The Big Black Mark - A. Bertram Chandler [3]
At last a spacewoman, in slovenly uniform, came in. She demanded surlily, "Did you ring? Sir."
"Yes," answered Grimes, trying to infuse a harsh note into his voice. "I'm the new captain. My gear will be coming aboard this afternoon some time. Meanwhile, would you mind getting this . . . junk disposed of?" He waved a hand to indicate the calendars.
"But if Commander Tallis comes back—"
"If Commander Tallis comes back, you can stick it all back up again. Oh, and you might give Lieutenant Commander Brabham my compliments and ask him to come to see me."
"The first lieutenant's in the wardroom. Sir. The PA system is working."
Grimes refrained from telling her what to do with the public-address system. He merely repeated his order, adding, "And I mean now."
"Aye, aye, sir, Captain, sir."
Insolent little bitch, thought Grimes, watching the twitching rump in the tight shorts vanishing through the doorway.
He settled down to wait again. Nobody in this ship seemed to be in any hurry about anything. Eventually Brabham condescended to appear. The first lieutenant was a short, chunky man, gray-haired, very thin on top. His broad, heavily lined face wore what looked like a perpetual scowl. His faded gray eyes glowered at the captain. The colors of the few ribbons on the left breast of his shirt had long since lost their brilliance and were badly frayed. Grimes could not tell what decorations—probably good attendance medals—they represented. But there were plenty of canteen medals which were obvious enough—smudges of cigarette ash, dried splashes of drinks and gravies—to keep them company. The gold braid on Brabham's shoulder boards had tarnished to a grayish green.
A gray man, thought Grimes. A gray, bitter man. He said, extending his hand, "Good morning, Number One."
"Good morning. Sir."
"Sit down, Number One." Grimes made a major operation out of refilling and lighting his pipe. "Smoke, if you wish." Brabham produced and ignited an acrid cigarette. "Mphm. Now, what's our condition of readiness?"
"Well, sir, a week at the earliest."
"A week?"
"This isn't an Insect Class Courier, sir. This is a big ship."
Grimes flushed, but held his temper in check. He said, "Any Survey Service vessel, regardless of size, should be ready, at all times, for almost instant liftoff."
"But, to begin with, there's been the change of captains. Sir."
"Go on."
"And Vinegar Nell—Miss Russell, I mean—isn't very cooperative."
"Mphm. Between ourselves, Number One, I haven't been impressed by the standard of efficiency of her staff." Or, he thought, with the standard of efficiency of this ship in general. But I shall have to handle people with kid gloves until I get the feel of things.
Brabham actually grinned. "I don't think that Sally was overly impressed by you, sir."
"Sally?"
"The captain's tigress. She used to be Commander Tallis' personal servant." Brabham grinned again, not very pleasantly. "Extremely personal, if you get what I mean, sir."
"Oh. Go on."
"And we're still trying to get a replacement for Mr. Flannery's psionic amplifier. He insists that only the brain of an Irish setter will do."
"And what happened to the old one?"
Brabham permitted himself a small chuckle. "He thought that it should share a binge. He poured a slug of Irish whiskey into its life-support tank. And then he tried to bring it around with black coffee."
"Gah!" exclaimed Grimes.
"Then he blamed the whiskey for the demise of the thing. It wasn't real Irish whiskey, apparently. It was some ersatz muck from New Shannon."
Grimes succeeded in dispelling the vision of the sordidly messy death of the psionic amplifier from his mind. He said firmly, "To begin with, Miss Russell will just have to pull her finger out. You're the first lieutenant. Get on to her."
"I'd rather not, sir."
Grimes glared at the man. "I'm not being funny, Mr. Brabham. Shake her up. Light a fire under her tail. And as for