Greylorn by Keith Laumer (best ereader for comics TXT) 📗

It swung out easily. I could see the end of the chart table, and beyond, the dead radar screen. I reached through and heaved myself partly out. I nearly fainted at the stab from my ribs as my weight went on my chest. My head sang. The light from below suddenly went out. I heard a muffled clank; then a hum began, echoing up the duct.

“She’s closed and started cyclin’ the air out, Cap’n,” Thomas said calmly. “We got about half a minute.”

I clamped my teeth together and heaved again. Below me Thomas waited quietly. He couldn’t help me now. I got my hands flat against the bulkhead and thrust. The air was whistling around my face. Papers began to swirl off the chart table. I twisted my body frantically, kicking loose from the grip of the slot, fighting the sucking pull of air. I fell to the floor inside the room, the slot cover slamming behind me. I staggered to my feet. I pried at the cover, but I couldn’t open it against the vacuum. Then it budged, and Thomas’ hand came through. The metal edge cut into it, blood started, but the cover was held open half an inch. I reached the chart table, almost falling over my leaden feet, seized a short permal T-square, and levered the cover up. Once started, it went up easily. Thomas face appeared, drawn and pale, eyes closed against the dust being whirled into his face. He got his arms through, heaved himself a little higher. I seized his arm and pulled. He scrambled through.

I knocked the T-square out of the way and the cover snapped down. Then I slid to the floor, not exactly out, but needing a break pretty bad. Thomas brought bedding from the OD bunk and made me comfortable on the floor.

“Thomas,” I said, “when I think of what the security inspectors who approved the plans for this arrangement are going to say when I call this little back door to their attention, it almost makes it worth the trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas said. He sprawled on the deck and looked around the Bridge, staring at the unfamiliar screens, indicator dials, controls.

From where I lay, I could see the direct vision screen. I wasn’t sure, but I thought the small bright object in the center of it might be our target. Thomas looked at the dead radar screen, then said, “Cap’n, that there radarscope out of action?”

“It sure is, Thomas,” I said. “Our unknown friends blew the works before they left us.” I was surprised that he recognized a radarscope.

“Mind if I take a look at it, Cap’n?” he said.

[63] “Go ahead,” I replied. I tried to explain the situation to Thomas. The elapsed time since we had started our pursuit was two hours and ten minutes; I wanted to close to no more than a twenty mile gap before launching my missiles; and I had better alert my interceptor missiles in case the Mancji hit first.

Thomas had the cover off the radar panel and was probing around. He pulled a blackened card out of the interior of the panel.

“Looks like they overloaded the fuse,” Thomas said. “Got any spares, Cap’n?”

“Right beside you in the cabinet,” I said. “How do you know your way around a radar set, Thomas?”

Thomas grinned. “I useta be a radar technician third before I got inta waste disposal,” he said. “I had to change specialities to sign on for this cruise.”

I had an idea there’d be an opening for Thomas a little higher up when this was over.

I asked him to take a look at the televideo, too. I was beginning to realize that Thomas was not really simple; he was merely uncomplicated.

“Tubes blowed here, Cap’n,” he reported. “Like as if you was to set her up to high mag right near a sun; she was overloaded. I can fix her easy if we got the spares.”

I didn’t take time to try to figure that one out. I could feel the dizziness coming on again.

“Thomas,” I called, “let me know when we’re at twenty miles from target.” I wanted to tell him more, but I could feel consciousness draining away. “Then ...” I managed, “first aid kit ... shot....”

I could still hear Thomas. I was flying away, whirling, but I could hear his voice. “Cap’n, I could fire your missiles now, if you was to want me to,” he was saying. I struggled to speak. “No. Wait.” I hoped he heard me.

I floated a long time in a strange state between coma and consciousness. The stuff Kramer had given me was potent. It kept my mind fairly clear even when my senses were out of action. I thought about the situation aboard my ship.

I wondered what Kramer and his men were planning now, how they felt about having let me slip through their fingers. The only thing they could try now was blasting their way into the Bridge. They’d never make it. The designers of these ships were not unaware of the hazards of space life; the Bridge was an unassailable fortress. They couldn’t possibly get to it.

I guessed that Kramer was having a pretty rough time of it now. He had convinced the men that we were rushing headlong to sure destruction at the hands of the all-powerful Mancji, and that their Captain was a fool. Now he was trapped with them in the panic he had helped to create. I thought that in all [64] probability they had torn him apart.

I wavered in and out of consciousness. It was just as well; I needed the rest. Then I heard Thomas calling me. “We’re closin’ now, Cap’n,” he said. “Wake up, Cap’n, only twenty-three miles now.”

“Okay,” I said. My body had been preparing itself for this, now it was ready again. I felt the needle in my arm. That helped, too.

“Hand me the intercom, Thomas,” I said. He placed the mike in my hand. I keyed for a general announcement.

“This is the Captain,” I said. I tried to keep my voice as steady as possible. “We are now at a distance of twenty-one miles from the enemy. Stand by for missile launching and possible evasive action. Damage control crews on the alert.” I paused for breath.

“Now we’re going to take out the Mancji ship, men,” I said. “All two miles of it.”

I dropped the mike and groped for the firing key. Thomas handed it to me.

“Cap’n,” he said, bending over me. “I notice you got the selector set for your chemical warheads. You wouldn’t want me to set up pluto heads for ya, would ya, Cap’n?”

“No, thanks, Thomas,” I said. “Chemical is what I want. Stand by to observe.” I pressed the firing key.

Thomas was at the radarscope. “Missiles away, Cap’n. Trackin’ O.K. Looks like they’ll take out the left half a that dumbbell.”

I found the mike again. “Missiles homing on target,” I said. “Strike in thirty-five seconds. You’ll be interested to know we’re employing chemical warheads. So far there is no sign of offense or defense from the enemy.” I figured the news would shock a few mutineers. David wasn’t even using his slingshot on Goliath. He was going after him bare-handed. I wanted to scare some kind of response out of them. I needed a few clues as to what was going on below.

I got it. Joyce’s voice came from the wall annunciator. “Captain, this is Lt. Joyce reporting.” He sounded scared all the way through, and desperate. “Sir, the mutiny has been successfully suppressed by the loyal members of the crew. Major Kramer is under arrest. We’re prepared to go on with the search for the Omega Colony. But Sir ...” he paused, gulping. “We ask you to change course now before launching any effective attack. We still have a chance. Maybe they won’t bother with us when those firecrackers go off ...”

I watched the direct vision screen. Zero second closed in. And on the screen the face of the left hand disk of the Mancji ship was lit momentarily by a brilliant spark of yellow, then another. A discoloration showed dimly against the dark metallic surface. It spread, and a faint vapor formed over it. Now tiny [65] specs could be seen moving away from the ship. The disk elongated, with infinite leisure, widening.

“What’s happenin’? Cap’n?” Thomas asked. He was staring at the scope in fascination. “They launchin’ scouts, or what?”

“Take a look here, Thomas,” I said. “The ship is breaking up.”

The disk was an impossibly long ellipse now, surrounded by a vast array of smaller bodies, fragments and contents of the ship. Now the stricken globe moved completely free of its companion. It rotated, presenting a crescent toward us, then wheeled farther as it receded from its twin, showing its elongation. The sphere had split wide open. Now the shattered half itself separated into two halves, and these in turn crumbled, strewing debris in a widening spiral.

“My God, Cap’n,” Thomas said in awe. “That’s the greatest display I ever seen. And all it took to set her off was 200 kilos a PBL. Now that’s somethin’.”

I keyed the mike again. “This is the Captain,” I said. “I want ten four-man patrols ready to go out in fifteen minutes. The enemy ship has been put out of action and is now in a derelict condition. I want only one thing from her; one live prisoner. All Section chiefs report to me on the Bridge on the triple.”

“Thomas,” I said, “go down in the lift and open up for the Chiefs. Here’s the release key for the combination; you know how to operate it?”

“Sure, Cap’n; but are you sure you want to let them boys in here after the way they jumped you an’ all?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but he beat me to it. “Fergit I asked ya that, Cap’n, pleasir. You ain’t been wrong yet.”

“It’s O.K., Thomas,” I said. “There won’t be any more trouble.”

EPILOGUE

On the eve of the twentieth anniversary of Reunion Day, a throng of well-heeled celebrants filled the dining room and overflowed onto the terraces of the Star Tower Dining Room, from whose 5,700 foot height above the beaches, the Florida Keys, a hundred miles to the south, were visible on clear days.

The Era reporter stood beside the vast glass entry way surveying the crowd, searching for celebrities from whom he might elicit bits of color to spice the day’s transmission.

At the far side of the room, surrounded by chattering admirers, stood the Ambassador from the New Terran Federation; a portly, graying, jolly ex-Naval officer. A minor actress passed at close range, looking the other way. A cabinet member stood at the bar talking earnestly to a ball player, ignoring a group of hopeful reporters and fans.

The Era stringer, an experienced [66] hand, passed over the hard pressed VIP’s near the center of the room and started a face-by-face check of the less gregarious diners seated at obscure tables along the sides of the room.

He was in luck; the straight-backed gray-haired figure in the dark civilian suit, sitting alone at a tiny table in an alcove, caught his eye. He moved closer, straining for a clear glimpse through the crowd. Then he was sure. He had the biggest possible catch of the day in his sights; Admiral of Fleets Frederick Greylorn.

The reporter hesitated; he was well aware of the Admiral’s reputation for near-absolute silence on the subject of his already legendary cruise, the fabulous voyage of the Galahad. He couldn’t just barge in on the Admiral and demand answers, as was usual with publicity-hungry politicians and show people. He could score the biggest story of the century today; but he had to hit him right.

You couldn’t hope to snow a man like the Admiral; he wasn’t somebody you could push around. You could sense the solid iron of him from here.

Nobody else had noticed the solitary diner. The Era man drifted closer, moving unhurriedly, thinking furiously. It was no good trying some tricky approach; his best bet was the straight-from-the-shoulder bit. No point in hesitating. He stopped beside the table.

The Admiral was looking out across the Gulf. He turned and glanced up at the reporter.

The news man looked him squarely in the eye. “I’m a reporter, Admiral,” he said. “Will you talk to me?”

The Admiral nodded to the seat across from him. “Sit down,” he said. He glanced around the room.

The reporter caught the look. “I’ll keep it light, sir,” he said. “I don’t want company either.” That was being frank.

“You want the answers to some questions, don’t you?” the Admiral said.

“Why, yes, sir,” the reporter said. He started to inconspicuously key his pocket recorder, but caught himself. “May I record your remarks, Admiral?” he said. Frankness all the way.

“Go ahead,” said the Admiral.

“Now, Admiral,”