Andre Norton - The Science Fiction anthology

She should have guessed, she thought bitterly. She had been sold a bill of goods. And there was no going back now; she was stuck with it.

Stuck with it.

She took another look. At least it would be healthy, and there was something besides the concrete and granite of a city to look at. It wouldn’t be day in and day out of sitting eight hours behind a typewriter, and then back to her lonesome two rooms for an evening of bridge or a night with a boring book.

And there was nothing wrong with the town that couldn’t be remedied and improved with a little work. She and the others would see to that. Progress was going to hit Landing City whether the colonists like it or not.

The colonists....

She stared at the whiskery, ragged lot of men of all shapes and sizes that were waiting to welcome them.

They had probably, she thought queerly, never heard a lecture on art in their lives. And they wouldn’t have any interest in historical novels and it was an even-money bet that bridge and canasta games would bore them.

They were uncultured , she thought happily, thoroughly uncultured! Their main interest was probably in having a home and raising a family and working....

And with a shave and clean clothes, they might even be handsome! A dimly remembered poster of a blond-haired giant flashed into her mind, but she dismissed it. The men below had a hard, healthy look about them, a certain virility, an individuality that the pale men back on Earth, now that she thought of it, seemed to lack.

She was very definitely going to like it here.

Then she had a sudden, nagging thought.

How would the colonists take to her and the other bedraggled females?

IX

The twinkling fire came nearer and they could make out the outlines of the slim-ship. It rapidly grew in size and finally settled to a heavy, groaning rest on the pitted and blackened landing field.

Karl was holding his breath, staring at the outline of the hatch on the ship’s rusty side. It opened and the flight of descent stairs slid out. The captain and crew came out first.

Then the women filed down the ladder, smiling timidly and looking cold and frightened.

Ido not wish to appear prejudiced against scientists. I am not prejudiced, but I have observed the scientific mind in action, on a great many occasions, and I find it rather incomprehensible.

It is true that there are men with a scientific turn of mind who, at the same time, you can feel safe to stand with shoulder to shoulder, in an emergency. Young Hendricks, who was my junior officer on the Ertak , back in those early days of the Special Patrol Service, about which I have written so much, was one of these.

Nor, now that I come to think of the matter in the cool and impartial manner which is typical of me, was young Hendricks the only one. There was a chap—let’s see, now. I remember his face very well; he was one of those dark, wiry, alert men, a native of Earth, and his name was—Inverness! Carlos Inverness. Old John Hanson’s memory isn’t quite as tricky as some of these smart young officers of the Service, so newly commissioned that the silver braid is not yet fitted to the curve of their sleeves, would lead one to believe.

I met Inverness in the ante-room of the Chief of Command. The Chief was tied up in one of the long-winded meetings which the Silver-sleeves devoted largely to the making of new rules and regulations for the confusion of both men and officers of the Service, but he came out long enough to give me the Ertak’s orders in person.

“Glad to see you here at Base again, Commander,” he said, in his crisp, business-like way. “Hear some good reports of your work; keep it up!”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, wondering what was in the air. Any time the Chief was complimentary, it was well to look out for squalls—which is an old Earth term for unexpected trouble.

“Not at all, Commander, not at all. And now, let me present Carlos Inverness, the scientist, of whom you have undoubtedly heard.”

I bowed and said nothing, but we shook hands after the fashion of Earth, and Inverness smiled quite humanly.

“I imagine the good captain has been too busy to follow the activities of such as myself,” he said, sensibly enough.

“A commander”—and I laid enough emphasis on the title to point out to him his error in terminology—”in the Special Patrol Service usually finds plenty to occupy his mind,” I commented, wondering more than ever what was up.

“True,” said the Chief briskly. “You’ll pardon me if I’m exceedingly brief, Commander, but there’s a sizeable group in there waiting my return.

“I have a special mission for you; a welcome relief from routine patrol. I believe you have made special requests, in the past, for assignments other than the routine work of the Service, Commander?”

He was boxing me up in a corner, and I knew it, but I couldn’t deny what he said, so I admitted it as gracefully as I could.

“Very well,” nodded the Chief, and it seemed to me his eyes twinkled for an instant. “Inverness, here, is head of a party of scientists bent upon a certain exploration. They have interested the Council in the work, and the Council has requested the cooperation of this Service.”

He glanced at me to make sure I understood. I certainly did; when the Supreme Council requested something, that thing was done.

“Very well, sir,” I said. “What are your orders?”

The Chief shrugged.

“Simply that you are to cooperate with Inverness and his party, assisting them in every possible way, including the use of your ship for transporting them and a reasonable amount of equipment, to the field of their activities. The command of the ship remains, of course, in you and your officers, but in every reasonable way the Ertak and her crew are to be at the disposal of Inverness and his group. Is that clear, Commander?”

“Perfectly, sir.” Nothing could have been clearer. I was to run the ship, and Inverness and his crew were to run me. I could just imagine how Correy, my fighting first officer, would take this bit of news. The mental picture almost made me laugh, disgusted as I was.

“Written orders will, of course, be given you before departure. I believe that’s all. Good luck, Commander!” The Chief offered his hand briefly, and then hurried back to the other room where the Silver-sleeves had gathered to make more rulings for the confusion of the Service.

“Since when,” asked Correy bitterly, “are we running excursions for civilians? We’ll be personally conducting elderly ladies next thing.”

“Or put on Attached Police Service,” growled Hendricks, referring to the poor devils who, in those days, policed the air-lanes of the populated worlds, cruising over the same pitiful routes day after day, never rising beyond the fringe of the stratosphere.

“Perhaps,” suggested the level-headed Kincaide, “it isn’t as bad as it sounds. Didn’t you, say, sir, that this Inverness was rather a decent sort of chap?”

I nodded.

“Very much so. You’d scarcely take him for a scientist.”

“And our destination is—what?” asked Kincaide.

“That I don’t know. Inverness is to give us that information when he arrives, which will be very shortly, if he is on time.”

“Our destination,” said Correy, “will probably be some little ball of mud with a tricky atmosphere or some freak vegetation they want to study. I’d rather—”

A sharp rap on the door of the navigating room, where we had gathered for an informal council of war, interrupted.

“Party of three civilians at the main exit port, Port Number One, sir,” reported the sub-officer of the guard. “One sent his name: Carlos Inverness.”