The Hard Way Up - A. Bertram Chandler [64]
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Grimes."
"Don't you, Mrs. Dalwood? Who put you wise to this little party in the galley? Who would have known about it, who could have known about it but Hollister? I shouldn't like to be in your shoes when the Rhine Institute gets my report on my psionic radio officer. They're no respecters of admirals and their female equivalents."
"Have you quite finished, Mr. Grimes?" With the mounting flush on her cheeks the Commissioner was beginning to look human.
"For the time being."
"Then let me tell you, Lieutenant, that whatever secrets Lieutenant Hollister may have learned about you are still safely locked within his mind. If you had been reading up on the latest advances in robotics—which, obviously, you have not—you would have learned that already psionic robots, electronic telepaths, are in production. This has not been advertised—but neither is it a secret. Such automata can be recognized by the little gold knob on top of their skulls . . ."
The robot John inclined its head towards Grimes, and the golden embellishment seemed to wink at him sardonically.
"You tin fink!" snarled the spaceman.
"I am not a fink, sir. A fink is one who betrays his friend—and you were never a friend to me and my kind. Was it not in this very vessel, under your command, that Mr. Adam met his end?"
"That will do, John!" snapped the Commissioner.
"I still resent being spied upon!" almost shouted Grimes.
"That will do, Lieutenant!"
"Like hell it will. I give you notice that I have resigned from the Survey Service. I've had a bellyful of being treated like a child . . ."
"But that is all that you are."
"Captain," Rosaleen was pleading. "Please stop it. You're only making things worse. Mrs. Dalwood, it was my fault. I swear that it was . . ."
"Anything that happens aboard my ship is my fault," insisted Grimes.
"From your own mouth you condemn yourself, Lieutenant. I am tempted, as a Commissioner, to accept your resignation here and now, but I feel . . ." Her features sagged, the outlines of her body became hazy, the grey of her costume shimmered iridescently. "Leef I tub . . ." She was her normal self again. "But I feel . . ." Again the uncanny change. "Leef I tub . . ."
This is all I need . . . thought Grimes, listening to the sudden, irregular warbling of the Manneschenn Drive, recognizing the symptoms of breakdown, time running backward and déjà vu. He had another vision—but this time he was not an elderly Survey Service Lieutenant; he was an even more elderly Rim Runners Third Mate. They'd be the only outfit in all the Galaxy that would dream of employing him—but even they would never promote him.
The thin, high keening of the Drive faded to a barely audible hum, then died as the tumbling, ever-precessing gyroscopes slowed to a halt. From the bulkhead speakers came Slovotny's voice—calm enough, but with more than a hint or urgency. "Captain to Control, please. Captain to Control . . ."
"On my way!" barked Grimes into the nearest speaker/microphone. "Carry on with emergency procedure."
"All hands secure for Free Fall. All hands secure for Free Fall. The inertial drive will be shut down in precisely thirty seconds."
"What is happening, Mr. Grimes?" demanded the Commissioner.
"It should be obvious, even to you."
"It is. Just what one could expect from this ship."
"It's not the ship's fault. She's had no proper maintenance for months!"
He pushed past the women and the robot, dived into the axial shaft. The greater part of his journey to Control was made in Free Fall conditions. He hoped maliciously that the Commissioner was being spacesick.
At least neither the Commissioner nor her robots had the gall to infest the control room. Grimes sat there, strapped into the command seat, surrounded by his officers. "Report, Mr. Vitelli," he