The Big Black Mark Read Online Free PDF

loneliness of command, but that had been in ships where there was always company, congenial company, when he felt that he needed it. In this vessel there seemed to be nobody at all with whom he could indulge in a friendly drink and a yarn.

    Perhaps things would improve.

    Perhaps they wouldn't.

    Growl you may, he told himself, but go you must.

Chapter 6

    It is always an anxious moment when a captain has to handle a strange ship, with strange officers and crew, for the first time. Grimes, stolidly ensconced in the pilot's chair, tried, not unsuccessfully, to convey the impression that he hadn't a worry in the whole universe. He made the usual major production of filling and lighting his pipe while listening to the countdown routine. "All hands," Brabham was saying into the intercom microphone, "secure ship for liftoff. Secure ship. Secure ship." Lieutenant Tangye, the navigator, was tense in the co-pilot's seat, his hands poised over the duplicate controls. No doubt the slim, blond, almost ladylike young man was thinking that he could make a far better job of getting the old bitch upstairs than this new skipper. Other officers were standing by radar and radar altimeter, NST transceiver, drift indicator, accelerometer, and all the rest of it. It was unnecessary; all the displays were visible to both pilot and co-pilot at a glance—but the bigger the ship the more people for whom jobs must be found.

    From the many compartments the reports came in. "All secure."

    "All secure for liftoff."

    "All secure."

    "All secure."

    "Any word from Commander Brandt yet?" asked Grimes. "After all, he is a departmental head."

    "Nothing yet, sir," replied Brabham.

    "Shake him up, will you, Number One."

    "Control to Commander Brandt. Have you secured yet? Acknowledge."

    Brandt's voice came through the speaker. " Doctor Brandt here. Of course I'm secure. This isn't my first time in Space, you know."

    Awkward bastard, thought Grimes. He said, "Lifting off."

    "Lifting off," repeated Brabham.

    At Grimes's touch on the controls the inertial drive, deep in the bowels of the ship, muttered irritably. Another touch—and the muttering became a cacophonous protest, loud even through the layer after layer of sonic insulation. Discovery shook herself, her structure groaning. From the NST speaker came the bored voice of Aerospace Control. "You are lifting, Discovery. You are clear of the pad. Bon voyage. "

    "Acknowledge," said Grimes to the radio officer. He didn't need to be informed that the ship was off the ground. His own instruments would tell him that if he bothered to look at them—but the feel of the ship made it quite obvious that she was up and clear, lifting faster and faster. In the periscope screen he could see the spaceport area—the clusters of white administration buildings, the foreshortened silvery towers that were ships, big and little, dropping away, diminishing. The red, flashing beacons marking the berth that he had just left were sliding from the center of the display, but it didn't matter. He had been expecting drift, the wind the way it was. If he had been coming in to a landing it would have been necessary to apply lateral thrust; during a liftoff all that was required was to get up through and clear of the atmosphere.

    A hint of yaw—

    Only three degrees, but Grimes corrected it, more to get the feel of the ship than for any other reason. With the same motivation he brought the red flashers back to the center of the periscope screen. Mphm. The old bitch didn't handle too badly at all. He increased acceleration from a half gee to one gee, to one and a half, to two.

    The intercom speaker squawked. "Dr. Brandt, here. What the hell are you playing at up there?"

    "Minding our own bloody business!" snapped Grimes into his microphone. "Might I suggest that you do the same?"

    Brabham sniggered loudly.

    "Emergency rocket drill," ordered Grimes quietly. That, as he had suspected it would, took the grin off the first