Spaceship medic

Chapter 7

The effects of the stimulants were wearing off and Don was exhausted and grim. He certainly had reason to be. He looked around the wardroom, at the faces of the worried men, and if he hadn't been so depressed he might have laughed. The officers of the interplanetary spacer, Johannes Kepler, left a certain amount to be desired.

A captain who was a doctor - and who had never set foot inside a spaceship until a few weeks ago.

A second officer who was only a chief petty officer. Yet probably the most valuable man aboard at this moment.

A technical adviser who was a civilian and a mathematician of some genius, but who was so unworldly he made mistakes in addition.

A frightened atomic engineering mate, second class, who was now in charge of the engines of a two billion dollar spacecraft.

Don poured another cup of coffee and tried not to sigh. He looked at the engineering mate and forced himself to smile.

'Congratulations, Tyblewski, you're the acting First Engineer of the Big Joe.'

Tyblewski was a small blond man unmemorable in any way - other than by his large ears which protruded like jug handles from the sides of his head. He was chewing his lower lip nervously.

'I don't know, sir,' he said. 'I'm just an atomic rating. I can follow orders, but...'

'Then you'll follow this order,' Don broke in. The Chief tells me that you know your work and that you are the only one aboard this ship that is in any way qualified to look after the engines. You will do that job.'

Tyblewski opened his mouth, as if to speak, then shut it again. He nodded his head in mute agreement. Don hated to play the role of the bully, but he had no choice. The ship - and the passengers - must come first.

'All right, gentlemen,' Don said, looking around the circle, T am going to outline our position as it stands now. The solar storm has passed and we can forget about it. The oxygen situation is not dangerous - at the moment. That means that we lost a lot of the phytoplankton when we lost the water, so the oxygen concentration is falling slowly inside the ship. It is not at a dangerous level yet, so we can put that difficulty aside for the moment. The most pressing problem is our course. A major correction is long overdue. If we stay on this course we shall miss Mars by a good million miles and keep on going. Dr Ugalde, could we have your report.'

The dark-haired mathematician was sunk in gloom; his forehead was wrinkled and incised lines pulled at the corners of his mouth. He raised his hands, palm upwards, in a gesture of despair.

'What can I say? Would lying help? I have done my best - and I am afraid that it is wanting, not good enough. In theory I can navigate this great ship. The mathematics are simple. But in practice it is beyond me. I am studying the navigator's books, but it will take a long time. I must learn the correct programming for the computer, another major problem...' He shrugged his shoulders again. Don exercised more control over his voice than he really felt.

'Could you tell me, Doctor, just how long it will take to gain the knowledge.'

'Weeks! Months! I cannot say. I beg your forgiveness. I will keep studying.' a good million miles and keep on going. Dr Ugalde, could we have your report.'

The dark-haired mathematician was sunk in gloom; his forehead was wrinkled and incised lines pulled at the corners of his mouth. He raised his hands, palm upwards, in a gesture of despair.

'What can I say? Would lying help? I have done my best - and I am afraid that it is wanting, not good enough. In theory I can navigate this great ship. The mathematics are simple. But in practice it is beyond me. I am studying the navigator's books, but it will take a long time. I must learn the correct programming for the computer, another major problem...' He shrugged his shoulders again. Don exercised more control over his voice than he really felt.

'Could you tell me, Doctor, just how long it will take to gain the knowledge.'

'Weeks! Months! I cannot say. I beg your forgiveness. I will keep studying.'

Not good enough, Don thought to himself. We don't have the time.

'Then we had better think about the radio,' he said aloud. 'Sparks has raided the spare parts stores, and he and Electrician's Mate Gold are jury-rigging a transmitter. The receiver he put together is working better now, but there is still enough sunspot activity to lower the quality of the reception. This will make things even worse for the transmitter because we do not have the power to punch through the interference. However, it is about all we can do. Do any of you have anything to bring up here?'

'Two things, sir.'

'What are they, Kurikka?'

'The matter of the captain's... of Captain Kardyd's funeral. There hasn't been time to think about it up until now.'

'If you will make the arrangements we'll do that as soon as possible.'

'Everything's done. Just waiting for the word from you.'

'Right after this meeting, then. What was the second matter?'

'The prisoner in the brig, he's protesting. He wants to talk to you.'

'Our arsonist! I'll admit I had forgotten all about him. I never even asked you his name.'

'It's... General Mathew Briggs, sir.'

'I might have known. It makes no difference in any case. He's there and he's going to stay there. I'll talk to him when I get a chance.'

There were no other questions and Don closed the meeting. The burial of Captain Kardyd was to take place in one hour's time. The announcement was made throughout the ship. Don rested on his bunk until fifteen minutes before the ceremony. He tried to sleep, but could not. The urgency of their situation kept his thoughts twisting and stirring. He wished, not for the first time, that someone else had this job that he had so reluctantly accepted. He was doing his best, but the situation kept deteriorating. Perhaps it was time to admit that the ship had really been destroyed by that meteorite, that all the patchwork and effort were doomed from the very beginning. They were all dead... why didn't they admit it...

The shrill buzz of the alarm jerked him awake. He had drifted into a halfsleep where all his worst fears had become real. Were they real? He shook himself, trying to rid himself of the feeling of black depression, but it would not go.

A shower helped, first steaming hot, then cold. The water was replaced by a comforting flow of warmed air. When he was dry, he put on his dress uniform and went to the service airlock on A deck. The others were assembled and awaiting him. He returned Kurikka's salute.

All present, sir,' he reported. The burial party is standing by, and the ship's company is fallen in. All watch-keeping stations are manned.' He produced a black bound book with a cloth marker in it, and continued in a low voice that only Don could hear.

'I'll handle the ceremony, it's not very long. When I call the company to attention, hats off, you read the part here in the ship's regulations where I have the slip.'

'Carry on, Chief.'

It was a simple, but moving, ceremony that undoubtedly had roots in the ancient ritual of burial at sea. The spaceship's company, almost forty of them, every man in the ship outside of the minimum number of men on duty, stood at attention while the flag-draped body of the captain was carried forward to the measured beat of a drum. Only a handful of passengers had elected to watch: they had been near enough to death recently and perhaps did not wish to be reminded of it. Six men carried the body, and placed it down gently next to the round space-lock that was set into the deck.

'Hats off,' the chief petty officer ordered. There was a rustle as the men took off their headgear. Don put his hat under his arm and stepped forward with the open book in his hand.

'We entrust unto the deeps of space this man, Captain Kardyd, commanding officer of the Johannes Kepler, who was a sailor of these trackless seas...

The ritual was not long, just a page of words in a book, yet as Don read it he knew that it was more than that. Kardyd had commanded one of the greatest vessels of all time, sailing a course that was measured in millions, not hundreds, of miles. He had been struck down by chance, but his ship and his crew lived on. They would do their jobs, to the very end if necessary, just as the captain had done. And he, Donald Chase, M.D., of the United States of America, Earth, had become a part of this. He had gone to space not completely knowing the responsibilities he had taken on, nor the comradeship he would be joining. He did now. He finished reading and looked up at the men - who looked back at him as one of them. It was a moment that Don knew he would never be able to forget.

'Hats on, burial party forward.'

There was the whir of motors, the hiss of oiled metal on metal, and the inner lock of the spacelock rose up. The bearers stepped forward, climbing down the ladders with their burden, to place it on the outer door below, which formed the floor of the cylindrical compartment. When they emerged they carried, carefully folded, the blue and white Earth flag. The inner door closed and the pumps throbbed as they exhausted the air.

'Would you actuate the outer lock, Captain,' Kurikka said, and stepped away from the controls.

Don stood beside him and waited until the ready light flashed on. Then he touched the button that, soundlessly in the vacuum, opened the outer lock. The centrifugal force of the ships rotation would carry the body out and away from the ship on a constantly diverging course.

'Dismiss.'

Don turned away, exhausted, and started for his quarters. He had not gone a dozen steps before he heard footsteps running after him.

'Captain, sir, could I see you?'

It was Sparks. There was grease on his hands and face and sooty hollows of fatigue under his eyes. He had not slept in a very long time. He remembered Don's orders not to discuss ship's affairs before the passengers, and followed him in silence to the control-room.

'We've fixed up a transmitter,' he said as soon as the door was closed.

'Wonderful! Now let's see if we can raise Mars Central.'

The receiver was muttering in the background, turned low since Mars Central was broadcasting a taped recording on their ship's frequency. It repeated, over and over, that scheduled contacts had not been received, and would the Kepler report at once. Sparks turned up the receiver volume so they would hear at once if their message was received, and the recorded transmission interrupted.

'Doesn't look like much,' Electrician's Mate Gold admitted, 'but it works fine.'

'Just not very powerful,' Sparks admitted, looking at the collection of parts spread on the table before them. There was a replacement unit from the radar, the amplifier stage from the wardroom hi-fi tape deck, and even some components from the electronic ovens. Wires and waveducts crawled through the breadboard jumble and a heavy cable snaked out to the power supply.

'Are you sure it's putting out a signal?' Don asked.

'Absolutely,' Sparks said, and made a careful adjustment on the variable condensers. 'I've sent it on to our reception frequency. The broadcast signal will be picked up on our receiving aerial. I've got the gain turned way down'

He flicked on the microphone and whispered into it. His words boomed out of the receiver, drowning out the message from Mars.

'Sounds pretty strong to me,' Don said.

'Yeah.' Gold was very gloomy. 'But we just broadcast from the antenna to the aerial, maybe 100 feet. We got how many million miles to Mars?'

'But they have some great receivers there,' Sparks said defensively. 'They've got a parabolic dish antenna that can pick up a signal...'

That's enough,' Don said. 'Let's see if we can get through.'

Word must have gone out, because Kurikka came in with Dr Ugalde, and Purser Jonquet hurried up soon after them. Sparks made painfully exact adjustments on the frequency, testing the signal over and over before he was satisfied. He turned the power full on, then pulled the microphone to him. He coughed self-consciously once, then flipped on the transmission switch.

Johannes Kepler calling Mars Central... come in Mars Central... how do you read me ? Come in...

He repeated the call, over and over, in patient clear tones. The receiver with its taped message droned accompaniment to his words. Then he flicked off the power and leaned back. There was no change in the message they were receiving-

'It's not getting through ?' Don asked.

'Too early to tell yet, sir. At these distances it takes a couple of minutes for our signal to get there, and the same amount of time for theirs to get back.' He turned on the set and began calling again.

The taped message did not change, while the big red second hand of the clock on the bulkhead continued its slow sweeps.

Minutes passed. No one wanted to ask the question and the silence was worse than words. It was Sparks who finally broke the spell. He dropped the mike and flipped off the power supply. When he turned they saw that his face was beaded with sweat.

I'm sorry, Captain, but its no go. Our signal is getting out - but it just isn't strong enough. There is still plenty of background noise from the storm, and we're not punching through it...'

He stopped as the tape recorded message cut off, and there was a moment of hushed silence before a new voice came on.

'Johannes Kepler - are you broadcasting? We have been picking up traces of a signal n your frequency, but cannot read your signal. Are you broadcasting? Repeat - can you hear me? This is Mars Central calling the Johannes Kepler. We have a very weak signal on your frequency but cannot read it...'

'It's the storm,' Sparks explained, 'that and the low power...'

'You did your best, Sparks,' Don told him. 'No one is blaming you.'

There was no one who could be blamed.

But that did not help.

If they could not contact Mars they were as good as dead at this moment.