Space Service Read online

  The ten great stories in this exciting new anthology will take the reader on giddy adventures through space, dramatizing the resourcefulness and courage of the individuals who will pioneer the star lanes in centuries to come.

  Chosen by an authority on teen-age science fiction, these stories are by such leading science-fiction writers as Bernard I. Kahn, H.B. Fyfe, Walt Sheldon, Theodore R. Cogswell, J.A. Winter, M.D., Raymond Z. Gallun and others. They will delight all science-fiction fans with their portrayals of the commander of a space freighter, a frontier guard on duty on a lonely asteroid, a trader who must make peace between human and non-human customers, an ambitious marine doomed to a forgotten post in a too-far-flung galactic empire, and others who will play their parts before man in the universe passes into history.

  As man’s rule spreads from planet to planet, from solar system to solar system across the wide sky, explorers, space officers, pioneers, guardsmen, marines, traders, heralds and doctors may note that in this book some of today’s greatest science-fiction writers allowed youngsters a peek into their not-too-distant future.

  Andre Norton, the editor of World’s highly successful Bullard of the Space Patrol, has written nine books of historical adventure, sagas, and modern spy mysteries for teen-age readers. She is the editor of the Gnome Press teenage science-fiction department, and an avid student and collector of science fiction.

  Stories by

  Theodore R. Cogswell

  Gordon R. Dickson • H.B. Fyfe

  Raymond Z. Gallun

  Bernard I. Kahn • C.M. Kornbluth

  Walt Sheldon

  J.A. Winter, M.D.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 52-13235

  FIRST PRINTING

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Publishers wish to acknowledge with thanks permission to use the following stories contained in this volume:

  “COMMAND” by Bernard I. Kahn. Copyright January, 1947, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. in the U.S.A. and Great Britain; reprinted from Astounding Science-Fiction.

  “STAR-LINKED” by H.B. Fyfe. Copyright February, 1952, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. in the U.S.A. and Great Britain; reprinted from Astounding Science-Fiction.

  “CHORE FOR A SPACEMAN” by Walt Sheldon. Copyright 1950 by Standard Magazines, Inc. Originally published in December, 1950, Thrilling Wonder Stories. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “THE SPECTER GENERAL” by Theodore R. Cogswell. Copyright June, 1952, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. in the U.S.A. and Great Britain; reprinted from Astounding Science-Fiction by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Scott Meredith.

  “IMPLODE AND PEDDLE” by H.B. Fyfe. Copyright November, 1951, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. in the U.S.A. and Great Britain; reprinted from Astounding Science-Fiction by permission of the author.

  “STEEL BROTHER” by Gordon R. Dickson. Copyright February, 1952, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. in the U.S.A. and Great Britain; reprinted from Astounding Science-Fiction.

  “FOR THE PUBLIC” by Bernard I. Kahn. Copyright December, 1946, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. in the U.S.A. and Great Britain; reprinted from Astounding Science-Fiction.

  “EXPEDITION POLYCHROME” by J. A. Winter, M.D. Copyright January, 1949, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. in the U.S.A. and Great Britain; reprinted from Astounding Science-Fiction.

  “RETURN OF A LEGEND” by Raymond Z. Gallun. Copyright March, 1952, by Love Romances Publishing Co., Inc.; reprinted from Planet Stories.

  “THAT SHARE OF GLORY” by C.M. Kornbluth. Copyright January, 1952, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. in the U.S.A. and Great Britain; reprinted from Astounding Science-Fiction.

  HC 153

  THE SPECIAL CONTENTS OF THIS EDITION COPYRIGHT 1953

  BY THE WORLD PUBLISHING COMPANY

  MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Space Service

  (book cover)

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Stories by

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Command

  Bernard I. Kahn

  Star-Linked

  H.B. Fyfe

  Chore for a Spaceman

  Walt Sheldon

  The Specter General

  Theodore R. Cogswell

  Implode and Peddle

  H.B. Fyfe

  Steel Brother

  Gordon R. Dickson

  For the Public

  Bernard I. Kahn

  Expedition Polychrome

  J.A. Winter, M.D.

  Return of a Legend

  Raymond Z. Gallun

  That Share of Glory

  C.M. Kornbluth

  Introduction

  The future history of man in space will depend in the main upon the conduct and resourcefulness of individual men—men of diversified character and talents. One type may bring a space freighter successfully through threatened disaster, while another very different sort will “sweat out” a commercial deal involving both human and non-human traders, a deal which will open a new solar system to galactic trade and, incidentally, cement closer a stellar peace.

  The law guardian stationed in the black outer regions where the stars are cold and small will, in awful loneliness, live up to a code imposed upon his corps by tradition. And the pioneer will go into unknown wastelands, driven both by the ancient hunger for new land and a gripping desire to be the first “man” to walk that way.

  To knowledge and the search for knowledge we have yet found no limit. For every new job—or old job in a new dress—which the future will open there will rise a man ready to assume the responsibilities it offers.

  Twenty years ago science-fiction predicted radar, atomic energy, rockets. Now it offers the stars unlimited. Imagination may be more often right than wrong. Who can say that in 1990 or 2250 or 4950 there will not be born a William Terry or a Harry Redkirk or a Herald Alen?

  Andre Norton

  1 SPACE SHIP COMMANDER: Nord Corbett

  Command makes difficult demands and the man

  who accepts its responsibilities fastens no light

  weight upon his own shoulders. Nord Corbett was

  taking out his Gist ship—he was sure of himself,

  of his ship, and, he thought, of his crew.

  It was going to be just another

  routine voyage. But blowups occur and after disaster

  strikes the future lies in a captain’s hands.

  Command

  BY BERNARD I. KAHN

  Lieutenant Nord Corbett adjusted his freshly pressed uniform jacket over his thick, broad shoulders, checked to see if the jeweled incrusted wings were exactly horizontal with the first row of spatial exploratory ribbons before entering the wardroom. He well remembered, when he was a junior officer, how the sight of a well-dressed, impeccably neat commanding officer, no matter how long they had been spacing, maintained the enthusiasm, confidence and morale of the officers and men.

  The wardroom looked like a trimensional pictograph advertising the dining salon of a billionaire’s yacht. Soft light from the curving overhead ricocheted from the gleaming, satiny pandamus wood lining the bulkhead, glanced on the spotless linen, flickered on the silverware like liquid flame. In the center of the elliptical table was his own donation to the officers’ mess: a massive stand of carmeltia; the fabulously valuable, deathless, roselike flower from Dynia.

  He enjoyed dinner with his officers. He refused to pattern himself after other officers of his same class, who as soon as they were given a command, no matter how small, begin to live a life of lofty solitude. They felt such eremitic behavior would automatically make them revered, feared and admired. The majesty that went
with command, Lieutenant Nord Corbett well knew, came from mutual respect and not from living in a half-world of distant glory.

  He quickly noted as he sat at the head of the table, there was still no trace of irking boredom on the alert faces of his ten officers. He looked for evidence of dullness every night at this time. An officer bored with the monotony of spacing was a terrible hazard because he could easily infect others with his own morose discontent.

  The steward was at his elbow. From an intricately carved, large silver bowl he pulled a shining metal can, nested in ice. “A lettuce and tomato salad, sir?” Then apologetically, “That’s all we have left now.”

  Nord Corbett nodded. The salad as it emerged from the can looked garden fresh, even to tiny beads of moisture on the crisp leaves.

  Nord looked down the table at Ensign Munroe, finance and supply officer. “Fresh canned stores are about gone now, aren’t they?” He ladled dressing on the bright green and red vegetables.

  “Yes, sir. We’ll be on dry stores in about another week,” Munroe answered, “unless, of course, we pass a ship going Earthwards with fresh food.”

  “Then we’ll be on them for the rest of the trip,” Nord announced, “we won’t pass any ships until we approximate Lanvin.”

  “We’ll only have to eat dry stores for about five or six more months,” Ensign Lesnau, the astrogation officer, prophesied.

  Hardman, the executive officer, chuckled. “Did you hear that, gentlemen? Please note, Mr. Lesnau announces an ETA for Lanvin plus or minus one month. I’d suggest, captain,” he looked at Nord, “you might have Dr. Stacker teach him astrogation.”

  The laughter that circled the table at the thought of the space surgeon teaching astrogation was as euphoric as a synthetic comedy. Even after one hundred and two days of spacing he still couldn’t believe it; the warm thought cloaked his mind these smiling officers were on his first command—Terrestrial Spaceship FFT-136. Their holds were filled with agricultural supplies from the Colonial Office on Earth to Lanvin: Planet IV, Sun 3, Sirius System. His feeling of responsibility for the safe execution of this task was like the joy of a father with a new son.

  “Captain,” Hardman interrupted his reverie, “you missed a good story. Just before dinner, Munroe was telling me about the most original crime on earth.”

  “You mean in space,” Munroe corrected; he turned to the captain. “My brother tells the story that when he was junior instrument officer on the Explorer II, some loose-minded spaceman held up the paymaster when they were five light-years from the nearest planet. He knew he couldn’t get off the ship with the money. He just thought it would be a good idea.”

  “Well, it would be a good idea, if he could get by with it,” Nord admitted. “Think how much currency those big ships carry. It would make a man fabulously rich.”

  “Not just big ships. Do you have any idea how much I have in my safe for the District Base at Lanvin?” Munroe asked.

  Bickford, the air officer, leaned forward eagerly. “How much do you carry?”

  “I’ve got a million stellars!”

  “A million stellars!” Bickford’s pale, blue eyes almost extruded. “Why, that’s a hundred million dollars.”

  Munroe nodded. “Captain, Mr. Bickford knows elementary finance. Why can’t he be supply officer for a while and let me be air officer?”

  “That’s a good idea,” Lesnau thought aloud. “I’ll be space surgeon, too. A complete rotation of all officers. I’ve been worried about how Mr. Bickford handles the air anyway. He’s careless with our chlorophyl. You know air is rather important to us.”

  “That last is a super-nova of understatement,” Dr. Stacker announced.

  Bickford leaned across the table, his almost colorless, pale-blue eyes were like tiny, venomous slits. “What do you mean I don’t handle the air properly?” His voice was a rasping growl.

  “Now, Mr. Bickford, don’t get spacey,” Nord Corbett cautioned softly. “You know you were only being kidded.”

  “Don’t like to be kidded about my detail,” he answered testily. “Go on with the story.” He jerked his thin head towards Munroe.

  “That’s about all there was to it. Of course he was caught and sent to the hospital.” He turned to Dr. Stacker. “What kind of illness is that anyway?”

  The space surgeon put down his fork. “I would diagnose such a case as being a psychopath.”

  “Just what is a psychopath?” Nord asked.

  “A psychopath is a person with a mental defect which prevents him from learning by experience. Such personalities are usually brilliant, able to learn readily, but when it comes to living with others they are social failures. They are like children, mere emotional infants. Their conduct is ruled solely by impulse. They will think over an idea for a second and then act without considering the consequences to themselves or others. The professional criminal, the pathological liar, the billionaire’s son who is repeatedly fined for dropping his yacht into a city, the swindler, kleptomaniac, pyromaniac and moral degenerate are all psychopaths.”

  “What causes them?” Nord inquired, “and why let them on ships anyway?”

  Stacker sighed. “I wish I could answer it all for you.” He pulled a package of cigarettes from his pocket, touched the stud on the label, pulled out a lighted cigarette. He inhaled deeply. “The psychopath can only be explained as a vestigial remnant of man’s evolutionary development. It is normal for an infant to live solely by impulse, but as mentality develops he leams to make adjustments to life without the origin of too many conflicts. If, however, we lack the ability to learn how to live with others then we will act as a very intelligent animal would act.” He flicked ashes on the tray. “Just remember, captain, it is a mental condition which is a stage in man’s phylogenetic development.”

  “Well, how can you tell a psychopath from a normal lug?” Hardman interposed.

  “That’s easy,” Lesnau broke in, “we’re not normal. Those on Earth are. If we were normal, do you think we’d be out here ten light-years from home?”

  “The files in the Bureau of Spatial Medicine,” the space surgeon answered Hardman’s question, “maintain accurate records of all illnesses, arrests, domestic difficulties and any other symptom of maladjustment. All ships have physicians aboard who are trained in psychiatry. We make every effort to keep the Service free from the danger of the psychopath.”

  “Why are they so dangerous?” Hardman asked with a laugh. “Seems to me they are rather absurd.”

  “I can see the danger,” Nord said slowly. “I wonder how much of an item they are in the cause of ships that don’t return?”

  “I would say they were a tremendous factor,” the medical officer answered. “Think how easily one man could wreck this ship. If he gained access to the tube banks, he could substitute a worn tube and throw our astrogation out of kilter. If he got into the chlorophyl banks, he could infect them and cause asphyxiation; if he could gain access to the bleeder valves he could release all our air into space. If he kept one suit of armor, he would then control the ship,” he paused, looked around the table, “and be rich for life.”

  Hardman looked at the captain. “I hope you keep all the keys around your neck.” When the laughter subsided he addressed the doctor again. “Are all men carefully checked?” He indicated Bickford with a nod. “I mean men like political appointees such as Mr. Bickford.”

  Bickford’s pointed chin quivered angrily. “What’s the matter with my mind?” he snarled with trembling fury. “Just because I’m not a graduate of the Spatial Academy is no reason to pick on me.” He pounded the table angrily. “My cousin who is manager of Synthetic Air got me this job. I was given a highly specialized course in air management.” His pale-blue eyes glared at Dr. Stacker. “Just because you silly space surgeons didn’t have any reason to examine me doesn’t mean my mind isn’t as good as yours. You’re all just jealous because I have rich relatives. Well,” he laughed hysterically, “my mind is just as good as anyone’s at this t
able.”

  The officers sat stiffly erect in embarrassed silence as they pretended to ignore Bickford’s uncalled-for, infantile expression of anger. They waited, fumbling with the silverware, gaze fixed on the waxen roselike flowers in the center of the table. The wardroom was so quiet that when one of the stewards placed a serving spoon in the dessert bowl, the click of the silver was startlingly explosive. “I don’t think there is anything the matter with your mind; nor does anybody else.” Nord eased the gathering tension. But he felt cold on the inside, as if Pluto’s turgid bitter winds were blowing out from his body and through his clothing. His hands and feet felt cold, even his brain seemed frozen as he watched Bickford’s thin fingers pluck for a cigarette.

  He turned to Dr. Stacker, who was observing the air officer with clinical detachment. “You’re the ship’s athletic officer, who should I put my money on tonight?”

  “I won’t commit myself.”

  “Gentlemen, shall we go on the recreation deck and watch the semifinals? Cooks, stewards and waiters are expected to beat the ship’s repair force. It’s going to be a good game of laska ball.”

  Laska ball was an extremely fast, excellent exercise. It was a modified form of basket ball, played on an elliptical court in which the captains could control the location of their team’s basket. It was a well-adapted sport for the limited recreational space of small ships.

  Nord Corbett forced himself to sit through the first half of the game, but not even the electrical speed of the game, the rocketing ball flashing through the oscillating, flickering basket could remove his vague apprehension.

  A cold cloud of worry shadowed his mind until he fell asleep.

  At 0500, an hour before his usual rising time, Latham, Officer-of-the-Watch, called him.

  “Captain, the lattice shows a small cloud of meteoric dust approximately seventy-five thousand kilosecs in diameter. The density is point zero zero four. I get a spectral classification of Fe dash one-three-nine-four dash alpha nine three delta over six. It is located seventy-two light-minutes from our course at one thirty-six degrees above the axial plane. May I have your permission to decelerate to chart the cloud?”