One Was Stubborn

  The chief looked at Carpdyke, at Pettigrew and then at Carpdyke again. The assignment officer was growing so sad that a tear trembled on one lid. The chief stopped breathing but then when no guardian angel snatched Pettigrew away from there, the chief started again. No reason to suffocate.

  “Hello,” said Pettigrew cheerfully.

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?” mourned Carpdyke.

  “I just graduated from the UIT,” said Pettigrew. “My name’s Bigby. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Scout Commander Carpdyke, Bigby. We always like to see our new boys happy with the place. You like your hangars?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “You found the transportation from the Intergalaxy comfortable and prompt?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “And your room? It has a lovely view?”

  “Well, now,” said Pettigrew thoughtfully, “I don’t think I noticed. But don’t you bother yourself, Commander. It suits me. I don’t want much.”

  The chief was beginning to have trouble swallowing. He went to the water cooler.

  “Well, now,” said Carpdyke, looking very, very mournful, “I am happy to hear that. But you’re sure you wouldn’t want me to change quarters with you?”

  “Change? Shucks, Commander, that’s awful nice of you but—well, no. My quarters suit me fine and no doubt you’re used to yours.”

  The chief sprayed water over the assignment map, dived straight out the door and kept going. A ululation of indescribable pitch faded away as he grew small across the rocket field.

  “Did he get sick or something?” asked Pettigrew.

  “A bit touched, poor man,” said Carpdyke. “Ninety missions to Nebula M-1894.”

  “Poor fellow,” said Pettigrew. But he braced up under it. “Now, then, Commander, is there anything you want me to solve or fix up? Anything you’re stuck on or deep-ended with? They put me through the whole ten years and I sure want to do well by the service.” He burnished a bit at the single jag of lightning on his lapel which made him an ensign, science corps, experimental.

  “How were things at base? You left Universal Admiral Collingsby well, I presume.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Pettigrew. “Read me my oath himself.”

  “You and ten thousand other plebes by visograph,” muttered Carpdyke.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. I was just wondering where we could best use your services, Pettigrew. We have to be careful. Don’t want to waste any talent, you know.”

  “Sure not! I bet you have an awful time keeping up with problems, huh?” Vivid excitement manifested itself on Pettigrew’s homely face for the first time.

  “There,” said Carpdyke, “you have struck it. Keeping up. Keeping up. Ah, the weariness of it. Pettigrew, I’ll wager you have no real concept of what we’re up against here at Nineteen. Mankind fairly hangs on our reports, sir.”

  “I’ll bet they do,” said Pettigrew with enthusiasm.

  “Here we are,” said Carpdyke, “located in the exact hub of the Universe; located for a purpose, Pettigrew. A Purpose! Every exploding star must be investigated at once. Every new shape of a nebula must be skirted and charted. Every dark cloud must be searched for harmful material. Pettigrew, the emanations of all the Universe depend upon us. Upon us, Pettigrew.” And here he heaved a doleful sigh. “Ah, the weariness of it, the weariness.”

  “Sure now, Commander. Don’t take it hard. I mean to help out all I can. Just you tell me what you want done—”

  Carpdyke rose and convulsively gripped the ensign’s hand. “You mean it, Pettigrew? You mean it truly? Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent!”

  “Just you tell me,” said Pettigrew, “and I’ll do my best!”

  Carpdyke’s exultation gradually faded and he sank back. He slumped and then shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “Tell me,” begged Pettigrew.

  “Pettigrew,” said Carpdyke at last, “I have to confess. There is a problem. I hate to ask. It’s so difficult—”

  “Tell me!” cried Pettigrew.

  Carpdyke finally let himself be roused. Very, very sadly he said: “Pettigrew, it’s the rudey rays.”

  “Just you … the what?”

  “Rudey rays. Rudey rays! You’ve heard of them certainly.”

  “Well, now, Commander … I … uh … rudey rays?”

  “Pettigrew, how long were you at UIT?” And Carpdyke put deep suspicion into it.

  “Why, ten years, Commander. But— Rudey rays. Gosh, I didn’t never hear of anything like them.”

  “Pettigrew,” said Carpdyke sternly, “rudey rays might well be the foundation of a new civilization. They emanate. They expand. They drive. But they can’t be captured, Pettigrew. They can’t be captured.”

  “Well, what—?”

  “A rudey ray,” said Carpdyke, “is an indefinite particular source of inherent and predynamic energy, inescapably linked to the formation of new stars. Why, Pettigrew, it is supposed that the whole Universe might have been created from the explosion of just one atom made of rudey rays!”

  “Gosh. I thought—”

  “You thought!” cried Carpdyke. “Ah, these professors! They pour ancient, moldy and outmoded data into the hapless heads of our poor, defenseless young and then send them out—”

  “Oh, I believe you,” said Pettigrew. “It’s just kind of sudden. A new theory, like.”

  “Of course,” said Carpdyke, sadly but gently. “I knew you would understand. This matter is top secret. Nay, it is bond top secret. Pettigrew, if we had just one quart of rudey rays—”

  “One what?”

  “One quart!”

  Pettigrew nodded numbly. “That’s what I thought you said.”

  “Pettigrew, with just one quart of rudey rays we could run the United Galactic Navy for a million years at full speed. All five million ships of them. We could run the dynamos of all our systems for ten thousand years without stopping. And—”

  Pettigrew was wide-eyed. “Yes?”

  Carpdyke leaned closer, “Pettigrew, with just one quart of rudey rays, we could make a whole new universe.”

  Pettigrew fanned himself uncertainly.

  “Good!” said Carpdyke. “I’ll give you your orders.” And before another word could be spoken he scrawled across a full page of the order blank:

  TO ALL ACTIVITIES:

  Ensign Bigby O. Pettigrew, pursuant to verbal orders this date to the effect that he is to locate, isolate and can one quart of rudey rays, is hereby authorized to draw necessary equipment on the recommendation of supply and laboratory commands.

  Carpdyke

  With a flourish he gave it over. And with a hearty handshake and a huge smite upon the back, Carpdyke propelled the ensign to the door. Pettigrew was thrust out and the wind fluttered in the sheet he held. He looked at it, frowned a little and then, squaring his shoulders manfully, strode purposefully upon his way.

  Behind him Carpdyke stood for a little while, devils flickering in his eyes and something like a smile on his mournful mouth. Then he sat down.

  “The first thing supply will send him for is a can of vacuum,” said Carpdyke. “I figure that should take him a couple of days. Then lab will want—” But he shook off these pleasures and looked moodily at his assignment blanks.

  He’d have to have something new in three or four days. Pettigrew ought to be good for a solid month before he began to wise.

  “Sir,” said the chief raymaster’s mate, “dispatches from base.” He looked at them. “All routine.”

  “I’m busy,” said Carpdyke, throwing them into the basket. He settled himself down to compound and compute the next mission of the luckless Pettigrew. “‘Now, then, Commander,’” he mimicked, “‘is there anything you want me
to solve or fix up?’” He nearly chuckled. “Ah, Pettigrew, Pettigrew …” He grew mournful again and the chief looked very, very uncomfortable as time wore on.

  “Sir,” ventured the chief, “that top dispatch says a new batch of officers is being ordered in here. About fifteen ensigns, a couple of commanders and one captain, Congreve, to take over as exec. That’s the Congreve that was cited for his work on new fuels. He’ll probably make this place hot. I—”

  “Shut up,” said Carpdyke, “I’m busy.” And to himself, “When he gets chased all over the post with that, we’ll try pink beta rays and maybe a left-handed Geiger counter. Then—”

  There was a stuttering snarl out in the hangar and heavy ground vibrations as a big motor warmed. The chief scowled. He looked at his assignment sheets and let off a couple of regulation growls.

  “No flights due off for a week. What’s wrong with them monkeys?” He went to the office door and stood there, a little blinded by the pink daylight. He saw a Number Thirty Starguide being dollied out by a tractor for a takeoff. It wasn’t the space admiral’s barge, but a routine mission cruiser. And the peculiar thing about it was, no lab crew standing by.

  When they had the Starguide into position for its launch one lone figure came shuffling out, climbed the ladder and popped into the hatch. The tractor detached itself and the tower waved all clear.

  There was something reminiscently all wrong about the man who had entered that ship and the chief was almost ready to turn away when it struck him.

  “Pettigrew!” He started to run into the field and then realized his complete lack of authority. He dashed back.

  Carpdyke was still absorbed.

  “Sir!” said the chief. “That ensign got a ship! He’s about to take off!”

  Carpdyke almost said “I’m busy,” and came alert and up instead. “Who?”

  “Pettigrew got a ship. There!”

  Carpdyke was stunned. He ran forward and then was slammed back into the door by the recoil blast of the Starguide. One moment there was a ship, the next there was the dust. Pettigrew was gone.

  “You sure that was Pettigrew?” cried Carpdyke.

  “I seen him.”

  Carpdyke breasted the flying clouds of dirt which lingered and got himself to Flight Operation.

  He slammed inside. “What’s going on? Who was in that ship?”

  “Ensign Pettigrew,” said the warrant dispatcher.

  “What?” cried Carpdyke. “Where is Lieutenant Morgan?”

  “Sick bay,” said the warrant dispatcher. He had been scared for a moment but now he knew he was in the right. He was an old Navy man. An order was an order and he had the copy right there.

  “Why did you let that man get away?”

  “Sir,” said the warrant, “I seen your order not ten minutes back. We was to lend every assistance to Ensign Pettigrew. Well, we did!”

  Carpdyke was keeping upright by holding the edge of the signal rack. A million dollars’ worth of spacecraft, the life of a new officer— “But he … but that was just—” He caught hold of himself. “That order was intended to be seen by Morgan. The man was new.”

  “I got the duty,” said the warrant doggedly, “and I obeyed it.”

  Carpdyke went away from there with a complete panorama of a twelve-man court-martial board staring him unsympathetically in the eye. What had he sent that fool after? Rudey rays. Knowing less than nothing about the fiery character of luminous masses, an ensign would burn himself to bacon crispness the first one he ran through. No ensign, no ship, no further career for Carpdyke.

  He had no choice but to declare himself guilty. He went into the outer office of the admiral’s suite and looked sadly at the adjutant. “Is he in?”

  “Sure, but—”

  Carpdyke went wearily by and breasted the barricades.

  Banning was rather fat, somewhat crotchety, and had a most wary eye upon his future. He had managed to live twenty-one years with the Navy without sullying his record and if he could keep one more clean he would be pleasantly selected up by his friends to some post as galactic commander with the rank of sixteen stars. Today he was musing upon his happy future, making thoughtful steeples with his fingers and watching his favorite cat dozing in the daylight which poured in.

  “Sir,” said Carpdyke, remembering suddenly that he had forgotten his jacket and cap, “a new man, Pettigrew, just reported. An ensign. He was awful green and I sent him out with a funny order and Morgan is in sick bay today and his warrant obeyed the order and now Pettigrew and a million dollars’ worth of Number Thirty Starguide are on their way someplace to get fried. I am turning in my resignation and will hold myself—”

  Banning’s eyes went round as he attempted to digest these facts. Then he ordered a repeat and when it had been carefully told four or five times with details, he suddenly understood that sixteen stars might very well eclipse if such things were found to have happened on his base.

  “Order up the cruisers! Send out ten destroyers! Man the warning net!” bawled Banning. And then he grabbed his cap and sprinted for the radio room.

  Carpdyke relayed the orders and within ten minutes, where peacefulness had reigned, great waves of motors began to beat and the ground quaked under the impact of emergency takeoff.

  The men were not quite clear on what they were to do or where they were to go. And it took Banning several minutes on the shortwave to convince four or five irate commanders, who objected to leaving so fast, that they were not about to repulse a rebel attack.

  Meanwhile a small, dark radioman was having no luck with Pettigrew. “Sir,” he said to Banning, “he can’t have any channels switched on. I’ve tried them all. And probably he’s outraced even the ion beams by this time. I don’t think—”

  “Don’t think!” cried Banning. “Don’t ever think! Stop that ship!”

  But nobody stopped that ship. For five standard days Banning’s guard fleet raked and combed the surrounding space and then, because they had left without proper provisions, began to return one by one, each with negative news.

  Carpdyke, miserable but not under arrest yet because Banning could not stop worrying long enough to think up the proper charges, wandered around the hangars. He received very little sympathy. Hardly anyone on the project had escaped Carpdyke’s somewhat heavy wit and, combined with this, all crews present had gone without liberty or relief for a week. The project was very grim. The brig was full of people who hadn’t saluted properly or had demonstrated negligence in the vicinity of Space Admiral Banning. Things were confused.

  At least three times a day Banning picked up his pencil to send intelligence of this harebrained accident to the department and each time was stopped by his vision of those sixteen stars. He could court-martial Carpdyke, but then it would come out that Carpdyke was notorious and that Banning, being of the haze school himself, had never put a full astern on the practice. Banning was confused.

  Ten days went by with no word of Pettigrew and out of complete weariness the project began to settle into an uncertain sort of routine. The chaplain left the bridge table long enough to inquire whether or not he should read an absentee burial for the young officer and was told off accordingly. Scout ships returning with routine data were ignored and immediately fell under the same gloom which was downing everyone else.

  Nobody spoke to Carpdyke.

  When the admiral spoke to anybody they got rayburns.

  The post publicity officer began to write up experimental releases about another brave young martyr of science and the master-at-arms inventoried the scanty baggage of Pettigrew. People began to look worn.

  And then, at four o’clock of a September day, a Number Thirty Starguide, rather singed around the edges and coughing from burned-out brakes, came to rest before Hangar Six and out popped a very secondhand version of Bigby Owen Pettigrew.

  People stopped
right where they were and stared.

  “Hello,” said Pettigrew.

  But people just stared.

  Admiral Banning had been soon told and was coming up puffing and scarlet. Carpdyke slithered out of his office and tried to seem as if he wasn’t present.

  “Hello, Mr. Carpdyke,” said Pettigrew.

  “Young man!” said Banning. “Where have you been?”

  “Are you Admiral Banning?” asked Pettigrew.

  “Answer me!”

  “Well, I guess I been all around, mostly. I scouted about three nebulas and almost lost the whole shooting match in the last one, what with the emissions and all. And I got pretty shaken up with the currents and reversed fields and—”

  “What was the idea taking off that way?” cried Banning.

  “Well, Mr. Carpdyke, he told me to go out and get a quart of rudey rays and I—”

  “A quart!” cried Banning.

  “Yes, sir. Seemed kind of funny to me, too. But he said these rudey rays was the germs of new universes so I—”

  “Rudey rays!”

  “No, sir, I never heard of them either, Admiral. But orders is orders, so I went out—”

  “You young fool! You might have been killed! You might have lost that ship!”

  “Admiral,” said Pettigrew, “that’s just the way it seemed to me, too. But when he said how powerful these rudey rays was, why, I recollected when I was flying the Mail—”

  “What mail? I thought you were a UIT man!” said Banning.

  “Oh, sure, I am, sir. But five or six years before that I was flying the Empire Mail. Then when I found that new fuel you’re using, they give me a scholarship to UIT which was mighty nice because back in Texas I never got much formal learning. And after I’d done some work on star clusters they said was new, why, I wanted to get back to flying again, so I figured this was the place to be. I ain’t much of a hand about the Navy—”