"Give me back my glove," said Heller. I handed it over. He was about to put it in his pocket when he felt that the cuff was damp.
We were at about twenty thousand feet and he was flying at about five hundred miles an hour. There was even some light traffic up this high now. But he took his hand off the wheelstick and began to fly with his knee! He rolled back the glove cuff, blew into it to turn it wrong side out, took out his redstar engineer's rag and wiped the glove dry. "You must have been nervous," he said consolingly. "I keep forgetting you might not be used to certain things." Heller turned the cuff back, blew the glove right side out and put it and the rag in his pocket. "Well, don't you worry, Soltan. We'll get something nice and safe to travel in." Not very reassuring when the pilot is flying with one toe, one knee and, while admittedly very relaxed, is paying no slightest attention to whizzing traffic at his flight level. The overdriven airbus felt like it was about to shatter!
We were to the north of the main Fleet base. Below us an isolated plateau rolled up. The airbus was shaking so hard my vision was jittered and I couldn't see what it was.
"Here we are," said Heller and made what would be ranked in any book as a crash landing.
The dust settled. We were sitting before a low administration building, white and decorated with antique blastguns. It was very quiet. Nobody seemed to be around. Behind the building was a huge and seemingly endless fence. On it was a gigantic sign, EMERGENCY FLEET RESERVE Heller bounced out and I followed him up the building steps. There was a hall, a lot of empty desks, some unposted bulletin boards and plenty of echoes.
Apparently knowing where he was going, Heller trotted to the end of the hall and, without knocking, burst into a tomblike room.
A grizzled old space officer was sitting in a gravity chair, working on some lists, nursing a canister of hot jolt with his left hand. The unlighted sign on the front of the desk said, Commander Crup He looked up, a thundercloud scowl on his face. And then he burst into pure radiance. "Jettero!" He leaped up. They came together like colliding spaceships, pounding each other on the back. They laughed. The commander backed off, "Let me look at you! I haven't seen you for a year!" Suddenly he caught sight of me. His scowl came back. "A 'drunk'!" How do they always know?
Heller whipped out the orders: the Grand Council authorization and his own. He handed them to the commander. That worthy looked hard at me. "He's all right," said Heller. "Commander Crup, meet Officer Gris." But Crup didn't offer to shake hands. He read the orders. He relaxed a bit.
"Well, what can we do for you, Jet?"
"Just on a shopping tour," said Heller. "Can I have permission to overfly the place?"
"Better than that," said Crup. "I'll come along with you." He gathered his cap and a case full of papers and outside we went.
The scene which had been so lonely before was now a bit populated. Six tough, scowling Fleet marines were standing around the airbus, fingering their electric daggers. My driver was sitting a bit white-faced and alert in back.
"It's all right, sergeant," said Crup. "This is Jettero Heller." The biggest Fleet marine relaxed and smiled. He gave the single-arm salute of marines casually. "What you doing in 'drunk' company?" I held my breath.
If Heller were to tell these tough brutes he had been held prisoner and was in actual fact under guard, I am sure they would have slaughtered me and the driver.
"I'm in disguise," said Heller with a perfectly straight face.
For some reason they thought this extremely funny.
"Sergeant," said Crup, as we piled into the front seat, "call perimeter defense and tell them this airbus has permission to overfly." Heller took off, jumped the fence and, very low and slow, began to fly along. I had seen this place from high altitude and had often wondered what it was. What must be fifty square miles of black-hulled spaceships, sitting on their tails, stretched before us, the long morning shadows making it appear they were even more numerous. They were tall, they were short, they were broad, they were thin. What an assemblage!
I promptly destroyed what little tolerance I had gained from Commander Crup. "Emergency Fleet Reserve," I said. "This looks more like a boneyard!" Crup withered me. He wasn't going to answer at first and then pride got the better of him. "These ships are notscrap! They have the status of 'suspended activation.' When vessels are still serviceable but have been outmoded they are added to the Emergency Fleet Reserve!"
"But I don't see any men, no crews," I said.
"There are retired officers and superannuated spacemen aplenty that could be summoned up to man these ships," said Crup. "And believe me, in time of planetary emergency, the Fleet would be thankful to have them." Heller changed the subject. "Hey, there's the old Juba!I didn't know they had retired the five thousand spacer class, any of them!" I looked in that direction. It was a huge black monster, covered with dust. It looked like a Commercial City office building. But I didn't get any time to admire it as Heller barely flicked its antennas with our undercarriage.
Rows and rows of ships, thousands and thousands of them. We cruised along, Heller looking. I wished he'd put more of his attention on flying.
"If you could tell me what you want," said Crup, "maybe I could help. What kind of a mission is it?" Untrained as he was, I thought Heller would blurt it out. But he said, "Kind of a peculiar one. I'll just keep on looking." We had gotten to the far perimeter. "See that old baby over in the corner there, Soltan?" It was a monster's monster. It was built of cubes apparently added on at random until they were mountain high. A more dilapidated spaceship I have never seen.
"That," said Heller, "is the Upward Strike.You are looking at the last of the original intergalactic battleships. She was part of the force which attacked Voltar, an immigration ship. A hundred and twenty-five thousand years old. She must be sunk into the ground thirty feet by now."
"I thought you said all these ships were operational," I quipped.
Crup sneered at me. "She is equipped with the original time drives that made immigration possible between galaxies. Academy cadets studying engines are brought here to see her."
"It was my weak subject," I said lamely. I did recall now there had been such tours. I had always been on punishment drill.
I was jolted out of it by a yell from Heller. "There she is! There she is! There she is! Oh, you baby!"
"What?" said Crup. "Where?"
"There! There!" cried Heller, pointing and diving us down toward a landing.
"Oh, no!" said Commander Crup. "Jettero! As I love you, boy, you don't want that!" I finally credited that what they were looking at was what they were looking at.
It was a pygmy amongst these monsters. It was the ugliest, dustiest thing I ever hope to see. It was standing on its tail. It looked like a headless old woman with two arms outstretched, her black dress reaching the ground. It was only about a hundred and ten feet tall. It was fat beyond belief. All around it were graceful, swept-curve cruisers and patrol craft, any one of them preferable to this horrible looking little blob.
Heller was out and literally stroking its side in ecstasy. "Oh, you darling," he was saying. "Oh, you wonderful beauty!" Then he was eagerly beaconing to Crup to bring the keyplates to open the entry lock.