“All right. I can believe that the ship might mean more to you, her regular crew, than she does to us,” agreed Kartr almost wearily. “But she’s a dead ship now and nothing any of us or all of us can do will make her ready to lift again. We’d best leave her—try to establish a base somewhere near food and water—”
“Cut clean from the past and begin again? Maybe. I can agree with you—intellectually. Only in suggesting that you’ll come up against emotions, too, my young friends. And you’ll find that another matter altogether!”
“And why,” asked Kartr slowly, “is it up to me to deal with anything?”
“Process of elimination elects you. If we’re grounded past hope of escape, who is the best able to understand our problems—someone who has spent his life in space almost since childhood—or a ranger? What are you going to do?”
But Kartr refused to answer that. The longer Smitt needled him in that fashion the more uneasy he became. He had never been treated with such frankness by a crew officer.
“The Commander will decide,” he began.
Then Smitt laughed, a short harsh sound which lacked any thread of mirth. “So you’re afraid to face up to it, fly-boy? I thought you rangers could never be rattled—that the fearless, untamed explorers would—”
Kartr’s good hand closed on the tunic folds just below Smitt’s throat.
“What kind of trouble are you trying to start, Smitt?” he asked, omitting the respect due an officer.
But the com-techneer made no move to strike away the sergeant’s hand or twist free from the hold. Instead his eyes lifted to meet Kartr’s steadily, soberly. Kartr’s fingers loosened and his hand dropped. Smitt believed in what he was trying to say, believed in it very much even though he had been jeering. Smitt had come to him for help. Now for the first time Kartr was glad he possessed that strange gift of his—to sense the emotions of his fellows.
“Let’s have it,” he said and sat down on a bedroll. He was aware that the tension which had held them all for a second or two was relaxing. And he knew that the rangers would follow his lead—they would wait for his decision.
“Vibor is no longer with us—he’s—he’s cracked.” Smitt fumbled for words. And Kartr read in him a rising fear and desolation.
“Is it because of his loss of sight? If that is so, the condition may be only temporary. When he becomes resigned to that—”
“No. He has been heading for a breakdown for a long time. The responsibility of command under present conditions—that fight with the Greenies—he was good friends with Tork, remember? The ship falling to pieces bit by bit and no chance for repairs— It’s added up to drive him under. Now he’s just refusing to accept a present he doesn’t dare believe in. He’s retired into a world of his own where things go right instead of wrong. And he wants us in there with him.”
Kartr nodded. There was the ring of truth in every word Smitt said. Of course, he himself had never had much personal contact with Vibor. The rangers were not admitted to the inner circle of the Patrol—they were only tolerated. He was not a graduate of a sector academy, or even a product of the ranks. His father had not been Patrol before him. So he had always been aloof from the crew. The discipline of the Service, always strict, had been tightening more and more into a rigid caste system, even during the few years he had worn the Comet—perhaps because the Service itself had been cut off from the regular life of the average citizens. But Kartr could at this moment understand the odd incidents of the past months, certain inconsistencies in Vibor’s orders—one or two remarks he had overheard.
“You think that there is no chance of his recovering?”
“No. The crash pushed him over the edge. The orders he’s given during the past hour or so—I tell you—he’s finished!”
“All right.” Rolth’s low voice cut through the thick air. “Then what do we do—or rather, what do you want us to do, Smitt?”
The com-techneer’s hands spread out in a gesture of hopelessness.
“I don’t really know. Only we’re down—permanently—on an unknown world. Exploration—that’s your department. And somebody’s got to take the lead in getting us out of here. Jaksan—well, he might follow the Commander even if Vibor says blast us and the ship. They went through the battle of the Five Suns together and Jaksan—” His voice trailed off.
“What about Mirion?”
“He isn’t conscious. I don’t think he’s going to pull through. We can’t even tell how badly he’s injured. He can be counted out.”
Counted out of what, wondered Kartr, and his green eyes narrowed. Smitt was hinting now of some kind of conflict to come.
“Dalgre and Snyn?” asked Zinga.
“They’re both Jaksan’s squadmen. Who knows how they’ll stand if he starts giving orders?” returned the com-techneer.
“There is one thing I find puzzling.” Fylh broke in for the first time. “Why do you come to us, Smitt? We’re not crew—”
There was the question which had been in all their minds—at last brought into the open. Kartr waited for the answer to it.
“Why—well, because I think that you’re the best equipped for the future. It’s your job. I’m dead weight now anyway—the crash did for the coms. The crew’s dead weight without a ship to raise. So, all right—we should be ready to learn what it takes to keep on living—”
“A recruit, is it?” Zinga’s chuckle was more hiss. “But a very green one. Well, Kartr, do you sign him?” The Zacathan’s grotesque head turned to the sergeant.
“He’s speaking the truth,” Kartr returned very soberly. “I call council!” He gave the order which alerted them all. “Rolth?”
That white-skinned face, more than half masked by the dark goggles, was hard to read.
“The land is good?”
“Very promising,” Zinga replied promptly.
“It’s plain we can’t keep on squatting here forever,” mused the ranger from dusky Falthar. I’d vote to strip the ship, take everything we can possibly use, and establish a base. Then look around a bit—”
“Fylh?”
The Trystian’s claws beat a tattoo on his broad belt. “I agree with that wholly. But it’s probably too sensible.” His half-sneered ending appeared to be directed at Smitt. Fylh was not going to forget in a hurry the old division between ranger and Patrol crewman.
“Zinga?”
“Establish a base, yes. I would say close to that river which houses those delectable creatures. A fine mess of them right now—” His eyelids dropped in mock ecstasy.
Kartr looked at Smitt. “My vote goes with theirs. We have one usable sled left. On it we could ferry the Commander, Mirion and the supplies. If we plunder the main drive we should be able to fuel it for a number of trips. The rest of us can walk out, and pack stuff on our backs besides. The land is good, there’s food and water to be found—and it seems to be deserted—no evidence of anything like the Greenies to fight us for it. If I were the Commander—”
“But you aren’t—you Bemmy ranger—you aren’t!”
Kartr’s hand had fallen to the grip of his hand blaster even before he saw the man who was edging through the door. The wave of menace which he emitted was like a physical blow to the ranger’s sensitive perception.
Knowing that any answer he might make verbally would only feed the other’s rage, Kartr hesitated, and in the moment of silence Smitt took up the challenge.
“Shut up, Snyn!”
Light glinted from the small weapon almost completely concealed in the armsman’s hand as he turned it toward the com-techneer. The waves of fear-based hatred were so thick that Kartr marveled that the others could not feel them too. Without attempting to gain his feet the sergeant hurled himself sideways, his shoulder catching Snyn at knee height. A bolt of searing green flame cut high through the air as the armsman’s trigger finger tightened convulsively. He staggered forward as Kartr tried in vain to use his one good hand to pull him off balance.
A second or two later and it was over. Snyn still rolled and screamed muffled curses under Zinga but Fylh was methodically forcing his arms behind him so that a “safe” bar might be locked across his wrists. That done he was pushed over on his back and settled into position for questioning, with jerks which were anything but gentle.
“He’s crazy!” Smitt stated with honest conviction. “Using a hand blaster like that. What in Black Heaven—!”
“I should have burned you all—” mouthed the captive. “Always knew you ranger devils couldn’t be trusted. Bemmys—all of you!”
But his stark hatred was more than three-quarters fear. Kartr sank down on the bedroll and regarded the twisting man with startled concern. He had known that the rangers were not accepted as full members of the Patrol, he also knew that there was a growing prejudice against nonhuman races—the “Bemmys”—but this raw and frightening rage directed by a crewman against his own shipmates was worse than anything he had ever dreamed possible.