The Big Black Mark - A. Bertram Chandler [47]
He pushed himself up from his chair, made a circuit of the viewports. Shadow was creeping over the valley from the West, but the rugged country to the east of the tarn was Still brightly illuminated by the slowly setting sun—the pearly gray and glowing ocher of the cliffs, the static explosions of vividly green foliage, spangled with the scarlet and purple of huge gaudy blossoms.
Where every prospect pleases, he thought, but only Man is vile. Man, with a large, black, capital "M."
"Target," called Tangye suddenly. "Aerial. Bearing 050. Range thirty-five."
"General standby," ordered Grimes. Then, more to himself than to anybody else, "I'll not make it 'action stations' yet. If I do, the work'll never get finished. I doubt if that gas bag'll be keen to close us." He turned to Brabham. "If it does, Number One, you can pump a few rounds of HETF across its bows, as a deterrent. You will not, repeat not, shoot to hit."
Brabham gave him a sour look of acknowledgment, as though to say, You don't need to tell me my job!
Grimes looked down at the hoses, still out, still writhing rhythmically as the pumps drew in water from the lake. He thought, I'll let the old bitch drink her fill. He watched the sullen Marines, ash-bedaubed, still at their grisly work, their morbid scavenging. He rather regretted that he had not put Major Swinton in personal charge of the operation.
"Bearing 050. Range thirty. Closing," intoned Tangye.
"The poor brave, stupid bastards!" whispered Grimes. That flimsy ship, flammable as all hell, against Discovery's weaponry. He went to the intercom, called for Flannery.
"An' what would ye be wantin', Captain?" asked the telepath when he reported to the control room.
"Don't waste my time!" snapped Grimes testily. "You know damn well what I'm wanting!"
"Then I'll be tellin' ye, Captain. I'm receivin' 'em—loud, but not all that clear. Just raw emotions, like. Frightenin', it is. Hate. Revenge. Anybody'd think ye were the black Cromwell himself, payin' another visit to the Emerald Isle."
"But what can they hope to do against us?" demanded Grimes.
"I can't tell ye. But they are hopin' to do something that'll not be improvin' the state of our health."
"Range twenty-five. Closing."
Grimes called the engine room. "Captain here, Chief. How's that water coming in?"
"Only number six tank to top up now—an' it's almost full."
"Then stop the pumps. Reel in the hoses." He put down the telephone. "Commander Brambham—sound the recall."
The wailing of the siren was deafening, but above it Tangye's voice was still audible. "Range twenty. Closing."
"We can reach them easily with a missile, sir," suggested Brabham.
"Then don't!" snarled Grimes.
The hoses were coming in, crawling over the grass like huge worms. The Marines were mounting the ramp, herded by Sergeant Washington.
"Liftoff stations," ordered Grimes quietly. He knew that he could be up and clear, especially with the reaction drive assisting the inertial drive, long before the airship, even if she attempted kamikaze tactics, could come anywhere near him. And if the dirigible were armed with missiles—which could hardly be anything more advanced than solid fuel rockets—Discovery's anti-missile laser would make short work of them.
"Range fifteen. Closing."
The control room was fully manned now, the officers waiting for their captain's orders. But the hoses had stopped coming in; some mechanical hitch must have developed. But there was yet, thought Grimes, no urgency. He could well afford to wait a few more minutes. He had no wish to jettison equipment that could not be replaced until return to a Base.
"Range ten. Holding, holding, holding." There was relief in Tangye's voice.
The airship was well within sight now. It just hung there in the sky, from this angle looking like