The Big Sling

THE BIG SLING

Elizabeth Chater

The Big Sling

Elizabeth Chater

Smashwords Edition

Published by Chater Publishing

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Chater

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

Chater Publishing would like to thank Jerry Chater for transcribing the following document. We would also like to thank Eve Blackwood, Elizabeth Morse, and Kerry Chater and Lynn Gilesspie Chater. Special thanks to Robert Ray and Anne Bahde from the Special Collections and University Archives at SDSU.

Cover photo by Algol.

For more information about the amazing life of Elizabeth Chater, please visit: Elizabethchater.com

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Table of Contents

Note from the Galactic Encyclopedia

The Big Sling

Dirty Work at the Controller’s

Rescue

Operation Cleanup

The Ether Duck

At the Depth Bomb

Hi-risk

God from the Machine

MacGregor

The Goulot

Welcome Home

The Citadel

The Big Sling

Mars Fever

The Wall City

Two Against the Dark

The Pit

On the Water Tower

Man Against Man

Man Against Woman

Appendix

About the Author

Note from the Galactic Encyclopedia: TERRA (Microtape 715)

The 23rd century on Terra was known as the Era of the Traders. By the unscrupulous use of wealth and by extreme manipulation of the tool of Propaganda (see Mtape 714) three cabals of merchants secured control of all the industries and services on Terra, and were well on the way to recruiting the professions by patronage, insurance plans, and protection from cabal-hired roughs.

The Traders also vied for the allegiance of the Mobiles, that peculiar group phenomenon foreshadowed in the 20th century by migrating laborers and trailer-livers. By the 22nd century, vast numbers of citizens, fleeing high local taxes, had become completely mobile, living whole lifetimes in small gaily colored caravans which they moved from one City Festival to another. These Festivals, given to attract Mobile trade, were put on at the expense of the Traders, who provided free entertainment, food, and fabulous prizes for all manner of contests. Fan clubs (factions of Mobiles) gave vociferous loyalty to one or another of the Traders in demonstrations which often ended in bloody fights. In thus vying for the support of the Mobiles, each of whom had a vote, the rival Traders hoped to control the last stronghold of responsible democratic action—the government of the United Nations of Terra.

The Traders might have succeeded then, had it not been for the undeclared but lethal war with the Unions in ’43 through ’45. The Unions, lacking public support because of their folly in permitting themselves to be exploited from within their ranks by criminals, went underground in 2346.

Believing the Unions crushed, the greatest of the merchant empires, Inter-Planetary Enterprises, under the leadership of the mutant Controller Victor Holm, challenged the other two cabals and broke them after a six-year struggle. With all competition out of the way, in 2352 Holm turned his attention to the only power still capable of defying him—the United Nations Government.

He controlled a number of the elected representatives of the nations of Terra through his hold on the Mobile votes. The nations were still suspicious of one another, however, and the implementing branch, or civil service, strengthened their position during the battle of the Merchants by developing a trained and dedicated body of young men and women from every country to staff the various departments, called Bureaux. These Holm feared, for they were fanatically loyal to UN, and above bribery. He decided to weaken the influence of the Bureaux by any means in his power.

The Unions, meanwhile, under the sanction of the Bureau of Internal Affairs, had reincarnated as secret Guilds, composed of the craftsmen, artists, and scientists necessary in each case to carry on their particular function. Each Guild was completely self-sufficient, and each jealously guarded its own processes and techniques.

Holm decided that the Guilds did not represent any real threat to his ambitions, since their jealousy of each other and their dependence on Inter-Planetary Enterprises as their major employer, and in many cases, the supplier of their raw materials, kept them in line. The most powerful of the Guilds was the Spacemen. As long as they took his ships from planet to planet, Holm did not wish to challenge this fiercely independent and able group, since they held the key to his exploitation of other worlds.

In 2352, Controller Victor Holm launched a vicious secret attack on the most powerful of the UN Bureaux—Internal Affairs. He struck at it through the Head of the Bureau, Dickie Rand, a brilliant and persuasive career diplomat. . . .

Terran economy was a delicate balance, held in precarious stability as much by its undeclared conflicts as by its uneasy interdependences. The slightest increase in pressure, arising from an event unimportant in itself, was enough to upset the balance. . . .

THE BIG SLING

Satellite Space Station #6 buzzed with activity. In exactly nineteen minutes the Trader, mightiest of the Inter-Planetary Enterprises freightships, was due to blast off. It was her first flight, and she was the largest ship ever built by man. But now the telecameras and the self-conscious dignitaries had gone back to Terra, and Captain Mark Rand, master of the Trader, strode along Level Three in one of his notorious random checkups.

For all his size, he walked very lightly, even in the artificial gravity of the Station. His shoulders, big and smooth-muscled under the immaculate white jacket, seemed to fill the narrow, shining corridor, and his cap brushed the ceiling. Keen grey eyes, startlingly light in the spaceman’s tanned face, missed nothing.

Factor Dahl dabbed furtively at his sweating face as he followed the correct two paces behind Captain Rand. Why, in the name of the Black Teeth of Kuleel, he thought desperately, had Killer Rand chosen the third level for this last-minute check? The Captain was famous for a tight, well-run ship; surprise inspection was part of his technique. But Level Three—today! Was it that damned sixth sense of his that the men were always boasting about, ruefully admiring even when he caught them trying to smuggle vleet and chorla? Dahl clenched his pudgy fists till his chewed fingers throbbed painfully. By all that was unholy, why Three?

Factor Dahl didn’t find it easy, being liaison man between IPE and the ship’s officers and men, all of whom were members of the Spacemen’s Guild. Their hard, disciplined competence of mind and body made him feel inefficient and sloppy. Their comradeship, their comfortable silences, their amusement at their own cryptic jokes, none of which he could share, left Dahl feeling resentful and envious. Above all, he hated their casual self-reliance, their rejection of all authority except that of their Guild and their Captain. While Dahl feared Mark Rand, the officers and crew who served under him seemed actually to enjoy taking his orders.

Dahl couldn’t understand it. He hated Inter-Planetary Enterprises and its Controller, Victor Holm—who owned him, body and soul. Basically, Dahl’s job consisted of acting as agent and spy and anything else Controller Holm wanted. Ostensibly, however, Dahl was the Trader’s Factor, a job comparable to purser, responsible for getting the cargoes on board and properly stowed and for obtaining food and supplies in the proper amounts for each voyage. As Factor, he was directly responsible to the Captain, and even when he had a clear conscience, Dahl was uneasy in Captain Rand’s presence. But now—Mister Dahl!

With a guilty start, Dahl met the Captain’s steady stare. Rand had stopped in front of a sealed cargo compartment.

Sir?

Why is this bulkhead door sealed?

Why—I guess there are hi-risk items inside, Sir: germ cultures, radioactives, maybe explosives—

"You guess—? Does your ESP extend to an explanation of why a whole compartment full of hi-risk cargo should fail to be mentioned on the manifest? —Follett, let me have the list."

The crewman who formed the Captain’s Inspection Guard stepped forward to present the clipboard. Rand bent his dark head over the list.

Here. ‘Compartment 3-F: Medical supplies; liqueurs. Perishable, fragile.’ No hi-risk there. ‘Consignor, Andes Exporting. Consignee, Genghis, Marsettlement One.’  His eyes, between habitually narrowed lids, were as bleak and uncompromising as space itself. I see you have initialed the stowing, Mister Dahl. Did you also seal the compartment?

At the tone in the Captain’s voice, Follett froze to attention. Killer Rand was the youngest pilot Inter-Planetary registered, and the best. But he was hell on jets at the faintest suspicion of an infraction of the Solar Code. Much as Follett disliked sly, oily Dahl, he felt sorry for him now. Sweat was breaking out on the Factor’s forehead as he tried to evade Rand’s challenging scrutiny.

Well, Mister Dahl? prodded the Captain.

Dahl broke.

Mister Holm gave me orders to put the—the cargo aboard while you were Earthside today, Sir—

Controller Holm gave you orders—? Open that hatch, Mister.

Breathing heavily, Dahl bent to examine the seal as though he had never seen it before. It’s the Inter-Planetary seal, Sir, he pleaded desperately.

Break it.

Yes, sir. Dahl fumbled with the key, broke the plastic seal with trembling hands, and turned the key. The hatch slid into the bulkhead, switching on the automatic light in the compartment.

The crewman’s eyes were like marbles in his tanned face. Mark Rand took a long look. His jaw tightened.

"Holm ordered this?"

He sent for me yesterday, just before I left Terra, babbled Dahl. Said he had a private cargo he was entrusting to the Trader. Wanted to know when you’d be off-ship. I told him you planned to visit your brother at the House of Mercy today— He stopped, mouth open, appalled by the naked fury blazing in Rand’s face. Dahl’s fat hands made pushing gestures. Follett tried to pretend that he didn’t exist.

With an effort, Mark composed his lean dark face to its habitual control. You seem to know a good deal about my business. Keep talking.

While Mister Tedden was on watch today, the—the cargo arrived in plasticrates, under the care of one of Controller Holm’s agents. I supervised the stowing of the crates here and dismissed the men. Then the agent and I opened the crates—

Mark took another look at the contents of the compartment. They’re drugged. It was a statement, not a question.

Inertol. Dahl named the outlawed narcotic in a hoarse whisper.

You—Holm—expected them to reach Mars alive?

Dahl’s greasy face was grey. We figured some—that is—most of them would make it. Each one’s strapped on a compression mat—

How were you planning to unload them? Behind my back, of course, but how?

Holm’s agents were to come aboard, put them back in the crates, and unload them with the regular cargo. It was all arranged. The crates were to be delivered to the Home Port Bar.

An alarm bell vibrated harshly through the ship.

Captain, it’s minus ten! pleaded Dahl, with a frantic glance at his wrist chrono. The Trader has to go up on time—the orbit’s all set. . . .

Mark ignored him. Follett, will you inform Mister Cornish we’re not raising ship.

Rand! Dahl clutched the Captain’s arm. I beg of you—! It’s Holm you’re bucking! He’ll break us both! I’ve seen what happens to people who make trouble for Victor Holm. For Kron’s sake, Rand, why can’t we just lock this compartment up again and forget all about it? I swear to you, you won’t lose by it! I’ll tell him—

Mister Dahl, are you familiar with Item Seven of the Solar Code? It’s a law against transporting women from planet to planet for immoral purposes under duress or the influence of narcotics.

But they’re all willing! bleated Dahl. We’ve got their signatures—

Rand didn’t raise his voice but his words cut like a lash. So you and Holm picked my ship for your slimy deal and me for the fall guy. Once I’d landed these doped women on Mars, Holm would have me stooging for him like he’s got you! I could never prove I hadn’t known about it. He’d have my ‘signature’ too. That was the idea, wasn’t it?

Dahl, face working, tried in vain to speak. Mark went on grimly. No jets, Mister. Get these women off my ship. Report to me when the hold’s clear.

It’s suicide! Rand, you don’t know what you’re doing—

I’m running my ship—and the sooner you and Holm find it out, the better.

Two hours later, Rand and his navigator Jeremy Cornish were standing by the port which commanded a view of the loading ramp when a black IPE squad car jetted down. Black-uniformed Security Guards jumped out and mounted the ramp.

Mighty fast work on somebody’s part, drawled Cornish. The last crateful of female fascination isn’t off yet, and I’ll swear Dahl hasn’t left the ship, but the vultures have been alerted and are assembling. Any last words, Cap?

Rand grinned wryly at his best friend. Jeremy was leaning against the chart shelf, jacket unzipped, the heavy pipe in his mouth pulling his smile to one side and spilling partly burnt crumbs of tobacco down the front of his uniform. His straw-colored hair reared up in two incorrigible cowlicks, which with his long nose gave him the look of an amiable and intelligent horse.

Secure that uniform and jettison the pipe, Sloppy, jibed Mark. You want to disgrace us in front of Holm’s bullyboys?

Shall I stand by to repel boarders with my trusty calipers? Or had I better put on an iron jaw and tell ’em I’m Rand, while you escape through the rocket tubes?

Mark answered the real anxiety behind the light words. Stand by. I can handle this one. Holm hasn’t a leg to stand on. —Sorry I loused your flight plan, Fingers.

I’ll have a much fancier one ready by the time you’re back, promised Cornish with a grin.

Second Officer Tedden, young, scared, and very correct, entered, saluted, and requested the Captain’s permission to present two messengers from IPE.

Granted.

The IPE Security Guards entered, black hoods covering their heads except for the masklike plastic slits through which they looked. The heavier guard handed an envelope to Rand, who opened it and deliberately read through its contents without change of expression. Then he nodded to the guards. One strode to the door and stood waiting. The other stepped back a pace. It was impossible to read their expressions beneath those enigmatic hoods, but their attitude was wary.

Command of the Trader assigned temporarily to Navigator Cornish. Second Officer Tedden on duty till relieved. Factor Dahl and I are requested to report to Terra Control Office, IPE. Mister Cornish, Mister Tedden—you understand your duties and will carry on?

Yes, Sir! Tedden’s response came a split-second slow as he glared at the Security Guards. They shifted position, right hands coming to rest against their holsters.

See you in space, Jerry. Mark flicked a finger in salute. He walked out, the Security Guards in close attendance. The Second, stiff with resentment, saw them off-ship. It was nearly ten minutes before he returned. Jeremy acknowledged his salute.

At ease, Mister Tedden.

Will they—what’ll they do to him, Mister Cornish?

Jeremy shrugged. What can they do? He’s only following the Code.

The men are worried, Sir, persisted Tedden. Some of them have just spoken to me. Follett says Dahl swore the Controller would destroy both of them if the Captain refused to play ball. There’s . . . talk of stealing the ship, staging a rescue, and electing the Captain head of a Free Company.

Jeremy took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at the youth. After a long moment he shook his head. I must be getting old. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to me to steal the ship. You are serious, of course? Don’t be offended—I can see you really mean it. May an old man venture to remind you what a stickler the Captain is for Codes, Ethics, and the Proper Procedure at All Times? You young devil, he’d skin you alive and feed your bleeding carcass to the reaction furnaces—

I’ve blasted two circuits with the Captain, said Tedden stiffly. I’ve got Procedure and the Space Code engraved on my . . . subconscious. But I’ve also heard about Rand’s One Man Mutiny. I feel that under extraordinary circumstances like these, the Captain would condone. . . .

Soak the starch out of your beard, Second, grinned Cornish. I’m on your team, but Rand’s the Captain and he calls the plays.

But the One Man Mutiny, urged Tedden. I’ve heard—

Of course you’ve heard about the Mutiny, interrupted Cornish, tapping out the dottle from his pipe. You can’t go into any tavern on the three planets without being tackled by some old space rat who wants to tell you how he shipped with Killer Rand on the first successful Mars flight. Interesting, that. If every spaceman who claims to have been aboard the Explorer Three on that trip actually was, they must have been hanging out the airlocks. . . .

Tedden frowned and brushed aside the digression. I’m sure Captain Rand would condone emergency action, Sir. After all, he did knock out the Captain of the Explorer Three and save the ship—

Which is exactly why he’s so touchy about procedure now, explained Cornish patiently. You know the kind of training and indoctrination spacemen get. How do you think Rand felt, manhandling his superior officer? Even when he believed it the only possible way to save the ship. He was tamping a fresh load into his pipe. Have you ever considered just how amazing that One Man Mutiny really was? Not the mutiny part of it so much—although that was strange enough. I mean what led up to it. As an exhibition of accurate observation, lightning analysis of observed phenomena, split-second decision, and contra-conditioned action, Rand’s behavior is probably without parallel in the history of space travel. Cornish lit his pipe as he warmed to his subject. There he was, a young pilot with a brilliant training record but quite inexperienced, shipping out under a crusty old Skipper who’d pioneered the Venus-Earth run for IPE and bitterly resented being given charge of a foredoomed Mars expedition just when he was expecting to retire on a fat pension—

 ‘Old spacemen never die; they sign on for the Mars run,’  quoted Tedden.

Exactly, agreed Cornish. The One-way Ticket, they called it in those days. Six expeditions—and not one ever heard from. Venus was routine—a milk run. Mercury presented fantastic difficulties, but nothing the pilots couldn’t handle, given the proper equipment. But Mars—Mars was the mystery. Why didn’t the ships return? Or communicate, at least? Old Captain Hobee got panicky as the Red Planet loomed up. He left the actual flight control, braking orbit, and landing to his Second Officer, Rand. Mark was spending three watches out of three in controls. He spiraled into his landing orbit, brought the Explorer in toward the predetermined landfall near a canal hub, down-jetted smoothly, flashed a look at Mars below him on the vision screen—and solved the riddle of the lost spaceships between one breath and another.

Tedden was hanging on Cornish’s words as though he hadn’t heard the story a hundred times before. How could he tell? he marveled. "Just from that one glimpse of the terrain? He was busy synchronizing four sets of landing jets by manual control. . . !"

We were all using manual control in those days, my lad. It’s only lately we’ve had automatic flight. Only thing you young cubs know is how to push buttons. But the old Explorer did have ground vision screens. Rand gives them the credit . . . says if he’d had to sit down blind like the earlier pilots did—

The Second Officer brushed this aside. I’d never have caught on after just one look at the surface.

Nor I. Not many pilots would have, agreed Cornish. "But Mark Rand did. That’s the big point. He told me once that it was the way the so-called ‘desert’ rolled and steamed around the area of jet impact that triggered his suspicions. Even so, it was an incredibly swift reaction. He took that ship up like a scalded bat. Crew were strapped for landing, but it practically drove their spines through their skulls. Captain Hobee blew his jets and began to unstrap, cursing Rand