The Big Black Mark - A. Bertram Chandler [43]
"I can't spread the few men I have that thinly, sir."
"Mphm. Then you and your volunteers, Dr. Brandt, are to stay close to the hose crews at all times. You are not to stray out of sight of the ship. Oh, Number One—"
"Sir?" acknowledged Brabham.
"Pass the word to everybody going ashore that they are to return at once if the alarm siren is sounded."
"Very good, sir. All right to carry on down to get things organized?"
"Yes. Carry on."
Grimes felt a twinge of envy. He would have liked to have gone ashore himself, to stretch his legs, to feel grass under his feet and sunlight on his skin, to breathe air that had not been cycled and recycled far too many times. But in these circumstances his place was here, in the control room, the nerve center of his ship.
He got up from his chair and tried to pace up and down, like an old-time surface ship captain walking his bridge. But control rooms are not designed for taking strolls in. Swinton and the officer of the watch regarded him with poorly concealed amusement. He abandoned his attempt at perambulation, made his way through the clutter of chairs and consoles to the viewports overlooking the lake.
The working parties, under the bos'n, were running the ends of long hoses out to the water. Brabham slouched along beside them, his hands in his pockets, moodily kicking at tufts of grass. A young steward, one of Brandt's volunteers, was tap-tap-tapping at an outcrop of chalky rock with a hammer. A stewardess was gathering flowers. Among them, around them, in full battle armor, men walking like robots, were Swinton's Marines.
Already there was a small party on the beach—young Tangye, three of the junior engineers, and Vinegar Nell. And what were they doing? Grimes asked himself. He lifted the binoculars that he had brought with him to his eyes. The, men and the women were undressing. Oh, well, he thought, there was nothing wrong with that; a real sunbath after the weeks of unsatisfactory, psychologically speaking, exposure to the rays of the ship's UV lamps. But surely Brabham should have found jobs for these people.
The idlers were naked now, were sprawling on the fine sand. Grimes envied them. Then Vinegar Nell got up and walked slowly and gracefully into the water. She was followed by Tangye. The junior engineers got to their feet, obviously about to follow the paymaster and the navigator. Grimes growled angrily, ran to the transceiver handling ship-to-shore communication. "Commander Brabham!" he barked.
He saw Brabham raising his wrist radio to his mouth, taking far too long about it, heard, at last, "Brabham here."
"Get those bloody fools out of the water. At once!" Vinegar Nell was well away from the beach now, swimming strongly. Tangye was splashing after her. The engineers were already waist-deep in the shallows.
"Major Swinton," ordered Grimes, "tell Sergeant Washington to get his men down to the water's edge, and to keep their eyes skinned for any dangerous life-forms." Swinton spoke rapidly into the microphone of his own transceiver, which was hanging about his neck. "Commander Brabham, get a move on, will you?" Grimes went on, into his own microphone.
"Oh, all right, all right." That irritable mutter was not meant to be heard, but it was.
Brabham was down to the beach at last, had his hands to his mouth and was bawling out over the water. The engineers, who had not yet started to swim, turned, waded slowly and reluctantly back to the sand. But Vinegar Nell and Tangye either would not or could not hear the first lieutenant's shouts.
"May I, sir?" asked Swinton. There was a nasty little grin under his moustache. "May you what, Major?"
"Order my men to drag them out." No, Grimes was about to say, no—but he saw an ominous swirl developing a little way out from the swimmers. "Yes!" he said.
Four Marines plunged into the lake. They were safe enough. Full battle gear has been described, variously, as armored tanks on legs, as battle cruisers on legs and, even, as submarines on legs. They streaked out