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  A Question Of Courage

  By J. F. BONE

  Illustrated by FINLAY

  _I smelled the trouble the moment I stepped on the lift and took the long ride up the side of the "Lachesis." There was something wrong. I couldn't put my finger on it but_

  five years in the Navy gives a man a feeling for these things. From theoutside the ship was beautiful, a gleaming shaft of duralloy, polisheduntil she shone. Her paint and brightwork glistened. The antiradiationshields on the gun turrets and launchers were folded back exactlyaccording to regulations. The shore uniform of the liftman was spotlessand he stood at his station precisely as he should. As the lift movedslowly up past no-man's country to the life section, I noted a workparty hanging precariously from a scaffolding smoothing out meteoritepits in the gleaming hull, while on the catwalk of the gantry standingbeside the main cargo hatch a steady stream of supplies disappeared intothe ship's belly.

  I returned the crisp salutes of the white-gloved sideboys, saluted thecolors, and shook hands with an immaculate ensign with an O.D. badge onhis tunic.

  "Glad to have you aboard, sir," the ensign said.

  "I'm Marsden," I said. "Lieutenant Thomas Marsden. I have orders postingme to this ship as Executive."

  "Yes, sir. We have been expecting you. I'm Ensign Halloran."

  "Glad to meet you, Halloran."

  "Skipper's orders, sir. You are to report to him as soon as you comeaboard."

  Then I got it. Everything was SOP. The ship wasn't taut, she was tight!And she wasn't happy. There was none of the devil-may-care spirit thatmarks crews in the Scouting Force and separates them from the stodgymass of the Line. Every face I saw on my trip to the skipper's cabin wasblank, hard-eyed, and unsmiling. There was none of the human noise thatnormally echoes through a ship, no laughter, no clatter of equipment, nodeviations from the order and precision so dear to admirals' hearts.This crew was G.I. right down to the last seam tab on their uniforms.Whoever the skipper was, he was either bucking for another cluster or acold-feeling automaton to whom the Navy Code was father, mother, andBible.

  The O.D. stopped before the closed door, executed a mechanical rightface, knocked the prescribed three times and opened the door smartly onthe heels of the word "Come" that erupted from the inside. I stepped infollowed by the O.D.

  "Commander Chase," the O.D. said. "Lieutenant Marsden."

  Chase! Not Cautious Charley Chase! I could hardly look at the man behindthe command desk. But look I did--and my heart did a ninety degree divestraight to the thick soles of my space boots. No wonder this ship wassour. What else could happen with Lieutenant Commander Charles AugustusChase in command! He was three classes up on me, but even though he wasa First Classman at the time I crawled out of Beast Barracks, I knewhim well. Every Midshipman in the Academy knew him--Rule-BookCharley--By-The-Numbers Chase--his nicknames were legion and not one ofthem was friendly. "Lieutenant Thomas Marsden reporting for duty," Isaid.

  He looked at the O.D. "That'll be all, Mr. Halloran," he said.

  "Aye, sir," Halloran said woodenly. He stepped backward, saluted,executed a precise about face and closed the hatch softly behind him.

  * * * * *

  "Sit down, Marsden," Chase said. "Have a cigarette."

  He didn't say, "Glad to have you aboard." But other than that he wasNavy right down to the last parenthesis. His voice was the same dryschoolmaster's voice I remembered from the Academy. And his face was thesame dry gray with the same fishy blue eyes and rat trap jaw. His hairwas thinner, but other than that he hadn't changed. Neither the war northe responsibilities of command appeared to have left their mark uponhim. He was still the same lean, undersized square-shouldered blob ofnastiness.

  I took the cigarette, sat down, puffed it into a glow, and looked aroundthe drab 6 x 8 foot cubicle called the Captain's cabin by ship designerswho must have laughed as they laid out the plans. It had about the roomof a good-sized coffin. A copy of the Navy Code was lying on the desk.Chase had obviously been reading his bible.

  "You are three minutes late, Marsden," Chase said. "Your orders directyou to report at 0900. Do you have any explanation?"

  "No, sir," I said.

  "Don't let it happen again. On this ship we are prompt."

  "Aye, sir," I muttered.

  He smiled, a thin quirk of thin lips. "Now let me outline your duties,Marsden. You are posted to my ship as Executive Officer. An ExecutiveOfficer is the Captain's right hand."

  "So I have heard," I said drily.

  "Belay that, Mr. Marsden. I do not appreciate humor during duty hours."

  You wouldn't, I thought.

  "As I was saying, Marsden, Executive Officer, you will be responsiblefor--" He went on and on, covering the Code--chapter, book and verse onthe duties of an Executive Officer. It made no difference that I hadbeen Exec under Andy Royce, the skipper of the "Clotho," the ship withthe biggest confirmed kill in the entire Fleet Scouting Force. I wasstill a new Exec, and the book said I must be briefed on my duties. So"briefed" I was--for a solid hour.

  Feeling angry and tired, I finally managed to get away from Rule BookCharley and find my quarters which I shared with the Engineer. I knewhim casually, a glum reservist named Allyn. I had wondered why he alwaysseemed to have a chip on his shoulder. Now I knew.

  He was lying in his shock-couch as I came in. "Welcome, sucker," hegreeted me. "Glad to have you aboard."

  "The feeling's not mutual," I snapped.

  "What's the matter? Has the Lieutenant Commander been rolling you out onthe red carpet?"

  "You could call it that," I said. "I've just been told the duties of anExec. Funny--no?"

  He shook his head. "Not funny. I feel for you. He told me how to be anengineer six months ago." Allyn's thin face looked glummer than usual.

  "Did I ever tell you about our skip--captain?" Allyn went on. "Or do Ihave to tell you? I see you're wearing an Academy ring."

  "You can't tell me much I haven't already heard," I said coldly. I don'tlike wardroom gossips as a matter of policy. A few disgruntled men on aship can shoot morale to hell, and on a ship this size the Exec is themorale officer. But I was torn between two desires. I wanted Allyn to goon, but I didn't want to hear what Allyn had to say. I was like theproverbial hungry mule standing halfway between two haystacks of equalsize and attractiveness. And like the mule I would stand there turningmy head one way and the other until I starved to death.

  But Allyn solved my problem for me. "You haven't heard _this_," he saidbitterly. "The whole crew applied for transfer when we came back to baseafter our last cruise. Of course, they didn't get it, but you get theidea. Us reservists and draftees get about the same consideration as theAdmiral's dog--No! dammit!--Less than the dog. They wouldn't let a mangycur ship out with Gutless Gus."

  Gutless Gus! that was a new one. I wondered how Chase had managed toacquire that sobriquet.

  * * * * *

  "It was on our last patrol," Allyn went on, answering my question beforeI asked it. "We were out at maximum radius when the detectors showed adisturbance in normal space. Chase ordered us down from Cth for a quicklook--and so help me, God, we broke out right in the middle of a Rebelsupply convoy--big, fat, sitting ducks all around us. We got off abouttwenty Mark VII torpedoes before Chase passed the word to change over.We scooted back into Cth so fast we hardly knew we were gone. And thenhe raises hell with Detector section for not identifying every class ofship in that convoy!

  "And when Bancroft, that's the Exec whom you've relieved, asked for aquick check to confirm our kills, Chase sat on him
like a ton of brick.'I'm not interested in how many poor devils we blew apart back there,'our Captain says. 'Our mission is to scout, to obtain information aboutenemy movements and get that information back to Base. We cannottransmit information from a vaporized ship, and that convoy had a navalescort. Our mission cannot be jeopardized merely to satisfy morbidcuriosity. Request denied. And, Mr. Bancroft, have Communicationscontact Fleet. This information should be in as soon as possible.' Andthen he turned away leaving Bancroft biting his fingernails. He wouldn'teven push out a probe--scooted right back into the blue where we'd besafe!

  "You know, we haven't had one confirmed kill posted on the list sincewe've been in space. It's getting so we don't want to come in any more.Like the time--the 'Atropos' came in just after we touched down. She wasbattered--looked like she'd been through a meat grinder, but she had tenconfirmed and six probable, and four of them were escorts! Hell! Ourboys couldn't hold their heads up. The 'Lachesis' didn't have a mark onher and all we had was a few possible hits. You know how itgoes--someone asks where you're from. You say the 'Lachesis' and theysay 'Oh, yes, the cruise ship.' And that's that. It's so true you don'teven feel like resenting it."

  I didn't like the bitter note in Allyn's voice. He was a reservist,which made it all the worse. Reservists have ten times the outsidecontacts we regulars do. In general when a regular and reservist tangle,the Academy men close ranks like musk-oxen and meet the challenge withan unbroken ring of horns. But somehow I didn't feel like ringing up.

  I kept hoping there was another side to the story. I'd check around andfind out as soon as I got settled. And if there was another side, I wasgoing to take Allyn apart as a malicious trouble-maker. I felt sick tomy stomach.

  * * * * *

  We spent the next three days taking on stores and munitions, and I wastoo busy supervising the stowage and checking manifests to bother aboutrunning down Allyn's story. I met the other officers--Lt. Pollard thegunnery officer, Ensign Esterhazy the astrogator, and Ensign Blakiston.Nice enough guys, but all wearing that cowed, frustrated look thatseemed to be a "Lachesis" trademark. Chase, meanwhile, was up in FlagOfficer's Country picking up the dope on our next mission. I hoped thatAllyn was wrong but the evidence all seemed to be in his favor. Evenmore than the officers, the crew was a mess underneath their cleanuniforms. From Communications Chief CPO Haskins to Spaceman Zelinskithere was about as much spirit in them as you'd find in a punishmentdetail polishing brightwork in Base Headquarters. I'm a cheerful soul,and usually I find no trouble getting along with a new command, but thisone was different. They were efficient enough, but one could see thattheir hearts weren't in their work. Most crews preparing to go out arenervous and high tempered. There was none of that here. The men wentthrough the motions with a mechanical indifference that was frightening.I had the feeling that they didn't give a damn whether they went ornot--or came back or not. The indifference was so thick you could cut itwith a knife. Yet there was nothing you could put your hand on. Youcan't touch people who don't care.

  Four hours after Chase came back, we lifted gravs from Earth. Chase wassitting in the control chair, and to give him credit, we lifted assmooth as a silk scarf slipping through the fingers of a pretty woman.We hypered at eight miles and swept up through the monochromes of Cthuntil we hit middle blue, when Chase slipped off the helmet, unfastenedhis webbing, and stood up.

  "Take over, Mr. Marsden," he said. "Lay a course for Parth."

  "Aye, sir," I replied, slipping into the chair and fastening the web. Islipped the helmet on my head and instantly I was a part of the ship.It's a strange feeling, this synthesis of man and metal that makes afighting ship the metallic extension of the Commander's will. I wasconscious of every man on duty. What they saw I saw, what they heard Iheard, through the magic of modern electronics. The only thing missingwas that I couldn't feel what they felt, which perhaps was a mercyconsidering the condition of the crew. Using the sensor circuits in thecommand helmet, I let my perception roam through the ship, checking theengines, the gun crews, the navigation board, the galley--all themanifold stations of a fighting ship. Everything was secure, the shipwas clean and trimmed, the generators were producing their megawatts ofpower without a hitch, and the converters were humming contentedly,keeping us in the blue as our speed built to fantastic levels.

  I checked the course, noted it was true, set the controls on standby andrelaxed, half dozing in the chair as Lume after Lume dropped astern withmonotonous regularity.

  An hour passed and Halloran came up to relieve me. With a sigh of reliefI surrendered the chair and headset. The unconscious strain of being inrapport with ship and crew didn't hit me until I was out of the chair.But when it did, I felt like something was crushing me flat. Not that Ididn't expect it, but the "Lachesis" was worse than the "Clotho" hadever been.

  I had barely hit my couch when General Quarters sounded. I smothered acurse as I pounded up the companionway to my station at the bridge.Chase was there, stopwatch in hand, counting the seconds.

  "Set!" Halloran barked.

  "Fourteen seconds," Chase said. "Not bad. Tell the crew well done." Heput the watch in his pocket and walked away.

  I picked up the annunciator mike and pushed the button. "Skipper sayswell done," I said.

  "He got ten seconds out of us once last trip," Halloran said. "And he'sbeen trying to repeat that fluke ever since. Bet you a munit to an 'F'ration that he'll be down with the section chief trying to shave offanother second or two. Hey!--what's that--oh ..." He looked at me."Disturbance in Cth yellow, straight down--shall we go?"

  "Stop ship," I ordered. "Sound general quarters." There was nodeceleration. We merely swapped ends as the alarm sounded, applied fullpower and stopped. That was the advantage of Cth--no inertia. Webacktracked for three seconds and held in middle blue.

  * * * * *

  "What's going on?" Chase demanded as he came up from below. His eyesraked the instruments. "Why are we stopped?"

  "Disturbance in Cth yellow, sir," I said. "We're positioned above it."

  "Very good, Mr. Marsden." He took the spare helmet from the Exec'schair, clapped it on, fiddled with the controls for a moment, nodded,and took the helmet off. "Secure and resume course," he said. "That'sthe 'Amphitrite'--fleet supply and maintenance. One of our people."

  "You sure, sir?" I asked, and then looked at the smug grin on Halloran'sface and wished I hadn't asked.

  "Of course," Chase said. "She's a three converter job running at fulloutput. Since the Rebels have no three converter ships, she has to beone of ours. And since she's running at full output and only in Cthyellow, it means she's big, heavy, and awkward--which means amaintenance or an ammunition supply ship. There's an off phase beat inher number two converter that gives a twenty cycle pulse to her pattern.And the only heavy ship in the fleet with this pattern is 'Amphitrite.'You see?"

  I saw--with respect. "You know all the heavies like that, sir?" I asked.

  "Not all of them--but I'd like to. It's as much a part of a scoutshipcommander's work to know our own ships as those of the enemy."

  "Could that trace be a Rebel ruse?"

  "Not likely--travelling in the yellow. A ship would be cold meat thisfar inside our perimeter. And besides, there's no Rebel alive who cantune a converter like a Navy mechanic."

  "You sure?" I persisted.

  "I'm sure. But take her down if you wish."

  I did. And it was the "Amphitrite."

  "I served on her for six months," Chase said drily as we went backthrough the components. I understood his certainty now. A man has afeeling for ships if he's a good officer. But it was a trait I'd neverexpected in Chase. I gave the orders and we resumed our band and speed.Chase looked at me.

  "You acted correctly, Mr. Marsden," he said. "Something I would hardlyexpect, but something I was glad to see."

  "I served under Andy Royce," I reminded him.

  "I know," Chase replied. "That's why I'm surprised." H
e turned awaybefore I could think of an answer that would combine insolence andrespect for his rank. "Keep her on course, Mr. Halloran," he tossed overhis shoulder as he went out.

  We kept on course--high and hard despite a couple of disturbances thatlumbered by underneath us. Once I made a motion to stop ship and check,but Halloran shook his head.

  "Don't do it, sir," he warned.

  "Why not?"

  "You heard the Captain's orders. He's a heller for having them obeyed.Besides, they might be Rebs--and we might get hurt shooting at them.We'll just report their position and approximate course--and keep ontravelling. Haskins is on the Dirac right now." Halloran's voice wassarcastic.

  I didn't like the sound of it, and said so.

  "Well, sir--we won't lose them entirely," Halloran said comfortingly."Some cruiser will investigate them. Chances are they're oursanyway--and if they aren't there's no sense in us risking our nice shinyskin stopping them--even though we