The Hard Way Up - A. Bertram Chandler [27]
Grimes sighed audibly. Although a certain Dr. Margaret Lazenby was his senior in rank he was beginning to get on well with her.
"As soon as repairs and routine maintenance are completed, Mr. Grimes, you will get the hell off this planet."
"What about my officers, sir? Mr. Beadle is overdue for Leave . . ."
"My heart fair bleeds for him."
"And Mr. McCloud is in hospital . . ."
"Ensign Vitelli, your new Engineering Officer, was ordered to report to your vessel as soon as possible, if not before. The work of fitting a replacement computer to Adder is already well in hand." The Commodore looked at his watch. "It is now 1435. At 1800 hours you will lift ship."
"My Orders, sir . . ."
"Oh, yes, Grimes. Your Orders. A matter of minor importance, actually. As long as you get out of my hair that's all that matters to me. But I suppose I have to put you in the picture. The Shaara are passing through a phase of being nice to humans, and we, of the Federation, are reciprocating. There's a small parcel of very important cargo to be lifted from Droomoor to Brooum, and for some reason or other our arthropedal allies haven't a fast ship of their own handy. Lindisfarne Base is only a week from Droomoor by Serpent Class Courier. So . . ."
So Viper, Asp and Cobra have all been in port for weeks, thought Grimes bitterly, but I get the job.
The Commodore had his telepathic moments. He smiled again, and this time there was a hint of sympathy. He said, "I want you off Lindisfarne, young Grimes, before there's too much of a stink raised over this Mr. Adam affair. You're too honest. I can bend the truth better than you can."
"Thank you, sir," said Grimes, meaning it.
"Off you go, now. Don't forget these." Grimes took the heavily sealed envelope. "And try not to make too much of a balls of this assignment."
"I'll try, sir."
Grimes saluted, marched smartly out of the Commodore's office, strode across the apron to where his "flying darning needle," not yet shifted to a lay-up berth (not that she would be now), was awaiting him.
Mr. Beadle met him at the airlock. He rarely smiled—but he did so, rather smugly, when he saw the Orders in Grimes' hand. He asked casually, "Any word of my relief, Captain?"
"Yes. You're not getting it, Number One," Grimes told him, rather hating himself for the pleasure he derived from being the bearer of bad tidings. "And we're to lift off at 1800 hours. Is the new engineer aboard yet?"
Beadle's face had resumed its normal lugubrious case. "Yes," he said. "But stores, Captain . . . Repairs . . . Maintenance . . ."
"Are they in hand?"
"Yes, but . . ."
"Then if we aren't ready for space, it won't be our fault." But Grimes knew—and it made him feel as unhappy as his first lieutenant looked—that the ship would be ready.
Adder lifted at precisely 1800 hours. Grimes, sulking hard—he had not been able to see Maggie Lazenby—did not employ his customary, spectacular getting-upstairs-in-a-hurry technique, kept his fingers off the auxiliary reaction drive controls. The ship drifted up and out under inertial drive only, seemingly sharing the reluctance to part of her officer. Beadle was slumped gloomily in his chair, von Tannenbaum, the navigator, stared at his instruments with an elaborate lack of interest, Slovotny, the electronic communications officer, snarled every time that he had occasion to hold converse with Aerospace Control.
And yet, once the vessel was clear of the atmosphere, Grimes began to feel almost happy. Growl you may, he thought, but go you must. He had gone. He was on his way. He was back in what he regarded as his natural element. Quite cheerfully he went through the motions of lining Adder up on the target star, was pleased to