Upon a Sea of Stars Read online

  “Yes, yes. But what?”

  “That, John, is one of the things we’re supposed to find out.”

  Grimes said, “You know, Sonya, I think that perhaps we are on the wrong track, We’re trying to do the job with technicians and machinery . . .”

  “So?”

  “How shall I put it? This way, perhaps. It could be that the best machine to employ would be the human mind. Or brain.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That Calhoun may have something after all. It will not surprise you to learn that I have, on microfilm, a complete dossier on every Rim Worlds’ officer in this ship. I’ve been through these dossiers, hoping to establish some sort of pattern. As you know, every Rim Worlder in this ship has at least one Rim Ghost sighting to his name. Now, our Mr. Calhoun, or Commander Calhoun if you like—you recall his remarks at our first conference, just after we’d lined up for the Mellise sun?”

  “I do. He was saying that the Rim Ghosts might be real—or should one say unreal?—ghosts.”

  “Yes. Anyhow, Calhoun was born on the Rim. On Ultimo, to be exact. But his parents were migrants. From Dunglass.”

  “Yes. . . .”

  “You know Dunglass?”

  “I was there once. An odd world. Ruled by a theocracy . . . Or is ‘theocracy’ the right word? But the United Reformed Spiritualist Church runs the show, after a fashion.”

  “Probably as well as any other government on any other world. Anyhow, the U.R.S.C., as no doubt you know, has its share of heretics. Calhoun’s parents were such. Apparently the house in which they lived was haunted, and they employed a bootleg exorcist to lay the ghost. This was frowned upon by the authorities, so much so that the Calhouns decided to emigrate. Now, one can be a heretic without being either an atheist or an agnostic. The Calhouns still believe, although reserving the right to believe in their own way. Their only son was brought up in their religion.”

  “And so what?”

  “So—ignoring telepathy, telekinesis, teleportation and the like—what proportion of psychic phenomena is due to the activities of the dear departed, and what proportion is due to a . . . leakage—from one Universe through to another?”

  “H’m. I must confess that this was a line of approach that never occurred to me. I don’t pretend to be an expert on so-called psychic matters, but if we did hold a seance, shouldn’t we require a medium?”

  “We have one—Mr. Mayhew.”

  “Yes. But as you know, all these Rhine Institute graduates insist that there’s nothing supernatural about their psionic talents. Furthermore, one can be telepathic without being clairvoyant.”

  “Can one, Sonya? I’m not so sure. There are quite a few recorded cases of clairvoyance, and many of them can be explained by telepathy. Even the premonitory ones can be accounted for by assuming the reception of a telepathic broadcast from a Universe with a slightly different Time Scale. There is no need to assume that the Rim Ghosts are a supernatural phenomenon. If we do pay lip service to one of the supernatural religions it will only be to create the right conditions for our own experiments.”

  She said, “You rank me, John, and you’re in command of this ship and this expedition. But I still don’t like it.”

  “You think that we’re selling out, as it were, to the supernaturalists?”

  “Frankly, yes.”

  “I don’t see it that way. What is natural, and what is supernatural? Can you draw a dividing line? I can’t.”

  “All right.” She unstrapped herself and got to her feet, the slight effort pushing her up and clear from the chair. She hung there, motionless, until the feeble gravitational field of her shoe soles pulled her back to the deck. Then, contact having been made with solidity, she flung her hands out in an appealing gesture. “Do what you can, John, any way you like. But do it. You’ve guessed how hard it was for me to persuade our top brass to pour time and money into what your Commander Swinton called a wild ghost chase. Unless we get results, there’ll never be another one. And you know that I want results. And you know the sort of results I want.” Her hands fell to her sides. “Only—only I’ve stood on my own flat feet for so long that it rather hurts to have to call in outside assistance.”

  “It won’t be outside assistance, Sonya. We shall be working with and through our own people, aboard our own ship. All that we shall be trying to do will be the creation of conditions favorable to a leakage from one Universe to another.”

  “As you say. As you say.” She laughed briefly. “After all, men and women have been in the habit of selling their souls to the Devil from the very beginnings of human history. Or mythology.” She paused. “No, history is the better word.”

  He said, exasperated, “But we won’t be selling our souls to the Devil. If it makes Calhoun any happier to think that he’s gained a few converts to the odd faith of his parents, what does it matter?” He reached out for his telephone, pressed a numbered stud. “Mr. Mayhew? Commodore here. Can you spare me a moment?” He pressed another stud. “Commander Calhoun? Commodore here. Would you mind stepping up to my quarters?”

  Sonya Verrill pulled herself back into her chair, buckled herself in and she and Grimes sat back to wait.

  Mayhew was first to arrive in Grimes’ day cabin. He was untidy as always, his uniform shirt sloppily buttoned, one shoulderboard hanging adrift, his wispy gray hair rumpled, his eyes vague and unfocused. He stifled a yawn. “Yes, sir?”

  “Take a seat, please, Mr. Mayhew.” There was a sharp rap at the door. “Come in!”

  Calhoun entered, somewhat ostentatiously wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He, too, was told to be seated.

  “Commander Calhoun,” said Grimes, “I believe that you were brought up in the beliefs of the United Reformed Spiritualist Church?”

  “No, sir.” The engineer’s reply was a stressed negative. “No, sir. I was brought up in the beliefs of the United Primitive Spiritualist Church.” He seemed to realize that his answer had caused a certain confusion in Grimes’ mind, so went on, “You will know something of Dunglass, sir. You will know that there were people, my parents among them, who advocated a return to the old beliefs, the old, the only true faith. The right to exorcise, for example . . .”

  “Yes, Commander. I understand. But you believe in the existence of the Rim Ghosts?”

  “Of course, sir—although it has yet to be determined if they are good or evil manifestations. If they are evil, then exorcism should be practiced.”

  “Yes, of course. As you are well aware, most of us in this ship do not hold the same views as yourself regarding the phenomena of the Rim Ghosts. But you will agree that it is desirable that contact be made with one or more of the apparitions—after all, this is the purpose of this expedition. And if such contact is made . . .” Grimes paused. “If such contact is made, it might well be to the advantage of your church.”

  “That is so, sir.”

  “Perhaps you might help us to make such a contact.”

  “How, sir? I do not think that tampering with the Drive controls will achieve any useful result.”

  “That was not in my mind. But it had occurred to me, Commander, that there are certain rites practiced by your Church . . .”

  “A seance, you mean, Commodore? But I have no mediumistic talents. If such had been the case I should not be here now; I should have entered our priesthood.”

  “But you know the drill?”

  “Yes, sir. I am conversant with the rites and ceremonies. But without a medium they are valueless.”

  “Here is our medium,” said Grimes, nodding towards the almost asleep Mayhew.

  The Psionic Radio Officer jerked awake. “Come off it!” he ejaculated. “I’m a technician, not a cheap fortune teller!” Then, “I beg your pardon, sir. What I meant to say is that the Rhine Institute has always been opposed to superstition.”

  “Religion is not superstition, you half-witted teacup reader!” shouted Calhoun.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen . . .” s
oothed Grimes. “Need I remind you that we are under Naval discipline, and that I could order you, Commander Calhoun, to organize a seance, and you Mr. Mayhew, to officiate as medium?”

  “Even in the Navy, sir,” said Calhoun, his freckles standing out sharply against the suddenly white skin of his face, “there are lawful and unlawful commands.”

  “And,” Grimes told him coldly, “bearing in mind the peculiar purpose of this expedition, such a command made by myself would be construed as lawful by the Board of Admiralty. But many centuries ago, back in the days when navies were made up of wooden ships sailing Earth’s seas, there used to be a saying: ‘One volunteer is worth ten pressed men.’ Surely, Commander, you will not hesitate to volunteer to play your part in an experiment that, when made public, could well result in a flood of converts to your faith?”

  “If you put it that way, sir, But . . .”

  “And surely, Mr. Mayhew, you will not hesitate to play your part? After all, it could well lead to a Fellowship of your Institute. . . .”

  “But, sir, the superstition . . .”

  “If you dare to use that word again, Mayhew . . .” threatened Calhoun.

  “Commander! Please remember where you are. And Mr. Mayhew, I am asking you to respect Commander Calhoun’s beliefs. If that is ineffective I shall order you to do so—with the usual penalties if the order is willfully disobeyed.”

  The pair of them lapsed into a sulky silence.

  Grimes went on, “I shall leave matters in your hands, Commander. You are the only person in the ship qualified to carry out the necessary organization. And you, Mr. Mayhew, will co-operate fully with Commander Calhoun.” He smiled briefly. “And now, gentlemen, perhaps a little refreshment before you engage yourself upon what are, after all, somewhat unusual duties. . . .”

  When they were gone, mellowed by the alcohol, almost friendly towards each other, Sonya Verrill said, “The big stick and the carrot . . . I hope the combination gets results.”

  “I hope it gets the results we want,” replied Grimes. “We don’t want to raise any ghosts of the wrong sort.”

  “No,” whispered Sonya, her face suddenly pale and strained. “No.”

  Chapter 8

  THE PREPARATIONS for the seance took much longer than Grimes had anticipated. But it was obvious that Calhoun, religiously as well as professionally, was a perfectionist. The most time-consuming operation was the construction of a harmonium, during which the wardroom piano was cannibalized for its keyboard, this being cut down from seven and a half octaves to five. The engineer’s workshop was able to turn out the necessary bellows and treadles, and the brass vibrators or “reeds.” The ivory from the surplus keys was utilized in the manufacture of the various stops. Grimes, watching with interest the fabrication of the archaic instrument, listening wincingly to the caterwauling notes of its initial tests—”We must get the wheezing quality . . .” insisted Calhoun—was inclined to deplore the sacrifice of what had been a well-cared-for and versatile music maker, the life and soul of many a good party during previous expeditions in Faraway Quest. But the seance had been his idea initially, so he felt that he had no right to criticize.

  Then the wardroom was stripped of its fittings. The comfortable, well padded chairs were removed and replaced by hard metal benches. The paneling was covered by dingy gray drapes—bedsheets that had been passed through a dye concocted from peculiar ingredients by Dr. Todhunter and Karen Schmidt. Dimmers were fitted to the light switches, and some of the fluorescent tubes were removed and replaced by bulbs giving a peculiarly dingy red illumination. And there were other accessories to be made: A tin speaking trumpet, and a tambourine, both of which were decorated with lines and blobs of luminous paint.

  At last everything was ready.

  Grimes sent for his First Lieutenant. “Commander Swinton,” he said, “we shall hold our seance at 2100 hours this evening, ship’s time. Please see to it that all departments are notified.”

  “Ay, ay, sir.”

  “And wipe that silly grin off your face!”

  “Sorry, sir. But you must admit that after that toast, when we spliced the mainbrace, this is turning out to be a wilder ghost chase than any of us anticipated.”

  “From Commander Calhoun’s viewpoint it’s somewhat less wild than it was, Swinton. As far as he’s concerned we’re dropping all the scientific flummery and returning to the primitive methods, the tried and trusted methods, of his religion. And all the evidence indicates that these methods do work after a fashion. They create the right atmosphere. They raise—something. From inside, a release of the wild talents possessed by those present at the seance? From Outside? From the next Time Track but three? I don’t know, Swinton. I don’t know—yet.”

  “It will be an interesting experiment.”

  “Yes. And I’m pleased that Mr. Mayhew has been persuaded to look at it in that light.”

  “I suppose that he has got mediumistic talents, sir?”

  “He must have, Swinton. What is a medium but a telepath?”

  “Could be, sir. Could be. But . . .”

  “Don’t say that Commander Calhoun has converted you?”

  “He’s tried hard enough, sir. Oh, I’m willing to believe that his Church, in either the Primitive or the Reformed versions, has produced some interesting phenomena, but I’ve yet to be convinced that they’re supernatural, any more than the Rim Ghosts are. I can’t understand why the Rhine Institute hasn’t done more to investigate Spiritualism.”

  “Because, my boy, it hasn’t been allowed to. It’s scientific. Every time that one of its investigators sniffs around a Spiritualist Church he’s given either the cold shoulder or the bum’s rush. You know the line of talk—‘There are some things that we aren’t meant to know. Faith is all-important; knowledge is a device of the Devil.’ And so on. And so on.”

  “Then I’m surprised that Calhoun was among the volunteers for this expedition.”

  “You shouldn’t be. Commander Calhoun has an axe to grind. He hopes that something will be discovered that will be useful to his Reformed Church. Exorcism by remote control, for example . . .”

  “But that would be dragging in Science.”

  “As a servant, not as a competitor.”

  “I think I see . . .” The young man still looked dubious, however. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you, Commander Swinton. Oh, just one more thing. As soon as this . . . experiment is over, please get the wardroom looking like a wardroom, and not like a down-at-the-heels meeting house.”

  “That, sir, will be a pleasure.”

  Grimes dined in his own quarters that night—the wardroom, as it was at this time, was far too comfortless. Sonya Verrill kept him company. They enjoyed their meal together. Although it was simple it was well cooked and nicely served, and the wines from the Commodore’s private stock were an excellent accompaniment to the food. While they were eating they chatted about minor matters and listened to the background music softly tinkling from Grimes’ playmaster.

  And then, after Grimes had produced two bulbs of vintage port and a box of fine cigars imported from Caribbea, they talked more seriously.

  She said, “I hate to admit it, John, but I’m rather frightened.”

  “You, of all people? Why, Sonya?”

  “As long as this expedition was being run on scientific lines it was . . . How shall I put it? It was, in spite of my own private reasons for being here, fun. Something in it, as you said, of the old days of piracy—but only playing at pirates. A Carlotti beacon instead of a real gun or laser projector, and a sort of atmosphere about it all of, “Bang! You’re dead!” But now . . . As I told you, I’ve been on Dunglass. It’s a dreary world, with cities that are no more than straggling towns, streets and streets of mean little houses and Meeting Halls that are just sheds designed, one would think, with a deliberate avoidance of pleasing proportion. And the feeling all the time that one is being watched, disapprovingly, by the ghosts of all the countl
ess millions who have gone before.

  “I went to one or two of their services. Partly out of curiosity, and partly because it was my job, as an Intelligence Officer. Cold, cold halls—with a chill that didn’t seem to be natural—and dreary hymn singing by drab people, and dim lights, and a voice that seemed to come from nowhere giving advice about the most trivial matters—and some that weren’t so trivial. . . .

  “Yes, I remember it well. There was this voice—a man’s voice, deep, although the medium was a skinny little woman. The man sitting next to me whispered that it was Red Eagle, a Spirit Guide. He went on to say that this Red Eagle was, or had been, a Red Indian, an American Indian. I wondered what Red Eagle was doing so many light years away from home, but it occurred to me that Time and Space, as we know them, probably mean nothing to spirits, so kept quiet. The voice said, ‘There is a stranger here tonight, a woman from beyond the sky.’ Well, most of those present must have known who I was. The voice went on, ‘I have a message for the stranger. I see a ship. I see a ship falling through the emptiness, far and far away . . .’ Once again, so what? I was a spacewoman and it was no secret. ‘Far away, far away, where the stars are few and dim, far and few . . . And I see the name of the ship, in gold letters on her prow . . . I can read the name . . . Outsider. . .’ And that meant nothing to me—then. ‘I see the Captain, brave in his black and gold. You know him. You will know him again . . .’ And then there was a description of the Captain’s appearance, and I knew that it was Derek Calver. As you are aware, I first met Derek when he was Second Mate of the old Lorn Lady. There is another man. He is one of the officers, although he, too, has been a Captain. He is afraid, and he is disgraced, and he is locked in his cabin . . .’ And once again there was the description—even to the laser burn on the left buttock and the funny little mole just above the navel. It was Bill all right. Bill Maudsley. ‘He is sick, and he is afraid, and you are not with him, and he knows that he has lost you forever. There is a bottle, and he drinks from it, and the spilled fluid drifts around the air of the cabin in a mist, in a spray. He looks at the empty bottle and curses, then smashes it on the wall. The broken, splintered neck is still in his hand, and he brings the sharp, jagged end of it across his throat . . .’