Upon a Sea of Stars Read online

  Come off it, Grimes, he told himself. Come off it, Grimes, Commodore Grimes, Rim Worlds Naval Reserve. Don’t be so bloody sorry for yourself. You’ve climbed to the top of your own private tree.

  Even so . . .

  He finished his coffee, poured himself another cup. He thought, I should have offered to put her up during her stay on Lorn. And then he was glad that he had not made the offer. She was used to luxury—luxury on a government expense account, but luxury nonetheless—and surely would have been appalled by his messy widower’s establishment. His children were grown up, and had their own homes and, in any case, incurable planetlubbers that they were, would have little in common with one who, after all, was a professional adventuress.

  So . . .

  So I can enjoy adventures—although not in the same sense—vicariously, he thought. I’ll do what I can for Sonya, and hope to receive in return a firsthand account of all that happens to her. She said that she would want a ship—well, she shall have Faraway Quest. It’s time that the poor old girl was taken for another gallop. And she’ll be wanting a crew. I’ll put out the call for volunteers before I get definite word that the expedition has been approved—just quietly, there’s no need to get the politicians’ backs up. Rimworlders, she specified. Rimworlders born and bred. I can see why. People raised on the Rim are far more likely to have counterparts in the alternative Universes than those of us who have, like myself, drifted out here, driven out here by the winds of chance. I shouldn’t have much trouble in raising a team of officers, but a Master will be the problem. Practically all our Captains are refugees from the big, Earth-based companies, or from the Survey Service.

  But there was no urgency, he told himself.

  He drew yet another cup of coffee and, carrying it, walked to the wide window. Night had fallen and the sky had cleared and, work having ceased for the day, there was no dazzle of lights from the spaceport to rob the vision of keenness.

  Overhead in the blackness was one bright star, the Faraway sun, and beyond it lay the faint, far nebulosities. Low in the east the Lens was rising, the upper limb only visible, a parabola of misty light. Grimes looked away from it to the zenith, to the dark immensities through which Calver in his Outsider was falling, perhaps never to return. And soon Sonya Verrill would be falling—but would she? could she?—through and across even stranger, even more fantastic gulfs, of Time as well as of Space.

  Grimes shivered. Suddenly he felt old and alone, although he loathed himself for his self pity.

  He left his office, fell down the dropshaft (what irony!) to the ground floor, got out his monocar from the executives’ garage and drove home.

  Home was a large house on the outskirts of Port Forlorn. Home was a villa, and well kept—the maintenance service to which Grimes subscribed was highly efficient—but sadly lacking in the touches of individuality, or imagination, that only a woman can supply.

  The commodore drove his car into his garage and, after having shut off the engine, entered the house proper directly from the outbuilding. He did not, as he usually did, linger for a few minutes in the conservatory that housed his collection of exotic plants from a century of worlds. He went straight to his lounge, where he helped himself to a strong whisky from the bar. Then he sat down before his telephone console and, with his free hand, punched the number for library service.

  The screen lit up, and in it appeared the head and shoulders of a girl who contrived to look both efficient and beautiful. Grimes smiled, as he always did, at the old-fashioned horn-rimmed spectacles that, some genius had decided, made the humanoid robot look like a real human librarian. A melodious contralto asked, “May I be of service, sir?”

  “You may, my dear,” answered Grimes. (A little subtle—or not so subtle—flattery worked wonders with often temperamental robots.) “I’d like whatever available data you have on Rim Ghosts.”

  “Visual sir, or viva voce?”

  “Viva voce, please.” (Even this tin blonde, with her phony femininity, was better than no woman at all in the house.)

  “Condensed or detailed, sir?”

  “Condensed, please. I can always ask you to elaborate as and if necessary.”

  “Very good, sir. The phenomenon of the Rim Ghosts occurs, as the name implies, only on the Rim. Sightings are not confined to single individuals, so therefore cannot be assumed to be subjective in nature. A pattern has been established regarding these sightings. One member of a party of people will see himself, and be seen by his companions, in surroundings and company differing, sometimes only subtly, from those of actuality. Cases have been known in which an entire group of people has seen its Rim Ghost counterpart.

  “For a while it was thought that the apparitions were prophetic in character, and the orthodox explanation was that of precognition. With the collection of a substantial body of data, however, it became obvious that prophetic visions comprised only about 30% of the total. Another 30% seemed to be recapitulations of past events, 20% had a definite here-and-now flavor, while the remaining 20% depicted situations that, in our society, can never arise.

  “It was in the year 313 A.G. that Dr. Foulsham, of the Terran Rhine Institute, advanced his Alternative Universe Theory. This, of course, was no more than the reformulation of the idea played around with for centuries by speculative thinkers and writers, that of an infinitude of almost parallel Time Tracks, the so-called Worlds of If. According to Dr. Foulsham, on Earth and on the worlds that have been colonized for many generations, the barriers between the individual tracks are . . .” The robot paused.

  “Go on, my dear,” encouraged Grimes. “This is only a condensation. You needn’t bother trying to break down fancy scientific terminology.”

  “Thank you, sir. The barriers, as I was trying to say in suitable language, are both high and thick, so that a break-through is almost impossible. But on the very rim of the expanding Galaxy these barriers are . . . tenuous, so that very often a fortuitous breakthrough does occur.

  “An example of such a breakthrough, but visual only, was that achieved by Captain Derek Calver and his shipmates when he was serving as Chief Officer of the freighter Lorn Lady. The ship was proceeding through deep space, under Mannschenn Drive, when another vessel was sighted close alongside. In the control room of the other spacecraft Calver saw himself—but he was wearing Master’s uniform—and most of the others who were with him in Lorn Lady’s control compartment. He was able, too, to make out the name of the strange ship. It was the Outsider. Some months later, having become the recipient of a handsome salvage award, Calver and his shipmates were able to buy a secondhand ship and to operate as a small tramp shipping company. They christened her the Outsider. This, then, was obviously one of the precognitive apparitions, and can be explained by the assumption that the Alternative Universe in which Calver’s career runs almost parallel to his career in this Universe possesses a slightly different time scale.

  “Physical breakthrough was inadvertently achieved by Captain Ralph Listowel in his experimental light jammer Aeriel. Various members of his crew unwisely attempted to ‘break the light barrier’ and, when the ship was proceeding at a velocity only fractionally less than that of light, discharged a jury-rigged rocket hoping thereby to outrun the photon gale. They did not, of course, and Aeriel’s crew became Rim Ghosts themselves, experiencing life in a succession of utterly strange cultures before, more by luck than judgment, returning to their own. The unexpected result of this ill-advised experiment was the developing of a method whereby atomic signs may be reversed, thereby making possible intercourse between our planets and the anti-matter worlds.

  “There is no doubt that the Rim Ghost phenomenon is one deserving of thorough investigation, but with the breakaway of the Rim Worlds from the Federation it has not been possible to maintain full contact with either the Survey Service or the Rhine Institute, which bodies, working in conjunction, would be eminently capable of carrying out the necessary research . . .”

  “You’re out of da
te, duckie,” chuckled Grimes.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “You’re out of date. But don’t let it worry you; it’s not your fault. It’s we poor, inefficient humans who’re to blame, for failing to feed new data into your memory tanks.”

  “And may I ask, sir, the nature of the new data?”

  “Just stick around,” said Grimes, “and some day, soon, I may be able to pass it on to you.”

  If Sonya comes back to tell me, he thought, and his odd mood of elevation evaporated.

  Chapter 4

  A WEEK PASSED, and for Commodore Grimes it was an exceptionally busy one. Rim Mammoth—ex-Beta Geminorum—had berthed, and that ship, as usual, was justifying her reputation as the white elephant of Rim Runners’ fleet. A large consignment of fish had spoiled on the passage from Mellise to Lorn. The Chief Reaction Drive Engineer had been beaten up in the course of a drunken brawl with the Purser. The Second, Third and Fourth Officers had stormed into the Astronautical Superintendent’s presence to aver that they would sooner shovel sludge in the State Sewage Farm than lift as much as another centimeter from a planetary surface under the command of the Mammoth’s Master and Chief Officer. Even so, Grimes found time to initiate his preliminary inquiries. To begin with, he had his secretary draw up a questionnaire, this asking for all relevant data on the sighting of Rim Ghosts. It seemed to him that Sonya Verrill would require for her crew personnel who were in the habit of sighting such apparitions. Then, having come to the reluctant conclusion that a lightjammer would be the most suitable research ship, he studied the schedules of such vessels as were in operation, trying to work out which one could be withdrawn from service with the minimal dislocation of the newly developed trade with the anti-matter systems.

  Rather to his annoyance, Miss Willoughby issued copies of the questionnaire to the crew of the only ship at the time in port—Rim Mammoth. The officers of that vessel were all in his black books, and it had been his intention to split them up, to transfer them to smaller and less well-appointed units of the fleet. Nonetheless, he studied the forms with interest when they were returned. He was not surprised by what he discovered. The Master and the Chief Officer, both of whom had come out to the Rim from the Interplanetary Transport Commission’s ships, had no sightings to report—Captain Jenkins, in fact, had scrawled across the paper, Superstitious Rubbish! The Second, Third and Fourth Officers, together with the Psionic Radio Officer, were all third generation Rim Worlders, and all of them had been witnesses, on more than one occasion, to the odd phenomena.

  Grimes ceased to be annoyed with Miss Willoughby. It looked as though the manning problem was already solved, insofar as executive officers were concerned. The Second, Third and Fourth Mates of Rim Mammoth were all due for promotion, and Captain Jenkins’ adverse report on their conduct and capabilities could well result in the transfer of their names to the bottom of the list. So there was scope for a little gentle blackmail. Volunteers wanted for a Rim Ghost hunt! You, and you, and you!

  But there was a snag. None of them had any sail training. How soon would Sonya Verrill want her ship? Would there be time to put the officers concerned through a hasty course in the handling of lightjammers? No doubt he would be able to find a team of suitably qualified men in the existing lightjammer fleet, but all of them were too useful where they were.

  It was while he was mulling this problem over in his mind that Commander Verrill was announced. She came into his office carrying a long envelope. She held it out to him, grinning. “Sealed orders, Commodore.”

  Grimes accepted the package, studying it cautiously. It bore the crest of the Rim Confederation.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “What’s the rush?” he grunted.

  But he picked up the paper knife from his desk—it had been the deadly horn of a Mellisan sea unicorn—and slit the envelope, pulling out the contents.

  He skipped the needlessly complicated legal language while, at the same time, getting the gist of it. As a result of talks between the President of the Rim Worlds Confederation and the Ambassador of the Interstellar Federation, it had been decided that the Confederation was to afford to the Federation’s Survey Service all possible assistance—at a price. One Commodore Grimes was empowered to negotiate directly with one Commander Verrill regarding the time charter of a suitable vessel and the employment of all necessary personnel. . . .

  Grimes read on—and then he came to the paragraph that caused him to raise his eyebrows in surprise.

  Commodore Grimes was granted indefinite leave of absence from his post of Astronautical Superintendent of Rim Runners, and was to arrange to hand over to Captain Farley as soon as possible. Commodore Grimes was to sail as Master of the vessel chartered by the Survey Service, and at all times was to further and protect the interests of the Rim Confederation. . . .

  Grimes grunted, looked up at the woman from under his heavy eyebrows. “Is this your doing, Sonya?”

  “Partly. But in large measure it’s due to the reluctance of your government to entrust one of its precious ships to an outsider.”

  “But why me?”

  She grinned again. “I said that if I were obliged to ship a Rim Confederation sailing master, I insisted on exercising some little control over the appointment. Then we all agreed that there was only one Master of sufficiently proven reliability to meet the requirements of all concerned . . .” She looked a little worried. “Aren’t you glad, John?”

  “It’s rather short notice,” he replied tersely and then, as he watched her expression, he smiled. “Frankly, Sonya, before you blew in aboard Star Roamer I’d decided that I was sick and tired of being a desk-borne Commodore. This crazy expedition of yours will be better than a holiday.”

  She snapped, “It’s not crazy.”

  His eyebrows went up. “No? An interstellar ghost hunt?”

  “Come off it, John. You know as well as I that the Rim Ghosts are objective phenomena. It’s a case of paranormal physics rather than paranormal psychology. It’s high time that somebody ran an investigation—and if you people are too tired to dedigitate, then somebody else will.”

  Grimes chuckled. “All right, all right, I’ve never seen a Rim Ghost myself, but the evidence is too—massive?—to laugh away. So, while Miss Willoughby starts getting my papers into something like order for Captain Farley—he’s on leave at present, so we won’t have long to wait for him—we’ll talk over the terms of the charter party.

  “To begin with, I assume that you’ll be wanting one of the lightjammers. Cutty Sark will be available very shortly.”

  She told him, “No. I don’t want a lightjammer.”

  “I would have thought that one would have been ideal for this . . . research.”

  “Yes. I know all about Captain Ralph Listowel and what happened to him and his crew on the maiden voyage of Aeriel. But there’s one big snag. When Aeriel’s people switched Time Tracks, they also, to a large extent, switched personalities. When I visit the Universe next door I want to do it as me, not as a smudged carbon copy.”

  “Then what sort of ship do you want?”

  She looked out of the window. “I was hoping that your Faraway Quest would be available.”

  “As a matter of fact, she is.”

  “And she has more gear than most of your merchant shipping. A Mass Proximity Indicator, for example . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Carlotti Communication and Direction Finding Equipment?”

  “Yes.”

  Then, “I know this is asking rather much—but could a sizeable hunk of that anti-matter iron be installed?”

  He grinned at her. “Your intelligence service isn’t quite as good as you’d have us believe, Sonya. The Quest has no anti-matter incorporated in her structure yet—as you know, it’s not allowed within a hundred miles of any populated area. But there’s a suitably sized sphere of the stuff hanging in orbit, and there it stays until Faraway Quest goes upstairs to collect it. You know th
e drill, of course—the antimatter, then an insulation of neutronium, than a steel shell with powerful permanent magnets built into it to keep the anti-matter from making contact with normal matter. A neutrino bombardment and, presto!—anti-gravity. As a matter of fact the reason for the Quest’s refitting was so that she could be used for research into the problems arising from incorporating anti-gravity into a ship with normal interstellar drive.”

  “Good. Your technicians had better see to the installing of the anti-matter, and then ours—there’s a bunch of them due in from Elsinore in Rim Bison—will be making a few modifications to the Carlotti gear. Meanwhile, have you considered manning?”

  “I have. But, before we go any further, just what modifications do you have in mind? I may as well make it clear now that the Carlotti gear will have to be restored to an as-was condition before the ship comes off hire.”

  “Don’t worry, it will be. Or brand new equipment will be installed.” She paused and glanced meaningfully at the coffee dispenser. Grimes drew her a cup, then one for himself. “Well, John, I suppose you’re all agog to learn what’s going to happen to your beloved Faraway Quest, to say nothing of you and me and the mugs who sail with us. Get this straight, I’m no boffin. I can handle a ship and navigate well enough to justify my Executive Branch commission, but that’s all.

  “Anyhow, this is the way of it, errors and omissions expected. As soon as the necessary modifications have been made to the ship, we blast off, and then cruise along the lanes on which Rim Ghost sightings have been most frequent. It will help, of course, if all members of the crew are people who’ve made a habit of seeing Rim Ghosts . . .”

  “That’s been attended to,” said Grimes.