Robert Silverberg: Voyage to Procyon

Conroy could see the whole fiendish plan. Bayliss Kent had forced the ship’s officers, down to Number Nineteen Thrust Tube, one of the huge projectors that drove the mighty ship through space. All Kent needed to do would be to kill them with ray pistols and claim that something had gone wrong with the atomic furnace. It would be impossible to disprove.

And then Bayliss Kent would be Captain.

Unless Peter Conroy could stop him.

He raced through the gleaming, twisting corridors of the giant ship, running frantically down and down toward Number Nineteen Thrust Tube. He pushed his way past surprised crew members, circled into the lower levels of the ship, made his way through the network of passageways that led to the blast tubes. Finally he reached Power Section.

The guard at the door was one of Kent’s men. He looked up, startled, as Conroy appeared.

“Where are you—?”

Before the man could do anything, Conroy cut him down with a shot from his ray pistol. This was war—civil war—and there was no time for subtlety.

He stepped over the body and flung open the door of Number Nineteen.

He took in the situation in a glance. The Staff Officers, including the Captain, were lined up against one wall, and four of Kent’s men were aiming their ray pistols.

Kent was saying: “Ready—aim—”

But the last word never was uttered. Kent was beginning to form it when Conroy got both his guns out and started to fire.

His first bolt smashed down the nearest executioner; a fraction of a second later, the man next to him dropped. Their attention deflected from the victims to Conroy, the other two and Kent whirled to face the newcomer.

Two more bolts blasted out—the first dropping one of the remaining gunmen, the second singeing Bayliss Kent’s shoulder. Conroy hit the floor as a buzzing blaster bolt from the third man ripped over his head and splattered into the wall behind him.

Firing from the floor, he put a bolt through Kent’s remaining man—a moment after the gunman had raked the officers with his blaster. Some of them were dead; Conroy had no way of telling which ones. He had a more urgent problem.

Bayliss Kent was coming toward him—and the blaster needed recharging.

There was no time to perform the operation. He hurled the dead pistol at Kent’s midsection and plunged after it. Kent met him head on. Even with a numbed shoulder, Bayliss Kent was a formidable antagonist. His big fists pounded into Conroy’s stomach, driving him back against the blaster-seared wall. He felt heat radiating through his uniform, then pushed away and stepped forward.

His fist travelled in a short arc and crashed into the already-singed shoulder of the other man. Kent roared in pain, and Conroy mercilessly drove a fist into his stomach, sending him spinning dizzily backward. Conroy followed with a final punch and Kent cracked heavily against the metal wall of the unit and slumped to the floor.

Conroy looked around. The mopping-up operation was complete.

As for the ship’s officers, the wide-beam blaster had done its job well. Three of the men were shapeless corpses leaning against the wall, and two of the others were badly wounded. And one of these two was the age-bent figure of the Captain. The old man was still alive. Conroy knelt at his side.

“Captain! Captain Conroy!” Peter shouted.

The old man opened his eyes. “Hello, son. That was a beautiful job you did.”

“But I was too late!”

The old captain shook his head. “No. I didn’t have much time, anyway I’m a very old man now.” He raised himself on one elbow. “Who else is left?”

Conroy glanced around. “Supply Officer, Power Officer, Maintenance Officer,” he said. “And you.”

“I don’t count,” the dying captain said. “You’ll be able to scratch me from the list soon.” He frowned. “No Exec? No Navigator?” The Captain leaned back and closed his weary eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “It looks like it’s up to you,” he said. His veined, aged hand went up to his collar and removed the golden starcluster of his rank. He handed it to Peter.

“Carry on—Captain Conroy.”

He closed his eyes in death. Conroy stood up slowly, tears in his eyes, the golden cluster gripped tightly in his hand. The ship would continue on to Procyon now.

“I will, Grandfather. I will.”