To Be Continued 1953-1958 Read online

  I had never been to Shaula II, but I had a sharp mental image of the Shaulans: melancholy old men, pondering the whichness of the why, whom the first loud shout would drop in their tracks. So it caught me by surprise when the time came to affix my hancock to the roster of the Felicific and I saw on the line above mine the scribbled words Murchison, John F., Chief Signal Officer.

  I signed my name—Loeb, Ernest T., Second Officer—picked up my pay voucher and walked away somewhat dizzily. I was thinking of the time I had seen Murchison, John F., giving a Denebolan frogman the beating of his life, for no particular reason at all.

  “All the rain here makes me sick” was all Murchison cared to say; the frogman lived and Big Jawn got an X on his psych report.

  Now he was shipping out for Shaula? Well, maybe so—but my faith in the computer that makes up spaceship complements was seriously shaken.

  Ours was the fourth or fifth expedition to Shaula II. The planet—second of seven in orbit round the brightest star in Scorpio’s tail—was small and scrubby, but of great strategic importance as a lookout spot for that sector of the galaxy. The natives hadn’t minded our intrusion and so a military base had been established there with no preliminary haggling whatever.

  The Felicific was a standard warp-conversion-drive ship holding thirty-six men. It had the usual crew of eight, plus a cargo of twenty-eight of Terra’s finest, being sent out as replacements for the current staff of the base.

  We blasted on 3 July 2530, a warmish day, made the conversion from ion-drive to warp-drive as soon as we were clear of the Solar System, and popped back into normal space three weeks later and two hundred light-years away. It was a routine trip in all respects.

  With the warp-conversion drive, a ship is equipped to travel both long distances and short. It handles the long hops via subspace warp, and the short ones by good old standard ion-drive seat-of-the-spacesuit navigating. It’s a good setup and the extra mass that the double drive requires is more than compensated for by the saving in time and maneuverability.

  The warp-drive part of the trip was pre-plotted and just about pre-traveled for us; no headaches there. But when we blurped back into the continuum about half a light-year from Shaula, the human factor entered the situation. Meaning Murchison, of course.

  It was his job to check and tend the network of telemetering systems that acted as the ship’s eyes, to make sure the mass-detectors were operating, to smooth the bugs out of the communications channels between navigator and captain and drive-deck. In brief, he was the man who made it possible for us to land.

  Every ship carried a spare signalman, just in case. In normal circumstances, the spare never got much work. When the time came for the landing, Captain Knight buzzed me and told me to start lining up the men who would take part. Naturally, I signaled Murchison first—he was our chief signal officer.

  His voice was a slow rasping drawl. “Yeah?”

  “Second Officer Loeb. Prepare for landing, double-fast. Navigator Henrichs has the chart set up for you and he’s waiting for your call.”

  There was a pause. Then: “I don’t feel like it, Loeb.”

  I shut my eyes, held my breath and counted to three by fractions. Then I said, “Would you mind repeating that, Mr. Murchison?”

  “Hell, Loeb, I’m fixing something. Why do you want to land now?”

  “I don’t make up the schedules,” I said.

  “Then who in blazes does? Tell him I’m busy!”

  I turned down my phone’s volume.

  “Busy doing what?”

  “Busy doing nothing. Get off the line and I’ll call Henrichs.”

  I grunted and broke contact. He’d just been ragging me. Once again, Murchison had been ornery for the sheer sake of being ornery. One of these days, he was going to refuse to handle the landing entirely. And that day, I told myself, is the day we’ll crate him up and shove him through the disposal lock.

  Murchison had his skills and he applied them—when he felt like it. But only when he believed that he would profit. He never did anything unwillingly, because if he couldn’t find it in himself to do it willingly, he wouldn’t do it at all. It was impossible to make him do something.

  Unwisely, we tolerated it. But someday he would get a captain who didn’t understand him and he’d be slapped with a sentence of mutiny. For his sake, I hoped not. The penalty for mutiny in space is the same as it always has been—death.

  With Murchison’s cooperation gratefully accepted, we targeted on Shaula II, which was then at perihelion, and orbited it. Down in his little cubicle, Murchison worked like a demon, taking charge of the ship’s landing system in a tremendous way. He was a fantastic signalman when he wanted to be.

  Later that day, the spinning red ball that was Shaula II hung just ahead of us, close enough to let us see the three blobs of continents and the big, choppy hydrocarbon ocean that licked them smooth.

  The Terran base on Continent Three beamed us a landing guide. Murchison picked it up, fed it through the computer bank to Navigator Henrichs and we homed in for the landing.

  The Terran base consisted of a couple of blockhouses, a sprawling barracks and a good-sized radar parabola, all set in a ring out on an almost mathematically flat plain. Shaula II was a great world for plains; Columbus would have had the devil’s time convincing people this world was round!

  Murchison guided us to a glassy-looking area not far from the base and we touched down. The Felicific creaked and groaned a little as the landing-jacks absorbed its weight. Green lights went on all over the ship. We were free to go outside.

  A welcoming committee was on hand out there: eight members of the base staff, clad in shorts and topees. Regulation uniforms went by the board on oven-hot Shaula II. The eight looked awfully happy to see us.

  Coming over the flat sandy plain from the base were a dozen or so others, running, and behind them I could see even more. They were understandably glad we were here. Twenty-eight of them had spent a full year on Shaula II; they were eligible for their parity-program year’s vacation.

  There were some other—things—moving towards us. They came slowly, with grace and dignity. I had expected to be impressed with the Shaulans and I was.

  They were erect bipeds about four feet tall, with long thin arms dangling to their knees. Their grey skins were grainy and rough, and their dark eyes—they had three, arranged triangularly—were deep-set and brooding. A fleshy sort of cowl or cobra-hood curled up from their necks to shield their round hairless skulls. The aliens were six in number and the youngest-looking of them seemed ancient.

  A brown-faced young man wearing shorts, topee and tattooed stars stepped forward and said, “I’m General Gloster. I’m in charge here.”

  The Captain acknowledged his greeting. “Knight of the Felicific. We have your relief men with us.”

  “I sure as hell hope you do,” Gloster said. “Be kind of silly to come all this way without them.”

  We all laughed a little over that. By now, we were ringed in by at least fifty Earthmen, probably the entire base complement—we didn’t rotate the entire base staff at once, of course—and the six aliens.

  The twenty-eight youngsters we had ferried here were looking around the place curiously, apprehensive about this hot, dry, flat planet that would be their home for the next sidereal year.

  The crew of the Felicific had gathered in a little knot near the ship. Most of them probably felt the way I did—glad we’d be on our way home in a couple of days.

  Murchison was squinting at the six aliens. I wondered what he was thinking about.

  The bunch of us traipsed back the half mile or so to the settlement. Gloster walked with Knight and myself, prattling volubly about the progress the base was making, and the twenty-eight newcomers mingled with the twenty-eight who were being relieved. Murchison walked by himself, kicking up puffs of red dust and scowling in his usual manner. The six aliens accompanied us at some distance.

  “We keep building all the time,�
�� Gloster explained when we were within the compound. “Branching out, setting up new equipment, erecting new quarters, shoring up the old stuff. That radar parabola out there wasn’t up last replacement trip.”

  I looked around. “The place looks fine, General.” It was strange calling a man half my age General, but the Service sometimes works that way. “When do you plan to set up your telescope?”

  “Next year, maybe.” He glanced out the window at the featureless landscape. “We keep building all the time. Got to make something of this planet. We’re doing a damn fine job—never recognize the place in a couple of years.”

  “How about the natives?” the Captain asked. “You have much contact with them?”

  Gloster shrugged. “As much as they’ll allow. They’re a proud old race—only a handful of them left. But what a race they must have been once!”

  I found Gloster’s boyish enthusiasm discomforting. “Do you think we could meet one of the aliens before we go?” I asked.

  “I’ll see about it.” Gloster picked up a phone. “McHenry? There any natives in the compound now? Good. Send him up, will you?”

  Moments later, one of the shorts-clad men appeared, hand in hand with an alien. At close range, the Shaulan looked almost frighteningly old. A maze of wrinkles gullied its noseless face, running from the triple eyes down to the dots of nostrils to the sagging, heavy-lipped mouth.

  “This is Azga,” Gloster said. “Azga, meet Captain Knight and Second Officer Loeb, of the Felicific.”

  The creature offered a wobbly sort of bow and said in a deep, resonant, almost human croak, “I am very humble indeed in your presence, Captain Knight and Second Officer Loeb.”

  Azga straightened painfully from bowing and the three eyes fixed on mine. I felt like squirming, but I stared back. It was like looking into a mirror that gave the wrong reflection.

  Yet there was something calm and wise and good about the grotesque creature, something relaxing and terribly fragile. The rough grey skin looked like precious leather, and the hood over the skull appeared to shield it from worry and harm. A faint musty odor wandered through the room.

  We looked at each other—Knight and Gloster and McHenry and I—and we remained silent. Now that the Shaulan was here, what could we say? What new thing could we possibly tell the ancient creature?

  I was fumbling for words to express my feeling when the sharp buzz of the phone cut across the uncomfortable silence.

  Gloster nodded curtly to McHenry, who answered. The man listened for a moment. “Captain Knight, it’s for you.”

  Puzzled, Knight took the receiver. He held it long enough to hear about three sentences and turned to me. “Loeb, commandeer a landcar from someone in the compound and get back to the ship. Murchison’s tangling with one of the aliens.”

  I hotfooted down into the compound and spotted an enlisted man tooling up his landcar. I pulled rank and requisitioned it, and minutes later I was parking it outside the Felicific and was clambering up the catwalk.

  An excited-looking recruit stood at the open airlock.

  “Where’s Murchison?” I asked.

  “Down in the communicator cabin, sir. He’s got an alien in there with him. There’s gonna be trouble.”

  I remembered Denebola and Murchison kicking the stuffings out of a groaning frogman. I groaned a little myself and dashed down the companionway.

  The communications cabin was Murchison’s inner sanctum, a cubicle off the astro deck where he worked and kept control over the Felicific’s communications network.

  I yanked open the door and saw him at the far end of the cabin, holding a massive crescent wrench and glaring at a Shaulan facing him. The Shaulan had its back to me. It looked small and squat and helpless.

  Murchison saw me as I entered. “Get out of here, Loeb. This isn’t your affair.”

  “What’s going on here?” I snapped.

  “This alien snooping around. I’m gonna let him have it with the wrench.”

  “I meant no harm,” the alien boomed sadly. “Mere philosophical interest in your strange machines, nothing more. If I have offended a folkway of yours, I humbly apologize. It is not the way of my people to give offence.”

  I walked forward and took a position between them, making sure I wasn’t within easy reach of Murchison’s wrench. He was standing there with his nostrils spread, his eyes cold and hard, his breath pumping noisily. He was angry, and an angry Murchison was a frightening sight.

  He took two heavy steps toward me. “I told you to get out. This is my cabin, Loeb. And neither you nor any aliens got any business in it.”

  “Put down that wrench, Murchison. It’s an order.”

  He laughed contemptuously. “Signal officers don’t have to take orders from anyone but the captain if they thinks the safety of the ship is jeopardized. And I do. There’s a dangerous alien in here.”

  “Be reasonable,” I said. “This Shaulan’s not dangerous. He only wanted to look around. Just curious.”

  The wrench wiggled warningly. I wished I had a blaster with me, but I hadn’t thought of bringing a weapon. The alien faced Murchison quite calmly, as if confident the signalman would never strike anything so old and delicate.

  “You’d better leave,” I said to the alien.

  “No!” Murchison roared. He shoved me to one side and went after the Shaulan.

  The alien stood there, waiting, as Murchison came on. I tried to drag the big man away, but there was no stopping him.

  At least he didn’t use the wrench. He let it slip clangingly to the floor and slapped the alien open-handed across its face. The Shaulan backed up a few feet. A trickle of bluish fluid worked its way along its mouth.

  Murchison raised his hand again. “Damned snooper! I’ll teach you to poke in my cabin!” He hit the alien again.

  This time the Shaulan folded up accordionwise and huddled on the floor. It focused those three deep solid-black eyes on Murchison reproachfully.

  Murchison looked back. They stared at each other for a long moment, until it seemed that their eyes were linked by an invisible cord. Then Murchison looked away.

  “Get out of here,” he muttered.

  The Shaulan rose and departed, limping a little but still intact. Those aliens were more solid than they seemed.

  “I guess you’re going to put me in the brig,” Murchison said to me. “Okay. I’ll go quietly.”

  We didn’t brig him, because there was nothing to be gained by that. He got the silent treatment instead. The men at the base would have nothing to do with him whatsoever because, in their year on Shaula, they had developed a respect for the aliens not far from worship, and any man who would actually use physical violence—well, he just wasn’t worth wasting breath on.

  The men of our crew gave him a wide berth too. He wandered among us, a tall, powerful figure with anger and loneliness stamped on his face, and he said nothing to any of us and no one said anything to him. Whenever he saw one of the aliens, he went far out of his way to avoid a meeting.

  Murchison got another X on his psych report, and that second X meant he’d never be allowed to visit any world inhabited by intelligent life again. It was a BuSpace regulation, one of the many they have for the purpose of locking the barn door too late.

  Three days went by this way on Shaula. On the fourth, we took aboard the twenty-eight departing men, said good-by to Gloster and his staff and the twenty-eight we had ferried out to him, and—somewhat guiltily—good-by to the Shaulans, too.

  The six of them showed up for our blastoff, including the somewhat battered one who had had the run-in with Murchison. They wished us well, gravely, without any sign of bitterness. For the hundredth time I was astonished by their patience, their wisdom, their understanding.

  I held Azga’s rough hand in mine and finally managed to tell him what I had been wanting to say since our first meeting—how much I hoped we’d eventually reach the mental equilibrium and inner calm of the Shaulans. He smiled warmly at me and I said
good-by again and entered the ship.

  We ran the usual pre-blast checkups and got ready for departure. Communications was working well—Murchison had none of his usual grumbles and complaints—and we were off the ground in record time.

  A couple of days of ion-drive, three weeks of warp, two more of ion-drive deceleration, and we would be back on Earth.

  The three weeks passed slowly, of course; when Earth lies ahead of you, time drags. But after the interminable greyness of warp came the sudden wrenching twist and the bright slippery sliding feeling as our Bohling generator threw us back into ordinary space.

  I pushed down the communicator stud near my arm and heard the voice of Navigator Henrichs saying, “Murchison, give me the coordinates, will you?”

  “Hold on,” came Murchison’s growl. “You’ll get your coordinates as soon as I got ’em.”

  There was a pause; then Captain Knight said, “Murchison, what’s holding up those coordinates? Where are we, anyway? Turn on the visiplates?”

  “Please, Captain.” Murchison’s heavy voice was surprisingly polite. Then he ruined it. “Please be good enough to shut up and let a man think.”

  “Murchison—” Knight sputtered, and stopped. We all knew one solid fact about our signalman: he did as he wanted. No one ever coerced him into anything.

  So we waited, spinning end-over-end somewhere in the vicinity of Earth, completely blind behind our wall of metal. Until Murchison chose to feed us some data, we had no way of bringing the ship down.

  Three more minutes went by. Then the private circuit Knight uses when he wants to talk to me alone lit up, and he said, “Loeb, go down to Communications and see what’s holding Murchison up. We can’t stay here forever.”

  I pocketed a blaster—I hate making mistakes more than once—and left my cabin. I walked numbly to the companionway, turned to the left, hit the drophatch and found myself outside Murchison’s door.