Allamagoosa
by Eric Frank Russell
It was a long time since the Bustler had been so silent. She lay in the Sirian spaceport, her tubes cold, her shell particle-scarred, her air that of a long-distance runner exhausted at the end of a marathon. There was good reason for this: she had returned from a lengthy trip by no means devoid of troubles.
Now, in port, well-deserved rest had been gained if only temporarily. Peace, sweet peace. No more bothers, no more crises, no more major upsets, no more dire predicaments such as crop up in free flight at least twice a day. Just peace.
Hah!
Captain McNaught reposed in his cabin, feet up on desk, and enjoyed the relaxation to the utmost. The engines were dead, their hellish pounding absent for the first time in months. Out there in the big city, four hundred of his crew were making whoopee under a brilliant sun. This evening, when First Officer Gregory returned to take charge, he was going to go into the fragrant twilight and make the rounds of neon-lit civilization.
That was the beauty of making landfall at long last. Men could give way to themselves, blow off surplus steam, each according to his fashion. No duties, no worries, no dangers, no responsibilities in spaceport. A haven of safety and comfort for tired rovers.
Again, hah!
Burman, the chief radio officer, entered the cabin. He was one of the half-dozen remaining on duty and bore the expression of a man who can think of twenty better things to do.
“Relayed signal just come in, sir.” Handing the paper across, he waited for the other to look at it and perhaps dictate a reply.
Taking the sheet, McNaught removed the feet from his desk, sat erect, and read the message aloud.
Terran Headquarters to Bustler. Remain Siriport pending further orders. Rear Admiral Vane W. Cassidy due there seventeenth. Feldman. Navy Op. Command, Sirisec.
He looked up, all happiness gone from his leathery features, and groaned.
“Something wrong?” asked Burman, vaguely alarmed.
McNaught pointed at three thin books on his desk. “The middle one. Page twenty.”
Leafing through it, Burman found an item that said: Vane W. Cassidy, R-Ad. Head Inspector Ships and Stores.
Burman swallowed hard. “Does that mean-?”
“Yes, it does,” said McNaught without pleasure. “Back to training-college and all its rigmarole. Paint and soap, spit and polish.” He put on an officious expression, adopted a voice to match it. “Captain, you have only seven ninety-nine emergency rations. Your allocation is eight hundred. Nothing in your logbook accounts for the missing one. Where is it? What happened to it? How is it that one of the men’s kit lacks an officially issued pair of suspenders? Did you report his loss?”
“Why does he pick on us?” asked Burman, appalled. “He’s never chivvied us before.”
“That’s why,” informed McNaught, scowling at the wall. “It’s our turn to be stretched across the barrel.” His gaze found the calendar. “We have three days-and we’ll need ’em! Tell Second Officer Pike to come here at once.”
Burman departed gloomily. In short time, Pike entered. His face reaffirmed the old adage that bad news travels fast.
“Make out an indent,” ordered McNaught, “for one hundred gallons of plastic paint, Navy gray, approved quality. Make out another for thirty gallons of interior white enamel. Take them to spaceport stores right away. Tell them to deliver by six this evening along with our correct issue of brushes and sprayers. Grab up any cleaning material that’s going for free.”
“The men won’t like this,” remarked Pike, feebly.
“They’re going to love it,” McNaught asserted. “A bright and shiny ship, all spic and span, is good for morale. It says so in that book. Get moving and put those indents in. When you come back, find the stores and equipment sheets and bring them here. We’ve got to check stocks before Cassidy arrives. Once he’s here we’ll have no chance to make up shortages or smuggle out any extra items we happened to find in our hands.”
“Very well, sir.” Pike went out wearing the same expression as Burman’s.
Lying back in his chair, McNaught muttered to himself. There was a feeling in his bones that something was sure to cause a last-minute ruckus. A shortage of any item would be serious enough unless covered by a previous report. A surplus would be bad, very bad. The former implied carelessness or misfortune. The latter suggested barefaced theft of government property in circumstances condoned by the commander.
For instance, there was that recent case of Williams of the heavy cruiser Swift. He’d heard of it over the spacevine when out around Bootes. Williams had been found in unwitting command of eleven reels of electric-fence wire when his official issue was ten. It had taken a court-martial to decide that the extra reel-which had formidable barter-value on a certain planet-had not been stolen from space-stores, or, in sailor jargon, “teleportated aboard.” But Williams had been reprimanded. And that did not help promotion.
He was still rumbling discontentedly when Pike returned bearing a folder of foolscap sheets.
“Going to start right away, sir?”
“We’ll have to.” He heaved himself erect, mentally bid good-bye to time off and a taste of the bright lights. “It’ll take long enough to work right through from bow to tail. I’ll leave the men’s kit inspection to the last.”
Marching out of the cabin, he set forth toward the bow, Pike following with broody reluctance.
As they passed the open main lock, Peaslake observed them, bounded eagerly up the gangway and joined behind. A pukka member of the crew, he was a large dog whose ancestors had been more enthusiastic than selective. He wore with pride a big collar inscribed: Peaslake-Property of S.S. Bustler. His chief duties, ably performed, were to keep alien rodents off the ship and, on rare occasions, smell out dangers not visible to human eyes.
The three paraded forward, McNaught and Pike in the manner of men grimly sacrificing pleasure for the sake of duty, Peaslake with the panting willingness of one ready for any new game no matter what.
Reaching the bow-cabin, McNaught dumped himself in the pilot’s seat, took the folder from the other. “You know this stuff better than me-the chart room is where I shine. So I’ll read them out while you look them over.” He opened the folder, started on the first page. “K1. Beam compass, type D, one of.”
“Check,” said Pike.
“K2. Distance and direction indicator, electronic, type JJ, one of.”
“Check.”
“K3. Port and starboard gravitic meters, Casini models, one pair.”
“Check.”
Peaslake planted his head in McNaught’s lap, blinked soulfully and whined. He was beginning to get the others’ viewpoint. This tedious itemizing and checking was a hell of a game. McNaught consolingly lowered a hand and played with Peaslake’s ears while he ploughed his way down the list.
“K187. Foam rubber cushions, pilot and co-pilot, one pair.”
“Check.”
By the time First Officer Gregory appeared, they had reached the tiny intercom cubby and poked around it in semidarkness. Peaslake had long departed in disgust. “M24. Spare minispeakers, three inch, type T2, one set of six.”
“Check.”
Looking in, Gregory popped his eyes and said, “What’s going on?”
“Major inspection due soon.” McNaught glanced at his watch. “Go see if stores has delivered a load and if not why not. Then you’d better give me a hand and let Pike take a few hours off.”
“Does this mean land-leave is canceled?”