The Dark Dimensions Page 3

  "Agreed," remarked Druthen smugly. "But second-raters, all of them. On the first occasion—correct me if I'm wrong—it was an expedition organized by a group of religious fanatics. On the third occasion there was, with the Commodore and you, Mrs. Grimes, a shipload of fellow spacemen and—women. So. . . ."

  Grimes managed to keep his temper. "So it all never happened, Doctor?"

  "That is my opinion, Commodore." He refilled his glass without invitation. "Frankly, I maintain that this expedition should have been under the command of a hardheaded scientist rather than a spaceman who has shown himself to be as superstitious as the old-time seamen regarding whom he is such an expert."

  Grimes grinned mirthlessly. "But I am in command, Doctor."

  "That is quite obvious. For example, this wasting of time by running to bring your famous Lead Stars in line rather than steering directly for the last reported position of The Outsider."

  Grimes laughed. "As long as I'm in command, Dr. Druthen, things will be done my way. But I will tell you why I'm doing things this way. The Outsider . . . wobbles. Unpredictably. Sometimes it is this side of the Leads, sometimes the other. Sometimes it is further in, toward the Rim, sometimes it is further out. In the unlikely event of its being in the vicinity of the position at which I shall bring the Lead Stars in line it will be within the detection range of several planet-based observatories. It just might be there, but the chances are that it will not be. So I stand out, and out, until I've run my distance, and then if I've picked up nothing on the mass proximity indicator I just cruise around in circles, through an ever expanding volume of space. Quite simple, really."

  "Simple!" snorted Druthen. He muttered something about people who must have learned their navigation in Noah's Ark. He splashed more gin into his glass. Grimes was pleased to see that the bottle was empty.

  Sonya made a major production of consulting her wristwatch. She said, "It's time that we got dressed for dinner."

  Surily, Druthen took the hint. He finished his drink, got up clumsily. "Thank you, Commodore. Thank you, Mrs. Grimes. I suppose I'd better freshen up myself. No, you needn't come with me. I can find my own way down."

  When the door had shut behind him Grimes looked at Sonya, and she looked at him. Grimes demanded, of nobody in particular, "What have I done to deserve this?"

  "Plenty," she told him. Then, "Pour me a drink, a stiff one. I just didn't want to be accused of setting that bastard a bad example."

  He complied. "I don't think that anybody could possibly."

  She laughed. "You're right." Then, "But don't underestimate him, John. He wasn't the only one doing his homework before we lifted off. I did, too, while you were getting the ship ready. I was able to get my paws on his dossier. To begin with, he's brilliant. Not quite a genius—although he likes to think that he is—but not far from it. He is also notorious for being completely lacking in the social graces."

  "You can say that again!"

  "But . . . and it's an interesting 'but'. But this he turns to his advantage. When he wants to pick anybody's brains he goes out of his way to annoy them—and, as like as not, they spill far more beans than they would do normally."

  "Mphm," grunted Grimes, feeling smugly pleased with himself. "Mphm."

  "He resents all authority. . . ."

  "Doesn't he just!"

  "He feels that he has not received his just due."

  "Who doesn't? But since when was this a just universe?"

  "In short, he's dangerous."

  "Aren't we all in this rustbucket? Aren't we all?" he refilled his glass from the whiskey bottle. "Here's tae us. What's like us? De'il a yin!"

  "And thank all the odd gods of the galaxy for that," she riposted.

  6

  The run out to the departure position was uneventful and reasonably pleasant. It could have been more pleasant; spacemen welcome company aboard their ships whom they can impress with their shop talk. But the scientists and technicians each had their own mess and, obedient to Druthen, kept themselves to themselves. It could have been unpleasant, Grimes conceded, if Druthen had forced his company upon Sonya and himself. He was content to let well enough alone.

  Meanwhile, he could and did enjoy the society of Mayhew and Clarisse, of Billy Williams, of young Major Dalzell, of the other officers. But during the drink and talk sessions it was hard to keep the conversation away from the purpose of their expedition, from the findings and the fates of earlier expeditions.

  Why had Calver been successful (if he had been successful)? Why had those before him and after him met disaster? "There's only one way to find out, Skipper," Williams had said cheerfully. "We'll just have to see what happens to us! And if you're around, the fat always gets pulled out of the fire somehow!"

  "There has to be a first time for everything," Grimes told his second in command with grim humor. "There'll be a first time when the fat won't be pulled out of the fire."

  "She'll be right," Williams told him. "Mark my words, Skipper. She'll be right."

  And all of them studied the sailing directions, such as they were, until they knew them by heart. "Put Macbeth and Kinsolving's sun in line," the long dead Maudsley had told somebody. "Put Macbeth and Kinsolving's sun in line, and keep them so. That's the way that we came back. Fifty light years, and all hands choking on the stink of frying lubricating oil from the Mannschenn Drive . . ." And for fifty light years Calver had run, but with the Lead Stars in line astern. He had logged the distance, but found nothing. He had initiated a search pattern, and at last he had been successful. Those following him had not experienced the same difficulties—but each successive Ship had been fitted with an improved model of the mass proximity indicator. Calver's instrument had been no more than a prototype, capable of detection at only short ranges.

  On the ship sped, running the Rim, and Carnaby checked and rechecked the fixes that he got from the Carlotti beacons set along the very edge of the galaxy. They were not very accurate fixes; the navigational aids had been positioned to assist vessels running under Mannschenn Drive from known world to known world, not a ship out where no ship, normally, had any business to be. But Carnaby was a good navigator, possessing the valuable quality of intuition. He could look at a spider's web of intersecting lines and mutter, "That can't be right." He could look at another one and say, "That could be right." Now and again he would state, "This is right."

  He said firmly, "This is right."

  Grimes and Williams were with him in the control room. The Commodore did not hesitate. "All right, Commander Williams," he ordered. "You know the drill."

  Williams spoke into the most convenient intercom microphone. "Attention, attention. All bridge officers to Control. All hands stand by for shutdown of Mannschenn Drive, free fall and centrifugal effects." Throughout the ship the alarm bells that he had actuated were ringing.

  Sonya came in, followed by Hendrikson and Daniels. Each of them went to a chair, strapped himself securely. Druthen came in, bobbing up through the hatch like some pantomime monster. His normally pale face was flushed. He sputtered, "What is the meaning of this, Commodore? We were in the middle of a most important experiment."

  "And we, Doctor, are in the middle of a most important piece of navigation."

  "There should have been warning."

  "There was warning. Three hours ago the announcement was made that the adjustment of trajectory would be at about this time."

  "Sir, we shall overrun . . ." warned Carnaby.

  "Get into a chair, Druthen!" snapped Grimes.

  The scientist, moving surprisingly fast for one of his build, complied, sat there glowering.

  "Inertial drive—off!" Grimes ordered.

  "Inertial drive—off!" repeated Williams.

  The irregular throbbing slowed, ceased. There were weightlessness and loss of spacial orientation.

  "Mannschenn Drive—off!"

  Down in the Mannschenn Drive room the spinning, precessing gyroscopes slowed to a halt, their thin, high whine
dropped to a low humming, a rumble, then was silenced. Sight and hearing were distorted; the time sense was twisted. Grimes heard Sonya whisper, "Odd, very odd. This is the first time I've seen double. Is it me, or is something wrong with the Drive?"

  "Did you see double?" asked Carnaby, with professional interest. "I didn't, Commander Verrill."

  She laughed shakily. "It must have been a manifestation of wishful thinking, or something. It was only my husband, the Commodore, that I saw two of. . . ." She was recovering fast. "And did you see two of me, John?"

  "One is ample," he replied.

  But he had not seen even one of her. The woman who, briefly, had occupied Sonya's seat had not been Sonya, although it was somebody who once had been as familiar to him as Sonya was now.

  "I would have thought," commented Druthen, "that you people would have been accustomed by now to the psychological effects of changing rates of temporal precession."

  "It's just that we haven't lost our sense of wonder, Doctor," Grimes told him.

  He looked out through the viewport. The Lens was there, looking as it should look when viewed in the normal continuum, a glowing ellipsoid against the absolute blackness. Visible against the pearly mistiness were the Rim Suns, sparks upon the face of the haze. Carnaby was busy with his instruments. "Yes," he muttered, "that's Kinsolving all right. Its spectral type can't be confused with anything else . . . Macbeth must be obscured, directly in line with it . . . yes . . . ."

  "Set trajectory, Mr. Carnaby?" asked Grimes.

  "Yes, sir. You may set trajectory."

  "Good." Grimes gave the orders decisively. Faraway Quest turned on her directional gyroscopes until the Kinsolving sun was directly astern. Inertial and Mannschenn Drives were restarted. She was on her way.

  "I saw two of you again, John," said Sonya in a peculiarly flat voice.

  Druthen laughed sneeringly.

  And Grimes asked himself silently, Why did I see her?

  7

  Ever since the first ships, captains have had their confidants. Usually this role is played by a senior officer, but very rarely is it the second-in-command. Ship's doctors, with their almost priestly status, have enjoyed—and still do so enjoy—the status of privileged listeners. But it was not Faraway Quest's doctor whose company Grimes sought when he wished to talk things out. It was Mayhew.

  Grimes sat with the psionic communications officer in the cabin that had been put to use as the ship's Psionic Communications Station. As a general rule PCOs used their own living quarters for this purpose, but PCOs did not often carry their wives with them. On this voyage Mayhew was accompanied by Clarisse. Clarisse did not think that the psionic amplifier—the so-called "dog's brain in aspic"—was a pleasant thing to have in plain view all the time, to live with and to sleep with. So Lassie—the name by which Mayhew called his disembodied pet—was banished to a spare cabin that was little more than a dogbox anyhow.

  Those wrinkled masses of cerebral tissue suspended in their transparent tanks of nutrient solution gave most people the horrors, and the Commodore was no exception. As he talked with Mayhew he was careful not to look at Lassie. It was hard, in these cramped quarters, to avoid doing so.

  "We're on the last leg, Ken," he remarked.

  "Yes, John."

  "Have you picked anything up from anybody—or anything?"

  "I've told Lassie to keep her telepathic ears skinned for any indication that the Waldegren destroyer is in the vicinity. So far—nothing."

  "Mphm. Of course, she mightn't have any telepaths on board. Let's face it, Ken, you're one of the last of a dying breed."

  "We aren't quite extinct, John, as well you know. Too, everybody transmits telepathically, to a greater or lesser extent. People like myself and Clarisse are, essentially, trained, selective receivers."

  "I know." Grimes cleared his throat. "You must have been receiving quite a few things from the personnel of this vessel. . . ."

  Mayhew laughed. "I can guess what's coming next. But, as I've told you on quite a few past occasions, I'm bound by my oath of secrecy. We just don't pry, John. If we did pry—and if it became known, as it certainly would—we'd find ourselves the most popular guests at a lynching party. And, in any case, it's not done."

  "Not even when the safety of the ship is involved?"

  "The old, old argument. All power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. I'll not be a party to your corruption."

  But Grimes was persistent. "Even when you're not actually prying you must pick a few things up, without trying to, without meaning to. . . ."

  "Well, yes. But it's just—how shall I put it?—background noise. Here's a good analogy for you, and one that you'll understand. After all, you're the Rim Worlds' own authority on Terran sea transport from Noah's Ark to the dawn of the Space Age. Think of the early days of radio—or wireless telegraphy as it was then called. Telegraphy, not telephony. Messages tapped out in Morse code, with dots and dashes. There'd be one of the old time Sparkses on watch, his earphones clamped over his head, listening. He'd hear the crash and crackle of static; he'd hear relatively close stations booming in, and thin, mosquito voices of distant ones. But—the only one that he'd actually hear would be the one that he wanted to hear."

  "Go on."

  "It's like that with Clarisse and myself. We hear a horrid jumble of thoughts all the time but ignore them. But if there were the faintest whisper from the Waldegren ship or from The Outsider we'd do our damnedest to read it loud and clear."

  "Yes, I see, But. . . ."

  "Something's worrying you, John."

  "You don't have to be a telepath to realize that."

  Mayhew scowled. "Unless you can convince me that the ship—or anybody aboard her—is in danger I'll not pry."

  "Not even on me?"

  "With your permission I might. But what seems to be the trouble? Tell me out loud. I'll not put on my thought reading act unless I have to."

  "It was during the alteration of trajectory. You know as well as any of us that there are all kinds of odd psychological effects when the Mannschenn Drive is stopped or restarted."

  "Too right."

  "This time they were odder than usual. To two of us, at least. To Sonya and myself."

  "Go on."

  "Sonya . . . saw two of me. No, she wasn't seeing double. There was only one of anybody and anything else in the control room."

  "Interesting. I'd have thought that one of you would be ample. And what did you see?"

  "Whom did I see, you should have said. I was looking at Sonya. But it was not Sonya whom I saw. Years ago I knew a woman called Maggie Lazenby. She was a specialist officer in the Survey Service, an ethologist, with a doctorate in that science, and commander's rank. Very similar to Sonya in appearance. She married a bloke called Mike Carshalton. He's an admiral now, I believe."

  "Local girl makes good. If she'd married you she'd only be Mrs. Commodore—and a commodore of the Reserve at that."

  "I like being a commodore of the Reserve. I don't think I'd like being an admiral. But—it was all rather oddish. . . ."

  Mayhew laughed. "You, of all people, should be used to the odd things that happen out on the Rim. Don't tell me that you've forgotten the Wild Ghost Chase, in this very ship!"

  "Hardly. It was during that when Sonya and I decided to get hitched. But I just don't like these odd things happening at this time."

  "Getting choosy in your old age."

  "Who's old? But what I'm driving at is this. There's some sort of tie-in with the Outsiders' Ship and Kinsolving's Planet. After all, this business of the Lead Stars—Macbeth and Kinsolving in line. Kinsolving—and Macbeth. Years ago, long before our time, there was that odd business on one of the Macbeth planets. A ship from nowhere, old, derelict. A gift horse for the colonists, who didn't look the gift horse in the mouth carefully enough. It came from nowhere and it went back to nowhere—with a few hundred men and women aboard."

  "Yes. I've read the story."

  "S
o . . ." murmured Grimes softly.

  "So what?"

  "I was hoping you'd have some sort of a clue."

  "I only work here, John."

  "But you're a sensitive."

  "A selective sensitive. Do you think it would help if I . . . pried?"

  "Go ahead. It's my mind."

  "Then . . . relax. Just relax. Don't think of anything in particular. . . ."

  Grimes tried to relax. He found that he was looking at that obscenely named animal brain in the transparent container. He tried to look elsewhere, but couldn't. And it was aware of him. A dim, wavering image formed in his mind—that of a large, furry dog of indeterminate breed, a friendly dog, but a timid one. What was in his mind's eye was far better than what was in his physical eye, and he was grateful for it. He saw his hand go out and down to pat, to stroke the visionary dog. He saw the plumed tail waving.