Norton, Andre - Anthology by Gates to Tomorrow (v1.0)

the
dimensions of the nebulous cloud on the screen. A quick glance at the map above
his head showed the cloud had never been charted. Under high magnification he
could see the lazy whirling of its vortex. He set drift spots on the larger
lumps in the periphery, ran up the time scale to see how near it lay on their
course.
                   "Divert twenty-three angstroms on an
axial plane—"
                   "But don't you want to decelerate and
study the cloud for the astrographic office?" Latham asked in bewildered
surprise.
                   Nord smiled indulgently. "It would take
us a full month to decelerate, jockey back. Then we'd have to start
accelerating again, and it would take almost three months to come back to
terminal velocity. The time loss would be almost four months. Just chart the
cloud, and let the office worry about the details."
                   He looked at the air instruments. He studied
them so long he was aware he was being watched by the men below. He
straightened, checked all the instruments before he leaned over the rail to
clasp his hands in what appeared to be benign unconcern.
                   Just as the 0600 gong announced the change in
watch, he spoke up. "Mr. Latham, give me your air readings."
                   "Yes, sir." Latham stepped to the air board. "Pressure in the ship,
steady at seven-seventy mm; mean temperature, twenty degrees, three degrees fluctuation
downward at 2300. Humidity, fifty-two per cent. Air motion: forty meters per minute with seven-meter variation every fourteen
seconds. Composition of arterial air: oxygen, eighteen point four three per
cent, carbon dioxide, point eight three per cent. Excess negative ions to the
order of—"
                   "That's enough." Nord turned back
and looked again at his own board. Something was the matter. What had Bick-ford
neglected to do now? His voice took on cold purpose. "Summon Mr. Bickford
for me, please."
     
                   Corbett turned abruptly, went into his flight
quarters. The steward had already made up his bunk, and the compartment was now
as neat as that distant day on Earth he had moved into it. He drew a cup of
coffee from a gleaming canister, sipped slowly. It would be a
good idea to have Hardman check the entire air system from venous intake
to arterial outflow. On second thought, he resolved to do it himself.
                   He was reading the master log when his yeoman
entered the office. "Dr. Stacker and Mr. Hardman request permission to
speak to the captain."
                   "Morning, gentlemen," Nord greeted
them; he waved to the canister and cups. "Help yourself to morning coffee, then toss me your mind."
                   Hardman turned to Dr. Stacker, his face drawn
and cold. "You tell him, Doc."
                   "A lad playing laska ball last night
fractured a patella. I had a corpsman up all night watching him because
sometimes the bone plastic causes pain. He called me at 2315 that the sick bay
temp had dropped four degrees."
                   "What of that? You have your own
thermostatic control," Corbett told him.
                   "That's true," Stacker admitted,
"but I usually maintain ship's temp. When the drop came, I didn't know
whether it came on order from the senior watch officer or . . . or . . ."
                   Nord understood the hesitation. The doctor did
not want to be an informer. "You mean," he suggested helpfully, "you wondered if the air officer might be
careless."
                   Stacker nodded. "You saw his act last
night at dinner. That is not the action of a normal man. That anger was a paranoid
reaction to his hatred for all of us and particularly for you. In you, he sees
the authority he hates so much. That scene crystallized in his mind the
determination of what he intended to do to the ship."