

“Well, you needn’t mention it with such ghoulish satisfaction,” Farmer complained. “Are you married?”

“No, sir. Whenever I get the urge I just lie down quietly until the feeling passes off.”

Farmer eyed the ceiling and said, “God!”

“What else do you expect?” asked Leeming, displaying slight aggressiveness. “A scout-pilot operates single-handed. He’s like a bug in a metal can and has to learn to dispense with a lot of things, especially companionship. It’s surprising how much one can do without if one really tries.”

“I’m sure,” soothed Farmer. He gestured toward the star-map. “On that, the nearest points of light are arrayed across the enemy’s front. The mist of stars behind them are unknown territory. The Combine may be far weaker than we think because its front is wafer-thin. Or it may be more powerful because its authority stretches far to the rear. The only way to find out exactly what we’re up against is to effect a deep penetration through the enemy’s spatial lines.”

Leeming said nothing.

“We propose to send a special scout-ship through this area where occupied worlds lie far apart, the Combine’s defenses are somewhat scattered and their detector devices are relatively sparse.” Farmer put his finger on a dark patch on the map. “With the speed your vessel possesses, the enemy will have hardly enough time to identify you as hostile before they lose trace of you. We have every reason to believe that you'll be able to slip through into their rear without trouble.”

“I hope so,” contributed Leeming, seeing that a response was expected.

“The only danger point is here.” Shifting his finger an inch, Farmer placed it on a bright star. “A Lathian-held solar system containing at least four large space-navy stations. If those fleets happen to be zooming around the bolt-hole they might intercept you more by accident than good judgment. So you’ll be accompanied that far by a strong escort.”

“That’s nice.”

“If the escort should become involved in a fight you will not attempt to take part. It would be futile to do so, anyway, because your vessel carries no offensive armament. You will take full advantage of the diversion to race out of range and dive through the Combine’s front. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“After you get through you must use your initiative. Bear in mind that we don’t want to know how far beyond there are worlds holding intelligent life—you would never reach the end of those even if you continued to the crack of doom. We want to know only how far back there are such worlds in regular communication with various members of the Combine. Whenever you come across an organized planet playing bail with the Combine you will at once transmit all the details you can offer.”

“I will.”

“Immediately you are satisfied that you have gained the measure of the enemy’s depth you will return as quickly as possible. You must get the ship back here if it can be done. If for any reason you cannot return, the ship must be converted into scrap. No abandoning it in free space, no dumping it into an ocean or anything like that. The ship
must
be destroyed. Markham has emphasized this, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. We’re giving you forty-eight hours in which to clear up your personal affairs. After that, you will report to Number Ten Spaceport.” Farmer held out his hand. “I wish you all the luck you can get.”

“Thinking I’ll need it?” Leeming grinned and went on, “You’re laying very heavy odds against ever seeing me again. It’s written across your face. I’ll be back—want to bet on it?”

“No,” said Farmer. “I never gamble because I’m a bad loser. But if and when you do return I’ll tuck you into bed with my own two hands.”

“That’s a promise,” warned Leeming.

He went to his tiny room, found another fellow already in occupation. This character eyed him with faint embarrassment.

“You Leeming?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Davies, Jack Davies.”

“Glad to know you.” Grabbing his bags, Leeming started packing them, stuffing away with careless haste shirts, collars and handkerchiefs.

Sitting on the bed, Davies informed, “They told me to take over your room. They said you’d be leaving today.”

“Correct.”

“Going far?”

“Don’t know for certain. It might be too far.”

“Are you pleased to go?”

“Sure am,” Leeming enthused.

“Can’t say I blame you.” Davies ruminated a moment in glum silence, went on, “I arrived a couple of hours ago and reported to the Base C.O. An autocratic type if ever I saw one.” He gave a brief, unflattering description of Commodore Keen. “I don’t know his name.”

“Mallarqui,” Leeming informed.

“That so? Uncommon, isn’t it?”

“No.” Closing the case, Leeming kneeled on its lid while he locked it, started on the next one. “It’s as old as the hills. You’ve heard of a lot of Mallarqui, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Well, in this dump there’s too much of it.”

“I think you’re right. Mallarqui took one look at me and yelled, ‘Haircut!’ ” Ruefully. Davies rubbed the short bristle covering his pate. “So I went and got one. What a Space Navy! Immediately you show your face they scalp you. And what d’you suppose happened next?”

“They issued you with a brush and comb.”

“They did just that.” He massaged the bristle again. “What for?”

“Same reason as they do everything else,” explained Leeming. “B.B.B.”

“B.B.B.? What d’you mean?”

“It’s a motto adopted by the boys on inactive service. You’ll find yourself reciting it about twenty times per day. Baloney Baffles Brains.”

“I see,” said Davies, taking on a worried look.

“The only way to escape is to fall foul of Keen. He’ll get rid of you—after he’s broken your heart.”

“Keen? Who’s he?”

“Mallarqui,” corrected Leeming, hurriedly. “The fellows call him Keen behind his back. If you want to stay out of the pokey don’t
ever
call him Commodore Keen to his face. He likes to be addressed as Mr. Mallarqui.”

“Thanks for the tip,” said Davies, innocently grateful.

“You’re quite welcome. Take your butt off the bed—I want my pajamas.”

“Sorry.” Davies stood up, sat down again.

Cramming the pajamas into the case, Leeming closed it, took a long look around. “That’s about all, I guess. Victory has been postponed by sheer lack of efficient zippers. I got that information straight from the top. So they’re rushing me out to win the war. From now on all you need do is sit around and count the days.” He made for the door, a bag in each hand.

Coming to his feet again, Davies said awkwardly, “Happy landings.”

“Thanks.”

In the corridor the first person Leeming encountered was Commodore Keen. Being too burdened to salute, he threw the other a regulation eyes-left which Keen acknowledged with a curt nod. Keen brushed past and entered the room. His loud, harsh voice boosted out the open door.

“Ah, Davies, so you have settled in. Since you won’t be required today you can clean up this hog-pen in readiness for my inspection this evening.”

“Yes, Mr. Mallarqui.”

“WHAT?”

Outside, Leeming took a firmer grip on his bags and ran like hell.

The ship was a beauty, the same diameter as an ordinary scout-vessel but over twice the length. These proportions made it look less like a one-man snoop-boat than a miniature cruiser. Standing on its tail, it towered so high that its nose seemed to reach halfway towards the clouds.