Read Online Norton, Andre - Anthology by Gates to Tomorrow (v1.0) - Free Book Online
Authors: Gates to Tomorrow (v1.0)
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the inner planets. You see, I
intended to go into business on Lan-vin—"
"You?" Hardman gurgled. "In business?"
"I was going to make beautiful doll
furniture. But now I'm going to be one of the richest men on Lanvin," he
said triumphantly. "When I learned how much money we had aboard the ship,
I decided then to show you how brilliant I really was." He looked at them
patronizingly. "I'm going to take the money designed for the base."
"How will you do that?" Corbett's
voice was so calm it was unreal.
Bickford laughed unpleasantly. "I'm going
to make a chlorine generator. It's easy to make, just electrolysis of salt
water. I'm going to put that into the air system. While you are all being
finished, I'll live in space armor. Then I will land the ship on Dynia, that's
Planet II, and take the shuttle across to Lanvin."
"But now we know all about it, and we're
going to lock you up," Nord said slowly. "Didn't you realize we would
know almost instantly when the air went bad?"
The realization of what he had said revealed
itself in his widened eyes. His head shook from side to side as he started to
whimper. "I never thought of that when I spit into the banks last
night."
Hardman came forward, cold deadly purpose
etched in the lines about his grim mouth and bitter eyes. Nord knew what he was
about to do, knew it would have to be done. Hard-man was half a meter from
Bickford before he spoke. "This is for the crew," he said, and his
fist came up like a rocket.
Bickford took the blow, rocked under it,
caught the second on his mouth, and then Corbett and the doctor were between
them, shoving them apart.
"The idiot should be chucked in
space," Hardman roared.
Stacker was wiping Bickford's crimson mouth.
Corbett released Hardman's arm. "He's a sick man," he said heavily.
"Go back to your duty. I'll have Dr. Stacker act as air officer. We'll
keep Bickford under armed guard in the sick bay for the remaining seven months
of the voyage."
"Seven months! Without
air!" Hardman's voice became high with the tension of
near-hysteria. Then noticing Nord's level cold eyes he apologized. "I'm
sorry, sir. I must have lost my temper."
"I understand. We'll forget what
happened. Now let's see what we can do about the air." He turned to the doctor.
"Take care of the patient. I'll meet you down in air control." He
looked at the chronometer. It was 0640. It seemed like hours. " Ill be there in
fifteen minutes," he finished abruptly.
This is what came from having a psychopath
aboard. Incidents like this were never discussed at the academy. Departments
were always handled smoothly by brisk, efficient men always alert to serve the
ship. Not even in fiction were there problems like this unwelcome thing. There,
the personalities were always good, pure men at war against mythical creatures,
invidious planets, self-centered, unpredictable novas, or militant
civilizations; never at war against their own personal environment because of
the stupidity of politicians who insisted that unexamined, potentially insane
men be made a part of the ship's company.
Stacker was sitting, feet propped on the air
officer's desk, studying the "Handbook of Air Management" when Nord
walked in. He stood up at once. "I've got Bickford in the brig ward. He's
perfectly safe now. Can't harm himself or anyone else." He touched buttons on the desk top and, as the drawers slid out, pointed at
their contents. "Looks like a rat's nest. He's collected everything in
this ship that wasn't welded."
"Never mind Bickford. What can we do about the air?"
"Not very
intended to go into business on Lan-vin—"
"You?" Hardman gurgled. "In business?"
"I was going to make beautiful doll
furniture. But now I'm going to be one of the richest men on Lanvin," he
said triumphantly. "When I learned how much money we had aboard the ship,
I decided then to show you how brilliant I really was." He looked at them
patronizingly. "I'm going to take the money designed for the base."
"How will you do that?" Corbett's
voice was so calm it was unreal.
Bickford laughed unpleasantly. "I'm going
to make a chlorine generator. It's easy to make, just electrolysis of salt
water. I'm going to put that into the air system. While you are all being
finished, I'll live in space armor. Then I will land the ship on Dynia, that's
Planet II, and take the shuttle across to Lanvin."
"But now we know all about it, and we're
going to lock you up," Nord said slowly. "Didn't you realize we would
know almost instantly when the air went bad?"
The realization of what he had said revealed
itself in his widened eyes. His head shook from side to side as he started to
whimper. "I never thought of that when I spit into the banks last
night."
Hardman came forward, cold deadly purpose
etched in the lines about his grim mouth and bitter eyes. Nord knew what he was
about to do, knew it would have to be done. Hard-man was half a meter from
Bickford before he spoke. "This is for the crew," he said, and his
fist came up like a rocket.
Bickford took the blow, rocked under it,
caught the second on his mouth, and then Corbett and the doctor were between
them, shoving them apart.
"The idiot should be chucked in
space," Hardman roared.
Stacker was wiping Bickford's crimson mouth.
Corbett released Hardman's arm. "He's a sick man," he said heavily.
"Go back to your duty. I'll have Dr. Stacker act as air officer. We'll
keep Bickford under armed guard in the sick bay for the remaining seven months
of the voyage."
"Seven months! Without
air!" Hardman's voice became high with the tension of
near-hysteria. Then noticing Nord's level cold eyes he apologized. "I'm
sorry, sir. I must have lost my temper."
"I understand. We'll forget what
happened. Now let's see what we can do about the air." He turned to the doctor.
"Take care of the patient. I'll meet you down in air control." He
looked at the chronometer. It was 0640. It seemed like hours. " Ill be there in
fifteen minutes," he finished abruptly.
This is what came from having a psychopath
aboard. Incidents like this were never discussed at the academy. Departments
were always handled smoothly by brisk, efficient men always alert to serve the
ship. Not even in fiction were there problems like this unwelcome thing. There,
the personalities were always good, pure men at war against mythical creatures,
invidious planets, self-centered, unpredictable novas, or militant
civilizations; never at war against their own personal environment because of
the stupidity of politicians who insisted that unexamined, potentially insane
men be made a part of the ship's company.
Stacker was sitting, feet propped on the air
officer's desk, studying the "Handbook of Air Management" when Nord
walked in. He stood up at once. "I've got Bickford in the brig ward. He's
perfectly safe now. Can't harm himself or anyone else." He touched buttons on the desk top and, as the drawers slid out, pointed at
their contents. "Looks like a rat's nest. He's collected everything in
this ship that wasn't welded."
"Never mind Bickford. What can we do about the air?"
"Not very
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