Contraband From Otherspace Part 9

"Never mind that. And these rats there are mutants among them, aren't there? You've been coming a long time from Elsinore, haven't you? Mannschenn Drive breakdowns . . . and fluctuations in the temporal precession fields to speed up the rate of mutation."

"But, sir, how do youknow? We have sent no messages. Our psionic radio officer was killed by the . . .

the mutants."

"We know, Captain. And now.may we board?"

From the speaker came the faint voice ofSundowner's Mate. "Rim Ghosts are bad enough but when they take over Quarantine it's a bit rough."

"Yes," said Grimes. "You may regard us as Rim Ghosts. But we're solid ones."

XXII.

His big hands playing over his console like those of a master pianist, Williams, with short, carefully timed bursts from the auxiliary jets, jockeyedCorsair into a position only yards fromSundowner, used his braking rockets to match velocities. Grimes and his people stared out through the ports at the star tramp.

She was old, old. Even now, at a time that was centuries in the past ofCorsair's people, she was obsolete. Her hull plating was dull, pitted by years of exposure to micrometeorites. Two of the embossed letters of her name had been broken off and never replaced, although somebody had replaced the missing U and W with crudely painted characters. Grimes could guess what conditions must be like on board. She would be one of those ships in which, to give greater lift for cargo, the pile shielding had been cut to a minimum, the contents of her holds affording, in theory, protection from radiation. And her holds were full of grain, and this grain supported pests that, through rapid breeding and mutation, had become a menace rather than a mere nuisance.

"Boarders away, sir?" asked the Marine officer.

"Yes, Major. Yourself and six men should do. I and Mrs. Grimes will be coming with you."

"Side arms, sir?"

"No. That crate'll have paper-thin bulkheads and sh.e.l.l plating, and we can't afford any playing around with laser."

"Then knives and clubs, sir?"

"It might be advisable. Yes."

Grimes and Sonya left Control for their quarters. There, helping each other, they shrugged into their modified s.p.a.ce-suits. These still had the tail sheaths and helmets designed to accommodate a long-muzzled head. This had its advantages, providing stowage for a full beard. But Grimes wondered whatSundowner's people would think when they saw a party of seeming aliens jetting fromCorsair to their airlock. Anyhow, it was their own fault. They should have had their vision transmitter and receiver in order.

The boarding party a.s.sembled at the main airlock which, although it was cramped, was big enough to hold all of them. The inner door slowly closed and then, after the pumps had done their work(Corsair could not afford to throw away atmosphere) the outer door opened. Grimes could see, then, that an aperture had appeared in the sh.e.l.l plating of the other ship, only twenty feet or so distant. But it was small. It must be only an auxiliary airlock. The Captain ofSundowner, thought Grimes, must be a cautious man: must have determined to let the boarding party into his ship one by one instead of in a body.And he'll be more cautious still, thought Grimes,when he sees these s.p.a.cesuits.

He shuffled to the door sill. He said into his helmet microphone, "There's room for only one at a time in that airlock of theirs. I'll go first."

He heard the Major acknowledge, and then he jumped, giving himself the slightest possible push-off from his own ship. He had judged well and did not have to use his suit reaction unit. Slowly, but not too slowly, he drifted across the chasm between the two vessels, extended his arms to break his fall and, with one hand, caught hold of the projecting rung aboveSundowner's airlock door.

As he had a.s.sumed, the compartment was large enough to hold only one person and he had to act quickly to pull his dummy tail out of the way of the closing outer valve. There were no lights in the airlock or, if there were lights, they weren't working but after a while he heard the hissing that told him that pressure was being built up.

Suddenly the inner door opened and glaring light blinded the Commodore. He could just see two dark figures standing there, with what looked like pistols in their hands. Through his helmet diaphragm he heard somebody say, "What did I tell you, Captain? A bleeding kangaroo in full armor, no less. Shall I shoot the b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

"Wait!" snapped Grimes. He hoped that the note of authority would not be m.u.f.fled from his voice.

"Wait! I'm as human as you."

"Then prove it, mister!"

Slowly the Commodore raised his gloved hands, turning them to show that they were empty. He said, "I am going to remove my helmet unless one of you gentlemen would care to do it for me."

"Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely. Keep your distance."

"As you please." Grimes manipulated fastenings, gave the regulation half turn and lifted. At once he noticed the smell it was like the stink that had hung around his own wardroom for days after the attempted interrogation of the prisoner.

"All right," said one of the men. "You can come in."

Grimes shuffled into the ship. The light was out of his eyes now and he could see the two men. He did not have to ask who or what they were. Uniform regulations change far more slowly than do civilian appearance. He addressed the grizzled, unshaven man with the four tarnished gold bars on his shoulder boards, "We have already spoken with each other by radio, Captain. I am Commodore Grimes . . ."

"Of the Rim Worlds Confederacy's Navy. But what's the idea of the fancy dress,Commodore?"

"The fancy dress?" Then Grimes realized that the man was referring to his s.p.a.cesuit, so obviously designed for a non-human. What would be his reaction to what Grimes was wearing underneath it the scanty rags and the rank marks painted on to his skin? But it was of no importance. He said, "It's a long story, Captain, and I haven't time to tell it now. What I am telling you is that you must not, repeat not, attempt a landing on Lorn until I have given you clearance."

"And who the h.e.l.l do you think you are, Mister so-called Commodore? We've had troubles enough this trip. What is your authority?"

"My authority?" Grimes grinned. "In my own s.p.a.ce and time, the commission I hold, signed by the President of the Confederacy . . ."

"What did I say?" demanded the Mate. "And I'll say it again. He's some sort of b.l.o.o.d.y pirate."

"And, in the here-and-now," continued Grimes, "my missile batteries and my laser projectors."

"If you attempt to hinder me from proceeding on my lawful occasions," said the tramp Master stubbornly, "that will be piracy."

Grimes looked at him, not without sympathy. It was obvious that this man had been pushed to the very limits of human endurance the lined face and the red-rimmed eyes told of many, too many, hours without sleep. And he had seen at least one of his officers killed. By this time he would be regarding the enemies infesting his ship as mutineers rather than mutants, and, no longer quite rational, would be determined to bring his cargo to port come h.e.l.l or High Water.

And that he must not do.

Grimes lifted his helmet to put it back on. In spite of the metal with which he was surrounded he might be able to get through to Williams inCorsair's control room, to Williams and to Carter, to give the order that would call a laser beam to slice offSundowner's main venturi. But the Mate guessed his intention, swung viciously with his right arm and knocked the helmet out of the Commodore's hand. He growled to his Captain, "We don't want the b.a.s.t.a.r.d callin' his little friends do we, sir?"

"It is essential that I keep in communication with my own ship," said Grimes stiffly.

"So you can do somethin' with all the fancy ironmongery you were tellin' us about!" The Mate viciously swatted the helmet which, having rebounded from a bulkhead, was now drifting through the air.

"Gentlemen," said Grimes reasonably, looking at the two men and at the weapons they carried, automatic pistols, no more than five millimeter calibre but deadly enough. He might disarm one but the other would fire. "Gentlemen, I have come to help you. . . ."

"More of a hindrance than a b.l.o.o.d.y help," snarled the Mate. "We've enough on our plates already without having to listen to your fairy stories about some non-existent Confederacy." He turned to the Master. "What say we start up the reaction drive an' set course for Lorn? This bloke's cobbers'll not open fire so long as he's aboard."

"Yes. Do that, Mr. Holt. And then we'll put this man in irons."

So this was it, thought Grimes dully. So this was the immutability of the Past, of which he had so often read. This was the inertia of the flow of events. He had come to where and when he could best stick a finger into the pie but the crust was too tough, too hard. He couldn't blame the tramp Captain. He, as a good shipmaster, was displaying the utmost loyalty to his charterers. And (Grimes remembered his Rim Worlds history) those consignments of seed grain had been urgently needed on Lorn.

And, more and more, every word was an effort, every action. It was as though he were immersed in some fluid, fathoms deep. He was trying to swim against the Time Stream and it was too much for him.

Why not just drift? After all, there would be time to do something after the landing at Port Forlorn. Or would there? Hadn't somebody told him that this ship had crashed in mountainous country?

He was aroused from his despairing lethargy by a sudden clangor of alarm bells, by a frightened, distorted voice that yammered from a bulkhead speaker, "Captain! Where are you, Captain? They're attacking the control room!"

More as the result of years of training than of conscious thought he s.n.a.t.c.hed his drifting helmet as he followed the Captain and his Mate when they dived into the axial shaft, as they pulled themselves hand over hand along the guidelines to the bows of the ship.

XXIII.

"They're attacking the control room!"

The words echoed through Grimes' mind.They must be Sonya and the Major and his men. They must have breached the ports. So far there was no diminishing of air pressure but even such a sorry rustbucket a.s.sundowner would have her airtight doors in reasonably good working order. All the same, he deemed it prudent to pause in his negotiation of the axial shaft to put his helmet back on. Luckily the rough treatment that it had received at the hands of the Mate did not seem to have damaged it.

Ahead of him, the twoSundowner officers were making rapid progress. It was obvious that they were not being slowed down by emergency doors and locks. The Commodore tried to catch up with them, but he was hampered by a s.p.a.cesuit.

Then, faintly through his helmet diaphragm, he heard the sounds of a struggle, a fight. There were shots.by the sharpness of the cracks fired from small calibre pistols such as the Captain and his Mate had been carrying. There were shouts and screams. And there was a dreadful, high squeaking that was familiar, too familiar. He thought that he could make out words or the repet.i.tion of one word only: "Kill! Kill!"

He knew, then, whoThey were, and pulled himself along the guideline with the utmost speed of which he was capable. Glancing ahead, he saw thatSundowners Master and his second in command were scrambling through the open hatch at the end of the shaft, the hatch that must give access, in a ship of this type, to Control. He heard more shots, more shouts and screams. He reached the hatch himself, pulled himself through, floundered wildly for long seconds until his magnetized boot soles made contact with the deck.

Theyignored him at first. Perhaps it was that they took him in his tailed suit with its snouted helmet for one of their own land, although, by their standards, a giant.They were small, no larger than a terrier dog, but there were many of them. They were fighting with claws and teeth and pieces of sharpened metal that They were using as knives. A fine mist of blood fogged the face plate of Grimes' helmet, half blinding him.

But he could see at least two human bodies, obviously dead, their throats torn out, and at least a dozen of the smaller corpses.

He did not give himself time to be shocked by the horror of the scene. (That would come later, much later.) He tried to wipe the film of blood from his visor with a gloved hand, but only smeared it. But he could see that the fight was still going on, that in the center of the control room a knot of s.p.a.cemen was still standing, still struggling. They must either have lost their pistols or exhausted their ammunition; there were no more shots.

Grimes joined the fight, his armored fists and arms flailing into the ma.s.s of furry bodies, his hands crushing them and pulling them away from the humans, throwing them from him with savage violence. At first his attack met with success and then the mutants realized that he was another enemy. Their squeaking rose to an intolerable level, and more and more of them poured into the control room. They swarmed over the Commodore, clinging to his arms and legs, immobilizing him.Sundowner's officers could not help him they, too, were fighting a losing battle for survival.

There was a scratching at Grimes' throat. One of his a.s.sailants had a knife of sorts, was trying to saw through the fabric joint. It was a tough fabric, designed for wear and tear but not such wear and tear as this. Somehow the man contrived to get his right arm clear, managed, with an effort, to bring it up to bat away the knife wielder. He succeeded somehow. And then there was more scratching and sc.r.a.ping at the joint in way of his armpit.

He was blinded, helpless, submerged in a sea of furry bodies, all too conscious of the frantic gnawings of their teeth and claws and knives. His armor, hampering his every movement even in ideal conditions, could well contribute to his death rather than saving his life. He struggled still but it was an instinctive struggle rather than one consciously directed, no more than a slow, shrugging, a series of laborious contortions to protect his vulnerable joints from sharp teeth and blades.

Then there was a respite, and he could move once more.

He saw, dimly, that the control room was more crowded than ever, that other figures, dressed as he was, had burst in, were fighting with deadly efficiency, with long, slashing blades and bone-crushing cudgels. It was a hand-to-hand battle in a fog and the fog was a dreadful cloud of finely divided particles of freshly shed blood.

But even these reinforcements were not enough to turn the tide. Sooner or later and probably sooner the mutants would swamp the humans, armored and unarmored, by sheer weight of numbers.

"Abandon ship!" somebody was shouting. It was a woman's voice, Sonya's. "Abandon ship! To the boats!" And then the cry fainter this time, heard through the helmet diaphragm rather than over his suit radio was repeated. It is no light matter to give up one's vessel but now, after this final fight,Sundowner's people were willing to admit that they were beaten.

Somehow the armored Marines managed to surround the crew what was left of them. The Captain was still alive, although only half conscious. The Mate, apart from a few scratches, was untouched. There were two engineers and an hysterical woman with Purser's braid on her torn shirt. That was all. They were hustled byCorsair's men to the hatch, thrust down the axial shaft. Grimes shouted his protest as somebody pushed him after them. He realized that it was Sonya, that she was still with him. Over their heads the hatch lid slammed into its closed position.

"The Major and his men . . ." he managed to get out. "They can't stay there, in that h.e.l.l!"

"They won't," she told him. "They'll manage. Our job is to get these people clear of the ship."

"And then?"

"Who's in charge of this b.l.o.o.d.y operation?" she asked tartly. "Who was it who told the Admiral that he was going to play by ear?"

Then they were out of the axial shaft and into a boat bay. They watched the Mate help the woman into the small, torpedo-like craft, then stand back to allow the two engineers to enter. He tried to a.s.sist the Captain to board but his superior pushed him away weakly, saying, "No, Mister. I'll be the last man off my ship, if you please." He noticed Grimes and Sonya standing there. "And that applies to you, too, Mr.

Commodore whoever you say you are. Into the boat with you you and your mate."

"We'll follow you, Captain. It's hardly more than a step across to our own ship."

"Into the boat with you, d.a.m.n you. I shall be . . . the . . . last . . ."

The man was obviously on the verge of collapse. His Mate grasped his elbow. "Sir, this is no time to insist on protocol. We have to hurry. Can't you hearThem?"

Through his helmet Grimes, himself, hadn't heard them until now. But the noise was there, the frenzied chittering, surely louder with every pa.s.sing second. "Get into that b.l.o.o.d.y boat," he told the Mate. "We'll handle the doors."

"I ... insist . . ." whispered the Captain. "I shall ... be . . . the last... to leave . . ."

"You know what to do," Grimes told the Mate.

"And many's the time I've wanted to do it. But not in these circ.u.mstances." His fist came up to his superior's jaw. It was little more than a tap, but enough. The Master did not fall, could not fall in these conditions of zero gravity. But he swayed there, anch.o.r.ed to the deck by his magnetic boot soles, out on his feet. The two engineers emerged from the lifecraft, lugged the unconscious man inside.

"Hurry!" ordered Sonya.

"Make for your ship, sir?" asked the Mate. "You'll pick us up?"

"No. Sorry but there's no time to explain. Just get the h.e.l.l out and make all speed for Lorn."

"But..."

"You heard what the Commodore said," snapped Sonya. "Do it. If you attempt to lay your boat alongside we open fire."

"But. . ."

Grimes had removed his helmet so that his voice would not be m.u.f.fled by the diaphragm. "Get into that b.l.o.o.d.y boat!" he roared. And in a softer voice, as the Mate obeyed, "Good luck."

He replaced his helmet and, as he did so, Sonya operated the controls set into the bulkhead. A door slid shut, sealing off the boat bay from the rest of the ship. The outer door opened, revealing the black emptiness of the Rim sky. Smoothly and efficiently the catapult operated, throwing the boat out and clear.

Intense violet flame blossomed at her blunt Stem, and then she was away, diminishing into the distance, coming around in a great arc on to the trajectory that would take her to safety.

Grimes didn't watch her for long. He said, "We'd better get back to Control, to help the Major and his men. They're trapped in there."

"They aren't trapped. They're just waiting to see that the boat's escaped."

"But how will they get out?"

"The same way that we got into this rustbucket. We sent back to the ship for a laser pistol, burned our way in. Luckily the airtight doors,were all in good working order."

"You took a risk . . ."

"It was a risk we had to take. And we knew thatyou were wearing a s.p.a.cesuit. But it's time we weren't here."

"After you."

"My G.o.d! Are you going to be as stuffy as that Captain?"