The Hard Way Up - A. Bertram Chandler [49]
" You must have felt the same on other colonized worlds, Spooky."
"Not as strongly as here. I can almost put it into words . . . The First Ones let us alone."
"Mphm," grunted Grimes. "Makes sense, I suppose. The original colonists, with only the resources of Lode Jumbuk to draw upon, couldn't have made much of an impression. But when they had all the resources of the Federation to draw upon . . ."
"I don't think it's quite that way . . . " murmured Deane doubtfully.
"Then what do you think?"
"I . . . I don't know Captain . . ."
But they had little further opportunity for private talk. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, the coachload of assorted passengers was thawing out. The driver initiated this process—he was, Grimes realized, almost like the captain of a ship, responsible for the well-being, psychological as well as physical, of his personnel. Using a fixed microphone by his seat he delivered commentaries on the places of interest that they passed, and, when he judged that the time was ripe, had another microphone on a wandering lead passed among the passengers, the drill being that each would introduce himself by name, profession and place of residence.
Yes, they were a mixed bag, these tourists. About half of them were from Earth—they must be, thought Grimes, from the TG Clipper Cutty Sark presently berthed at the spaceport. Public Servants, lawyers, the inevitable Instructors from universities, both major and minor, improving their knowledge of the worlds of the Federation in a relatively inexpensive way. The Olganans were similarly diversified.
When it came to Grimes's turn he said, "John Grimes, spaceman. Last place of permanent residence St. Helier, Channel Islands, Earth."
Tanya Lancaster, the young and prettier of the two teachers across the aisle, turned to him. "I thought you were a Terry, John. You don't mind my using your given name, do you? It's supposed to be one of the rules on this tour . . ."
"I like it, Tanya."
"That's good. But you can't be from the Cutty Sark. I should know all the officers, at least by sight, by this time."
"And if I were one of Cutty Sark's officers," said Grimes gallantly (after all, this Tanya wench was not at all bad looking, with her chestnut hair, green eyes and thin, intelligent face), "I should have known you by this time."
"Oh," she said, "you must be from the Base."
"Almost right."
"You are making things awkward. Ah, I have it. You're from that funny little destroyer or whatever it is that's berthed at the Survey Service's end of the spaceport."
"She's not a funny little destroyer," Grimes told her stiffly. "She's a Serpent Class Courier."
The girl laughed. "And she's yours. Yes, I overheard your friend calling you 'Captain' . . ."
"Yes. She's mine . . ."
"And now, folks," boomed the driver's amplified voice, "how about a little singsong to liven things up? Any volunteers?"
The microphone was passed along to a group of young Olganan students. After a brief consultation they burst into song.
"But that's ours!" declared Tanya indignantly, her Australian accent suddenly very obvious. "It's our Waltzing Matilda!"
"Waltzing Matilda never was yours," Grimes told her. The words—yes, but the tune, no. Like many another song it's always having new verses tacked on to it."
"I suppose you're right. But these comic lyrics of theirs—what are they all about?"
"You've heard of the Ehrenhaft Drive, haven't you?"
"The first FTL Drive, wasn't it?"
"I suppose you could call it that. The Ehrenhaft generators converted the ship, the lodejammer, into what was, in effect, a huge magnetic particle. As long as she was on the right tramlines, the right line of magnetic force, she got to where she was supposed to get to in a relatively short time. But a magnetic storm, tangling the lines of force like a bowl of spaghetti, would throw her anywhere—or nowhere. And these storms also