“That I what? Tried to prove myself? Tried to show that while I might be small in body, I held within it a giant’s heart?”
“1 would not have put it mockingly.”
“Why not? It’s a foolish idea, and nothing like it is the reason I did what I did. What would I have accomplished if that’s what was in my mind? Will they take me to Earth now and put me up before the television cameras- pitching them low, of course, to catch my face, or standing me on a chair- and pin medals on me?”
“They are quite likely to do exactly that.”
“And what good would it do me? They would say, ‘Gee, and he’s such a little guy.’ And afterward, what? Shall I tell each man I meet, ‘You know, I’m the fellow they decorated for incredible valor last month?’ How many medals, Mr. Stuart, do you suppose it would take to put eight inches and sixty pounds on me?”
Stuart said, “Put that way, I see your point.”
Mullen was speaking a trifle more quickly now; a controlled heat had entered his words, warming them to just a tepid room temperature. “There were days when I thought I would show them, the mysterious ‘them’ that includes all the world. I was going to leave Earth and carve out worlds for myself. I would be a new and even smaller Napoleon. So I left Earth and went to Arcturus. And what could I do on Arcturus that I could not have done on Earth? Nothing. I balance books. So I am past the vanity, Mr. Stuart, of trying to stand on tiptoe.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“I left Earth when I was twenty-eight and came to the Arcturian System. I’ve been there ever since. This trip was to be my first vacation, my first visit
back to Earth in all that time. I was going to stay on Earth for six months. The Kloros instead captured us and would have kept us interned indefinitely. But I couldn’t-I couldn’t let them stop me from traveling to Earth. No matter what the risk, I had to prevent their interference. It wasn’t love of woman, or fear, or hate, or idealism of any sort. It was stronger than any of those.”
He stopped, and stretched out a hand as though to caress the map on the wall.
“Mr. Stuart,” Mullen asked quietly, “haven’t you ever been homesick?”
Allamagoosa
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.