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  CONTRABAND FROM OTHERSPACE

  A. Bertram Chandler

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  CONTRABAND FROM OTHERSPACE: Copyright ©1967 by A. Bertram Chandler

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen EBook

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN-10: 0-4413-7108-6

  ISBN-13: 978-0-4413-7108-2

  First ebook printing, December 2007

  For who else but Susan?

  I

  To a casual observer his seamed, deeply tanned face would have appeared expressionless—but those who knew him well could have read a certain regret in the lines of his craggy features, in the almost imperceptible softening of the hard, slate-gray eyes.

  The king had abdicated.

  The Astronautical Superintendent of Rim Runners had resigned from the service of the Rim Worlds Confederacy—both as a senior executive of the government owned and operated shipping line and as Commodore of the Rim Worlds Naval Reserve. His resignations were not yet effective—but they would be, so soon as Captain Trantor, in Rim Kestrel, came dropping down through the overcast to be relieved of his minor command prior to assuming the greater one.

  On a day such as this there was little for Grimes to see. Save for Faraway Quest, the Rim Worlds Government Survey Ship, and for Rim Mamelute the spaceport was deserted. Soon enough it would resume its normal activity, with units of the Rim Runners' fleet roaring in through the cloud blanket, from Faraway, Ultimo and Thule, from the planets of the Eastern Circuit, from the anti-matter systems to the Galactic West. (And among them would be Trantor's ship, inbound from Mellise.) But now there were only the old Quest and the little, battered space-tug in port, silent and deserted, the survey ship a squat, gray tower (that looked as though it should have been lichen-coated) half obscured by the snow squall, the Mamelute huddling at its base as though seeking shelter in the lee of the larger vessel.

  Grimes sighed, only half aware that he had done so. But he was not (he told himself) a sentimental man. It was just that Faraway Quest had been his last spacegoing command, and would be his last command, ever, out on the Rim. In her he had discovered and charted the worlds of the Eastern Circuit, opened them up to trade. In her he had made the first contact with the people of the antimatter systems. In her, only short weeks ago, with a mixed crew of Rim Worlds Naval Reserve officers and Federation Survey Service personnel, he had tried to solve the mystery of those weird, and sometimes frightening phenomena known as Rim Ghosts. And whilst on this Wild Ghost Chase (as his second in command referred to it) he had found in Sonya Verrill the cure for his loneliness—as she had found, in him, the cure for hers. But his marriage to her (as do all marriages) had brought its own problems, its own responsibilities. Already he was beginning to wonder if he would like the new life the course of which Sonya had plotted so confidently.

  He started as the little black box on his desk buzzed. He heard a sharp female voice announce, "Commander Verrill to see you, Commodore Grimes."

  Another voice, also female, pleasantly contralto but with an underlying snap of authority, corrected the first speaker. "Mrs. Grimes to see the Commodore, Miss Willoughby."

  "Come in, Sonya," said Grimes, addressing the instrument.

  She strode into the office, dramatic as always. Melting snow crystals sparkled like diamonds on her swirling, high-collared cloak of dull crimson Altairian crystal silk in the intricate coronet of her pale blonde hair. Her face was flushed, as much by excitement as by the warmth of the building after the bitter cold outside. She was a tall woman, and a splendid one, and many men on many worlds had called her beautiful.

  She reached out, grabbed Grimes by his slightly protuberant ears, pulled his face to hers and kissed him soundly.

  After she had released him, he asked mildly, "And what was that in aid of, my dear?"

  She laughed happily. "John, I just had to come to tell you the news in person. It wouldn't have been the same over the telephone. I've just received two Carlottigrams from Earth—one official, one personal. To begin with, my resignation's effective, as and from today. Oh, I can still be called back in an emergency, but that shouldn't worry us. And my gratuity has been approved . . ."

  "How much?" he asked, not altogether seriously.

  She told him.

  He whistled softly. "The Federation's more generous than the Confederacy. But, of course, your taxpayers are richer than ours, and there are so many more of them. . . ."

  She ignored this. "And that's not all, my dear. Admiral Salversen of the Bureau of Supply, is an old friend of mine. He sent a personal message along with the other. It seems that there's a little one ship company for sale, just a feeder line running between Montalbon and Carribea. The gratuity barely covers the down payment—but with your gratuity, and our savings, and the profits we're bound to make we shall be out of the red in no time at all. Just think of it, John! You as Owner-Master, and myself as your ever-loving Mate!"

  Grimes thought of it as he turned to stare again out of the wide window, his mind's eye piercing the dismal overcast to the nothingness beyond. Light, and warmth, and a sky ablaze with stars instead of this bleak desolation . . .

  Light and warmth . . . And a milk run.

  And Sonya.

  He said slowly, "We may find it hard to settle down. Even you. You're not a Rimworlder, but your life, in the Federation's Naval Intelligence, has been adventurous, and you've worked out on the Rim so much that you almost qualify for citizenship . . ."

  "I qualified for citizenship when I married you. And I want to settle down, John. But not here."

  The black box on the desk crackled, then said in Miss Willoughby's voice, "Port Control is calling, Commodore Grimes. Shall I put them through?"

  "Yes, please," Grimes told her.

  II

  "Cassidy here," said the box.

  "Yes, Captain Cassidy?"

  "Orbital Station 3 reports a ship, sir."

  "Isn't that one of the things they're paid for?" asked Grimes mildly.

  "Yes, sir." Cassidy's voice was sulky. "But there's nothing due for almost a week, and . . ."

  "Probably one of the Federation Survey Service wagons," Grimes told him, flashing a brief smile (which she answered with a glare) at Sonya. "They think they can come and go as they damn well please. Tell Station 3 to demand—demand, not request—identification."

  "The Station Commander has already done that, Commodore. But there's no reply."

  "And Station 3 doesn't run to a Psionic Radio Officer. I always said that we were ill advised to get rid of the telepaths as soon as our ships and stations were fitted with Carlotti equipment . . ." He paused, then asked, "Landing approach?"

  "No, sir. Station 3 hasn't had time to extrapolate her trajectory yet, but the way she's heading now it looks as though she'll miss Lorn by all of a thousand miles and finish up in the sun. . . ."

  "They haven't had time?" Grimes' voice was cold. "What the hell sort of watch are they keeping?"

  "A good one, sir. Commander Hall is one of our best men—as you know. It seems that this ship just appeared out of nothing—those were Hall's own words. There was no warning at all on the Mass Proximity Indicator. And then, suddenly, there she was—on both M.P.I, and radar. . . ."

  "Any of your people loafing around these parts?" Grimes asked Sonya. "No," she told him. "At least not that I know of." "And you are—or were—an intelligence offic
er, so you should know. H'm." He turned again to the box. "Captain Cassidy, tell Station 3 that I wish direct communication with them."

  "Very good, sir."

  The Commodore strode to his desk, sat down in his chair, pulled out a drawer. His stubby fingers played over the console that was revealed. Suddenly the window went opaque, and as it did so the lights in the office dimmed to a faint glow. One wall of the room came alive, a swirl of light and color that coalesced to form a picture, three dimensional, of the Watch House of Station 3. There were the wide ports, beyond the thick transparencies of which was the utter blackness of Space as seen from the Rim Worlds, a blackness made even more intense by contrast with the faintly glimmering nebulosities, sparse and dim, that were the distant, unreachable island universes. Within the compartment were the banked instruments, the flickering screens, the warped, convoluted columns, each turning slowly on its axis, that were the hunting antennae of the Carlotti Beacon. Uniformed men and women busied themselves at control panels, stood tensely around the big plotting tank. One of them—the Station Commander—turned to face the camera. He asked, "Have you the picture, Commodore Grimes, sir?"

  "I have, Commander," Grimes told him. "How is the extrapolation of trajectory?"

  "You may have a close-up of the tank, sir."

  The scene dissolved, and then only the plotting tank was in Grimes' screen. In the center of it was the dull-glowing (but not dull-glowing in reality) globe that represented the Lorn sun. And there was the curving filament of light that represented the orbit of the strange ship, the filament that extended itself as Grimes and Sonya watched, that finally touched the ruddy incandescence of the central sphere. This was only an extrapolation; it would be months before it actually occurred. There was still time, ample time, for the crew of the intruder to pull her out of the fatal plunge. And yet, somehow, there was a sense of urgency. If a rescue operation were to be undertaken, it must be done without delay. A stern chase is a long chase.

  "What do you make of it?" Grimes asked Sonya.

  She said, "I don't like it. Either they can't communicate, or they won't communicate. And I think they can't. There's something wrong with that ship. . . ."

  "Something very wrong. Get hold of Cassidy, will you? Tell him that I want Rim Mamelute ready for Space as soon as possible." He stared at the screen, upon which Commander Hall had made a reappearance. "We're sending the Mamelute out after her, Hall. Meanwhile, keep on trying to communicate."

  "We are trying, sir."

  Cassidy's voice came from the black box. "Sir, Captain Welling, the skipper of the Mamelute, is in the hospital. Shall I . . . ?"

  "No, Cassidy. Somebody has to mind the shop—and you're elected. But there's something you can do for me. Get hold of Mr. Mayhew, the Psionic Radio Officer. Yes, yes, I know that he's taking his Long Service Leave, but get hold of him. Tell him I want him here, complete with his amplifier, as soon as possible, if not before. And get Mamelute cleared away."

  "But who's taking her out, sir?"

  "Who do you think? Get cracking, Cassidy."

  "You'll need a Mate," said Sonya.

  He found time to tease her, saying, "Rather a come-down from the Federation Survey Service, my dear."

  "Could be. But I have a feeling that this may be a job for an Intelligence Officer."

  "You'll sign on as Mate," he told her firmly.

  III

  Rim Mamelute, as a salvage tug, was already in a state of near-readiness. She was fully fueled and provisioned; all that remained to be done was the mustering of her personnel. Her engineers, pottering around in Rim Runners' workshop on the spaceport premises, were easily located. The Port doctor was conscripted from his office, and was pleased enough to be pulled away from his boring paperwork. The Port Signal Station supplied a radio officer and—for Rim Mamelute's permanent Mate made it plain that he would resent being left out of the party—Sonya agreed to come along as Catering Officer.

  Grimes could have got the little brute upstairs within an hour of his setting the wheels in motion, but he insisted on waiting for Mayhew. In any salvage job, communication between the salvor and the salved is essential—and to judge by the experience of Station 3, any form of electronic radio communication was out. He stood on the concrete, just outside the tug's airlock, looking up at the overcast sky. Sonya came out to join him.

  "Damn the man!" he grumbled. "He's supposed to be on his way. He was told it was urgent."

  She said, "I hear something."

  He heard it too, above the thin whine of the wind, a deepening drone. Then the helicopter came into sight above the high roof of the Administration Building, the jet flames at the tip of its rotor blades a bright, blue circle against the gray sky. It dropped slowly, carefully, making at last a landing remarkable for its gentleness. The cabin door opened and the tall gangling telepath, his thin face pasty against the upturned collar of his dark coat, clambered to the ground. He saw Grimes, made a slovenly salute, then turned to receive the large case that was handed him by the pilot.

  "Take your time," growled Grimes.

  Mayhew shuffled around to face the Commodore. He set the case carefully down on the ground, patted it gently. He said, mild reproof in his voice, "Lassie's not as used to traveling as she was. I try to avoid shaking her up."

  Grimes sighed. He had almost forgotten about the peculiar relationship that existed between the spacefaring telepaths and their amplifiers—the living brains of dogs suspended in their tanks of nutrient solution. It was far more intense than that existing between normal man and normal dog. When a naturally telepathic animal is deprived of its body, its psionic powers are vastly enhanced—and it will recognize as friend and master only a telepathic man. There is symbiosis, on a psionic level.

  "Lassie's not at all well," complained Mayhew.

  "Think her up a nice, juicy bone," Grimes almost said, then thought better of it.

  "I've tried that, of course," Mayhew told him. "But she's not. . . she's just not interested any more. She's growing old. And since the Carlotti system was introduced nobody is making psionic amplifiers anymore."

  "Is she functioning?" asked the Commodore coldly.

  "Yes, sir. But . . ."

  "Then get aboard, Mr. Mayhew. Mrs. Grimes will show you to your quarters. Prepare and secure for blast-off without delay."

  He stamped up the short ramp into the airlock, climbed the ladders to the little control room. The Mate was already in the co-pilot's chair, his ungainly posture a match for his slovenly uniform. Grimes looked at him with some distaste, but he knew that the burly young man was more than merely competent, and that although his manner and appearance militated against his employment in a big ship he was ideally suited to service in a salvage tug.

  "Ready as soon as you are, Skipper," the Mate said. "You takin' her up?"

  "You're more used to this vessel than I am, Mr. Williams. As soon as all's secure you may blast off."

  "Good-oh, Skip."

  Grimes watched the indicator lights, listened to the verbal reports, aware that Williams was doing likewise. Then he said into the transceiver microphone, "Rim Mamelute to Port Control. Blasting off."

  Before Port Control could acknowledge, Williams hit the firing key. Not for the Mamelute the relatively leisurely ascent, the relatively gentle acceleration of the big ships. It was, thought Grimes dazedly, like being fired from a gun. Almost at once, it seemed, harsh sunlight burst through the control room ports. He tried to move his fingers against the crushing weight, tried to bring one of them to the button set in the arm rest of his chair that controlled the polarization of the transparencies. The glare was beating full in his face, was painful even through his closed eyelids. But Williams beat him to it. When Grimes opened his eyes he saw that the Mate was grinning at him.

  "She's a tough little bitch, the old Mamelute," announced the objectionable young man with pride.

  "Yes, Mr. Williams," enunciated Grimes with difficulty. "But there are some of us who aren't a
s tough as the ship. And, talking of lady dogs, I don't think that Mr. Mayhew's amplifier can stand much acceleration. . . ."

  "That pickled poodle's brain, Skip? The bastard's better off than we are, floatin' in its nice warm bath o' thick soup." He grinned again. "But I was forgettin'. We haven't the regular crew this time. What say we maintain a nice, steady one and a half Gs? That do yer?"

  One G would be better, thought Grimes. After all, those people, whoever they are, are in no immediate danger of falling into the sun. But perhaps even a few minutes' delay might make all the difference between life and death to them . . . Even so, we must be capable of doing work, heavy, physical work, when we catch them.

  "Yes, Mr. Williams," he said slowly. "Maintain one and a half gravities. You've fed the elements of the trajectory into the computer, of course?"