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 A Question
    Of Courage

 By J. F. BONE

 Illustrated by FINLAY


 _I smelled the trouble the moment I stepped on
 the lift and took the long ride up the side of
 the "Lachesis." There was something wrong. I
 couldn't put my finger on it but_

five years in the Navy gives a man a feeling for these things. From the
outside the ship was beautiful, a gleaming shaft of duralloy, polished
until she shone. Her paint and brightwork glistened. The antiradiation
shields on the gun turrets and launchers were folded back exactly
according to regulations. The shore uniform of the liftman was spotless
and he stood at his station precisely as he should. As the lift moved
slowly up past no-man's country to the life section, I noted a work
party hanging precariously from a scaffolding smoothing out meteorite
pits in the gleaming hull, while on the catwalk of the gantry standing
beside the main cargo hatch a steady stream of supplies disappeared into
the ship's belly.

I returned the crisp salutes of the white-gloved sideboys, saluted the
colors, and shook hands with an immaculate ensign with an O.D. badge on
his tunic.

"Glad to have you aboard, sir," the ensign said.

"I'm Marsden," I said. "Lieutenant Thomas Marsden. I have orders posting
me to this ship as Executive."

"Yes, sir. We have been expecting you. I'm Ensign Halloran."

"Glad to meet you, Halloran."

"Skipper's orders, sir. You are to report to him as soon as you come
aboard."

Then I got it. Everything was SOP. The ship wasn't taut, she was tight!
And she wasn't happy. There was none of the devil-may-care spirit that
marks crews in the Scouting Force and separates them from the stodgy
mass of the Line. Every face I saw on my trip to the skipper's cabin was
blank, hard-eyed, and unsmiling. There was none of the human noise that
normally echoes through a ship, no laughter, no clatter of equipment, no
deviations from the order and precision so dear to admirals' hearts.
This crew was G.I. right down to the last seam tab on their uniforms.
Whoever the skipper was, he was either bucking for another cluster or a
cold-feeling automaton to whom the Navy Code was father, mother, and
Bible.

[Illustration]

The O.D. stopped before the closed door, executed a mechanical right
face, knocked the prescribed three times and opened the door smartly on
the heels of the word "Come" that erupted from the inside. I stepped in
followed by the O.D.

"Commander Chase," the O.D. said. "Lieutenant Marsden."

Chase! Not Cautious Charley Chase! I could hardly look at the man behind
the command desk. But look I did--and my heart did a ninety degree dive
straight to the thick soles of my space boots. No wonder this ship was
sour. What else could happen with Lieutenant Commander Charles Augustus
Chase in command! He was three classes up on me, but even though he was
a First Classman at the time I crawled out of Beast Barracks, I knew
him well. Every Midshipman in the Academy knew him--Rule-Book
Charley--By-The-Numbers Chase--his nicknames were legion and not one of
them was friendly. "Lieutenant Thomas Marsden reporting for duty," I
said.

He looked at the O.D. "That'll be all, Mr. Halloran," he said.

"Aye, sir," Halloran said woodenly. He stepped backward, saluted,
executed a precise about face and closed the hatch softly behind him.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Sit down, Marsden," Chase said. "Have a cigarette."

He didn't say, "Glad to have you aboard." But other than that he was
Navy right down to the last parenthesis. His voice was the same dry
schoolmaster's voice I remembered from the Academy. And his face was the
same dry gray with the same fishy blue eyes and rat trap jaw. His hair
was thinner, but other than that he hadn't changed. Neither the war nor
the responsibilities of command appeared to have left their mark upon
him. He was still the same lean, undersized square-shouldered blob of
nastiness.

I took the cigarette, sat down, puffed it into a glow, and looked around
the drab 6 x 8 foot cubicle called the Captain's cabin by ship designers
who must have laughed as they laid out the plans. It had about the room
of a good-sized coffin. A copy of the Navy Code was lying on the desk.
Chase had obviously been reading his bible.

"You are three minutes late, Marsden," Chase said. "Your orders direct
you to report at 0900. Do you have any explanation?"

"No, sir," I said.

"Don't let it happen again. On this ship we are prompt."

"Aye, sir," I muttered.

He smiled, a thin quirk of thin lips. "Now let me outline your duties,
Marsden. You are posted to my ship as Executive Officer. An Executive
Officer is the Captain's right hand."

"So I have heard," I said drily.

"Belay that, Mr. Marsden. I do not appreciate humor during duty hours."

You wouldn't, I thought.

"As I was saying, Marsden, Executive Officer, you will be responsible
for--" He went on and on, covering the Code--chapter, book and verse on
the duties of an Executive Officer. It made no difference that I had
been Exec under Andy Royce, the skipper of the "Clotho," the ship with
the biggest confirmed kill in the entire Fleet Scouting Force. I was
still a new Exec, and the book said I must be briefed on my duties. So
"briefed" I was--for a solid hour.

Feeling angry and tired, I finally managed to get away from Rule Book
Charley and find my quarters which I shared with the Engineer. I knew
him casually, a glum reservist named Allyn. I had wondered why he always
seemed to have a chip on his shoulder. Now I knew.

He was lying in his shock-couch as I came in. "Welcome, sucker," he
greeted me. "Glad to have you aboard."

"The feeling's not mutual," I snapped.

"What's the matter? Has the Lieutenant Commander been rolling you out on
the red carpet?"

"You could call it that," I said. "I've just been told the duties of an
Exec. Funny--no?"

He shook his head. "Not funny. I feel for you. He told me how to be an
engineer six months ago." Allyn's thin face looked glummer than usual.

"Did I ever tell you about our skip--captain?" Allyn went on. "Or do I
have to tell you? I see you're wearing an Academy ring."

"You can't tell me much I haven't already heard," I said coldly. I don't
like wardroom gossips as a matter of policy. A few disgruntled men on a
ship can shoot morale to hell, and on a ship this size the Exec is the
morale officer. But I was torn between two desires. I wanted Allyn to go
on, but I didn't want to hear what Allyn had to say. I was like the
proverbial hungry mule standing halfway between two haystacks of equal
size and attractiveness. And like the mule I would stand there turning
my head one way and the other until I starved to death.

But Allyn solved my problem for me. "You haven't heard _this_," he said
bitterly. "The whole crew applied for transfer when we came back to base
after our last cruise. Of course, they didn't get it, but you get the
idea. Us reservists and draftees get about the same consideration as the
Admiral's dog--No! dammit!--Less than the dog. They wouldn't let a mangy
cur ship out with Gutless Gus."

Gutless Gus! that was a new one. I wondered how Chase had managed to
acquire that sobriquet.

       *       *       *       *       *

"It was on our last patrol," Allyn went on, answering my question before
I asked it. "We were out at maximum radius when the detectors showed a
disturbance in normal space. Chase ordered us down from Cth for a quick
look--and so help me, God, we broke out right in the middle of a Rebel
supply convoy--big, fat, sitting ducks all around us. We got off about
twenty Mark VII torpedoes before Chase passed the word to change over.
We scooted back into Cth so fast we hardly knew we were gone. And then
he raises hell with Detector section for not identifying every class of
ship in that convoy!

"And when Bancroft, that's the Exec whom you've relieved, asked for a
quick check to confirm our kills, Chase sat on him like a ton of brick.
'I'm not interested in how many poor devils we blew apart back there,'
our Captain says. 'Our mission is to scout, to obtain information about
enemy movements and get that information back to Base. We cannot
transmit information from a vaporized ship, and that convoy had a naval
escort. Our mission cannot be jeopardized merely to satisfy morbid
curiosity. Request denied. And, Mr. Bancroft, have Communications
contact Fleet. This information should be in as soon as possible.' And
then he turned away leaving Bancroft biting his fingernails. He wouldn't
even push out a probe--scooted right back into the blue where we'd be
safe!

"You know, we haven't had one confirmed kill posted on the list since
we've been in space. It's getting so we don't want to come in any more.
Like the time--the 'Atropos' came in just after we touched down. She was
battered--looked like she'd been through a meat grinder, but she had ten
confirmed and six probable, and four of them were escorts! Hell! Our
boys couldn't hold their heads up. The 'Lachesis' didn't have a mark on
her and all we had was a few possible hits. You know how it
goes--someone asks where you're from. You say the 'Lachesis' and they
say 'Oh, yes, the cruise ship.' And that's that. It's so true you don't
even feel like resenting it."

I didn't like the bitter note in Allyn's voice. He was a reservist,
which made it all the worse. Reservists have ten times the outside
contacts we regulars do. In general when a regular and reservist tangle,
the Academy men close ranks like musk-oxen and meet the challenge with
an unbroken ring of horns. But somehow I didn't feel like ringing up.

I kept hoping there was another side to the story. I'd check around and
find out as soon as I got settled. And if there was another side, I was
going to take Allyn apart as a malicious trouble-maker. I felt sick to
my stomach.

       *       *       *       *       *

We spent the next three days taking on stores and munitions, and I was
too busy supervising the stowage and checking manifests to bother about
running down Allyn's story. I met the other officers--Lt. Pollard the
gunnery officer, Ensign Esterhazy the astrogator, and Ensign Blakiston.
Nice enough guys, but all wearing that cowed, frustrated look that
seemed to be a "Lachesis" trademark. Chase, meanwhile, was up in Flag
Officer's Country picking up the dope on our next mission. I hoped that
Allyn was wrong but the evidence all seemed to be in his favor. Even
more than the officers, the crew was a mess underneath their clean
uniforms. From Communications Chief CPO Haskins to Spaceman Zelinski
there was about as much spirit in them as you'd find in a punishment
detail polishing brightwork in Base Headquarters. I'm a cheerful soul,
and usually I find no trouble getting along with a new command, but this
one was different. They were efficient enough, but one could see that
their hearts weren't in their work. Most crews preparing to go out are
nervous and high tempered. There was none of that here. The men went
through the motions with a mechanical indifference that was frightening.
I had the feeling that they didn't give a damn whether they went or
not--or came back or not. The indifference was so thick you could cut it
with a knife. Yet there was nothing you could put your hand on. You
can't touch people who don't care.

Four hours after Chase came back, we lifted gravs from Earth. Chase was
sitting in the control chair, and to give him credit, we lifted as
smooth as a silk scarf slipping through the fingers of a pretty woman.
We hypered at eight miles and swept up through the monochromes of Cth
until we hit middle blue, when Chase slipped off the helmet, unfastened
his webbing, and stood up.

"Take over, Mr. Marsden," he said. "Lay a course for Parth."

"Aye, sir," I replied, slipping into the chair and fastening the web. I
slipped the helmet on my head and instantly I was a part of the ship.
It's a strange feeling, this synthesis of man and metal that makes a
fighting ship the metallic extension of the Commander's will. I was
conscious of every man on duty. What they saw I saw, what they heard I
heard, through the magic of modern electronics. The only thing missing
was that I couldn't feel what they felt, which perhaps was a mercy
considering the condition of the crew. Using the sensor circuits in the
command helmet, I let my perception roam through the ship, checking the
engines, the gun crews, the navigation board, the galley--all the
manifold stations of a fighting ship. Everything was secure, the ship
was clean and trimmed, the generators were producing their megawatts of
power without a hitch, and the converters were humming contentedly,
keeping us in the blue as our speed built to fantastic levels.

I checked the course, noted it was true, set the controls on standby and
relaxed, half dozing in the chair as Lume after Lume dropped astern with
monotonous regularity.

An hour passed and Halloran came up to relieve me. With a sigh of relief
I surrendered the chair and headset. The unconscious strain of being in
rapport with ship and crew didn't hit me until I was out of the chair.
But when it did, I felt like something was crushing me flat. Not that I
didn't expect it, but the "Lachesis" was worse than the "Clotho" had
ever been.

I had barely hit my couch when General Quarters sounded. I smothered a
curse as I pounded up the companionway to my station at the bridge.
Chase was there, stopwatch in hand, counting the seconds.

"Set!" Halloran barked.

"Fourteen seconds," Chase said. "Not bad. Tell the crew well done." He
put the watch in his pocket and walked away.

I picked up the annunciator mike and pushed the button. "Skipper says
well done," I said.

"He got ten seconds out of us once last trip," Halloran said. "And he's
been trying to repeat that fluke ever since. Bet you a munit to an 'F'
ration that he'll be down with the section chief trying to shave off
another second or two. Hey!--what's that--oh ..." He looked at me.
"Disturbance in Cth yellow, straight down--shall we go?"

"Stop ship," I ordered. "Sound general quarters." There was no
deceleration. We merely swapped ends as the alarm sounded, applied full
power and stopped. That was the advantage of Cth--no inertia. We
backtracked for three seconds and held in middle blue.

       *       *       *       *       *

"What's going on?" Chase demanded as he came up from below. His eyes
raked the instruments. "Why are we stopped?"

"Disturbance in Cth yellow, sir," I said. "We're positioned above it."

"Very good, Mr. Marsden." He took the spare helmet from the Exec's
chair, clapped it on, fiddled with the controls for a moment, nodded,
and took the helmet off. "Secure and resume course," he said. "That's
the 'Amphitrite'--fleet supply and maintenance. One of our people."

"You sure, sir?" I asked, and then looked at the smug grin on Halloran's
face and wished I hadn't asked.

"Of course," Chase said. "She's a three converter job running at full
output. Since the Rebels have no three converter ships, she has to be
one of ours. And since she's running at full output and only in Cth
yellow, it means she's big, heavy, and awkward--which means a
maintenance or an ammunition supply ship. There's an off phase beat in
her number two converter that gives a twenty cycle pulse to her pattern.
And the only heavy ship in the fleet with this pattern is 'Amphitrite.'
You see?"

I saw--with respect. "You know all the heavies like that, sir?" I asked.

"Not all of them--but I'd like to. It's as much a part of a scoutship
commander's work to know our own ships as those of the enemy."

"Could that trace be a Rebel ruse?"

"Not likely--travelling in the yellow. A ship would be cold meat this
far inside our perimeter. And besides, there's no Rebel alive who can
tune a converter like a Navy mechanic."

"You sure?" I persisted.

"I'm sure. But take her down if you wish."

I did. And it was the "Amphitrite."

"I served on her for six months," Chase said drily as we went back
through the components. I understood his certainty now. A man has a
feeling for ships if he's a good officer. But it was a trait I'd never
expected in Chase. I gave the orders and we resumed our band and speed.
Chase looked at me.

"You acted correctly, Mr. Marsden," he said. "Something I would hardly
expect, but something I was glad to see."

"I served under Andy Royce," I reminded him.

"I know," Chase replied. "That's why I'm surprised." He turned away
before I could think of an answer that would combine insolence and
respect for his rank. "Keep her on course, Mr. Halloran," he tossed over
his shoulder as he went out.

We kept on course--high and hard despite a couple of disturbances that
lumbered by underneath us. Once I made a motion to stop ship and check,
but Halloran shook his head.

"Don't do it, sir," he warned.

"Why not?"

"You heard the Captain's orders. He's a heller for having them obeyed.
Besides, they might be Rebs--and we might get hurt shooting at them.
We'll just report their position and approximate course--and keep on
travelling. Haskins is on the Dirac right now." Halloran's voice was
sarcastic.

I didn't like the sound of it, and said so.

"Well, sir--we won't lose them entirely," Halloran said comfortingly.
"Some cruiser will investigate them. Chances are they're ours
anyway--and if they aren't there's no sense in us risking our nice shiny
skin stopping them--even though we could take them like Lundy took
Koromaja. Since the book doesn't say we have to investigate, we won't."
His voice was bitter again.

At 0840 hours on the fourth day out, my annunciator buzzed. "Sir," the
talker's voice came over the intercom, "Lieutenants Marsden and Allyn
are wanted in the Captain's quarters."

       *       *       *       *       *

Chase was there--toying with the seals of a thin, brown envelope. "I
have to open this in the presence of at least two officers," he said
nodding at Allyn who came in behind me. "You two are senior on the ship
and have the first right to know." He slid a finger through the flap.

"Effective 12, Eightmonth, GY2964," he read, "USN 'Lachesis' will
proceed on offensive mission against enemy vessels as part of advance
covering screen Fleet Four for major effort against enemy via sectors YD
274, YD 275, and YD 276. Entire Scouting Force IV quadrant will be
grouped as Fleet Four Screen Unit under command Rear Admiral SIMMS.
Initial station 'Lachesis' coordinates X 06042 Y 1327 Betelgeuse-Rigel
baseline. ETA Rendezvous point 0830 plus or minus 30, 13/8/64.

"A. Evars, Fleet Admiral USN Commanding."

There it was! I could see Allyn stiffen as a peculiar sick look crossed
Chase's dry face. And suddenly I heard all the ugly little
nicknames--Subspace Chase, Gutless Gus, Cautious Charley--and the dozen
others. For Chase was afraid. It was so obvious that not even the gray
mask of his face could cover it.

Yet his voice when he spoke was the same dry, pedantic voice of old.
"You have the rendezvous point, Mr. Marsden. Have Mr. Esterhazy set the
course and speed to arrive on time." He dismissed us with the
traditional "That's all, gentlemen," and we went out separate ways. I
didn't want to look at the triumphant smile on Allyn's face.

We hit rendezvous at 0850, picked up a message from the Admiral at 0853,
and at 0855 were on our way. We were part of a broad hemispherical
screen surrounding the Cruiser Force which englobed the Line and supply
train--the heavies that are the backbone of any fleet. We were headed
roughly in the direction of the Rebel's fourth sector, the one top-heavy
with metals industries. Our exact course was known only to the brass and
the computers that planned our interlock. But where we were headed
wasn't important. The "Lachesis" was finally going to war! I could feel
the change in the crew, the nervousness, the anticipation, the adrenal
responses of fear and excitement. After a year in the doldrums, Fleet
was going to try to smash the Rebels again. We hadn't done so well last
time, getting ambushed in the Fifty Suns group and damn near losing our
shirts before we managed to get out. The Rebs weren't as good as we
were, but they were trickier, and they could fight. After all, why
shouldn't they be able to? They were human, just as we were, and any one
of a dozen extinct intelligent races could testify to our fighting
ability, as could others not-quite-extinct. Man ruled this section of
the galaxy, and someday if he didn't kill himself off in the process
he'd rule all of it. He wasn't the smartest race but he was the
hungriest, the fiercest, the most adaptable, and the most unrelenting.
Qualities which, by the way, were exactly the ones needed to conquer a
hostile universe.

But mankind was slow to learn the greatest lesson, that they _had_ to
cooperate if they were to go further. We were already living on borrowed
time. Before the War, ten of eleven exploration ships sent into the
galactic center had disappeared without a trace. Somewhere, buried deep
in the billions of stars that formed the galactic hub, was a race that
was as tough and tricky as we were--maybe even tougher. This was common
knowledge, for the eleventh ship had returned with the news of the
aliens, a story of hairbreadth escape from destruction, and a pattern of
their culture which was enough like ours to frighten any thinking man.
The worlds near the center of humanity's sphere realized the situation
at once and quickly traded their independence for a Federal Union to
pool their strength against the threat that might come any day.

But as the Union Space Navy began to take shape on the dockyards of
Earth and a hundred other worlds, the independent worlds of the
periphery began to eye the Union with suspicion. They had never believed
the exploration report and didn't want to unite with the worlds of the
center. They thought that the Union was a trick to deprive them of their
fiercely cherished independence, and when the Union sent embassies to
invite them into the common effort, they rejected them. And when we
suggested that in the interests of racial safety they abandon their
haphazard colonization efforts that resulted in an uncontrolled series
of jumps into the dark, punctuated by minor wars and clashes when
colonists from separate origins landed, more or less simultaneously, on
a promising planet, they were certain we were up to no good.

Although we explained and showed them copies of the exploration ship's
report, they were not convinced. Demagogues among them screamed about
manifest destiny, independence, interference in internal affairs, and a
thousand other things that made the diplomatic climate between Center
and Periphery unbearably hot. And their colonists kept moving outward.

Of course the Union was not about to cooperate in this potential race
suicide. We simply couldn't allow them to give that other race knowledge
of our whereabouts until we were ready for them. So we informed each of
the outer worlds that we would consider any further efforts at
colonizing an unfriendly act, and would take steps to discourage it.

That did it.

       *       *       *       *       *

We halted a few colonizing ships and sent them home under guard. We
uprooted a few advance groups and returned them to their homeworlds. We
established a series of observation posts to check further
expansion--and six months later we were at war.

The outer worlds formed what they called a defensive league and with
characteristic human rationality promptly attacked us. Naturally, they
didn't get far. We had a bigger and better fleet and we were organized
while they were not. And so they were utterly defeated at the Battle of
Ophiuchus.

It was then that we had two choices. We could either move in and take
over their defenseless worlds, or we could let them rebuild and get
strong, and with their strength acquire a knowledge of cooperation--and
take the chance that they would ultimately beat us. Knowing this, we
wisely chose the second course and set about teaching our fellow men a
lesson that was now fifteen years along and not ended yet.

By applying pressure at the right places we turned their attention
inward to us rather than to the outside, and by making carefully timed
sorties here and there about the periphery we forced them through sheer
military necessity to gradually tighten their loosely organized League
into tightly centralized authority, with the power to demand and
obtain--to meet our force with counterforce. By desperate measures and
straining of all their youthful resources they managed to hold us off.
And with every strain they were welded more tightly together. And
slowly they were learning through war what we could not teach through
peace.

Curiously enough, they wouldn't believe our aims even when captured
crews told them. They thought it was some sort of tricky mental
conditioning designed to frustrate their lie detectors. Even while they
tightened their organization and built new fleets, they would not
believe that we were forcing them into the paths they must travel to
avoid future annihilation.

It was one of the ironies of this war that it was fought and would be
fought with the best of intentions. For it was obvious now that we could
never win--nor could they. The Rebels, as we called them, were every
whit as strong as we, and while we enjoyed the advantages of superior
position and technology they had the advantage of superior numbers. It
was stalemate,--the longest, fiercest stalemate in man's bloody history.
But it was stalemate with a purpose. It was a crazy war--a period of
constant hostilities mingled with sporadic offensive actions like the
one we were now engaged in--but to us, at least, it was war with a
purpose--the best and noblest of human purposes--the preservation of the
race.

The day was coming, not too many years away, when the first of the
aliens would strike the Outer worlds. Then we would unite--on the
League's terms if need be--to crush the invaders and establish mankind
as the supreme race in the galaxy.

But this wasn't important right now. Right now I was the Executive
Officer of a scout ship commanded by a man I didn't trust. He smelled
too much like a stinking coward. I shook my head. Having Chase running
the ship was like putting a moron in a jet car on one of the
superhighways--and then sabotaging the automatics. Just one fearful
mistake and a whole squadron could be loused up. But Chase was the
commander--the ultimate authority on this ship. All I could do was pray
that things were going to come out all right.

We moved out in the lower red. Battles weren't fought in Cth. There was
no way to locate a unit at firing range in that monochromatic madness.
Normal physical laws simply didn't apply. A ship had to come out into
threespace to do any damage. All Cth was was a convenient road to the
battlefront.

With one exception.

By hanging in the infra band, on the ragged edge of threespace, a scout
ship could remain concealed until a critical moment, breakout into
threespace--discharge her weapons--and flick back into Cth before an
enemy could get a fix on her. Scouts, with their high capacity
converters, could perform this maneuver, but the ponderous battlewagons
and cruisers with their tremendous weight of armor, screens, and
munitions couldn't maneuver like this. They simply didn't have the
agility. Yet only they had the ability to penetrate defensive screens
and kill the Rebel heavies. So space battle was conducted on the classic
pattern--the Lines slugging it out at medium range while the screen of
scouts buzzed around and through the battle trying to add their weight
of metal against some overstrained enemy and ensure his destruction. A
major battle could go on for days--and it often did. In the Fifty Suns
action the battle had lasted nearly two weeks subjective before we
withdrew to lick our wounds.

       *       *       *       *       *

For nearly a day we ran into nothing, and such are the distances that
separate units of a fleet, we had the impression that we were alone. We
moved quietly, detectors out, scanning the area for a light-day around
as we moved forward at less than one Lume through Cth. More would have
been fatal for had we been forced to resort to a quick breakout to avoid
enemy action, and if we were travelling above one Lume when we hit
threespace, we'd simply disappear, leaving a small spatial vortex in our
wake.

On the "morning" of the third day the ships at the apex of Quadrant One
ran into a flight of Rebel scouts. There was a brief flurry of action,
the Rebels were englobed, a couple of cruisers drove in, latched onto
the helplessly straining Rebel scouts and dragged them into threespace.
The Rebs kept broadcasting right up to the end--after which they
surrendered before the cruisers could annihilate them. Smart boys.

But the Rebels were warned. We couldn't catch all their scouts and the
disturbance our Line was making in Cth would register on any detector
within twenty parsecs. So they would be waiting to meet us. But that was
to be expected. There is no such thing as surprise in a major action.

We went on until we began to run into major opposition. Half a dozen
scouts were caught in englobements at half a dozen different places
along the periphery as they came in contact with the Rebels' covering
forces. And that was that. The advance halted waiting for the Line to
come up, and a host of small actions took place as the forward screening
forces collided. Chase was in the control chair, hanging in the
blackness of the infra band on the edge of normal space. But we weren't
flicking in and out of threespace like some of the others. We had a
probe out and the main buffeting was taken by the duralloy tube with its
tiny converter at its bulbous tip. With consummate pilotage Chase was
holding us in infra. It was a queasy sensation, hanging halfway between
normalcy and chaos, and I had to admire his skill. The infra band was
black as ink and hot as the hinges of hell--and since the edges of
threespace and Cth are not as knife sharp as they are further up in the
Cth components, we bucked and shuddered on the border, but avoided the
bone-crushing slams and gut-wrenching twists that less skillful skippers
were giving their ships as they flicked back and forth between
threespace and Cth. Our scouting line must have been a peculiar sight to
a threespace observer with the thousand or so scouts flickering in and
out of sight across a huge hemisphere of space.

And then we saw them. Our probe picked up the flicker of enemy scouts.

"Action imminent," Chase said drily. "Stand by."

I clapped the other control helmet over my head and dropped into the
Exec's chair. A quick check showed the crew at their stations, the
torpedo hatches clear, the antiradiation shields up and the ship in
fighting trim. I stole a quick glance at Chase. Sweat stood out on his
gray forehead. His lips were drawn back into a thin line, showing his
teeth. His face was tense, but whether with fear or excitement I didn't
know.

"Stand by," he said, and then we hit threespace, just as the enormous
cone of the Rebel Line flicked into sight. The enemy line had taken the
field, and under the comparatively slow speeds of threespace was rushing
forward to meet our Line which had emerged a few minutes ago. Our
launchers flamed as we sent a salvo of torpedoes whistling toward the
Rebel fleet marking perhaps the opening shots of the main battle. We
twisted back into Cth as one of the scanner men doubled over with agony,
heaving his guts out into a disposal cone. I felt sorry for him. The
tension, the racking agony of our motion, and the fact that he was
probably in his first major battle had all combined to take him for the
count. He grinned greenly at me and turned back to his dials and
instruments. Good man!

"Target--range one eight zero four, azimuth two four oh, elevation one
oh seven," the rangefinder reported. "Mass four." Mass four:--a cruiser.

"Stand by," Chase said. "All turrets prepare to fire." And he took us
down. We slammed into threespace and our turrets flamed. To our left
rear and above hung the mass of an enemy cruiser, her screens glowing on
standby as she drove forward to her place in the line. We had caught her
by surprise, a thousand to one shot, and our torpedoes were on their way
before her detectors spotted us. We didn't stay to see what happened,
but the probe showed an enormous fireball which blazed briefly in the
blackness, shooting out globs of scintillating molten metal that cooled
and disappeared as we watched.

"Scratch one cruiser," someone in fire control yelped.

       *       *       *       *       *

The effect on morale was electric. In that instant all doubts of Chase's
ability disappeared. All except mine. One lucky shot isn't a battle, and
I guess Chase figured the same way because his hands were shaking as he
jockeyed us along on the edge of Cth. He looked like he wanted to vomit.

"Take it easy, skipper," I said.

"Mind your own business, Marsden--and I'll mind mine," Chase snapped.
"Stand by," he ordered, and we dove into threespace again--loosed
another salvo at another Reb, and flicked out of sight. And that was the
way it went for hour after hour until we pulled out, our last torpedo
fired and the crew on the ragged edge of exhaustion. Somehow, by some
miracle compounded of luck and good pilotage, we were unmarked. And
Chase, despite his twitching face and shaking hands, was one hell of a
combat skipper! I didn't wonder about him any more. He had the guts all
right. But it was a different sort of courage from the icy contempt for
danger that marked Andy Royce. Even so, I couldn't help thinking that I
was glad to be riding with Chase. We drove to the rear, heading for the
supply train, our ammunition expended, while behind us the battlewagons
and cruisers were hammering each other to metal pulp.

In the quiet of the rear area it was hardly believable that a major
battle was going on ahead of us. We raised the "Amphitrite," identified
ourselves, and put in a request for supply.

"Lay aboard," "Amphitrite" signalled back. "How's the war going?"

"Don't know. We've been too busy," our signalman replied.

"I'll bet--you're 'Lachesis,' aren't you?"

"Affirmative."

"How'd you lose your ammo? Jettison it?"

"Stow that, you unprintable obscenity," Haskins replied. "We're a
fighting ship."

"Amphitrite" chuckled nastily. "That I'll believe when I see it!"

"Communications," Chase snapped. "This isn't a social call. Get our
heading and approach instructions." He sounded as schoolmasterish as
ever, but there was a sickly smile on his face, and the gray-green look
was gone.

"Morale seems a little better, doesn't it, Marsden?" he said to me as
the "Amphitrite" flicked out into threespace and we followed.

I nodded. "Yes, sir," I agreed. "Quite a little."

Our cargo hatches snapped open and we cuddled up against "Amphitrite's"
bulging belly while our crew and the supply echelon worked like demons
to transfer ammunition. We had fifty torpedoes aboard when the I.F.F.
detector shrilled alarm.

Three hundred feet above us the "Amphitrite's" main battery let loose a
salvo at three Rebel scouts that had flickered into being less than
fifty miles away. Their launchers flared with a glow that lighted the
blackness of space.

"Stand by!" Chase yelled as he threw the converter on.

"Hatches!" I screamed as we shimmered and vanished.

Somehow we got most of them closed, losing only the crew on number two
port turret which was still buttoning up as we slipped over into the
infra band. I ordered the turret sealed. Cth had already ruined the
unshielded sighting mechanisms and I had already seen what happened to
men caught in Cth unprotected. I had no desire to see it again--or let
our crew see it if it could be avoided. A human body turned inside out
isn't the most wholesome of sights.

"How did _they_ get through?" Chase muttered as we put out our probe.

"I don't know--maybe someone wasn't looking."

"What's it like down there?" Chase asked. "See anything?"

"'Amphitrite's' still there," I said.

"She's _what_?"

"Still there," I repeated. "And she's in trouble."

"She's big. She can take it--but--"

"Here, you look," I said, flipping the probe switch.

"My God!" Chase muttered--as he took one look at the supply ship lying
dead in space, her protective batteries flaming. She had gotten one of
the Rebel scouts but the other two had her bracketed and were pouring
fire against her dim screens.

"She can't keep this up," I said. "She's been hulled--and it looks like
her power's taken it."

"Action imminent," Chase ordered, and the rangefinder took up his
chant.

We came storming out of Cth right on top of one of the Rebel scouts. A
violent shock raced through the ship, slamming me against my web. The
rebound sent us a good two miles away before our starboard battery
flamed. The enemy scout, disabled by the shock, stunned and unable to
maneuver took the entire salvo amidships and disappeared in a puff of
flame.

The second Rebel disappeared and we did too. She was back in Cth looking
for a better chance at the "Amphitrite." The big ship was wallowing like
a wounded whale, half of one section torn away, her armor dented, and
her tubes firing erratically.

We took one long look and jumped back into Cth. But not before Haskins
beamed a message to the supply ship. "Now you've seen it, you damned
storekeeper," he gloated. "What do you think?" "Amphitrite" didn't
answer.

"Probe out," Chase ordered, neglecting, I noticed, to comment on the
signalman's act.

       *       *       *       *       *

I pushed the proper buttons but nothing happened. I pushed again and
then turned on the scanners. The one aft of the probe was half covered
with a twisted mass of metal tubing that had once been our probe. We
must have smashed it when we rammed. Quickly I shifted to the auxiliary
probe, but the crumpled mass had jammed the hatch. It wouldn't open.

"No probes, sir," I announced.

"Damn," Chase said. "Well, we'll have to do without them. Hold tight,
we're going down."

We flicked into threespace just in time to see a volcano of fire erupt
from "Amphitrite's" side and the metallic flick of the Rebel scout
slipping back into Cth.

"What's your situation, 'Amphitrite'?" our signal asked.

"Not good," the faint answer came back. "They've got us in the power
room and our accumulators aren't going to stand this load very long.
That last salvo went through our screens, but our armor stopped it. But
if the screens go down--"

Our batteries flared at the Rebel as he again came into sight. He didn't
wait, but flicked right back into Cth without firing a shot. Pollard was
on the ball.

"Brave lad, that Reb," Chase said. There was a sneer in his voice.

For the moment it was stalemate. The Reb wasn't going to come into close
range with a warship of equal power to his own adding her metal to the
"Amphitrite's," but he could play cat and mouse with us, drawing our
fire until we had used up our torpedoes, and then come in to finish
the supply ship. Or he could harass us with long range fire. Or he could
go away.

[Illustration]

It was certain he wouldn't do the last, and he'd be a fool if he did the
second. "Amphitrite" could set up a mine screen that would take care of
any long range stuff,--and we could dodge it. His probe was still
working and he had undoubtedly seen ours crushed against our hull. If he
hadn't he was blind--and that wasn't a Rebel characteristic. We could
hyper, of course, but we were blind up there in Cth. His best was to
keep needling us, and take the chance that we'd run out of torps.

"What's our munition?" Chase asked almost as an echo to my thought. I
switched over to Pollard.

"Thirty mark sevens," Pollard said, "and a little small arms."

"One good salvo," Chase said, thoughtfully.

The Rebel flashed in and out again, and we let go a burst.

"Twenty, now," I said.

Chase didn't hear me. He was busy talking to Allyn on damage control.
"You can't cut it, hey?--All right--disengage the converter on the
auxiliary probe and break out that roll of duralloy cable in the
stores--Pollard! don't fire over one torp at a time when that lad shows
up. Load the other launchers with blanks. Make him think we're shooting.
We have to keep him hopping. Now listen to me--Yes, Allyn, I mean you.
Fasten that converter onto the cable and stand by. We're going to make a
probe." Chase turned to me.

"You were Exec with Royce," he said. "You should know how to fight a
ship."

"What are you planning to do?" I asked.

"We can't hold that Rebel off. Maybe with ammunition we could, but
there's less than a salvo aboard and he has the advantage of position.
We can't be sure he won't try to take us in spite of 'Amphitrite's'
support and if he does finish us, 'Amphitrite's' a dead duck." The
"Lachesis" quivered as the port turrets belched flame. "That leaves
nineteen torpedoes," he said. "In Cth we're safe enough but we're
helpless without a probe. Yet we can only get into attack position from
Cth. That leaves us only one thing to do--improvise a probe."

"And how do you do that?" I asked.

"Put a man out on a line--with the converter from the auxiliary. Give
him a command helmet and have him talk the ship in."

"But that's suicide!"

"No, Marsden, not suicide--just something necessary. A necessary
sacrifice, like this whole damned war! I don't believe in killing men.
It makes me sick. But I kill if I have to, and sacrifice if I must." His
face twisted and the gray-green look came back. "There are over a
thousand men on the 'Amphitrite,' and a vital cargo of munitions. One
life, I think, is fair trade for a thousand, just as a few hundred
thousand is fair trade for a race." The words were schoolmasterish and
would have been dead wrong coming from anyone except Chase. But he gave
them an air of reasonable inevitability. And for a moment I forgot that
he was cold-bloodedly planning someone's death. For a moment I felt the
spirit of sacrifice that made heroes out of ordinary people.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Look, skipper," I said. "How about letting me do it?" I could have
kicked myself a moment later, but the words were out before I could stop
them. He had me acting noble, and that trait isn't one of my strong
suits.

He smiled. "You know, Marsden," he said, "I was expecting that." His
voice was oddly soft. "Thanks." Then it became dry and impersonal.
"Request denied," he said. "This is my party."

I shivered inside. While I'm no coward, I didn't relish the thought of
slamming around at the end of a duralloy cable stretching into a nowhere
where there was no inertia. A hair too heavy a hand on the throttle in
Cth would crush the man on the end to a pulp. But he shouldn't go
either. It was his responsibility to command the ship.

"Who else is qualified?" Chase said answering the look on my face. "I
know more about maneuver than any man aboard, and I'll be controlling
the ship until the last moment. Once I order the attack I'll cut free,
and you can pick me up later."

"You won't have time," I protested.

"Just in case I don't make it," Chase continued, making the
understatement of the war with a perfectly straight face, "take care of
the crew. They're a good bunch--just a bit too eager for the _real_
Navy--but good. I've tried to make them into spacemen and they've
resented me for it. I've tried to protect them and they've hated me--"

"They won't now--" I interrupted.

"I've tried to make them a unit." He went on as though I hadn't said a
thing. "Maybe I've tried too hard, but I'm responsible for every life
aboard this ship." He picked up his helmet. "Take command of the ship,
Mr. Marsden," he said, and strode out of the room. The "Lachesis"
shuddered to the recoil from the port turrets. Eighteen torpedoes left,
I thought.

We lowered Chase a full hundred feet on the thin strand of duralloy. He
dangled under the ship, using his converter to keep the line taut.

"You hear me, skipper?" I asked.

"Clearly--and you?"

"Four-four. Hang on now--we're going up." I eased the "Lachesis" into
Cth and hung like glue to the border. "How's it going, skipper?"

"A bit rough but otherwise all right. Now steer right--easy now--aagh!"

"Skipper!"

"Okay, Marsden. You nearly pulled me in half--that's all. You did fine.
We're in good position in relation to 'Amphitrite.' Now let's get our
signals straight. Front is the way we're going now--base all my
directions on that--got it?"

"Aye, sir."

"Good, Marsden, throttle back and hang on your converters."

I did as I was told.

"Ah--there she is--bear left a little. Hmm--she's looking for us--looks
suspicious. Now she's turning toward 'Amphitrite.' Guess she figures we
are gone. She's in position preparing to fire. _Now!_ Drop out and
fire--elevation zero, azimuth three sixty--_Move!_"

I moved. The "Lachesis" dropped like a stone. Chase was dead now.
Nothing made of flesh could survive that punishment but we--we came out
right on top of them, just like Chase had done to the other--except that
we fired before we collided. And as with the other Rebel we gained
complete surprise. Our eighteen torpedoes crashed home, her magazines
exploded, and into that hell of molten and vaporized metal that had once
been a Rebel scout we crashed a split second later. Two thousand miles
per second relative is too fast for even an explosion to hurt much if
there isn't any solid material in the way, and we passed through only
the outer edges of the blast, but even so, the vaporized metal scoured
our starboard plating down to the insulation. It was like a giant emery
wheel had passed across our flank. The shock slammed us out of control
and we went tumbling in crazy gyrations across space for several minutes
before I could flip the "Lachesis" into Cth, check the speed and motion,
and get back into threespace.

       *       *       *       *       *

Chase was gone--and "Lachesis" was done. A week in drydock and she'd be
as good as new, but she was no longer a fighting ship. She was a wreck.
For us the battle was over--but somehow it didn't make me happy. The
"Amphitrite" hung off our port bow, a tiny silver dot in the distance,
and as I watched two more silver dots winked into being beside her.
Haskins reported the I.F.F. readings.

"They're ours," he said. "A couple of cruisers."

"They should have been here ten minutes ago," I replied bitterly. I
couldn't see very well. You can't when emotion clogs your tubes.
Chase--coward?--not him. He was man clear through--a better one than I'd
ever be even if I lived out my two hundred years. I wondered if the crew
knew what sort of man their skipper was. I turned up the command helmet.
"Men--" I began, but I didn't finish.

"We know," the blended thoughts and voices came back at me. Sure they
knew! Chase had been on command circuit too. It was enough to make you
cry--the mixture of pride, sadness and shame that rang through the
helmet. It seemed to echo and reecho for a long time before I shut it
off.

I sat there, thinking. I wasn't mad at the Rebels. I wasn't anything.
All I could think was that we were paying a pretty grim price for
survival. Those aliens had better show up pretty soon--and they'd better
be as nasty as their reputation. There was a score--a big score--and I
wanted to be there when it was added up and settled.


THE END




Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ December 1960.
    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
    typographical errors have been corrected without note.





End of Project Gutenberg's A Question of Courage, by Jesse Franklin Bone