The Road to the Rim - A. Bertram Chandler [15]
"I shouldn't have felt all that flattered if you'd said that I was," he told her bluntly—but he knew that he was lying.
VIII
"YES?" JANE WAS SAYING. "Yes, Mr. Letourneau?"
Grimes realized that she was not looking at him, that she was looking past him and addressing a newcomer. He turned around to see who it was. He found—somehow the name hadn't registered—that it was the Psionic Radio Officer, a tall, pale, untidily put together young man in a slovenly uniform. He looked scared—but that was his habitual expression, Grimes remembered. They were an odd breed, these trained telepaths with their Rhine Institute diplomas, and they were not popular, but they were the only means whereby ships and shore stations could communicate instantaneously over the long light years. In the Survey Service they were referred to, slightingly, as Commissioned Teacup Readers. In the Survey Service and in the Merchant Service they were referred to as Snoopers. But they were a very necessary evil.
"Yes, Mr. Letourneau?"
"Where's the Old Man? He's not in his quarters."
"The Master"—Jane emphasized the title—"is in the saloon." Then, a little maliciously, "Couldn't you have used your crystal ball?"
Letourneau flushed. "You know very well, Miss Pentecost, that we have to take an oath that we will always respect the mental privacy of our shipmates . . . . But I must find him. Quickly."
"Help yourself. He's treading the light fantastic in there." When he was gone she said, "Typical. Just typical. If it were a real emergency he could get B.B. on the intercom. But no. Not him. He has to parade his distrust of anything electronic and, at the same time, make it quite clear that he's not breaking his precious oath . . . . Tell me, how do you people handle your spaceborne espers?"
He grinned. "We've still one big stick that you people haven't. A court martial followed by a firing party. Not that I've ever seen it used."
"Hardly, considering that you've only been in Space a dog watch." Her face froze suddenly. "Yes, Sue?"
It was the girl whom Jane had relieved in the bar. "Miss Pentecost, will you report to the Captain in Control, please. At once."
"What have I done now?"
"It's some sort of emergency, Miss Pentecost. The Chief Officer's up there with him, and he's sent for the Doctor and the two Chief Engineers."
"Then I must away, John. Look after the bar again, Sue. Don't let the Admiral have too many free drinks."
She moved fast and gracefully, was gone before Grimes could think of any suitable repartee. He said to the girl, "What is happening, Sue?"
"I don't know, Ad—" She flushed. "Sorry, Ensign. And, in any case, I'm not supposed to talk to the passengers about it."
"But I'm not a real passenger," he said—and asked himself, Am I a real anything?
"No, I suppose you're not, Mr. Grimes. But you're not on duty."
"An officer of the Survey Service is always on duty," he told her, with some degree of truth. "Whatever happens on the spacelanes is our concern." It sounded good.
"Yes," she agreed hesitantly. "That's what my fiancé—he's a Lieutenant J.G.—is always telling me."
"So what's all the flap about?"
"Promise not to tell anybody?"
"Of course."
"Mr. Letourneau came wandering into the Saloon. He just stood there staring about, the way he does, then he spotted the Captain. He was actually dancing with me at the time . . . ." She smiled reminiscently, and added, "He's a very good dancer."
"He would be. But go on."
"He came charging across the dance floor—Mr. Letourneau, I mean. He didn't care whose toes he trod on or who he tripped over. I couldn't help overhearing when he started babbling away to Captain Craven. It's a distress call. From one of our ships—Epsilon Sextans.'" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And it's piracy."
"Piracy? Impossible."
"But, Mr. Grimes, it's what he said."
"Psionic Radio Officers have been known to go around the bend before now," Grimes told her, "and to send