“That would get them into trouble of a really hot kind, wouldn’t it?”
“Some,” agreed Captain Grayder, “but not so hot. They intend to turn my own quibbling against me. Since I have not officially forbidden leave, a walk-out won’t be mutiny. I’ve merely been postponing leave. They could plead before the Space Commission that I’ve deliberately ignored regulations. They might get away with it if the members were in the mood to assert their authority.”
“The Commission ought to be taken on a few long flights,” opined His Excellency. “They’d discover some things they’ll never learn behind a desk.” He eyed the other in mock hopefulness. “Any chance of accidentally dropping our cargo of bureaucrats overboard on the way back? A misfortune like that might benefit the spaceways, if not humanity.”
“That idea strikes me as Gandish,” observed Grayder.
“They wouldn’t think of it. Their technique is to say no, no, a thousand times no. That’s all—but judging by what has happened here, it is enough.” The ambassador pondered his predicament, reached a decision. “I’m coming with you. It goes against the grain because it smacks of surrender. To stay would be a defiant gesture, but I’ve got to face the fact that it won’t serve any useful purpose at the present stage.”
“Very well, your excellency.” Grayder went to a port, looked through it toward the town. “I’m down about four hundred men. Some of them have deserted, for keeps. The rest will come back if I wait long enough. They’ve struck it lucky, got their legs under somebody’s table and gone A.W.O.L. and they’re likely to extend their time for as long as the fun lasts on the principle that they may as well be hung for sheep as lambs, I get that sort of trouble on every long trip. It’s not so bad on short ones.” A pause while moodily he surveyed a terrain bare of returning prodigals. “But we can’t wait for them. Not here.”
“No, I reckon not.”
“If we hang around any longer, we’re going to lose another hundred or two. There won’t be enough skilled men to take the boat up. Only way I can beat them to the draw is to give the order to prepare for take-off. They all come under flight-regulations from that moment.” He registered a lopsided smile. “That will give the space lawyers something to think about!”
“As soon as you like,” approved the ambassador. He joined the other at the port, studied the distant road, watched three Gand coaches whirl along it without stopping. He frowned, still upset by the type of mind which insists on pretending that a mountain isn’t there. His attention shifted sidewise, toward the tail-end. He stiffened and said, “What are those men doing outside?”
Shooting a swiff glance in the same direction, Grayder grabbed the caller-make and rapped, “All personnel will prepare for take-off at once!” Juggling a couple of switches, he changed lines, said, “Who is that? Sergeant Major Bidworthy? Look, sergeant major, there are half a dozen men beyond the midship lock. Get them in immediately—we’re lifting as soon as everything’s ready.”
The fore and aft gangways had been rolled into their stowage spaces long before. Some fast-thinking quartermaster prevented further escapes by operating the midship ladder-wind, thus trapping Bidworthy along with more would-be sinners.
Finding himself stalled, Bidworthy stood in the rim of the lock and glared at those outside. His mustache not only bristled, but quivered. Five of the offenders had been members of the first leave-quota. One of them was a trooper. That got his rag out, a trooper. The sixth was Harrison, complete with bicycle polished and shining.
Searing the lot of them, the trooper in particular, Bidworthy rasped, “Get back on board. No arguments. No funny business. We’re taking off.”
“Hear that?” asked one, nudging the nearest. “Get back on board. If you can’t jump thirty feet, you’d better flap your arms and fly.”
“No sauce from you,” roared Bidworthy. “I’ve got my orders.”
“He takes orders,” remarked the trooper. “At his age.”
“Can’t understand it,” commented another, shaking a sorrowful head.
Bidworthy scrabbled the lock’s smooth rim in vain search of something to grasp. A ridge, a knob, a projection of some sort was needed to take the strain.
“I warn you men that if you try me too—”
“Save your breath, Biddy,” interjected the trooper. “From now on, I’m a Gand.” With that, he turned and walked rapidly toward the road, four following.
Getting astride his bike, Harrison put a foot on a pedal. His back tire promptly sank with a loud whee-e-e.
“Come back!” howled Bidworthy at the retreating five. He made extravagant motions, tried to tear the ladder from its automatic grips. A siren keened thinly inside the vessel. That upped his agitation by several ergs.
“Hear that?” With vein-pulsing ire, he watched Harrison tighten the rear valve and apply his hand pump. “We’re about to lift. For the last time—”
Again the siren, this time in a quick series of shrill toots. Bidworthy jumped backward as the seal came down. The lock closed. Harrison again mounted his machine, settled a foot on a pedal but remained watching.
The metal monster shivered from nose to tail then rose slowly and in utter silence. There was stately magnificence in the ascent of such enormous bulk. It increased its rate of climb gradually, went faster, faster, became a toy, a dot and finally disappeared.
For just a moment, Harrison felt a touch of doubt, a hint of regret. It soon passed away. He glanced toward the road.
The five self-elected Gands had thumbed a coach which was picking them up. That was co-operation apparently precipitated by the ship’s disappearance. Quick on the uptake, these people. He saw it move off on huge rubber balls, bearing the five with it. A fan-cycle raced in the opposite direction, hummed into the distance.
“Your brunette,” Gleed had described her. What gave him that idea? Had she made some remark which he’d construed as complimentary because it made no reference to outsize ears?
He had a last look around. The earth to his left bore a great curved rut one mile long by twelve feet deep. Two thousand Terrans had been there.
Then about eighteen hundred.
Then sixteen hundred.
Less five.
“One left—me!” he said to himself.
Giving a fatalistic shrug, he put the pressure on and rode to town.
And then there were none.
THE BALLAD OF LOST C’MELL
by Cordwainer Smith
She got the which of the what-she-did,
Hid the bell with a blot, she did,
But she fell in love with a hominid.
