A. Bertram Chandler - The Winds of If

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The Winds of If

By A. BERTRAM CHANDLER

Things are bleak enough at the Edge of Darkness without looking for trouble. But this ship

found trouble time and time again. And not the least of the problems was: which Time was it in?

Another provocative saga of the men and women of The Rim Worlds.

CHAPTER 1

SHE was old and tired, was Rim Dragon—and after this, her final voyage, we were feeling just that

way ourselves. It was as though she had known, somehow, that a drab and miserable end awaited her in

the ungentle hands of the breakers, as though she had been determined to forestall the inevitable, to go

out in a blaze of glory—or as much glory as would have been possible for a decrepit Epsilon Class

tramp finishing her career, after many changes of ownership, at the very rim of the Galaxy, the edge of

night.

Fortunately for us, she had overdone things.

Off Groller, for example, a malfunctioning of the control room computer had coincided with a

breakdown of the main propellant pump. If the Second Mate hadn't got his sums wrong we should have

been trapped in a series of grazing ellipses, with no alternative but to take to the boats in a hurry before

too deep a descent into the atmosphere rendered this impossible. As things worked out, however, the

mistakes made by our navigator (and his pet computer) resulted in our falling into a nice, stable orbit, with

ample time at our disposal in which to make repairs.

Then there had been Pile trouble, and Mannschenn Drive trouble—and for the benefit of those of you

who have never experienced this latter, all I can say is that it is somewhat hard to carry out normal

shipboard duties when you're not certain if it's High Noon or last Thursday. It was during the

Mannschenn Drive trouble that Cassidy, our Reaction Drive Chief Engineer, briefly lost control of his

temperamental fissioning furnace. By some miracle the resultant flood of radiation seemed to miss all

human personnel. It was the algae tanks that caught it—and this was all to the good, as a mutated virus

had been running riot among the algae, throwing our air conditioning and sewage disposal entirely out of

kilter. The virus died, and most of the algae died—but enough of the organisms survived to be the

parents of a new and flourishing population.

There had been the occasions when she had not overdone things, but when her timing had been just a

little out. There had been, for example, the tube lining that had cracked just a second or so too late

(fortunately, from our viewpoint) but, nonetheless, had resulted in our sitting down on the concrete apron

of Port Grimes, on Tharn, hard enough to buckle a vane.

There had been another propellant pump failure—this time on Mellise—that caused us to be grounded

on that world for repairs at just the right time to be subjected to the full fury of a tropical hurricane.

Luckily, the procedure for riding out such atmospheric disturbances is laid down in Rim Runners'

Standing Orders and Regulations.

Anyhow, the voyage was now over—almost over, that is.

We were dropping down to Port Forlorn, on Lorn, falling slowly down the column of incandescence

that was our Reaction Drive, drifting cautiously down to the circle of drab grey concrete that was the

spaceport apron, to the grey concrete that was hardly distinguishable from the grey landscape, from the

dreary flatlands over which drifted the thin rain and the grey smoke and the dirty fumes streaming from

the stacks of the refineries.

We were glad to be back—but, even so ...

Ralph Listowel, the Mate, put into words the feeling that was, I think, in the minds of all but one of us.

He quoted sardonically,

"Lives there a man with soul so dead

Who never to himself hath said

When returning from some foreign strand

This is my own, my native land ?"...

The only genuine, native-born Rim Worlder among us was the Old Man. He looked up from his

console to scowl at his Chief Officer. And then I, of course, had to make matters worse by throwing in

my own two bits' worth of archaic verse. I remarked, "The trouble with you, Ralph, is that you aren't

romantic. Try to see things this way ...

"Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies with magic sails,

Pilots of the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales ..."

"What the hell's the bloody Purser doing in here?" roared the Captain, turning his glare on me. "Mr.

Malcolm, will you please get the hell out of my control room? And you, Mr. Listowel, please attend to

your duties."

I unstrapped myself from my chair and left, hastily. We carried no Third Mate, and I had been helping

out at landings and blast-offs by looking after the R/T. Besides, I liked to be on top to see everything that

was happening. Sulkily, I made my way down to the officers' flat, staggering a little as the ship lurched, let

myself into the wardroom.

The other two "idlers" were there—Sandra and Doc Jenkins. They were sprawled at ease in their

acceleration chairs, each of them sipping a drink from a tall glass, dewy with condensation.

"So this is how the poor live," I remarked sourly.

"The way that the old bitch has been carrying on," said the Doc affably, "we have to assume that any

given drink may be our last. But how come you're not in the greenhouse?"

"They gave me the bum's rush," I admitted, dropping into the nearest chair, strapping myself in. I was

feeling extremely disgruntled. In well manned, well found ships Pursers are brought up to regard the

control room as forbidden ground but, over the past few months, I had become used to playing my part

in blastings-off and landings, had come to appreciate the risks that we were running all the time. If

anything catastrophic happened I'd be dead, no matter where I was. But when I die I'd like to know the

reason.

"So they gave you the bum's rush," said Sandra, not at all sympathetically. (She had been heard to

complain that if the Purser was privileged to see all that was going on, a like privilege should be extended

to the Catering Officer.) "Might I inquire why ?"

"You might," I told her absently, listening to the thunder of the rocket drive, muffled by the insulation

but still loud in the confined space. It sounded healthy enough. They seemed to be getting along without

me up there. But we weren't down yet.

"Why ?" she asked bluntly.

"Give me a drink, and I'll tell you."

She did not unstrap herself but extended a long, shapely arm, managed to shove the heavy decanter

and a glass across the table so that they were within my reach.

"All right. If you must know, I was quoting poetry. Ralph started it. The Master did not, repeat not,

approve ..."

"Poetry," said Sandra flatly, "and ship handling just don't mix. Especially at a time like this."

"She was riding down," I said, "sweetly and gently, on full automatic."

"And all of us," she pointed out, "at the mercy of a single fuse. I may be only the cook and bottle

washer aboard this wagon, but even I know that it is essential for the officers in Control to be fully alert at

all times."

"All right," I said. "All right."

I glared at her, and she glared at me. She was always handsome —but she was almost beautiful when

she was in a bad temper. I wondered (as I had often wondered) what she would be like when the rather

harsh planes and angles of her face were softened by some gentler passion. But she did her job well, and

kept herself to herself—as I had learned, the hard way.

MEANWHILE, we were still falling, still dropping, the muffled thunder of our reaction drive steady and

unfaltering. In view of the past events and near disasters of the voyage it was almost too good to be true.

It was, I decided, too good to be true—and then, as though in support of my pessimism, the sudden

silence gripped the hearts of all of us. Sandra's face was white under her coppery hair and Jenkins'

normally ruddy complexion was a sickly green. We waited speechless for the last, the final crash.

The ship tilted gently, ever so gently, tilted and righted herself, and the stuffy air inside the wardroom

was alive with the whispered complaints of the springs and cylinders of her landing gear. The bulkhead

speaker crackled and we heard the Old Man's voice: "The set-down has been accomplished. All

personnel may proceed on their arrival duties."

CHAPTER 2

WE all had work to do—but none of us was particularly keen on getting started on it. We were down,

and still in one piece, and we were feeling that sense of utter relaxation that comes at the end of a voyage.

Breathing a hearty sigh of unashamed relief, Doc Jenkins unstrapped himself and poured a generous

drink from the decanter into each of our glasses. "Journey's end," said Doc, making a toast of it.

"In lovers' meetings," I added, finishing the quotation.

"Is there anything left in the bottle?" demanded Ralph Listowel.

We hadn't seen or heard him come into the wardroom. We looked up at him in mild amazement as he

stood there, awkward, gangling, his considerable height diminished (but ever so slightly) by his habitual

slouch. There was a worried expression on his lined face. I wondered just what was wrong now.

"Here, Ralph," said Sandra, passing him a drink.

"Thanks." The Mate gulped. "H'm. Not bad." He gulped again. "Any more?"

"Building up your strength, Ralph ?" asked Sandra sweetly.

"Could be," he admitted. "Or, perhaps, this is an infusion of Dutch courage."

"What do you want it for ?" I asked. "The hazards of the voyage are over and done with."

"Those hazards," he said gloomily. "But there are worse hazards than those in Space. When mere

Chief Officers are bidden to report to the Super's office, at once, there's something cooking—and, I

shouldn't mind betting you a month's pay, something that stinks."

"Just a routine bawling out," I comforted him. "After all, you can't expect to get away with everything

all the time."

A wintry grin did nothing to soften his harsh features. "But it's not only me he wants. He wants you,

Sandra, and you, Doc, and you, Peter. And our commissioned clairvoyant. One of you had better go to

shake him out of his habitual stupor."

"But what have we done?" asked Doc in a worried voice.

"My conscience is clear," I said. "At least, I think it is ..."

"My conscience is clear," stated Sandra firmly.

"Mine never is," admitted Doc Jenkins gloomily.

The Mate put his glass down on the table. "All right," he told us brusquely. "Go and get washed behind

the ears and brush your hair. One of you drag the crystal gazer away from his dog's brain in aspic and try

to get him looking something like an officer and a gentleman."

"Relax, Ralph," said Jenkins, pouring what was left in the decanter into his own glass.

"I wish I could. But it's damned odd the way the Commodore is yelling for all of us. I may not be a

psionic radio officer, but I have my hunches."

Jenkins laughed. "One thing is certain, Ralph, he's not sending for us to fire us. Rim Runners are never

that well off for officers. And once we've come out to the Rim, we've hit rock bottom." He began to

warm up. "We've run away from ourselves as far as we can, to the very edge of night, and we can't run

any further ..."

"Even so ..." said the Mate.

"Doc's right," said Sandra. "He'll just be handing out new appointments to all of us. With a bit of

luck—or bad luck?—we might be shipping out together again."

"What about the Old Man?" I asked. "And the engineers? Are they bidden to the Presence?"

"No," said Ralph. "As far as I know, they'll just be going on leave." He added gloomily, "There's

something in the wind as far as we're concerned. I wish I knew what it was ..."

"There's only one way to find out," said Sandra briskly, getting to her feet.

WE left the ship together—Ralph, Doc Jenkins, Sandra, Smethwick and myself. Ralph, who was

inclined to take his Naval Reserve commission seriously, tried to make it a march across the dusty,

scarred concrete to the low huddle of administration buildings. Both Sandra and I tried to play along with

him—but Doc Jenkins and our tame telepath could turn any march into a straggle without even trying.

For Smethwick there was, perhaps, some excuse; released from the discipline of watchkeeping he was

renewing contact with his telepathic friends all over the planet. He wandered along like a man in a dream,

always on the point of falling over his own feet. And Jenkins rolled happily beside him, a somewhat inane

grin on his ruddy face. I guessed that in the privacy of his cabin he had depleted his stocks of Jungle Juice

still further.

It was a relief to get into the office building, out of the insistent, nagging wind. The air was pleasantly

warm, but my eyes were still stinging. I used my handkerchief to try to clear the gritty particles from them,

saw, through tears, that the others were doing the same—all save Smethwick who, lost in some private

world of his own, was oblivious to discomfort. Ralph in the lead, we started to ascend the stairs, paused

to throw a beckoning nod at us. Not without reluctance we followed.

THERE was the familiar door at the end of the passageway, with Astronautical Superintendent

inscribed on the translucent plastic. The door opened of itself as we approached. Through the doorway

we could see the big, cluttered desk and, behind it, the slight, wiry figure of Commodore Grimes. He had

risen to his feet, but he still looked small, dwarfed by the furnishings that must have been designed for a

much larger man. I was relieved to see that his creased and pitted face was illumined by a genuinely

friendly smile, his teeth startlingly white against the dark skin.

"Come in," he boomed. "Come in, all of you." He waved a hand to the chairs that had been set in a

rough semi-circle before his desk. "Be seated."

When the handshaking and the exchange of courtesies were over we sat down. There was a period of

silence while Miss Hallows busied herself with the percolator and the cups. My attention was drawn by

an odd looking model on the Commodore's desk, and I saw that the others, too, were looking at it

curiously and that old Grimes was watching us with a certain degree of amusement. It was a ship, that

was obvious, but it could not possibly be a spaceship. It was, I guessed, some sort of aircraft; there was

a cigar-shaped hull and, protruding from it, a fantastically complicated array of spars and vanes. I know

even less about aeronautics than I do about astronautics—after all, I'm just the spacefaring office

boy—but even I doubted if such a contraption could ever fly. I turned my head to look at Ralph; he was

staring at the thing with a sort of amused and amazed contempt.

"Admiring my new toy ?" asked the Commodore with a knowing smile.

"It's rather ... It's rather odd, sir," said Ralph.

"Go on," chuckled Grimes. "Why don't you ask?"

There was an embarrassed silence, broken by Sandra. "All right, Commodore. What is it?"

"That, my dear," he told her, "is your new ship."

CHAPTER 3

WE looked at the Commodore, and he looked back at us. I tried to read his expression, came to the

reluctant conclusion that he wasn't joking. We looked at the weird contraption on his desk. Speaking for

myself—the more I stared at it, the less like a ship it seemed. Have you ever seen those fantastic

ornamental carp that are bred on Earth, their bodies surrounded by an ornate tracery of filmy fins, utility

sacrificed to appearance? That's what the thing reminded me of. It was pretty, beautiful, even, in a

baroque kind of way, but quite useless. And Grimes had told us, quite seriously, that it was a model of

our new ship.

Ralph cleared his throat. He said, "Excuse me, sir, but I don't quite understand. That ... that model

doesn't seem to represent a conventional vessel. I can't see any signs of a venturi ..." He was on his feet

now, bending over the desk. "And are those propellers? Or should I say airscrews?" He straightened up.

"And she's not a gaussjammer, one of the old Ehrenhaft Drive jobs. That's certain."

Old Grimes was smiling again. "Sit down, Captain Listowel. There's no need to get excited."

"Captain Listowel?" asked Ralph.

"Yes." The smile vanished as though switched off. "But only if you agree to sail in command of ..." he

gestured towards the model ... "Flying Cloud."

"Flying Cloud? But that's a Trans-Galactic Clipper name ..."

Grimes smiled again. "The first Flying Cloud was a clipper on Earth's seas, in the days of wooden

ships and iron men. This Flying Cloud is a clipper, too—but not a Trans-Galactic Clipper. She is the

latest addition to Rim Runners' fleet, the first of her kind."

"But ..." Ralph was looking really worried now. "But, sir, there are many senior Masters in this employ.

Come to that, there are quite a few Chief Officers senior to me ..."

"And all of them," said Grimes, "old and set in their ways, knowing only one way of getting from Point

A to Point B, and not wanting to know any other. Lift on Reaction Drive. Aim for the target star.

Accelerate. Cut Reaction Drive. Switch on Mannschenn Drive. A child could do it. And while all this is

going on you have the ship overmanned with a pack of engineers, eating their heads off and pulling down

high salaries, and getting to the stage where they regard the ship merely as a platform upon which to

mount their precious machinery ..."

I couldn't help grinning. It was common knowledge that Grimes didn't like engineers and was hardly on

speaking terms with the Engineer Superintendents.

But Ralph, once he had smelled a rat, was stubborn. And he was frank. He said, "I appreciate the

promotion, sir. But there must be a catch in it."

"Of course there is. Life is just one long series of catches.

Ralph was persistent. This ..." he nodded towards the model ... "is obviously something new, something

highly experimental. As you know, I hold my Master's Certificate—but it's valid in respect of

conventional drives only ..."

"But you, Captain Listowel, are the only officer we have with any qualifications at all in respect of the

Erikson Drive." He pulled a folder out of the top drawer of his desk, opened it. "Like most of our

personnel, you made your way out to the Rim by easy stages. You were four years on Atlantia. You

shipped in tops'l schooners as navigator—it seems that the Atlantian Ministry of Transport recognizes

astronautical certificates of competency insofar as navigation is concerned. You thought of settling

permanently on the planet and becoming a professional seaman. You sat for, and obtained, your Second

Mate's Certificate in Sail ..."

"But what connection ... ?"

"Let me finish. You were in Rim Leopard when she had that long spell for repairs on Tharn. You

elected to take part of your leave on that world—and you shipped out as a supernumerary officer in one

of their trading schooners ..."

"Even so ..."

"Take it from me, Captain Listowel, that your fore-and-aft rig Second Mate's ticket, together with your

experience, means more than your Master Astronaut's Certificate. Too, you are qualified in one other,

very important way." He looked at each of us in turn. "You're all qualified."

"I know nothing about wooden ships, Commodore," said Jenkins, "and I'm not an iron man."

"Too right, Doctor," agreed the Commodore cheerfully. "But you have no close ties on any of the Rim

Worlds—neither chick nor child, as the saying goes. And that applies to all of you."

"This new ship is dangerous?" asked Ralph quietly.

"No, Captain Listowel. She's safer than the average spaceship—far safer than Rim Dragon. She'll be

as easy as an old shoe. And economical to run. She is," he went on, "a prototype. It is our intention,

insofar as some trades are concerned, to make her the standard carrier."

"And the catch?"

ALL right. You're entitled to know." He leaned back in his chair, gazed at the ceiling as though in

search of inspiration. "You are all of you, I take it, familiar with the principle of the conveyor belt?"

"Of course," Ralph told him.

"Good. You know, then, that as long as the belt is kept loaded, the speed at which it is run is of

relatively minor importance. So it is with shipping. Express services are desirable for mails and

passengers and perishables—but what does it matter if a slab of zinc is ten years on the way instead of

ten weeks?"

"It will matter a lot to the crew of the ship," grumbled Doc.

"I agree. But when the ship is travelling almost at the speed of light, there will not be a lapse of ten

years subjective time. To the crew it will be just a normal interstellar voyage."

"But," objected Ralph. "Ten years. Where does the economy come in?"

"In manning, for a start. I have already discussed the matter with the Astronauts' Guild, and they agree

that personnel should be paid on the basis of subjective elapsed time ..."

"What!" exploded Ralph.

"Plus a bonus," added Grimes hastily. "Then there's fuel consumption. There'll be a Pile, of course, but

it will be a small one. It will be required only to supply power for essential services and auxiliary

machinery. As you all know, fissionable elements are in short supply and very expensive on the Rim

Worlds, so that's a big saving. Then, there'll be no Reaction Drive and Interstellar Drive Engineers to wax

fat on their princely salaries. One Donkeyman, on junior officer's pay, will be able to handle the job ..."

"A Donkeyman?" asked Sandra, her voice puzzled.

"Yes, my dear. In the last days of sail, on Earth, the windjammers used some auxiliary machinery,

steam driven. The mechanic who looked after and ran this was rated as Donkeyman."

Then Ralph voiced the thoughts, the objections of all of us. He complained, "You've told us nothing,

Commodore. You want us to buy a pig in a poke. You've mentioned something called the Erikson Drive,

and you've given us a short lecture on the economics of ship management, but we're spacemen, not

accountants. Oh, I know that we're supposed to get our star wagons from Point A to Point B as

economically as possible—but getting them there is the prime consideration. And, frankly, I don't see

how that contraption could get from one side of the spaceport to the other ..."

Grimes looked down at the cold coffee in his cup with distaste. He got up, went to his filing cabinet and

pulled out the "W" drawer, taking from it a bottle of whisky and glasses. He said, "It's rather a long story,

but you're entitled to hear it. I suggest that we all make ourselves comfortable."

We settled down with our drinks to listen.

CHAPTER 4

YOU will recall (he said) that, some few years ago, I commissioned Faraway Quest to carry out a

survey of this sector of the Galaxy. To the Galactic East I made contact with Tharn and Grolier, Mellise

and Stree, but you are all familiar with the planets of the Eastern Circuit. My first sweep, however, was to

the West ... Yes, there are worlds to the West, populous planets whose peoples have followed a course

of evolution parallel to our own. They're more than merely humanoid, some of these people. They're

human. But—and it's one helluva big "but"—their worlds are antimatter worlds. We didn't realize this until

an attempt was made to establish contact with an alien ship. Luckily only two people were directly

involved—our own Psionic Radio Officer and a woman, who seemed to hold the same rank, from the

other vessel. The idea was that they should meet and rub noses and so on in one of Faraway Quest's

boats, mid way between the two ships; both I and the other Captain were worried about the possibility

of the exchange of viruses, bacteria and whatever, and this boat of mine was supposed to be a sort of

quarantine station. But we need not have worried. Our two pet guinea pigs went up and out in a flare of

energy that would have made a fusion bomb look silly.

So that was it, I thought at the time. The Psionic Radio Officers had had it, in a big way, so

communications had broken down. And it was quite obvious that any contact between ourselves and the

people of the antimatter worlds was definitely impossible. I got the hell out and ran to the Galactic East. I

made landings on Tharn and Grollor and Mellise and Stree and dickered with the aborigines and laid the

foundations of our Eastern Circuit trade. But there was that nagging doubt at the back of my mind; there

was that unfinished business to the West. Cutting a long story short, after things were nicely sewn up on

the Eastern Circuit worlds I went back. I managed to establish contact—but not physical contact!—with

the dominant race. I'd replaced my Psionic Radio Officer, of course, but it was still a long job. I'm sure

that Mr. Smethwick won't mind if I say that the average professional telepath just hasn't got the right kind

of mind to cope with technicalities. But we worked out a code to use with buzzer and flashing lamp and,

eventually, we were even able to talk directly on the RT without too many misunderstandings.

We traded ideas. Oddly enough—or not so oddly—there wasn't much to trade. Their technology was

about on the same level as our own. They had atomic power (but who hasn't?) and interstellar travel, and

their ships used a version of the Mannschenn Drive, precessing gyroscopes and all. It was all very

interesting, academically speaking, but it got neither party anywhere. Anything we knew and used, they

knew and used. Anything they knew and used, we knew and used. It was like having a heart to heart talk

with one's reflection in a mirror.

Oh, there were a few minor differences. That new system of governor controls for the Mannschenn

Drive, for example—we got that from the anti-matter people. And they'd never dreamed of keeping fish

in their hydroponics tanks, but they're doing it now. But there was nothing really important.

But I had to bring something back. And I did. No doubt you've often wondered just what is going on

inside Satellite XIV. It's been there for years, hanging in Its equatorial orbit, plastered with KEEP OFF

notices. It's still there—but the reason for its construction has been removed.

I BROUGHT something back. I brought back a large hunk of anti-matter. It's iron—or should I say

"anti-iron"? But, iron or anti-iron, it still behaves as iron in a magnetic field. It's hanging in its casing,

making no contact with the walls—and it had better not!—held in place by the powerful magnets. It'd be

safe in a hard vacuum, but it's safer still suspended in the neutronium that the University boys were able to

cook up for me.

Well, I had this hunk of antimatter. I still have. The problem was—what was it good for? Power?

Yes—but how could it be used? No doubt some genius will come up with the answer eventually, but, so

far, nobody has. In the laboratory built around it—Satellite XIV—techniques were developed for carving

off small pieces of it, using laser, and these tiny portions were subjected to experiment. One of the

experiments—bombardment with neutrinos—yielded useful results. After such a bombardment

anti-matter acquires the property of anti-gravity. It's analogous to permanent magnetism in many

ways—but, as far as the scientists have been able to determine really permanent.

But how to use it? The answer is obvious, you'll say. Use it in spaceships. That's what I came up with

myself. I passed the problem on to Dr. Kramer at the University. I don't profess to be able to make head

or tail of his math—but it boils down to this: Antimatter and the temporal precession field of the

Mannschenn Drive just don't mix. Or they do mix—too well. This is the way that I understand it. You use

antimatter, and anti-gravity, to get upstairs. Well and good. You use your gyroscopes to get lined up on

the target star, then you accelerate. You build up velocity, and then you cut the Reaction Drive. Well and

good. Then you switch on the Mannschenn Drive ...

You switch on the Mannschenn Drive—and as your ship consists of both normal matter and

anti-matter she'll behave—abnormally. Oh, there'll be temporal precession all right. But ... The ship,

herself, will go astern in Time, as she should—and that hunk of anti-matter will precess in the opposite

temporal direction. The result, of course, will be catastrophic.

Even so—if I may borrow one of your pet expressions, Captain Listowel—even so, I was sure that

anti-matter, with its property of induced anti-gravity, would be of great value in space travel. There was

this lump of iron that I had dragged all the way back from the Galactic West, encased in aluminum and

neutronium and alnico magnets, hanging there in its orbit, quite useless, so far, but potentially extremely

useful. There must be a way to use it.

But what was the way?

(He looked at us, as though waiting for intelligent suggestions. None were forthcoming. He

drained his glass. He refilled it. He waited until we had refilled ours.)

I kept thinking of what Julius Caesar said when he landed in England, Veni, vedi, vici. I came, I saw, I

conquered.

Well, insofar as the anti-matter worlds were concerned, I came, I saw—and I didn't conquer. All I had

to show for my trouble was this damned great hunk of anti-iron, and I just couldn't figure out a use for it.

It irked me more than somewhat. So, after worrying about it all rather too much, I retired from the field

and left it all to my Subconscious.

I had a fairly large library at home including many books on the history of transport. In my leisure I

found them fascinating reading. Galleys, with sweating slaves manning the sweeps. Galleons—with wind

power replacing muscle power. The clipper ships—acres of canvas spread to the gales of the Roaring

Forties.

The first steamships. The motor ships. The nuclear powered ships. And, in the air, the

airships—dirigible balloons. The aeroplanes. The jets. The rockets—and the first spaceships.

And with the spaceships sail came back, but briefly. There was the Erikson Drive. There were the

ships that spread their great plastic sails and drifted out from the orbit of Earth to that of Mars, but

slowly, slowly. It was a good idea—but as long as those ships had mass it was impracticable. Even so,

had there then been any means of nullifying gravity they would have superseded the rockets.

Then the penny dropped. The oldtimers didn't have anti-gravity. I do have anti-gravity. I can build a

real sailing ship—a vessel to run before the photon gale, a ship that can be handled just as the old

windjammers on Earth's seas were handled. A ship, come to that, Captain Listowel, that can be handled

just as the tops'l schooners on Atlantia's seas are handled ...

(He waved a hand towards the model on his desk.)

There she is. There's Flying Cloud. The first of the real light-jammers. And she's yours.

CHAPTER 5

EVEN so ..." murmured Ralph, breaking the silence, "I don't think that I'm qualified. I doubt if any of us

are qualified."

"You are qualified," stated Grimes flatly. "You've experience in sail, which is more than any other

Master or officer in this employ can boast. Oh, there was Calver. He was in sail, too, before he joined

us, but he's no longer with us. So you're the only possible choice."

"But ... I've no real qualifications."

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TheWindsofIfByA.BERTRAMCHANDLERThingsarebleakenoughattheEdgeofDarknesswithoutlookingfortrouble.Butthisshipfoundtroubletimeandtimeagain.Andnottheleastoftheproblemswas:whichTimewasitin?AnotherprovocativesagaofthemenandwomenofTheRimWorlds.CHAPTER1SHEwasoldandtired,wasRimDragon—andafterthis,herfinalvoya...

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A. Bertram Chandler - The Winds of If.pdf

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A. Bertram Chandler - The Winds of If

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