Stage One
Rendezvous
with
Kratos
EVENT ONE
Command Alert
The robot was man-sized, but there was nothing human in its appearance. It was just a highly efficient, highly complex machine with a synthetic identity encoded in its electronic brain. It had the word Matthew painted on its chest plate and on its back plate.
It bent over the unconscious body on the intensive care bench in the resuscitation chamber and gently massaged, working on key areas according to a procedure that had been carefully programmed into its memory circuits. The robot wore thermal gloves so that its steel fingers would not damage the pale, cold flesh and so that the radiant heat would go where it was most needed. Simultaneously, the robot monitored the minute changes of body temperature, the weak but increasing heart-beat, the slow climb in blood pressure.
Gentle, rhythmic pressure on the chest had triggered the breathing cycle. The unconscious man gave a faint, involuntary groan. The robot noted with approval. A toe twitched, then a finger. What had been almost dead was fighting its way back to life.
Most of the resuscitation procedure had been automatic. On computer instruction, the body had been ejected from its low-temperature casket and subjected to measured doses of infra-red radiation at decreasing intervals before being transferred to the intensive care unit where, in controlled sequence, normal life-functions would be restored. The rest now was up to the I.C. monitoring equipment and the decisions of the robot.
The naked man groaned once more. His heart-beat strengthened. His eye-lids fluttered. The robot altered its pattern of massage. Presently, it removed the thermal gloves and placed a mask over the man's nose arid mouth. Oxygen-enriched air was pumped into the lungs in pulses synchronous with the weak breathing cycle.
In less than a minute, the man was conscious. He opened his eyes and cried out in anguish. The robot knew why he cried out. The vision analysis centres of the brain were receiving conflicting signals. Deftly, the robot placed a silver patch over one eye. The man gave a sigh and relaxed. He focused his uncovered eye on the robot, staring at it fixedly. The robot took away the mask" Breathing was almost normal.
"Sir," said the robot, "do you hear me clearly?"
"I hear you clearly."
"Do you experience any pain?"
"No, but I feel very tired."
"Are you in a condition to receive data?"
The man smiled faintly. "I am in a condition to receive data."
"Sir, you have been in suspended animation for approximately five hundred and forty hours, Standard Earth Time. About eighty-five per cent of suspended animation subjects suffer temporary amnesia upon resuscitation. I am therefore empowered to remind you of key data. You are James Conrad, commander of the faster-than-light vessel Santa Maria. The vessel is now in stable orbit round the planet Altair Four, designated as Kratos by the Extra-Solar Planets Evaluating and Normalising Department of the United Nations. Your mission is to prove Kratos fit for human colonisation. Your personnel consist of six human beings, designated as Expendables, and six self programming robots, type S.P.9. I am S.P.9/1, designated as Matthew for your convenience. I have command circuits that can override the independent circuitry of the other five robots. I am programmed to obey any lawful command you give. Do you understand me?"
The naked man sighed. "I understand you but, as yet, I do not fully remember. How long will it be before I get normal recall?"
"Normally, sir, it would not be longer than 1.5 hours S.E.T. Your responses have been good, therefore I would anticipate that normal recall would occur well within that time limit."
Conrad shivered. "I feel bloody cold."
"I am sorry, sir. I am not empowered to vary the temperature programme. But presently you should feel comfortable."
"What the hell is this business about lawful commands?" demanded Conrad irritably. "Can I command you or can I not?"
"You can command me, sir, in any way that does, not involve the Asimov Inhibition."
"What the hell is that?"
"You command me in any way that does not involve harming, putting at risk, or causing the death of another human being."
"That seems reasonable."
"Yes, sir."
"Have we any brandy aboard the Santa Maria?”
"Yes, sir. There are twenty-eight litres of brandy, designated as Hennessy XO in Number One hold. There are also supplies of several alcoholic beverages, including seventy-seven litres of—"
"Get me a large brandy, Matthew, and shut up."
"It is not advisable at this stage, sir."
James Conrad sat up. It hurt him considerably, but he made it. "Get the bloody brandy, damn you. And do it quick. I am now in command."
Conrad let out a great cry.
"You experience pain, sir?"
"No, Matthew. I'm beginning to remember. Now hurry with that brandy, damn you!"
FLASH ONE
Court-Martial
The man with the bandage round his head, covering one eye, stood stiffly at attention, his uniform cap under his arm. According to drill regulations it was the wrong arm. But then he only had one arm. So drill procedure had to be modified. The empty right sleeve was tucked neatly into the pocket of his dress uniform. The four gold bars visible near the end of the other sleeve showed that he was a captain in the United Nations Space Service.
With his one good eye, he stared ahead impassively in best regulation fashion, focusing on no one, on nothing. It was his function not to observe, only to hear. Only to hear the words that would inevitably destroy his future, everything he had ever wanted. Like every other man, he had often wondered what it was' like to die. Now he was beginning to understand. Because this was a kind of dying.
He was standing facing a dais and a long table behind which five men sat. They were all members of the U.N.S.S. One was a commander, two were captains, one was a commodore; and the president of the court martial was a full admiral.
The chamber was one of the most dramatic structures on Luna. It was a huge transparent dome of double-panelled plastiglass. The panels were set in an intricate tracery of steel frames, spreading out from the apex of the dome like a spider's web. The plastiglass was almost as tough as steel and lighter than titanium. It was also phototropic. During the long lunar day (fourteen Earth days) it turned milky, opaque, reflecting the harsh radiation of the sun, unfiltered by any atmosphere. During the equally long lunar night, it became transparent once again, revealing the magnificent wilderness of stars. That was why it was called the Star Chamber.
Captain James Conrad, D.S.S.C. and bar (only seventeen serving captains had been awarded the Distinguished Space Service Cross, and only nine had received the additional distinction of the silver bar) was mildly surprised at his own lack of emotion. He already knew what the verdict of the court-martial would be— what it must be if service discipline were to be maintained. And yet he felt no shame, not even fear. Only regret. He had gambled, and the gamble had not succeeded. One must pay one's debts.
The president of the court-martial rose.
"Captain Conrad, by the authority vested in me by the United Nations Space Command, Department of Solar Patrol, Moscow, Earth, I have convened this court-martial to examine the evidence supporting the three charges brought against you by Commodore Erwin G. Streffens, officer commanding Lunar Squadron. Under the articles of space service, it is my duty to ask you for the final time if you still recognise the validity of this court. I have to advise you that if your answer is negative, you will retain the right of appeal. However,, if your answer is affirmative, the findings of this tribunal will be irreversible. Captain Conrad, do you still recognise the validity of this court?"
"Affirmative, sir."
What was the point in asking for a playback? The evidence would still be the same, the verdict would still be the same. If you are going to get the chop, Conrad thought, there is no point in getting it twice.
"Your answer, Captain Conrad, has now been entered in the record. Before delivering the verdicts arrived at by a majority vote taken by my brother officers and myself, I must again ask you if you challenge any of the evidence brought either by the prosecuting officer or the defending officer. If you so do, such evidence may yet be re-examined and may affect the judgment delivered by this court-martial. Do you so challenge?"
"Negative, sir." '
The facts had been presented fairly—and the facts could not be denied. And hell, you couldn't challenge on the grounds that fate had been a trifle unkind. But Conrad's curiosity was suddenly aroused. The president had said a majority vote not a unanimous one. Who had been the officer—or even officers—who had tried to exercise charity? Probably one or both of the captains. They, at least, would understand how he had felt. But he would never know who had tried to be kind.
The president was speaking once more. "Finally, Captain Conrad, I have to ask if you have any reason to believe that any officer appointed to serve in any capacity at this court-martial may have harboured any personal animosity towards you either before or during these proceedings."
"Negative, sir."
Streffens had never liked him, but then he had never liked Streffens. The commodore was a desk man, a career officer who seemed to think that bits of paper, regulations and drill manuals were more important than men. Conrad himself was a spaceman—first, last and always. Streffens may have been waiting for just such an opportunity. Not that it mattered. Conrad had wilfully disobeyed the lawful and reasonable orders of his superior officer. That was what counted. The rest was catastrophe.
President Admiral Kotuzov cleared his throat noisily and lifted a couple of papers from the table. He adjusted his old-fashioned spectacles and read the findings with a clear, unhesitating voice.
"Captain Conrad, the three charges brought against you are as follows. One, that you wilfully and repeatedly disobeyed the orders of your commanding officer. Two, that in doing so you put at risk the safety of the vessel S.S. Gagarin then under your command. Three, that the result of your subsequent actions brought about the unnecessary deaths of three of your crew members and one engineer officer.
"The established facts are as follows. At 0352 G.M.T. on the thirteenth day of August in the year 2071 the vessel S.S. Einstein lifted from Mercury with a cargo of ingot platinum and other rare metals, bound for Mars. Unfortunately the reaction system failed before the second power manoeuvre could be completed leaving the vessel in a rapidly decaying solar orbit. The late Captain Brandt reported his position, estimating that in less than ninety hours the Einstein would fall into the solar danger zone. The information was relayed on distress channel to O.C. Lunar Squadron. The nearest vessel to the Einstein was your own, then returning from low-orbit survey of Venus. Computer extrapolations revealed that with maximum use of power manoeuvres, you were at least one hundred and five hours from a theoretical rendezvous point with the doomed vessel."
Admiral Kotuzov cleared his throat once more. "At 0519 G.M.T. you signalled O.C. Lunar Squadron requesting permission to attempt rendezvous. Permission was denied. You then signalled your intention to attempt rendezvous. Again, permission was denied and you were commanded to return to Luna. You then cut off communication with O.C. Lunar Squadron and proceeded with your intention.
"As a result, the Gagarin made rendezvous with the Einstein three hours after it had already passed into the danger zone. It is unfortunate and, perhaps, unlucky for you that this occurred during a period of intense solar activity. The radiation hazards were already unacceptable. It is to your credit that you succeeded in transferring two of the personnel of the stricken vessel. It is to your discredit that four of your own crew perished as a result and that you yourself were gravely injured. That the two you rescued also subsequently died as a result of irradiation emphasises the folly of your disobedience. I would remind you that the successful operation of the United Nations Space Service cannot be founded on Quixotic gestures, however commendable the motivation might be. Discipline is necessary at all times if man is to extend his dominion in space.
"It is the finding of this court-martial that, on the first count, you are guilty as charged. On the second count, you are found to be not guilty, since the safety of the S.S. Gagarin could only have been at risk if, as a result of your actions, insufficient engineering staff survived to carry out the necessary power manoeuvres to escape from the danger zone. On the third count, you are found to be guilty."
Again Kotuzov cleared his throat noisily.
"Therefore, the sentence of this court is that you shall be reduced to the rank of commander and that you shall forfeit ten years' seniority. Further, that before you are again offered an independent command, you will undergo psychiatric examination to determine your ability to respond to orders."
It was better than Conrad had hoped. But it was still the death knell. Who, in his right mind, would ever entrust a ship to a man who would not obey orders? Conrad could see long years ahead being somebody's Number One—If he were lucky. But how many captains would want to take on someone who was once their equal and for whom they could only feel pity? Further, how many would want an Exec who had been court-martialled for disobeying orders? Conrad revised his appreciation. All he could see in the immediate future was an indeterminate period of leave on Terra at half-pay. Maybe someone would be kind enough to let him lecture on astronautics at some obscure space academy in the American Mid-West. Suddenly, he was aware that Admiral Kotuzov had sat down, and that everyone seemed to be staring at him.
He fumbled awkwardly with his cap, managed somehow to get it back on his head, and saluted as smartly as he could with the wrong arm.
"Sir! Thank you, sir," he said in a clear even voice. Then like an automaton, with all eyes upon him, he marched stiffly from the Star Chamber.
In the antechamber, the gentlemen of the media waited like a pack of hungry wolves. They surrounded him, almost engulfed him.
"Captain Conrad, did you get a fair trial?"
"Affirmative. Incidentally, I am now improperly dressed, having been reduced to the rank of commander."
"Will you appeal, sir?"
"Negative."
"Millions of people on Terra are with you, captain —er—commander. Do you know that a petition with approximately five million signatures from people of all nations will be presented on your behalf to the Secretary-General?"
"I did not know, and I do not want to know. Allow me to pass, please. As far as I am concerned, the incident is now closed. You will do me a big favour by leaving it that way."
"Captain, would you consent to being nominated for political—"
Conrad lost his patience. "Gentlemen, I am tired. I wish to relax. Will you kindly let me pass?"
"Commander, is it true that you have a feud with Commodore Streffens, and that—"
"Excuse me, I wish to pass."
But they would not let him pass, because he was today's news. And the babel of questions came thick and heavy. The vid men formed an apparently impenetrable barrier.
James Conrad raised his arm. "I intend to leave this place, and I do not wish any of you to follow me. Is that clear?"
"Sir, one final question. It has been rumoured that a woman was the cause of your hostility to Commodore Streffens. Will you confirm that—"
Conrad chopped expertly. The man went down gurgling. Some of the media men went to help him. A couple of brave ones still confronted Conrad.
"There is a report that you are psychiatrically unstable. Would you care to comment?"
Conrad struck again.
The last man to bar his path said insolently: "This interview is going out live, Commander. I hope you are aware of that."
A black rage gripped Conrad. "I am aware, my friend, that you are a vulture and, as such, somewhat obscene. Stand aside."
The man did not budge. "Do you really wish to alienate—"
Expertly, Conrad kicked at his stomach then, as the man fell, smashed the edge of his hand on the back of the neck.
There were gasps and cries. Everyone drew back.
"I am glad you have finally got the message, gentlemen," said Conrad calmly. Bleakly, he realized that this little performance had destroyed his space career for good. He had publicly proved himself to be psychiatrically unstable. No one in his right mind would ever let James Conrad anywhere near a space ship again.
There was a brief silence. The media men made a pathway for him.
"I'll see you are broken for this!" snarled someone.
Conrad did not even bother to look who it was. He gave a grim smile. "There is nothing more you can do to me." He walked slowly out of the ante-chamber.
He badly needed a drink. Should he go to his room at Squadron Control and send out for a bottle and sit on his bed and get smashed and feel sorry for himself? No, by God! They would think he was hiding, that he had taken a beating and had crept away to lick his wounds. Let them all see—the ubiquitous them—that James Conrad, Commander U.N.S.S. ret (he determined to write his letter of resignation before he hit the booze) was not ashamed of himself. Or, at least, not ashamed of his attempt to take off the crew of the Einstein.
Later, as he sat at a table at the Jupiter Bar—the most fashionable rendezvous in Luna City—he began to regret his decision. The bar was crowded, but the seats at the tables near to his were vacant. He had a half empty of 140 proof Polish White Spirit in front of him. He didn't have to call for ice or tonic water. Whenever he needed them, they were delivered unobtrusively. The waiter who delivered them looked as if he were approaching an A-bomb with a short time trigger.
Conrad sipped his eighth drink and smiled to himself. He was aware that many eyes followed his every movement. He realised that the management was hoping he would pass out quietly without attempting to wreck the joint. He had no intention of becoming violent—but let them enjoy their suspense.
Somebody approached him. Brave fellow!
"Captain Conrad, may I have a word with you?"
By that time, Conrad wasn't focusing too well. But he could still register the cut of the clothes. Goddamned civilian!
"Haven't they told you. I'm a bogyman. Go away."
"I also am a bogyman, Captain Conrad. And I do not wish to go away."
"I'm a commander now, stupidhead."
"O.K. Commander."
"Ex-Commander."
"O.K. Ex-Commander."
"If you operate for the media, I'll probably bust your ribs. I have a good track record."
"I don't work for the media, and if you try to bust my ribs I'll break your one good arm for starters."
Conrad laughed. "So, we understand each other. Have a drink."
"Fine. I like Polish White Spirit. It saves a lot of time."
"Right." Another glass appeared miraculously. Conrad filled it with White Spirit, but he did not add any tonic. "I'm ahead. Catch up. Then tell me what you want."
The civilian downed his drink in one. Conrad raised an eyebrow. "You are going to regret that, my friend."
The civilian grinned. "Possibly. But I am playing for high stakes. My name is John Doe—no, really, it is—of the Extra Solar Commission. Conrad, how would you like a new start?"
"A new start in what, funny man?"
"Deep-space exploration. Your own command. Absolute authority."
"I still think I can break your ribs before you get my arm."
John Doe shrugged. "Let us hope it doesn't come to the test. I'm serious… Face it, Conrad. As of now you are expendable. We need expendable people. Talented people. That means you."
"For what?"
"Planet-proving. A very hazardous business. We don't have any reliable statistics yet on the mortality rate, but I think they may be high."
"Keep talking, Mr. John Doe. And, for your health's sake, pray that you interest me."
EVENT TWO
Sleeping Beauty
Conrad felt good. He had been out of suspended animation for more than six hours. Now he was no longer physically dependent on a computer-controlled programme or the efficiency of six robots. He was in command of the Santa Maria once more. And, as a good commander, his first duty was to see to the safety of his ship. He was almost disappointed to find that vessel and cargo were in virtually perfect condition. The only damage was what he had been briefed to expect. Pressure meters revealed some distortion of. the emergence shield. He had been warned that when the ship emerged from sub-space, there would be a moment— less than a millionth of a second—when the "impact" of normal space produced tremendous stress. Conrad, who had a master's degree in astrophysics, could not understand how the emerging of a body into almost perfect vacuum could produce stress. But the mathematicians of ExPEND had given him a going-over; and he came out of it dazed, unconvinced, but resigned. He was mildly annoyed to discover that the mathematicians had been proved right.
As he proceeded on his tour of inspection, memories came back to him thick, fast, heavy. Sometimes like ever-changing patterns in a kaleidoscope. The psychologists had warned him that, even under suspended animation, he would not completely escape the trauma of Faster Than Light drive, or the sub-space jump, as the younger scientists called it.
He was irritated to find that the psychologists had also been dead right. As he inspected the ship, he was able to concentrate fully on the tasks before him. But, on another level, his mind was piecing together fragments of memory as a man might put together the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. The psychologists had warned him that total recall was impossible. Something would always be lost under extreme trauma. Probably they were right there, too. But the torrent of memories was vivid—as if, somehow, Conrad were desperately asserting his own identity… I remember, therefore I am me…
He lined the robots up and inspected them. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Peter and Paul. Since Matthew had command circuits, Conrad made him put the others through basic reflex and response tests. They all functioned perfectly.
"Sir, do you wish now to proceed with the resuscitation programme?" suggested Matthew.
Conrad thought about it carefully. The shock of coming out of suspended animation in an orbiting ship was bad enough for a trained spaceman who was used to having to walk on bond-fuzz carpeting in a field of zero gravity. How much worse would it be for groundlings who would have to learn many new tricks? Besides, he still felt weak himself. Too weak as yet to cope with much in the way of abnormal reactions.
"We will resuscitate Lieutenant Smith only, for the present," he said at last. "If she reacts well, we will proceed with the others when she has recovered her strength—and memory."
"Decision noted. Shall I enter it in the log, sir?"
"Dammit, I am commander of this vessel, and I write my own log," snapped Conrad irritably.
"Yes, sir. Decision noted. Resuscitation of Lieutenant Smith will now begin. Will you rest until she is conscious?"
"No. She will need to see a human face when she comes out of S.A. I will be present for the entire procedure… My god, I'm hungry. Can any of you bloody machines knock up eggs and bacon?"
"Query, sir. Please define the term 'knock up'."
"Cook, damn you… I'm. sorry. I'm tired."
"We are all multi-programmed," said Matthew. "I regret that our responses to idiomatic use of language are imperfect. All of us can prepare hot or cold food. In what condition do you wish the eggs to be and how many do you desire?"
“Two, soft."
"And the bacon, sir?"
Conrad remained irritable. "Bacon, rashers, three, crisp, hot—execute. Coffee, hot, black, sweet. One half litre—execute."
Matthew said: "Decision noted. Mark will execute. Where and when do you wish this food to be delivered, Commander?"
"To the resuscitation chamber, fifteen minutes from now. Execute."
"Decision noted, Commander.'*
"Let's go," said Conrad. "I want Lieutenant Smith brought out of S.A. with minimum trauma. You read me?"
"Request noted, sir," said Matthew imperturbably. "Optimum techniques will be applied."
Lieutenant Indira Smith looked very small and fragile as Matthew, wearing the thermal gloves, gently massaged the pallid flesh. Small, naked, defenceless… Like a drowned child…
Because her body was still very cold, Conrad could see clearly the joining of living thighs to prosthetic legs. The legs were a miracle of engineering, limb design and brilliant surgery. He hoped she would learn not to resent them too much. The ringers of his own prosthetic arm twitched as he became self-consciously aware of its existence…
Matthew began to massage dose under her breast. With his other hand, he gripped the small fleshy bulge near the nipple in what seemed to be a strangely crude fashion. Conrad suppressed an immediate sense of outrage, realising that Matthew was only bringing heat and expert massage close to the heart. The robot was totally indifferent to the female body of Indira Smith.
Looking at the compact form, slack now yet still extraordinary graceful, Conrad wondered once more if he had been wise to choose a woman as his second-in-command. True, Surgeon Lieutenant Indira Smith had already demonstrated her physical toughness; but could she be mentally tough also? In the event of his death or incapacitation, would she be strong enough to assert her authority, command the loyalty of the team, and carry out the proving programme? He wished there had been time to get to know her better, to break through the barrier that had been set as a result of her horrific experiences in Brazil.
But, apart from that complication, women, in Conrad's experience, were vastly different from men in their emotional and intellectual responses. Their logic was different, they played by different rules, they accepted different values. Trying to anticipate a woman's reaction to any given situation, he thought cynically, was like playing Russian roulette. You pressed the trigger, never knowing if the gun was going to go bang or click.
Maybe he should have got her to bed—drunk or sober—before he recruited her for the Expendables. In bed, he reflected, women are always more naked than men. He would have discovered much… But, in view of the Brazilian episode, that would have been a tough proposition. A very tough proposition. Besides, there just hadn't been the time.
So now, here he was, committed to the proving of Kratos with a second-in-command, who might or might not flip her lid at the first real crisis. Big deal! He realised it had been unfair to push her into a position of such responsibility. Silently, he cursed his own impulsiveness.
"How goes it, Matthew?"
"Temperature is still several degrees below independent life-support, Commander. I record intermittent heart response. The breathing cycle is still unactivated. Condition normal for this stage."
Conrad glanced once more at Indira's blank face and began to pace up and down.
"You have been at it now for over one and a half hours. How much longer?"
"Resuscitation procedure is being carried Out at normal pace. Satisfactory resuscitation may take between one hundred and one hundred and eighty minutes, depending on mass of subject and physical condition. Procedure should not be accelerated except in case of emergency. Query. Is the situation now designated as an emergency, Commander?"
"No, blast you. I'm sorry, Matthew."
Without interrupting his movement, Matthew said: "Query. What are you sorry for, Commander."
Conrad was annoyed with himself. He should have known it was futile to apologise to a robot. "Cancel statement. Continue normal procedure."
Presently, the breathing cycle began. The compact breasts rose slightly, seemed to assume a flicker of independent life. Matthew opened the woman's mouth gently, then applied the oxygen mask. The responses strengthened. Her eyelids flickered, opened. Her eyes rolled vaguely, then the lids came down once more. Her breasts heaved and she groaned deeply—a muted cry of outrage.
Presently, her eyes opened and stayed open. She bega...
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