“No.” Closing the case, Leeming kneeled on its lid while he locked it, started on the next one. “It’s as old as the hills. You’ve heard of a lot of Mallarqui, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I. have.”
“Well, in this dump there’s too much of it”
“I think you’re right. Mallarqui took one look at me and yelled, ‘Haircut!’ ” Ruefully, Davies rubbed the short bristle covering his pate. “So I went and got one. What a Space navy! Immediately you show your face they scalp you. And what d’you suppose happened next?”
“They issued you with a brush and comb.”
“They did just that.” He massaged the bristle again. “What for?”
“Same reason as they do everything else,” explained Leeming, “B.B.B.”
“B.B.B? What d’you mean?”
“It’s a motto adopted by the boys on inactive service. You’ll find yourself reciting it about twenty times per day. Baloney Baffles Brains.”
“I see,” said Davies, taking on a worried look:
“The only way to escape is to fall foul of Keen. He’ll get rid of you-after he’s broken your heart.”
“Keen? Who’s he?”
“Mallarqui,” corrected Leeming, hurriedly. “The fellows call him Keen behind his back. If you want to stay out of the pokey don’t ever ever call him Commodore Keen to his face. He likes to be addressed as Mr. Mallarqui.”
“Thanks for the tip,” said Davies, innocently grateful.
“You’re quite welcome. Take your butt off the bed—I want my pyjamas.”
“Sorry,” Davies stood up, sat dawn again.
Cramming the pyjamas into the case, Leeming closed it, took a long look around.
“That’s about all, I guess. Victory has been postponed by sheer lack of efficient zippers. I got that information straight from the top. So they’re rushing me out to win the war. From now on all you need do is sit around and count the days.” He made for the door, a bag in each hand. Coming to his feet again, Davies said awkwardly, “Happy landings.”
“Thanks.” In the corridor the first person Leeming encountered was Commodore Keen. Being too burdened to salute, he threw the other a regulation eyes-left which Keen acknowledged with a curt nod. Keen brushed past and entered the room. His loud, harsh voice boosted out the open door.
“Ah, Davies, so you have settled in. Since you won’t be required today you can clean up this hog-pen in readiness for mp inspection this evening.”
“Yes, Mr. Mallarqui.”
“WHAT?”
Outside, Leeming took a firmer grip on his bags and ran like hell.
The ship was a beauty, the same diameter as an ordinary scout-vessel but over twice the length. These proportions made it look less like a one-man snoop-boat than a miniature cruiser. Standing on its tail, it towered so high that its nose seemed to reach halfway towards the clouds.
Studying it appreciatively, Leeming asked, “Any more like this!”
“Three,” responded Montecelli, the spaceport’s chief engineer. “All hidden elsewhere with a tight security ring around them. Strict orders from above say that this type of vessel may be used only one at a time. A second must not be sent out until after yours has returned.”
“So I’m first on the list, eh? What if I don’t come back? What if this ship is destroyed and you’ve no way of knowing?”
The other shrugged. “That’s the War Staff’s worry, not mine. I only obey directives from above and those can be trouble enough.”
“H’m! Probably they’ve set a time limit far my safe return. If I’m not back by then they’ll assume that I’m a gone goose.”
“They haven’t said anything to you about it?”
“No.”
“Then don’t you worry either. Life’s too short. In time of war it gets shortened for many.” Montecelli scowled at the sky. “Whenever a boat boosts upward on a column of flame I never know whether that’ll be the last I’ll ever see of it.”
“That’s right, cheer me on my way,” said Leeming. “The life and soul of the party.”
“Sorry, I clean forgot you’re going:” He pointed to an adjacent building. “In there we’ve set up a duplicate nose-cabin far training purposes. It will take you most of a week to become accustomed to the new-type controls, to learn how to handle the transpatial radio and generally get the feel of things. You can start your education as soon as you like.”
“All I’m bothered about is the autopilot,” Leeming told him. “It had better be a good one. A fellow can’t travel for days and weeks without sleep and he can’t snooze with the ship running wild. A really reliable, autopilot is his fairy godmother.”
“Listen, son, if this one could do more than hold you on course while jerking you away from dangers, if it could see and think and transmit reports, we’d send it away without you.” Montecelli gave his listener a reassuring slap on the shoulder. “It’s the best ever. It’d take care of you even if you were on your honeymoon and temporarily unconscious of the cosmos.”
“The only resemblance is that I’ll need my strength,” said Leeming. He entered the building and more or less stayed in it for the prescribed week.
The take-off came at one hour after sunset. There was a cloudless sky, velvet black and spangled with stars. Strange to think that far, far out there, concealed by sheer distance, were countless populated worlds with Combine warships parading warily between some of them while the allied fleets of Terrans, Sirians, Rigellians and others were on the prowl across an enormous front.
Below, long chains of arc-lights dithered as a gentle breeze swept across the spaceport. Beyond the safety barriers that defined the coming blast-area a group of people were waiting to witness the ascent. If the ship toppled instead of going up, thought Leeming wryly, the whole lot of them would race for sanctuary with burning backsides. It did not occur to him that in such an event he would be in poor position to enjoy the sight. A voice came out of the tiny loudspeaker set in the cabin wall. “Warm up Pilot.”
He pressed a button. Something went whump, then the ship groaned and shuddered while a great circular cloud of dust and vapour rolled across the concrete and concealed the safety barriers. The low groaning and trembling continued while he sat in silence, his full attention upon the instrument bank. The needles of twenty meters crawled to the right, quivered awhile, became still. That meant steady and equal pressure in the twenty stern tubes.
“Everything all right, Pilot?”
“Yes.”
“Take off at will.” A pause; followed by, “Lots of luck!”
“Thanks!”
He let the tubes blow for another half minute before gradually lie moved the tiny booster-lever towards him. Shuddering increased, the groan raised its pitch until it became a howl, the cabin windows misted over and the sky was obscured.
For a nerve-wracking second the vessel rocked on its tail-fins. Then it began to creep upward, a foot, a yard, ten yards. The howl was now a shriek. The chronically slow rate of climb suddenly changed as something seemed to give the vessel a hearty shove in the rear. Up it went, a hundred feet, a thousand, ten thousand. Through the clouds and into the deep of the night. The cabin windows were clear, the sky was full of stars and the Moon looked huge.
The loudspeaker said in faint, squeaky tones, “Nice work, Pilot.”
“All my work is nice,” 5etorted Leeming. “See you in the asylum.”
There was no answer to that. They knew that he’d become afflicted with an exaggerated sense of freedom referred to as take-off intoxication. Most pilots suffered from it as soon as a planet lay behind their tail and only the stars could be seen ahead. The symptoms consisted of sardonic comments. and abuse raining down from the sky.
“Go get a haircut,” bawled Leeming into his microphone. He jiggled around in his seat while the ship boomed onward.