The Sirens of Space by Jeffrey Caminsky Page A

were dry as Ishtar itself.
Often, the most interesting thing about them were the listings of
equipment malfunctions, and today was no exception. Clay was about
to deactivate his screen when a flashing yellow light caught his
eye, signaling an incoming Priority II report. His eyes widened
when he put the teaser on the screen; it was from the very
commander he’d spent the last hour putting out of his
mind.
    The screen read:
     
    CGC 587 <>
    POSITION: Ishtar Orbit, 43-110901/a2
    SPEC RPT CODE II cc:142-7920.4
     
    “ Roscoe Cook,” he said, stunned by the
coincidence.
    He was even more stunned by the report.
     
    A half-hour later, Clay
leaned back and looked up at the sterile paneling on the ceiling,
chuckling long and deep. For two years the government had tried to
cultivate contact with the aliens on a personal level, and for two
years their own people had bungled the job through clumsiness and
ineptitude. Now Cook had done it by accident. For the last week
he’d spent more time visiting the aliens on the ground than tending
his ship, and his insights into their psychology and culture looked
to be more valuable than anything Terra’s best diplomats had
gleaned from across the conference table. It was almost as if the
young Isitian had determined that the quickest way to advance in
the modern Guard was by rubbing CentCom’s nose in their own
directive about showing initiative in all dealings with non-human
civilizations. Inventiveness had worked for him in the past, and he
showed no signs of stopping. Clay was determined not to let that
kind of initiative pass unrewarded.
    “ Roscoe Cook,” he marveled, “you lead
a charmed life.” Over the intercom, he told his secretary to
arrange a command staff meeting for 475 Hours the next
day.
    “ And notify the base commanders as
well,” he added, with a self-satisfied smile. “We’ll be convening
the fleet Promotions Board.”
     
    * * *
    “Admiral Weatherlee!” exclaimed the young lieutenant. “Is something
wrong?”
    Contempt filled the admiral’s face, and the
young officer sensed that it would be better for his career to say
nothing more. Weatherlee stormed past, almost running into his
office door before it opened to admit the admiral to the one place
on the base where he could find the solitude to ride out the
disgust welling inside him.
    Winthrop Weatherlee had seen this day
coming for the last week, but knew he was powerless to stop it.
Ever since notifying IshCom that the Challengers were on the way, he’d smelled the
foul odor of another promotion for Roscoe Cook. Now, thanks to the
damn aliens, the admiral was again powerless to do anything. He
walked to his desk and poured himself a stiff drink of Demetrian
rum. The soothing music he had piped into all administrative
offices in his command was now grating on his nerves. To make
matters worse, the tune that had just begun was an Isitian melody.
He plopped heavily into his chair and sat for several minutes,
seething with outrage. His heavy jowls pulsed with anger and his
eyes burned with cold fury.
    Weatherlee’s teeth could grind ultrynium
whenever he thought of the arrogant young blowhard. Despite his
laziness as an administrator, Cook never lacked for friends in high
places, though the stars alone knew why. Isitian smugness oozed
from his every pore, and the fool never did have any sense when it
came to dealing with the aliens. The obnoxious Isitian personified
everything that Weatherlee found infuriating about that miserable
planet—quoting books nobody read anymore, peppering conversations
with pointless parables, and though never so uncouth as to voice it
aloud, posturing as the poster boy for the Isitian boast of the
best educational system in all of Terra.
    Weatherlee turned to his desk console to
write. Writing always helped when he felt outraged; it gave him
something to do. But today what enraged him was knowing that he
might never get the chance to set things right. He dashed off