Бертрам Чандлер - Contraband From Otherspace

"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.

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 as 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.