couldn't help but feel sorry for him--at least, I couldn't.
* * * * *
That evening, since we were still docked on Mars, I went to the Baseservice club for dinner. Sitting in a booth there I found the three ofthem--Harding, Spender and Korsakov. For the first time, they actuallyseemed happy to see me, and the usual animosity I had experienced fromthem had almost vanished. Of course, I knew what the reason was. Theycould now hate somebody else, and since I was in the same dismalsituation that they were in, they generously permitted me to share theirgloom.
I ordered some good Earthside bourbon, and sat down with them. Hardinghad apparently been making a little speech, which I had interrupted, andwhich he now concluded to me.
"So what do you think we can do?"
"About what?" I said.
"You know about what."
I shrugged and reached for my drink off the servidore.
"I know you don't like to talk about it, Maise," Harding said, "but wehave to. Something has to be done."
I started to say something, but he raised a hand and hurried on. "Iknow, I know," he growled, "command authority, dignity of rank and allthat sort of nonsense and tradition. Sure, I'd like to see some of it,too. But this is a hopeless case, Maise. Frendon is a sickman. Or a PsiCorps man if you prefer. Undoubtedly they have some awfully cleverfellows back on Earth to do our thinking for us, but as far as I amconcerned, they might as well have sent us an idiot child to run theship in combat. Don't you understand?"
He was looking at me earnestly, the deep concern he felt plain on hisface. I already knew that Harding could be depended upon to reflect thesentiments of the group, and to say exactly what he felt. It was auseful bit of knowledge.
"I know what you mean, Harding," I said, "but--"
"Well, think about it then, man," he interrupted sharply. "You're in thesame ship, you know. When we blow up, you do, too. And it isn't justthat we'll all be killed with this incompetent guess-kid in command--weprobably would anyway, sooner or later. But it's the waste of a goodship. You know as well as I do that it stands to reason combat can't berun as a game of blind man's bluff. And that's just what Frendon willmake it. If you're going to make proper use of your military potentialit takes brains, like our old skipper had."
"They say the Psi Corps training brings out the most sensitiveintellectual capacities of a man," I replied, quoting from the oldpublicity releases on it and keeping my voice level and dispassionate."The Central Command Authority believes that it will raise thepossibility of survival from twelve to thirty-two per cent in actualcombat."
Korsakov giggled, belched, hiccupped and finished his drink. "Thirty-twoper cent," he said. "That is one chance in three."
"You don't understand," Harding insisted. "Maybe the guessing games andtests they run back on Earth do give the sickmen one chance in three ofbeing right by blind guessing. I'm not talking about that. I'm talkingabout us--on our ship in combat and not in a laboratory back on Earth.We had a captain who ran the ship well, ran it in eighty-seven separateforays with the aliens and brought us back each time. He got killedhimself on the eighty-eighth. That's the sort of captain we want, Maise.A man who can use his head and who can bring the ship through eighty-oddruns safely. And that is going to take something besides guesswork.Don't forget--if you like to believe in mathematical probabilitystatistics--our chances should be getting slender after all our combatexperience. Yours, too, for that matter."
"Maybe," I hedged, "your previous captain was a Psi Corps man indisguise."
"No, he wasn't," Spender cut in calmly. "I knew him for years. We wentthrough the same service training and served together every minute ofthe war. And they didn't start this sick-business until three years orso ago."
"Well, they say there are natural Psi men who don't need the training somuch."
"Fairy tales," snorted Harding. "That stuff doesn't go. I don't believeit."
* * * * *
That was clear. And no argument would convince him otherwise, even if Ihad felt inclined to give him one, which I didn't.
Korsakov, the silent Russian, thoughtfully rubbed his thick handstogether, and then punched the button calling for another drink. "Oncein three times," he said. "It's all been proved. Out of the next threemissions we go out on, we come back only once." His homely face brokeinto a tired grin.
I laughed with him, but Harding did not like the joke. "It isn't funny,"he growled. "If they can't find a decent captain to send us, why can'tthey move up one of us that has at least served with a good commander incombat, and maybe learned some of his tricks from him. Not that I wouldwant the job. But it would be better than Frendon. Anything would."
I raised my eyebrows at him skeptically. He got the idea and swore. "Youknow I didn't mean that I want the job, so don't go goggling yourrighteous eyes at me, Maise. I know my limitations, but I also know agood captain when I see one. And what do they send us? A kid who notonly is a nut, but he's already so scared he--"
"Once in three times," Korsakov said loudly. He was apparently gettingpretty drunk. "Their computing machines would need an aspirin to handlethat situation. We go out three times but we only come back once." Heturned and peered intently at me, his heavy bushy eyebrows drawnseverely down and wiggling. "Puzzle: complete the figure withoutretracing any lines or lifting the pencil from the paper. How do wemanage to go out there the third time when we haven't yet come back fromthe second mission, huh?"
"Shut up, Kors," Spender said without emotion. "You're getting afixation."
"I'm not the astrogator," Korsakov muttered, laying his head down on thetable. "If you want a fix on our position, you will have to call on Mr.Harding."
My bourbon was probably good, but I couldn't taste it. There was toomuch else to think about. I said, "Well, what are you going to do if hereally is a Psi Corps man?"
"That," Harding said thoughtfully, "is the question."
"Maise, you're the Exec," Spender commented. "It's up to you to work usa replacement."
"Didn't you see his orders?" I snapped. "They're dated from CentralCommand Authority itself. Even if I did know somebody here in MarsCommand--which I don't--it wouldn't do any good."
"He's right," Harding grumbled. "Everybody knows that once they'veassigned a sickman, the only people who can get him reassigned are thesickmen themselves. Maise couldn't do anything about it unless he was amember of the Corps himself. But that settles it, though--his ordersbeing from Central, I mean. Nobody but a sickman would have his orderscut at Central for a puny little ship like ours. It proves what wethought about him, anyway."
"I don't think it proves anything," I retorted angrily. "I don't thinkthe question is whether or not Frendon is a sick--now you've got mesaying it--a Psi Corps man. The question is whether we're going tosettle down and stop whining just because we got a new CO we don't like,and that we can't do anything about. We're not running this war. They'rerunning it back on Earth."
"We're fighting it," Spender commented, chewing on a big, raw knuckle.
Harding looked at me skeptically. "How much space-combat have you seen,Maise?"
"Six years, more or less," I told him. "I've seen plenty of the stuff.I'd just as soon let somebody else do it from now on in, but nobodyasked me."
Harding grunted: "Well, tell me, have you ever served under a sickskipper?"
"No."
"Do you want to?"
"Why not? Besides--what can I do about it?"
* * * * *
Harding leaned back and sipped away on the straight whiskey he wasdrinking, watching me over the top of the glass and talking directlyinto it, making his voice sound muffled and sinister. "You know, Maise,sometimes you make me tired. Frankly, when they first sent us you, Ididn't like it. None of us did. You were CO then, and we thought maybeyou were a sickman even if you didn't look like it, and you kept sort ofsticking up for the sick corps whenever it was mentioned. Well, that'sall right. New offi
cer in charge, trying to stiffen up discipline, etcetera and so forth. But now we've got Frendon for CO. You're in thesame boat as the rest of us, and you still keep insisting that thesickmen are O.K. But you're a liar and you know it."
"Well, what do you want me to do?" I shouted angrily. "Poison the guy?"
There was a sudden sharp hush.