Groff Conklin (Editor) - Great Stories of Space Travel

New digital edition of:

Great Stories of Space Travel

by Groff Conklin (Editor)

1963 by Groff Conklin - Tempo Books

Copyright 2017 - Edizioni Savine

email: info@edizionisavine.it

web: www.edizionisavine.com

ISBN 978-88-99914-38-7

For the information of those not in the know, an offog is an allamagoosa, also known as a thingumajig, a whatchama-callit, and a dingus.... I suppose it is a bit cynical to end this batch of stories about marts glorious expansion into the immediate neighborhood of our galaxy, from our own personal Moon to the vicinity of Sirius and other nearby stars, with a tale about the interstellar calamities resulting from a silly misprint in an inventory list, butthere it is. Thats the way the editor arranged it, and the publisher let him get away with it, too!

It was a long time since the Bustler had been so silent. She lay in the Sirian spaceport, her tubes cold, her shell particle-scarred, her air that of a long-distance runner exhausted at the end of a marathon. There was good reason for this: she had returned from a lengthy trip by no means devoid of troubles.

Now, in port, well-deserved rest had been gained if only temporarily. Peace, sweet peace. No more bothers, no more crises, no more major upsets, no more dire predicaments such as crop up in free flight at least twice a day. Just peace.

Hah!

Captain McNaught reposed in his cabin, feet up on desk, and enjoyed the relaxation to the utmost. The engines were dead, their hellish pounding absent for the first time in months. Out there in the big city four hundred of his crew were making whoopee under a brilliant sun. This evening, when First Officer Gregory returned to take charge, he was going to go into the fragrant twilight and make the rounds of neon-lit civilization.

That was the beauty of making landfall at long last. Men could give way to themselves, blow off surplus steam, each according to his fashion. No duties, no worries, no dangers, no responsibilities in spaceport. A haven of safety and comfort for tired rovers.

Again, hah!

Burman, the chief radio officer, entered the cabin. He was one of the half-dozen remaining on duty and bore the expression of a man who can think of twenty better things to do.

Relayed signal just come in, sir. Handing the paper across he waited for the other to look at it and perhaps dictate a reply.

Taking the sheet, McNaught removed the feet from his desk, sat erect and read the message aloud.

Terran Headquarters to Bustler. Remain Siriport pending further orders. Rear Admiral Vane W. Cassidy due there seventeenth. Feldman. Navy Op, Command, Sirisec.

He looked up, all happiness gone from his leathery features, and groaned.

Something wrong? asked Burman, vaguely alarmed.

McNaught pointed at three thin bools on his desk. The middle one. Page twenty.

Leafing through it, Burman found an item that said: Vane W. Cassidy, R-Ad. Head Inspector Ships and Stores.

Burman swallowed hard. Does that mean?

Yes, it does, said McNaught without pleasure. Back to training-college and all its rigmarole. Paint and soap, spit and polish. He put on an officious expression, adopted a voice to match it. Captain, you have only seven ninety-nine emergency rations. Your allocation is eight hundred. Nothing in your log-book accounts for the missing one. Where is it? What happened to it? How is it that one of the mens kits lacks an officially issued pair of suspenders? Did you report his loss?

Why does he pick on us? asked Burman, appalled. Hes never chivvied us before.

Thats why, informed McNaught, scowling at the wall. Its our turn to be stretched across the barrel. His gaze found the calendar. We have three days and well need em! Tell Second Officer Pike to come here at once.

Burman departed gloomily. In short time Pike entered. His face reaffirmed the old adage that bad news travels fast.

Make out an indent, ordered McNaught, for one hundred gallons of plastic paint, Navy-gray, approved quality. Make out another for thirty gallons of interior white enamel. Take them to spaceport stores right away. Tell them to deliver by six this evening along with our correct issue of brushes and sprayers. Grab up any cleaning material thats going for free.

The men wont like this, remarked Pike, feebly. Theyre going to love it, McNaught asserted. A bright and shiny ship, all spic and span, is good for morale. It says so in that book. Get moving and put those indents in. When you come back, find the stores and equipment sheets and bring them here. Weve got to check stocks before Cassidy arrives. Once hes here well have no chance to make up shortages or smuggle out any extra items we happened to find in our hands. Very well, sir. Pike went out wearing the same expression as Burmans.

Lying back in his chair McNaught muttered to himself. There was a feeling in his bones that something was sure to cause a last-minute ruckus. A shortage of any item would be serious enough unless covered by a previous report. A surplus would be bad, very bad. The former implied carelessness or misfortune. The latter suggested barefaced theft of government property in circumstances condoned by the commander.

For instance, there was that recent case of Williams of the heavy cruiser Swift. Hed heard of it over the spacevine when out around Bootes. Williams had been found in unwitting command of eleven reels of elec-tric-fence wire when his official issue was ten. It had taken a court-martial to decide that the extra reel which had formidable barter-value on a certain planet had not been stolen from space-stores, or, in sailor jargon, teleportated aboard. But Williams had been reprimanded. And that did not help promotion.

He was still rumbling discontentedly when Pike returned bearing a folder of foolscap sheets.

Going to start right away, sir?

Well have to. He heaved himself erect, mentally bidded good-by to time off and a taste of the bright lights. Itll take long enough to work right through from bow to tail. Ill leave the mens kit inspection to the last.

Marching out of the cabin, he set forth toward the bow, Pike following with broody reluctance.

As they passed the open main lock Peaslake observed them, bounded eagerly up the gangway and joined behind. A pukka member of the crew, he was a large dog whose ancestors had been more enthusiastic than selective. He wore with pride a big collar inscribed: PeaslakeProperty of S. S. Bustler. His chief duties, ably performed, were to keep alien rodents off the ship and, on rare occasions, smell out dangers not visible to human eyes.

The three paraded forward, McNaught and Pike in the manner of men grimly sacrificing pleasure for the sake of duty, Peaslake with the panting willingness of one ready for any new game no matter what.

Reaching the bow-cabin, McNaught dumped himself in the pilots seat, took the folder from the other.

You know this stuff better than methe chart room is where I shine. So Ill read them out while you look them over. He opened the folder, started on the first page. Kl. Beam compass, type D, one of.

Check, said Pike.

K2. Distance and direction indicator, electronic, type JJ, one of.

Check.

K3. Port and starboard gravitic meters, Casini models, one pair.

Check.

Peaslake planted his head in McNaughts lap, blinked soulfully and whined. He was beginning to get the others viewpoint. This tedious itemizing and checking was a hell of a game. McNaught consolingly lowered a hand and played with Peaslakes ears while he ploughed his way down the list.