A. Bertram Chandler - Familiar Pattern

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Familiar Pattern

By A. Bertram Chandler writing as George Whitley

When Captain Lessing had written his Night Orders the previous night, he had asked to be called either

when Hunter Island Light was sighted or, if the light was not seen, when the vessel was within the

extreme range. He had, therefore, turned in with the expectation of being aroused at approximately 0530

hours. He did not anticipate being called before; the weather was fine and, according to the forecasts and

the behavior of the aneroid barometer, would continue so. His three officers were trustworthy and almost

as experienced on the trade as he was himself.

He was awakened by the irritating buzzing of the telephone at the head of his bunk. This, by itself, gave

slight cause for alarm—usually, if all was clear, the officer of the watch would come down from the

bridge to call the master in person. Before answering the phone, Lessing switched on his bunkside

reading lamp and looked at the clock on his cabin bulkhead. The time was 0335.Something, thought the

captain,is wrong. To have been within range of the light at this time we should have had to have

done twelve knots—and this underpowered tub never did twelve even downhill with a following

wind …

The instrument buzzed again.

Lessing lifted the handset from its rest, barked into the receiver, "Yes?"

"Second officer here, Captain. There's a big aircraft just come down in the sea, about five miles ahead of

us—"

"I'll be right up," said Lessing as he swung his long legs out of his bunk, his feet searching for his slippers.

He pulled his dressing gown on, lit the inevitable cigarette, and hurried up to the bridge.

He found the second officer out in the starboard wing, staring through his binoculars at a pulsing

luminosity on the dark horizon. It could have been the loom of a shore light, a lighthouse, but the period

was too irregular. It could have been the glare of the bright working lights of a fishing vessel, dipping at

intervals as the craft lifted and fell in the swell. It was nothing to get excited about.

"Is that it, Mr. Garwood?" asked Lessing.

The second officer started. Then, "Yes, sir," he replied. "That's it. Big, it was, and all lit up. There seemed

to be jets or rockets working—but I don't think it was an airplane. It looked … wrong, somehow—"

"There are so many experimental aircraft these days," said the captain, "to say nothing of the artificial

satellites that everybody seems to be throwing about—" Then, half to himself, "I wonder what the salvage

on one of those things would be?"

"Plenty, I should imagine," said the second mate.

"I'd imagine the same," said Lessing. "You'd better notify the engine room, Mr. Garwood. The mate'll be

up in a few minutes so he can see about clearing a boat away."

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"So you're going to take it in tow, sir?" asked the second officer.

"Not so fast!" laughed Lessing. "We don't even know what the thing is yet. Come to that—I don't even

know if it is any sort of aircraft. Those lights out there could be … anything."

"You can ask the lookout," said Garwood huffily, "or the man at the wheel."

"I prefer not to doubt the word of my officers," replied the captain stiffly. "But whether or not we tow the

thing depends largely upon what it is." He stared ahead. Bright lights were becoming visible now instead

of the diffused glare. "And that," he added, "we shall soon find out."

· · · · ·

He left the bridge and went down to his cabin, putting on a uniform over a heavy woollen jersey. He

returned to the bridge. The ship had come alive during his brief absence. Shadowy forms were at work

on the boat deck, electric torches were flashing, and there was the sound of low-voiced orders and

replies, the thud and clatter as equipment not needed in the boat was passed out and stowed well clear of

the winch.

The chief officer clattered up the ladder from the boat deck to the starboard cab of the bridge.

"I'll take it you'll be sending away the Fleming boat, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Kennedy. It'll be the handiest, especially in this swell. There'll be no catching of crabs when

there are no oars out." He pointed ahead to the bright lights that lay on the heaving surface of the sea.

"What doyou make of it?"

Kennedy lifted the ship's binoculars from their box, put them to his eyes. "I don't know," he said slowly.

"It's an odd-looking brute, whatever it is. All those vanes and wings or whatever they are. It's like no

aircraft that I've ever seen."

"It could be American," said the second mate.

"Or Russian," said Kennedy. "I suppose itis manned—"

"Sparks has been trying to raise it on all the frequencies he can muster," said the second mate, "but

there's no reply."

"Perhaps," ventured the third officer diffidently, "it's a flying saucer—"

"All the way from Alpha Centauri or Rigil Kentaurus," laughed the mate, pointing to where Cross and

Centaur hung in the dark sky directly over the mystery of gleaming lights and shining metal. "Perhaps we

can ask 'em which of the two names for their home sunthey prefer. I'm an Alpha Centauri man myself—"

"But itcould be," insisted the third mate.

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Lessing listened, faintly amused. He neither believed nor disbelieved in flying saucers but thought that they

were things that he would prefer not to see—they carried with them a greater aura of disreputability than

did sea serpents. But this thing ahead, this affair of lights and metallic surfaces that they were rapidly

closing in on, wasn't a flying saucer. It couldn't be. Only cranks saw the things, and then in circumstances

remarkable for a paucity of reliable witnesses.

He said, "There's no wind. I'll keep the thing on my starboard side. Who's going away in the boat? You,

Mr. Kennedy? Good. Take a torch with you—you might save time by flashing back to us what you find."

To Garwood he said, "Put her on standby."

"Standby, sir."

The jangling of the engine room telegraph was startlingly loud.

"Stop her. Full astern."

Lessing looked down from the window of the starboard cab, saw the creamy turbulence created by the

reversed screw creep slowly from aft until it was abreast of the bridge.

"Stop her. Switch on the floodlights."

· · · · ·

Kennedy ran down to the boat deck. The starboard boat was already turned out. Six men were sitting at

the handles of the Fleming gear, a seventh sitting in the bows. The mate caught hold of a lifeline, swung

himself from the boat deck into the stern sheets.

"Lower away!" he shouted.

"Lower away, sir," replied the man at the winch. It was, the captain noted, big Tom Green, the bos'n.

Tom Green, who was a pure-blooded Polynesian and proud of it. Good officers are not rare—good

bos'ns are rare and precious. Tom Green was a good bos'n.

He lifted the brake. The wire falls whispered from the drum of the winch, through and around the lead

blocks. They hummed softly through the purchase blocks, and the boat dropped swiftly from sight.

Lessing went again to the starboard cab window, saw the boat hit the water, saw the blocks unhooked

and pulled up and clear by the light lines bent to them.

"Give way!" came Kennedy's order. The men at the handles swayed back and forth in the untidy rhythm

unavoidable with a Fleming boat; the hand-driven propeller began to spin. The boat pulled slowly away

from the ship. Lessing called the bos'n up to the bridge.

"Tom," he said, "I suppose the chief officer's told you what all this is about."

"Yes, Captain. We are ready for all eventualities. The reel of the after towing wire works freely, and we

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have a good supply of shackles and wire snotters."

Lessing looked at the big dark face that hung over his own and wondered, as he had often wondered,

what this man was doing as bos'n of an Australian coaster. Fo'c's'le—and saloon—rumor had it that he

had been educated atOxford , that he was the son of a chief. Certain it was that he spoke

impeccable—although pedantic—English and possessed in no mean degree the power of command.

"Tom," said Lessing, "what do you make of it?"

A white grin split the dark face. "It is like no aircraft that I have ever seen, sir, either in actuality or in

photographs. It's too big for a satellite—as you know,they are only little balls or cylinders, at the largest

big enough to house only a small dog—"

"Well?"

"It happened to us," said the bos'n. "It happened to us. Your ancestral navigators found our islands by

chance, putting in to replenish their supplies. Sooner or later it had to happen to you."

"What do you mean, Tom?" asked Lessing.

"What I said, Captain. That it's happening to you."

"Rubbish," said Lessing, after a long pause. "That thing's just some experimental aircraft that's come to

grief."

"Is it?" asked the bos'n.

"The chief officer's flashing us!" shouted the second. He came out to the wing of the bridge, carrying the

Aldis lamp.

Lessing looked to the enigmatic bulk of the thing in the water and saw a little light, feeble in comparison

with the glaring illumination that was streaming from the aircraft—if it was an aircraft—making a

succession of short and long flashes. The beam of the Aldis stabbed out into the darkness.

"'Returning with passenger,'" read Lessing. He said, "So the thing is manned—"

"Of course," said the bos'n. "Your ships were manned, weren't they?"

"You'd better get down to the boat deck, Tom," said Lessing.

He picked up his glasses, watched the tiny shape of the lifeboat detach itself from the floating enigma. He

watched it as it crept across the water. As it pulled alongside, he could see that there was another figure

sitting in the stern with Kennedy. In the glare of the boat floodlights he saw that it was wearing a uniform

of some kind—an overall suit of silvery gray with what could have been marks of rank gleaming on the

shoulders. He saw Kennedy's bowman catch the painter and make it fast. He saw the gray-clad man

coming up the pilot ladder with what was almost, but not quite, the ease of long practice. He saw the

chief officer following him.

After a short lapse of time, they were on the bridge.

"Captain," said Kennedy, "this is Malvar Korring vis Korring, chief officer of theStarlady. Mr. Korring,

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this is Captain Lessing, master of theWoollabra. "

Automatically, Lessing put out his hand. The stranger grasped it, said in a voice that was metallic and

expressionless, "I hope, sir, that this first meeting of our two races proves auspicious."

"Kennedy," demanded Lessing, "what sort of hoax is this?"

"Sir," replied the chief officer, "this is no hoax. I'm quite convinced that these men are from Space."

"Come down to my room," said Lessing. "Both of you."

· · · · ·

In his cabin, with the bright deck-head lights switched on, Lessing studied the man from the … the

spaceship. The stranger sat on the settee, almost insolently at ease. His body, beneath his tightly fitting

uniform, seemed human enough, as did his lean, deeply tanned face. The eyes, however, were a

disconcerting golden color, and there was a faint tinge of green to his fair hair, which was worn far too

long for the exacting standards of any earthly service. His voice came not from his mouth but from a small

square box that was strapped around his waist.

"We developed a leak in our water tanks," the stranger was saying. "It was necessary for us to replenish

our supplies. This planet was the handiest to our trajectory. We had no idea that it was inhabited."

"You know that this is salt water," said Lessing, rather stupidly.

"We know. The minerals dissolved in the water will be very useful to us."

"I can't believe this," said Lessing, getting up out of his armchair. "It must be a hoax."

"I was inside their ship, sir," said Kennedy. "I didn't see much—but I saw enough to convince me that she

was never built on Earth. She's a cargo vessel, like ourselves, and she's on a voyage from some planet

around the Southern Cross—it may be one of the planets revolving around Acrux—to somewhere in the

Great Bear."

"That's what they told you," said Lessing.

"That's what I told him, Captain," said the spaceman. "And it's true."

"I should report this," said Lessing. "It's my duty to report this. But they'll think I'm mad if I do."

"We'll back you up," said the chief officer.

"Then they'll think that you're mad too."

"Perhaps," suggested Korring, "I could leave proof with you."

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摘要：

FamiliarPatternByA.BertramChandlerwritingasGeorgeWhitley WhenCaptainLessinghadwrittenhisNightOrdersthepreviousnight,hehadaskedtobecalledeitherwhenHunterIslandLightwassightedor,ifthelightwasnotseen,whenthevesselwaswithintheextremerange.Hehad,therefore,turnedinwiththeexpectationofbeingarousedatapproxi...

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A. Bertram Chandler - Familiar Pattern

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