Contraband From Otherspace

II

"Cassidy here," said the box.

"Yes, Captain Cassidy?"

"Orbital Station 3 reports a ship, sir."

"Isn’t that one of the things they’re paid for?" asked Grimes mildly.

"Yes, sir." Cassidy’s voice was sulky. "But there’s nothing due for almost a week, and…"

"Probably one of the Federation Survey Service wagons," Grimes told him, flashing a brief smile (which she answered with a glare) at Sonya. "They think they can come and go as they damn well please. Tell Station 3 to demand—demand, not request—identification."

"The Station Commander has already done that, Commodore. But there’s no reply."

"And Station 3 doesn’t run to a Psionic Radio Officer. I always said that we were ill advised to get rid of the telepaths as soon as our ships and stations were fitted with Carlotti equipment…" He paused, then asked, "Landing approach?"

"No, sir. Station 3 hasn’t had time to extrapolate her trajectory yet, but the way she’s heading now it looks as though she’ll miss Lorn by all of a thousand miles and finish up in the sun…"

"They haven’t had time?" Grimes' voice was cold. "What the hell sort of watch are they keeping?"

"A good one, sir. Commander Hall is one of our best men—as you know. It seems that this ship just appeared out of nothing—those were Hall’s own words. There was no warning at all on the Mass Proximity Indicator. And then, suddenly, there she was—on both M.P.I, and radar…"

"Any of your people loafing around these parts?" Grimes asked Sonya. "No," she told him. "At least not that I know of." "And you are—or were—an intelligence officer, so you should know. H’m." He turned again to the box. "Captain Cassidy, tell Station 3 that I wish direct communication with them."

"Very good, sir."

The Commodore strode to his desk, sat down in his chair, pulled out a drawer. His stubby fingers played over the console that was revealed. Suddenly the window went opaque, and as it did so the lights in the office dimmed to a faint glow. One wall of the room came alive, a swirl of light and color that coalesced to form a picture, three dimensional, of the Watch House of Station 3. There were the wide ports, beyond the thick transparencies of which was the utter blackness of Space as seen from the Rim Worlds, a blackness made even more intense by contrast with the faintly glimmering nebulosities, sparse and dim, that were the distant, unreachable island universes. Within the compartment were the banked instruments, the flickering screens, the warped, convoluted columns, each turning slowly on its axis, that were the hunting antennae of the Carlotti Beacon. Uniformed men and women busied themselves at control panels, stood tensely around the big plotting tank. One of them—the Station Commander—turned to face the camera. He asked, "Have you the picture, Commodore Grimes, sir?"

"I have, Commander," Grimes told him. "How is the extrapolation of trajectory?"

"You may have a close-up of the tank, sir."

The scene dissolved, and then only the plotting tank was in Grimes' screen. In the center of it was the dull-glowing (but not dull-glowing in reality) globe that represented the Lorn sun. And there was the curving filament of light that represented the orbit of the strange ship, the filament that extended itself as Grimes and Sonya watched, that finally touched the ruddy incandescence of the central sphere. This was only an extrapolation; it would be months before it actually occurred. There was still time, ample time, for the crew of the intruder to pull her out of the fatal plunge. And yet, somehow, there was a sense of urgency. If a rescue operation were to be undertaken, it must be done without delay. A stern chase is a long chase.

"What do you make of it?" Grimes asked Sonya.

She said, "I don’t like it. Either they can’t communicate, or they won’t communicate. And I think they can’t. There’s something wrong with that ship…"

"Something very wrong. Get hold of Cassidy, will you? Tell him that I want Rim Mamelute ready for Space as soon as possible." He stared at the screen, upon which Commander Hall had made a reappearance. "We’re sending the Mamelute out after her, Hall. Meanwhile, keep on trying to communicate."

"We are trying, sir."

Cassidy’s voice came from the black box. "Sir, Captain Welling, the skipper of the Mamelute, is in the hospital. Shall I… ?"

"No, Cassidy. Somebody has to mind the shop—and you’re elected. But there’s something you can do for me. Get hold of Mr. Mayhew, the Psionic Radio Officer. Yes, yes, I know that he’s taking his Long Service Leave, but get hold of him. Tell him I want him here, complete with his amplifier, as soon as possible, if not before. And get Mamelute cleared away."

"But who’s taking her out, sir?"

"Who do you think? Get cracking, Cassidy."

"You’ll need a Mate," said Sonya.

He found time to tease her, saying, "Rather a come-down from the Federation Survey Service, my dear."

"Could be. But I have a feeling that this may be a job for an Intelligence Officer."

"You’ll sign on as Mate," he told her firmly.