To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga by A. Bertram Chandler Page B

through the dark immensities.
    So the rendezvous had been made—and already the survivors of the wreck were being brought aboard the Delia O’Ryan, were being helped out of their stinking spacesuits, were blurting out their story to Craven and his officers. Grimes could visualize it all, almost as clearly as though he were actually watching it. He could visualize, too, the engineers swarming over the wreck, the flare of their burning and welding torches, the cannibalizing of nonessential plating from the ship’s structure for hull patches. It was all laid down in the Survey Service’s Damage Control Manual—and Captain Craven, at least, would know that book as thoroughly as did Grimes.
    And what of the cargo, the Survey Service stores, Grimes’ stores? A trembling in the ship’s structure, a barely felt vibration, told him that gantries and conveyor belts were being brought into operation. There would be no great handling problems. Lindisfarne was Delta Orionis’ first port of call, and the Survey Service consignment would be top stowage. But there was nothing that Grimes could do about it—not a thing. In fact, he was beginning to doubt the legality of the stand he had made against the Master. And he was the small frog in this small puddle, while Captain Craven had made it quite clear that he was the big frog. Grimes wished that he was better versed in astronautical law—although a professional lawyer’s knowledge would be of no use to him in his present situation.
    So, with some hazy idea that he might need all his strength, both mental and physical, for what was to befall him (but what ?), in the near future, he strapped himself into his bunk and did his best to forget his worries in sleep. He was well enough acquainted with the psychiatrists’ jargon to know that this was no more than a return to the womb but, before dropping off into a shallow slumber, shrugged, So what?

    He jerked into sudden wakefulness.
    Jane Pentecost was there by his bunk, looking down at him.
    “Come in,” he said. “Don’t bother to knock. Now you see how the poor live. This is Liberty Hall; you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard.”
    She said, “That’s not very funny.”
    “I know it’s not. Even the first time that I heard it aboard this blasted ship I was able to refrain from rolling in the aisles.”
    She said, “There’s no need to be so bitchy, John.”
    “Isn’t there? Wouldn’t you be bitchy if you’d been thrown into this padded cell?”
    “I suppose I would be. But you asked for it, didn’t you?”
    “If doing my duty—or trying to do my duty—is asking for it, I suppose that I did. Well—and has our pirate Captain cast off yet, armed to the teeth with the weapons he’s stolen?”
    “No. The weapons are still being mounted. But let’s not argue legalities, John. There’s not enough time. I . . . I just wanted to say goodbye.”
    “Goodbye?” he echoed.
    “Yes. Somebody has to do the cooking aboard Epsilon Sextans— and I volunteered.”
    “You?”
    “And why the hell not?” she flared. “Captain Craven has been pushed over to our side of the fence, and it’d be a pretty poor show if we Rim Worlders weren’t prepared to stand by him. Baxter’s gone across to take over as Reaction Drive Engineer; the only survivor in that department was the Fourth, and he’s only a dog watch in Space.”
    “And who else?”
    “Nobody. The Sexy Eppy’s Chief, Second and Third Interstellar Drive Engineers survived, and they’re willing—anxious, in fact, now that their ship’s being armed—to stay on. And the Psionic Radio Officer came through, and is staying on. All of our executive officers volunteered, of course, but the Old Man turned them down. He said that, after all, he could not hazard the safety of this ship by stripping her of her trained personnel. Especially since we carry passengers.”
    “That’s his worry,” said Grimes without much sympathy. “But how does he hope to