The Hard Way Up - A. Bertram Chandler [14]
"Did he fix the machinetta?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. It makes beautiful coffee now."
"Then what are you complaining about, Number One?"
"I'm not complaining, Captain. I'm just curious."
And so am I, thought Grimes, so am I. And as the commanding officer of the ship he was in a position to be able to satisfy his curiosity. After Mr. Beadle had gone about his multifarious duties Grimes called Mr. Deane on the telephone. "Are you busy, Spooky?" he asked.
"I'm always busy, Captain," came the reply. This was true enough. Whether he wanted it or not, a psionic radio officer was on duty all the time, sleeping and waking, his mind open to the transmitted thoughts of other telepaths throughout the Galaxy. Some were powerful transmitters, others were not, some made use, as Deane did, of organic amplifiers, others made do with the unaided power of their own minds. And there was selection, of course. Just as a wireless operator in the early days of radio on Earth's seas could pick out his own ship's call sign from the babble and Babel of Morse, could focus all his attention on an S.O.S. or T.T.T, so the trained telepath could "listen" selectively. At short ranges he could, too, receive the thoughts of the non-telepaths about him—but, unless the circumstances were exceptional, he was supposed to maintain the utmost secrecy regarding them.
"Can you spare me a few minutes, Spooky? After all, you can maintain your listening watch anywhere in the ship, in my own quarters as well as in yours."
"Oh, all right, Captain. I'll be up. I already know what you're going to ask me."
You would, thought Grimes.
A minute or so later, Mr. Deane drifted into his day cabin. His nickname was an apt one. He was tall, fragile, so albinoid as to appear almost translucent. His white face was a featureless blob.
"Take a pew, Spooky," ordered Grimes. "A drink?"
"Mother's ruin, Captain."
Grimes poured gin for both of them. In his glass there was ice and a generous sprinkling of bitters. Mr. Deane preferred his gin straight, as colorless as he was himself.
The psionic radio officer sipped genteelly. Then: "I'm afraid that I can't oblige you, Captain."
"Why not, Spooky?"
"You know very well that we graduates of the Rhine Institute have to swear to respect privacy."
"There's no privacy aboard a ship, Spooky. There cannot be."
"There can be, Captain. There must be."
"Not when the safety of the ship is involved."
It was a familiar argument—and Grimes knew that after the third gin the telepath would weaken. He always did.
"We got odd passengers aboard this ship, Spooky. Surely you remember that Waldegren diplomat who had the crazy scheme of seizing her and turning her over to his Navy . . ."
"I remember, Captain." Deane extended his glass which, surprisingly, was empty. Grimes wondered, as he always did, if its contents had been teleported directly into the officer's stomach, but he refilled it.
"Mr. Alberto's another odd passenger," he went on.
"But a Federation citizen," Deane told him.
"How do we know? He could be a double agent. Do you know?"
"I don't." After only two gins Spooky was ready to spill the beans. This was unusual. "I don't know anything."
"What do you mean?"
"Usually, Captain, we have to shut our minds to the trivial, boring thoughts of you psionic morons. No offense intended, but that's the way we think of you. We get sick of visualizations of the girls you met in the last port and the girls you hope to meet in the next port." He screwed his face up in disgust, made it evident that he did, after all, possess features. "Bums, bellies and breasts! The Blond Beast's a tit man, and you have a thing about legs . . ."
Grimes's prominent ears reddened,