Eric Russell - Next of Kin

Achtung!

Upon the cover the nominal publisher claims that this superb story was produced by Eric Frank Russell. It is a barefaced lie because his Eustace knows better.

Apart from the typing of it I had nothing whatever to do with the book. It was ghost-written for me by my next of kin. Or perhaps I should say it was kin-written by my next of ghost.

This character, the real author, deposes that his name is Eustace Postlethwaite and considers it a handicap to literary fame. All the same, he swears that this yarn will be printed because he has fraternal influence with the real publisher, Eustace Bam, who is a shady relative of the nominal publisher.

I am given to understand that neither of these Eustaces would ever be seen dead with a Willy and that where the name appears herein it should be viewed as obscene. Does this baffle you? Do you crave enlightenment? Read on…

He knew he’d stuck his neck out and it was too late to withdraw. It had been the same since early childhood when he’d accepted dares and been sorry immediately afterward. They say that one learns from experience; if that were true the human race would now be devoid of folly. He’d learned plenty in his time and forgotten most of it within a week. So yet again he’d wangled himself into a predicament and undoubtedly would be left to wangle himself out of it as best he could.

Once more he knocked at the door, a little harder but not imperatively. Behind the panels a chair scraped and a harsh voice responded with hearable impatience.

“Come in!”

Marching inside, he stood at attention before the desk; head erect, thumbs in line with the seams of the pants, feet at an angle of forty-five degrees. A robot, he thought, just a damned robot.

Fleet-Admiral Markham surveyed him from beneath bushy brows, his cold gaze slowly rising from feet to head then descending from head to feet.

“Who are you?”

“Scout-Officer John Leeming, sir.”

“Oh, yes.” Markham maintained the stare then suddenly barked, “Button your fly.”

Leeming jerked and showed embarrassment. “I can’t, sir. It has defective zipper.”

“Then why haven’t you visited the tailor? That’s what the base tailor-shop is for, isn’t it. Does your commanding officer approve of his men appearing before him sloppily dressed? I doubt it!, What the devil do you mean by it?”

“I haven’t had time to tend to it, sir. The zipper packed up only a few minutes ago,” explained Leeming.

“Is that so?” Fleet Admiral Markham lay back in his chair and scowled at nothing. “There’s a war on, a galactic war. To fight it successfully and to win it we are wholly dependent upon our space-navies. It’s a hell of a thing when the navy goes into battle with defective zippers.”

Since he seemed to expect a reply to that one, Leeming gave it: “With all respect, sir, I don’t see that it matters. During a battle a man doesn’t care what happens to his pants so long as he survives intact.”

“I agree,” said Markham. “But what worries me is the question of how much other and more important material may prove to be substandard. If civilian contractors fail on little things they’ll certainly fail on big ones. Such failures can cost lives.”

“Yes, sir,” said Leeming; wondering what the other was getting at.

“A new and untried ship, for instance,” Markham went on. “If it operates as planned, we’ll and good. If it doesn’t—” He let the sentence peter out, thought awhile, continued, “We asked for volunteers for special long-range reconnaissance patrols: You were the first to hand in your name. I want to know why.”

“If the job has to be done somebody must do it,” answered Leeming evasively.

“I am fully aware of the fact. But I want to know exactly why you volunteered.” He waited a bit, urged, “Come on, speak up! I won’t penalize a risk-taker for giving his reasons.”

Thus encouraged, Leeming said, “I like action. I like working on my own. I don’t like the time-wasting discipline they go in for around the base. It gives me a pain in the seat, Stand here, stand there, put your chest out, pull your belly in, polish your shoes, get a haircut, take that silly look off your face, who d’you think you’re speaking to? I’m a fully trained scout pilot and not a dressed-up dummy for uniformed loudmouths to bark at. I want to get on with the work for which I am suited and that’s all there is to it”

Markham showed no ire. On the contrary, he nodded understandingly. “So do most of us. Terrans always were an impatient bunch. Do you think I’m not frustrated sitting behind a desk while a major war is being fought?” Without waiting for a response he added, “I’ve no time far a man who volunteers because he’s been crossed in love or wants to do some heavy bragging or anything like that. I want a competent pilot who is an individualist afflicted with the fidgets.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You seem to fit the part all right. Your technical record is first-class. Your disciplinary record stinks to high heaven.” He eyed his listener blank-faced. “Two charges of refusing to obey a lawful order. Four for insolence and insubordination. One for parading with your cap on back to front. What on earth made you do that?”

“I had a bad attack of what-the-hell, sir,” explained Leeming.

“Did you? Well, it’s obvious that you’re a confounded nuisance. The space-base would be better off without you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As you know, we and a few allies are fighting a big combine led by the Lathians. The size of the opposition doesn’t worry us. What we lack in numbers we more than make up for in competence and efficiency. Our war-potential is great and rapidly growing greater. We’ll skin the Lathians alive before we’re through.”

Leeming offered no comment, having become tired of yessing.

“We’ve one serious weakness,” Markham informed. “We lack adequate information about the enemy’s cosmic hinterland. We know how wide the Combine spreads but not how deep into the starfield it goes. It’s true that the enemy is no wiser with regard to us, but that’s his worry.”

Again Leeming made no remark.

“Ordinary warships haven’t flight-duration sufficiently prolonged to dig deep behind the Combine’s spatial front. That difficulty will be overcome when we capture one or more of their outpost worlds with repair and refuelling facilities. However, we can’t afford to wait until then. Our Intelligence Service wants some essential data just as soon as it can be got. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good! We have developed. a new kind of superfast scout-ship. I can’t tell you how it functions except that it does not use the normal caesium-ion form of propulsion. Its type of power-unit is a top secret. For that reason it must not fall into the enemy’s hands. At the last resort the pilot must destroy it even if it means also destroying himself.”

“Completely wrecking a ship, though a small one, is much more difficult than it seems.”

“Not this ship,” Markham retorted. “She carries an effective charge in her engine-room. The pilot need but press a button to scatter the power-units piecemeal over a wide area”

“I see.”

“That charge is the sole explosive aboard. The ship has not a gun, not a guided missile, no armament of any sort. It’s a stripped-down vessel with everything sacrificed for the sake of speed and its only defence is to scoot good and fast. That, I assure you, it can do. Nothing in the galaxy can catch it providing it is squirting from all twenty propulsors.”

“Sounds good to me, sir,” approved Leeming, licking his lips. “It is good. It’s got to be good. The unanswered question is that of whether it is good enough to take the beating of a long, long trip. The tubes are the weakest part of any spaceship. Sooner or later they burn out. That’s what bothers me. The tubes on this ship have very special linings. In theory they should last for months. In practice they might not. You know. what that means?”