Read To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga for Free Online Page B

we secede. If we had our own Navy—which we don’t—we might just take you in as Ensign, Acting, Probationary.”
    “Thank you.”
    She put her elbows on the bar counter, propping her face between her hands, somehow conveying the illusion of gravitational pull, looking up at him. “I’ll be frank with you, John. I admit that we do take the no-hopers, the drunks and the drifters into our merchant fleet. I know far better than you what a helluva difference there is between those rustbuckets and the well-found, well-run ships of the Commission and, come to that, Trans-Galactic Clippers and Waverley Royal Mail. But when we do start some kind of a Navy we shall want better material. Much better. We shall want highly competent officers who yet, somehow, will have the Rim World outlook. The first batch, of course, will have to be outsiders, to tide us over until our own training program is well under way.”
    “And I don’t qualify?” he asked stiffly.
    “Frankly, no. I’ve been watching you. You’re too much of a stickler for rules and regulations, especially the more stupid ones. Look at the way you’re dressed now, for example. Evening wear, civilian, junior officers, for the use of. No individuality. You might as well be in uniform. Better, in fact. There’d be some touch of brightness.”
    “Go on.”
    “And the way you comport yourself with women. Stiff. Starchy. Correct. And you’re all too conscious of the fact that I, even though I’m a mere merchant officer, and a clerical branch at that, put up more gold braid than you do. I noticed that especially when we were dancing. I was having to lead all the time.”
    He said defensively, “I’m not a very good dancer.”
    “You can say that again.” She smiled briefly. “So there you have it, John. You can tell the Bearded Bastard, when you see him again, that you’re quite safe from my wiles. I’ve no doubt that you’ll go far in your own Service—but you just aren’t Rim Worlds material.”
    “I shouldn’t have felt all that flattered if you’d said that I was,” he told her bluntly—but he knew that he was lying.

8

    “YES?” JANE WAS SAYING. “Yes, Mr. Letourneau?”
    Grimes realized that she was not looking at him, that she was looking past him and addressing a newcomer. He turned around to see who it was. He found—somehow the name hadn’t registered—that it was the Psionic Radio Officer, a tall, pale, untidily put together young man in a slovenly uniform. He looked scared—but that was his habitual expression, Grimes remembered. They were an odd breed, these trained telepaths with their Rhine Institute diplomas, and they were not popular, but they were the only means whereby ships and shore stations could communicate instantaneously over the long light years. In the Survey Service they were referred to, slightingly, as Commissioned Teacup Readers. In the Survey Service and in the Merchant Service they were referred to as Snoopers. But they were a very necessary evil.
    “Yes, Mr. Letourneau?”
    “Where’s the Old Man? He’s not in his quarters.”
    “The Master”—Jane emphasized the title—“is in the saloon.” Then, a little maliciously, “Couldn’t you have used your crystal ball?”
    Letourneau flushed. “You know very well, Miss Pentecost, that we have to take an oath that we will always respect the mental privacy of our shipmates . . . . But I must find him. Quickly.”
    “Help yourself. He’s treading the light fantastic in there.” When he was gone she said, “Typical. Just typical. If it were a real emergency he could get B.B. on the intercom. But no. Not him. He has to parade his distrust of anything electronic and, at the same time, make it quite clear that he’s not breaking his precious oath . . . . Tell me, how do you people handle your spaceborne espers?”
    He grinned. “We’ve still one big stick that you people haven’t. A court martial followed by a firing party. Not that I’ve ever seen it