can't oblige you, Captain."
"Why not, Spooky?"
"You know very well that we graduates of the Rhine Institute have to swear to respect privacy."
"There's no privacy aboard a ship, Spooky. There cannot be."
"There can be, Captain. There must be."
"Not when the safety of the ship is involved."
It was a familiar argument—and Grimes knew that after the third gin the telepath would weaken. He always did.
"We got odd passengers aboard this ship, Spooky. Surely you remember that Waldegren diplomat who had the crazy scheme of seizing her and turning her over to his Navy . . ."
"I remember, Captain." Deane extended his glass which, surprisingly, was empty. Grimes wondered, as he always did, if its contents had been teleported directly into the officer's stomach, but he refilled it.
"Mr. Alberto's another odd passenger," he went on.
"But a Federation citizen," Deane told him.
"How do we know? He could be a double agent. Do you know?"
"I don't." After only two gins Spooky was ready to spill the beans. This was unusual. "I don't know anything. "
"What do you mean?"
"Usually, Captain, we have to shut our minds to the trivial, boring thoughts of you psionic morons. No offense intended, but that's the way we think of you. We get sick of visualizations of the girls you met in the last port and the girls you hope to meet in the next port." He screwed his face up in disgust, made it evident that he did, after all, possess features. "Bums, bellies and breasts! The Blond Beast's a tit man, and you have a thing about legs . . . "
Grimes's prominent ears reddened, but he said nothing.
"And the professional wishful thinking is even more nauseating. When do I get my half ring? When do I get my brass hat? When shall I make Admiral? "
"Ambition . . ." said Grimes.
"Ambition, shambition! And of late, of course, I wonder what Alberto's putting on for breakfast? For lunch? For dinner? "
"What is he putting on for dinner?" asked Grimes. "I've been rather wondering if our tissue culture chook could be used for Chicken Cacciatore . . . "
"I don't know."
"No, you're not a chef. As well we know, after the last time that you volunteered for galley duties."
"I mean, I don't know what the menus will be." It was Deane's turn to blush. "As a matter of fact, Captain, I have been trying to get previews. I have to watch my diet . . ."
Grimes tried not to think uncharitable thoughts. Like many painfully thin people, Deane enjoyed a voracious appetite.
He said, "You've been trying to eavesdrop?"
"Yes. But there are non-telepaths, you know, and Alberto's one of them. True non-telepaths, I mean. Most people transmit, although they can't receive. Alberto doesn't transmit."
"A useful qualification for a diplomat," said Grimes. "If he is a diplomat. But could he be using some sort of psionic jammer?"
"No. I'd know if he were."
Grimes couldn't ignore that suggestively held empty glass any longer. He supposed that Deane had earned his third gin.
The Courier broke through into normal space-time north of the plane of Doncaster's ecliptic. In those days, before the Carlotti Beacons made FTL position fixing simple, navigation was an art rather than a science—and von Tannenbaum was an artist. The little ship dropped into a trans-polar orbit about the planet and then, as soon as permission to land had been granted by Aerospace Control, descended to Port Duncannon. It was, Grimes told himself smugly, one of his better landings. And so it should have been; conditions were little short of ideal. There was no cloud, no wind, not even any clear air turbulence at any level. The ship's instruments were working perfectly, and the Inertial Drive was responding to the controls with no time lag whatsoever. It was one of those occasions on which the Captain feels that his ship is no more—and no less—than a beautifully functioning extension of his own body. Finally, it was morning Local Time, with the sun just
"Why not, Spooky?"
"You know very well that we graduates of the Rhine Institute have to swear to respect privacy."
"There's no privacy aboard a ship, Spooky. There cannot be."
"There can be, Captain. There must be."
"Not when the safety of the ship is involved."
It was a familiar argument—and Grimes knew that after the third gin the telepath would weaken. He always did.
"We got odd passengers aboard this ship, Spooky. Surely you remember that Waldegren diplomat who had the crazy scheme of seizing her and turning her over to his Navy . . ."
"I remember, Captain." Deane extended his glass which, surprisingly, was empty. Grimes wondered, as he always did, if its contents had been teleported directly into the officer's stomach, but he refilled it.
"Mr. Alberto's another odd passenger," he went on.
"But a Federation citizen," Deane told him.
"How do we know? He could be a double agent. Do you know?"
"I don't." After only two gins Spooky was ready to spill the beans. This was unusual. "I don't know anything. "
"What do you mean?"
"Usually, Captain, we have to shut our minds to the trivial, boring thoughts of you psionic morons. No offense intended, but that's the way we think of you. We get sick of visualizations of the girls you met in the last port and the girls you hope to meet in the next port." He screwed his face up in disgust, made it evident that he did, after all, possess features. "Bums, bellies and breasts! The Blond Beast's a tit man, and you have a thing about legs . . . "
Grimes's prominent ears reddened, but he said nothing.
"And the professional wishful thinking is even more nauseating. When do I get my half ring? When do I get my brass hat? When shall I make Admiral? "
"Ambition . . ." said Grimes.
"Ambition, shambition! And of late, of course, I wonder what Alberto's putting on for breakfast? For lunch? For dinner? "
"What is he putting on for dinner?" asked Grimes. "I've been rather wondering if our tissue culture chook could be used for Chicken Cacciatore . . . "
"I don't know."
"No, you're not a chef. As well we know, after the last time that you volunteered for galley duties."
"I mean, I don't know what the menus will be." It was Deane's turn to blush. "As a matter of fact, Captain, I have been trying to get previews. I have to watch my diet . . ."
Grimes tried not to think uncharitable thoughts. Like many painfully thin people, Deane enjoyed a voracious appetite.
He said, "You've been trying to eavesdrop?"
"Yes. But there are non-telepaths, you know, and Alberto's one of them. True non-telepaths, I mean. Most people transmit, although they can't receive. Alberto doesn't transmit."
"A useful qualification for a diplomat," said Grimes. "If he is a diplomat. But could he be using some sort of psionic jammer?"
"No. I'd know if he were."
Grimes couldn't ignore that suggestively held empty glass any longer. He supposed that Deane had earned his third gin.
The Courier broke through into normal space-time north of the plane of Doncaster's ecliptic. In those days, before the Carlotti Beacons made FTL position fixing simple, navigation was an art rather than a science—and von Tannenbaum was an artist. The little ship dropped into a trans-polar orbit about the planet and then, as soon as permission to land had been granted by Aerospace Control, descended to Port Duncannon. It was, Grimes told himself smugly, one of his better landings. And so it should have been; conditions were little short of ideal. There was no cloud, no wind, not even any clear air turbulence at any level. The ship's instruments were working perfectly, and the Inertial Drive was responding to the controls with no time lag whatsoever. It was one of those occasions on which the Captain feels that his ship is no more—and no less—than a beautifully functioning extension of his own body. Finally, it was morning Local Time, with the sun just
Similar Books
Rose in the Bud
Susan Barrie
Once We Were
Kat Zhang
Breeze of Life
Kirsty Dallas
Taming the Dragon
Kendra Leigh Castle
Faith (Hades Angels #1)
Elizabeth Hayes
Milk
Anne Mendelson
Much More than Friends
Norah C. Peters
Cooper's Woman
Carol Finch
I Married a Sheik
Sharon De Vita