Where I Wasn't Going Part 17

Without waiting for more, Elbertson brushed past the doctor and headed for the bridge.

The captain was startled by the mad-looking, unshaven scarecrow of an officer that approached him, demanding in a near-scream, "What happened? What have you done? What did you DO to Project Hot Rod? No one should have tampered with it without my direct order! Captain, if that mechanism has been ruined, I'll have them nail your hide to the door!"

"Major!" The captain stood. "This may be a civilian post, but you are still an officer and I am your superior. Return to your quarters and clean up. Then report to me properly!"

For a moment there was seething rebellion on Elbertson's already wild features. Then, automatonlike, he turned and walked stiffly away without saluting.

But the stiffness left him as he pa.s.sed through the door. Momentarily he sagged against a wall for support, far weaker than he thought possible for a man of his youth and what he thought of as his condition. Making his way almost blindly to Security's quarters in rim-section B-5, he staggered through the door and on towards the latrine, shouting at Chauvenseer to "Get out of that sack and give me a detailed report on events since the flare. Oh, and send somebody for coffee--lots of coffee."

On the bridge the captain flipped the intercom to Dr. Green's station.

"Is Major Elbertson under the influence of any unusual drugs, doctor?"

he asked when he'd reached the medical staff chief. "Anything that might make his behavior erratic?"

"Only sedatives, captain. And, oh yes, those new sulph-hydral anti-radiation shots. We're not too familiar with what they do, though the reports indicate the worst effect is a mild anoxemia, which generally results in something of a headache. Of course, that's if the quant.i.ty of the drug was precisely calibrated. They can be fatal," he added as an afterthought.

"Would anoxemia cause a change in character, doctor?"

"It might. It might make one behave either stupidly or irrationally--temporarily or permanently, depending on the severity of the effect."

"Did Major Elbertson seem normal to you when you discharged him from hospital?"

"I did not discharge him, captain. I ordered him to remain under my care. But he seemed greatly upset, and short of force I could not have kept him from leaving."

"I see." The captain paused, then asked: "Doctor, please consider carefully. Would you consider Major Elbertson's condition serious enough to warrant confining him to bed by force?"

"Probably not. He should come out of it in a few hours. Exercise may possibly be good for him, though I doubt if he's capable of much of it." The doctor chuckled as though at a private joke with himself, then added, "He's really quite weak physically, you know, even without the after effects of radiation and drugs."

"Thank you, doctor."

Back in his quarters, Elbertson was refusing to admit to himself the fact of his own weakness. He had been quite ill in the shower, had managed to slash himself rather badly with the razor while shaving, but was now smartly attired in a clean pair of the regulation coveralls, with the insignia of his rank properly in place--and so weak he could hardly move.

The coffee hadn't helped much.

The briefing had helped even less. The major knew himself guilty of negligence while on duty. Inadvertently, but as though by his very hand, certainly through the agency of some saboteur he had failed to spot, his weapon had been turned on his own troops at Thule, key post in the plan.

It was possible that the entire plan had been sabotaged, though that seemed quite unlikely. Its ramifications were too great. So long as Hot Rod still existed, was still within their reach, the plan was operational.

The nonsense about a magneto-ionic effect he discarded without hesitation. Obviously it was sabotage, possibly by someone with a plan of his own, more probably by someone in the pay of one of the big power companies that would like to see the operation at least postponed. Obviously--he gave up.

Nothing would be obvious until he knew in exact detail what had occurred, what the plans of the enemy would be, where next they would strike--and who was the enemy.

But that last, at least, was almost obvious. Who else, but the man who had carried the political battle, against all odds, that Hot Rod be created? Who else but Captain Naylor Andersen could possibly have delivered this sneaking, underhanded attack against himself and his comrades?

Who else, he thought, but a man so callous as to order _him_, sick as he was, as though he were a mere cadet, to leave the bridge.

Major Elbertson's mind was made up as to the ident.i.ty of the enemy.

But he would have to proceed with care, or he would key the plan before the time was ripe. There must be no great shake-up in personnel, or undue attention from Earth to the potentials of Project Hot Rod.

Perhaps the saboteur's cover-story of a magneto-ionic effect would serve his ends as well--at least until his comrades on Earth signaled that the time was ripe.

Yet now that Hot Rod had proved its power, the time was ripe. It was that proof on which the plan had waited. And perhaps this very sabotage would prove to be the "incident" on which the plan hinged....

Even as he fought to clear his normally organized mind of the weariness of his body that now sapped at its strength, the call came.

Chauvenseer appeared at his side, saluting smartly. "Com Officer Clark, sir, reports a message from Earth. _The_ message, sir. 'Begin Operation Ripe Peach.'"

Major Elbertson pulled himself to a military stance, returning his aide's salute with complete precision.

Briefly he considered gathering all his men, all the Security personnel, and storming the bridge.

No, obviously the enemy was organized--an unforeseen circ.u.mstance.

Obviously the captain was not alone. Obviously _his_ men included at least some of these slipstick boys--and he would command the loyalty of them all, since he was somewhat of their ilk himself.

No, an officer must seek the most advantageous position from which to deliver his ultimatum.

He must use Hot Rod itself to control them. If Hot Rod itself were actually sabotaged, then the plan must wait until he could have it repaired. He doubted it was hurt.

The flare had thrown off all original sequences--but perhaps that was to his advantage.

To Chauvenseer he snapped: "This is the detail of our immediate operation. Get four of our best men besides yourself. Have each of them come separately and un.o.btrusively to the south polar lock, where I will meet them. I will bring Smith with me.

"Have each of the others take his a.s.signed post for Operation Ripe Peach--but order them to take no action other than to prevent anyone on board from doing anything unusual that might be an enemy operation--until I alert them that Operation Ripe Peach is operational.

"Their orders will, of course, come on our personal radios, Security Band 2Z21.

"Execute!" he ended, saluting smartly.

As the Security squad moved, with individual secrecy, towards their various posts, Captain Andersen was considering that Elbertson would probably snap out of it as soon as he had had coffee and a shave. The man had probably been severely affected by the drugs he had been given. He would make no further reference to the incident of erratic behavior, unless it continued.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Bessie, having at the moment nothing else to do, was busily plying the Sacred Cow not only for her own horoscope for the day, but also those of the several persons of whom she was most fond, while carefully keeping a s.h.i.+elding bunch of paper work in a place to make it appear that she was officially busy. The captain's horoscope, she recognized, didn't look much worse than the rest of them, but was definitely the worst. One of those mathematical jumbles that somehow didn't interpret clearly. None of them looked very good today.

Out on the rim, things were getting back to normal. The labs were functioning again, most of them according to their a.s.signed, routine procedures; but in some, heads were drawn together over the absorbing diagrams supplied by Mike and Is.h.i.+e.

Mike and Is.h.i.+e themselves had already put in twelve hours almost without a break. Working under stress, neither of them had remembered to eat.

There was a cough at the entrance to the machine shop, and Dr. Millie Williams' soft voice said "May I come in?"

The two looked up as the slender figure of the dark-skinned biologist entered the lab, balancing "trays" with plastic bottles atop.