A. Bertram Chandler - Contraband from Otherspace

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A. Bertram Chandler, who is both a Master Mariner and a Fellow of the British Interplanetary Society,

and who is currently Captain of a trans-Tasman cargo liner, writes of himself:

"I have always been an avid reader of science fiction and, frankly, I enjoy writing it, although it has been

said that most of my output could be classed as 'costume sea stories'.

"It was during the Second World War that I first started to write; this was mainly due to the kindly

encouragement of Mr. John W. Campbell, editor ofAstounding (as it was then) upon whom I called, as

a Faithful Reader, during my first visit to New York. Shortly thereafter I became a regular contributor

both to his magazine and to most of the others in the field.

"After the War I continued writing, but dropped out after promotion to Chief Officer in the British liner

company in which I was then serving—the Mate of a big ship has very little spare time! After my

emigration to Australia, however, I was bullied by my second wife into taking up the pen again, and

became once more a fairly prolific writer of short stories.

"Finally I felt that the time was ripe for full length novels. In them one has ample room to kick ideas

around to see if they yelp."

CONTRABAND FROM OTHERSPACE

Scanned and preproofed by BW-SciFi

Cover by Kelly Freas.

Dedication

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For who else but Susan?

Printed in U.S.A.

They drift out to the Rim Worlds the misfits, the failures and the rebels. They make their tortuous ways

out to the very edge of the Galaxy the malcontents, the round pegs who, even here, are foredoomed to

the discovery of an infinitude of square holes. And from all Space they come—the displaced persons.

From all Space—and (for the skin of the expanding Galaxy is stretched, in every dimension, to the

utmost flimsiness) from all Space-Time.

The inevitable freezing wind whistled thinly over Port Forlorn, bearing eddies of gritty dust and flurries of

dirty snow, setting discarded sheets of newspaper cavorting over the fire-scarred concrete of the landing

field like midget ballet dancers in soiled costumes. From his office, on the top floor of the Port

Administration Building, Commodore Grimes stared out at what, over the long years, he had come to

regard as his own little kingdom. To a casual observer his seamed, deeply tanned face would have

appeared expressionless, but those who knew him well could have read a certain regret in the lines of his

craggy features, in the almost imperceptible softening of the hard, slate-gray eyes.

The king had abdicated.

The Astronautical Superintendent of Rim Runners had resigned from the service of the Rim Worlds

Confederacy— both as a senior executive of the government owned and operated shipping line and as

Commodore of the Rim Worlds Naval Reserve. His resignations were not yet effective—but they would

be, so soon as Captain Trantor, inRim Kestrel, came dropping down through the overcast to be relieved

of his minor command prior to assuming the greater one.

On a day such as this there was little for Grimes to see. Save forFaraway Quest, the Rim Worlds

Government Survey Ship, and forRim Mamelute the spaceport was deserted. Soon enough it would

resume its normal activity, with units of the Rim Runners' fleet roaring in through the cloud blanket, from

Faraway, Ultimo and Thule, from the planets of the Eastern Circuit, from the anti-matter systems to the

Galactic West. (And among them would be Trantor's ship, inbound from Mellise.) But now there were

only the oldQuest and the little, battered space-tug in port, silent and deserted, the survey ship a squat,

gray tower (that looked as though it should have been lichen-coated) half obscured by the snow squall,

theMamelute huddling at its base as though seeking shelter in the lee of the larger vessel.

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Grimes sighed, only half aware that he had done so. But he was not (he told himself) a sentimental man.

It was just thatFaraway Quest had been his last spacegoing command, and would be his last command,

ever, out on the Rim. In her he had discovered and charted the worlds of the Eastern Circuit, opened

them up to trade. In her he had made the fast contact with the people of the anti-matter systems. In her,

only short weeks ago, with a mixed crew of Rim Worlds Naval Reserve officers and Federation Survey

Service personnel, he had tried to solve the mystery of those weird, and sometimes frightening

phenomena known as Rim Ghosts. And whilst on this Wild Ghost Chase (as his second in command

referred to it) he had found in Sonya Verrill the cure for his loneliness, as she had found, in him, the cure

for hers. But his marriage to her (as do all marriages) had brought its own problems, its own

responsibilities. Already he was beginning to wonder if he would like the new life the course of which

Sonya had plotted so confidently.

He started as the little black box on his desk buzzed. He heard a sharp female voice announce,

"Commander Verrill to see you, Commodore Grimes."

Another voice, also female, pleasantly contralto but with an underlying snap of authority, corrected the

first speaker."Mrs. Grimes to see the Commodore, Miss Willoughby."

"Come in, Sonya," said Grimes, addressing the instrument.

She strode into the office, dramatic as always. Melting snow crystals sparkled like diamonds on her

swirling, high-collared cloak of dull crimson Altairian crystal silk, in the intricate coronet of her pale

blonde hair. Her face was flushed, as much by excitement as by the warmth of the building after the bitter

cold outside. She was a tall woman, and a splendid one, and many men on many worlds had called her

beautiful.

She reached out, grabbed Grimes by his slightly protuberant ears, pulled his face to hers and kissed him

soundly.

After she had released him, he asked mildly, "And what was that in aid of, my dear?"

She laughed happily. "John, I just had to come to tell you the news in person. It wouldn't have been the

same over the telephone. I've just received two Carlottigrams from Earth-one official, one personal. To

begin with, my resignation's effective, as and from today. Oh, I can still be called back in an emergency,

but that shouldn't worry us. And my gratuity has been approved . . ."

"How much?" he asked, not altogether seriously.

She told him.

He whistled softly. "The Federation's more generous than the Confederacy. But, of course, your

taxpayers are richer than ours, and there are so many more of them. . . ."

She ignored this. "And that's not all, my dear. Admiral Salversen of the Bureau of Supply, is an old

friend of mine. He sent a personal message along with the other. It seems that there's a little one ship

company for sale, just a feeder line running between Montalbon and Carribea. The gratuity barely covers

the down payment—but withyour gratuity, and our savings, and the profits we're bound to make we shall

be out of the red in no time at all. Just think of it, John! You as Owner-Master, and myself as your ever

loving Mate!"

Grimes thought of it as he turned to stare again out of the wide window, his mind's eye piercing the

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dismal overcast to the nothingness beyond. Light, and warmth, and a sky ablaze with stars instead of this

bleak desolation . . .

Light and warmth . . . And a milk run.

And Sonya.

He said slowly, "We may find it hard to settle down. Even you. You're not a Rimworlder, but your life,

in the Federation's Naval Intelligence, has been adventurous, and you've worked out on the Rim so much

that you almost qualify for citizenship . . ."

"I qualified for citizenship when I married you. And I want to settle down, John. But not here."

The black box on the desk crackled, then said in Miss Willoughby's voice, "Port Control is calling,

Commodore Grimes. Shall I put them through?"

"Yes, please," Grimes told her.

"Cassidy here," said the box.

"Yes, Captain Cassidy?"

"Orbital Station 3 reports a ship, sir."

"Isn't that one of the things they're paid for?" asked Grimes mildly.

"Yes, sir." Cassidy's voice was sulky. "But there's nothing due for almost a week, and . . ."

"Probably one of the Federation Survey Service wagons," Grimes told him, flashing a brief smile (which

she answered with a glare) at Sonya. "They think they can come and go as they damn well please. Tell

Station 3 to demand, demand,not request identification."

"The Station Commander has already done that, Commodore. But there's no reply."

"And Station 3 doesn't run to a Psionic Radio Officer. I always said that we were ill advised to get rid of

the telepaths as soon as our ships and stations were fitted with Carlotti equipment . . ." He paused, then

asked, "Landing approach?"

"No, sir. Station 3 hasn't had time to extrapolate her trajectory yet, but the way she's heading now it

looks as though she'll miss Lorn by all of a thousand miles and finish up in the sun. . . ."

"They haven't had time?" Grimes' voice was cold. "What the hell sort of watch are they keeping?"

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"A good one, sir. Commander Hall is one of our best men as you know. It seems that this ship just

appeared out of nothing those were Hall's own words. There was no warning at all on the Mass

Proximity Indicator. And then, suddenly, there she was on both M.P.I,and radar. . . ."

"Any of your people loafing around these parts?" Grimes asked Sonya.

"No," she told him. "At least, not that I know of."

"And you are or were an Intelligence Officer, so you should know. H'm." He turned again to the box.

"Captain Cassidy, tell Station 3 that I wish direct communication with them."

"Very good, sir."

The Commodore strode to his desk, sat down in his chair, pulled out a drawer. His stubby fingers

played over the console that was revealed. Suddenly the window went opaque, and as it did so the lights

in the office dimmed to a faint glow. One wall of the room came alive, a swirl of light and color that

coalesced to form a picture, three dimensional, of the Watch House of Station 3. There were the wide

ports, beyond the thick transparencies of which was the utter blackness of Space as seen from the Rim

Worlds, a blackness made even more intense by contrast with the faintly glimmering nebulosities, sparse

and dim, that were the distant, unreachable island universes. Within the compartment were the banked

instruments, the flickering screens, the warped, convoluted columns, each turning slowly on its axis, that

were the hunting antennae of the Carlotti Beacon. Uniformed men and women busied themselves at

control panels, stood tensely around the big plotting tank. One of them the Station Commander turned to

face the camera. He asked, "Have you the picture, Commodore Grimes, sir?"

"I have, Commander," Grimes told him. "How is the extrapolation of trajectory?"

"You may have a close-up of the tank, sir."

The scene dissolved, and then only the plotting tank was in Grimes' screen. In the center of it was the

dull-glowing (but not dull-glowing in reality) globe that represented the Lorn sun. And there was the

curving filament of light that represented the orbit of the strange ship, the filament that extended itself as

Grimes and Sonya watched, that finally touched the ruddy incandescence of the central sphere. This was

only an extrapolation; it would be months before it actually occurred. There was still time, ample time, for

the crew of the intruder to pull her out of the fatal plunge. And yet, somehow, there was a sense of

urgency. If a rescue operation were to be undertaken, it must be done without delay. A stern chase is a

long chase.

"What do you make of it?" Grimes asked Sonya.

She said, "I don't like it. Either they can't communicate, or they won't communicate. And I think they

can't. There's something wrong with that ship. . . ."

"Something very wrong. Get hold of Cassidy, will you? Tell him that I wantRim Mamelute ready for

Space as soon as possible." He stared at the screen, upon which Commander Hall had made a

reappearance. "We're sending theMamelute out after her, Hall. Meanwhile, keep on trying to

communicate."

"We are trying, sir."

Cassidy's voice came from the black box, "Sir, Captain Welling, the skipper of theMamelute, is in the

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hospital. Shall I . . . ?"

"No, Cassidy. Somebody has to mind the shop and you're elected. But there's something you can do for

me. Get hold of Mr. Mayhew, the Psionic Radio Officer. Yes, yes, I know that he's taking his Long

Service Leave, but get hold of him. Tell him I want him here, complete with his amplifier, as soon as

possible, if not before. And getMamelute cleared away."

"But who's taking her out, sir?"

"Who do you think? Get cracking, Cassidy."

"You'll need a Mate," said Sonya.

He found time to tease her, saying, "Rather a come-down from the Federation Survey Service, my

dear."

"Could be. But I have a feeling that this may be a job for an Intelligence Officer."

"You'll sign on as Mate," he told her firmly.

III

Rim Mamelute,as a salvage tug, was already in a state of near-readiness. She was fully fueled and

provisioned; all that remained to be done was the mustering of her personnel. Her engineers, pottering

around in Rim Runners' workshop on the spaceport premises, were easily located. The Port doctor was

conscripted from his office, and was pleased enough to be pulled away from his boring paperwork. The

Port Signal Station supplied a radio officer and—forRim Mamelute's permanent Mate made it plain that

he would resent being left out of the party Sonya agreed to come along as Catering Officer.

Grimes could have got the little brute upstairs within an hour of his setting the wheels in motion, but he

insisted on waiting for Mayhew. In any salvage job, communication between the salvor and the salved is

essential and to judge by the experience of Station 3, any form of electronic radio communication was

out. He stood on the concrete, just outside the tug's airlock, looking up at the overcast sky. Sonya came

out to join him.

"Damn the man!" he grumbled. "He's supposed to be on his way. He was told it was urgent."

She said, "I hear something."

He heard it too, above the thin whine of the wind, a deepening drone. Then the helicopter came into

sight above the high roof of the Administration Building, the jet flames at the tip of its rotor blades a

bright, blue circle against the gray sky. It dropped slowly, carefully, making at last a landing remarkable

for its gentleness. The cabin door opened and the tall, gangling telepath, his thin face pasty against the

up-turned collar of his dark coat, clambered to the ground. He saw Grimes, made a slovenly salute, then

turned to receive the large case that was handed him by the pilot.

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"Take your time," growled Grimes.

Mayhew shuffled around to face the Commodore. He set the case carefully down on the ground, patted

it gently. He said, mild reproof in his voice, "Lassie's not as used to traveling as she was. I try to avoid

shaking her up."

Grimes sighed. He had almost forgotten about the peculiar relationship that existed between the

spacefaring telepaths and their amplifiers the living brains of dogs suspended in their tanks of nutrient

solution. It was far more intense than that existing between normal man and normal dog. When a naturally

telepathic animal is deprived of its body, its psionic powers are vastly enhanced and it will recognize as

friend and master only a telepathic man. There is symbiosis, on a psionic level.

"Lassie's not at all well," complained Mayhew.

"Think her up a nice, juicy bone," Grimes almost said, then thought better of it.

"I've tried that, of course," Mayhew told him. "But she's not . . . she's just not interested any more. She's

growing old. And since the Carlotti system was introduced nobody is making psionic amplifiers any

more."

"Is she functioning?" asked the Commodore coldly.

"Yes, sir. But. . ."

"Then get aboard, Mr. Mayhew. Mrs. Grimes will show you to your quarters. Prepare and secure for

blast-off without delay."

He stamped up the short ramp into the airlock, climbed the ladders to the little control room. The Mate

was already in the co-pilot's chair, his ungainly posture a match for his slovenly uniform. Grimes looked at

him with some distaste, but he knew that the burly young man was more than merely competent, and that

although his manner and appearance militated against his employment in a big ship he was ideally suited

to service in a salvage tug.

"Ready as soon as you are, Skipper," the Mate said. "You takin' her up?"

"You're more used to this vessel than I am, Mr. Williams. As soon as all's secure you may blast off."

"Good-oh, Skip."

Grimes watched the indicator lights, listened to the verbal reports, aware that Williams was doing

likewise. Then he said into the transceiver microphone,"Rim Mamelute to Port Control. Blasting off."

Before Port Control could acknowledge, Williams hit the firing key. Not for theMamelute the relatively

leisurely ascent, the relatively gentle acceleration of the big ships. It was, thought Grimes dazedly, like

being fired from a gun. Almost at once, it seemed, harsh sunlight burst through the control room ports. He

tried to move his fingers against the crushing weight, tried to bring one of them to the button set in the arm

rest of his chair that controlled the polarization of the transparencies. The glare was beating full in his face,

was painful even through his closed eyelids. But Williams beat him to it. When Grimes opened his eyes he

saw that the Mate was grinning at him.

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"She's a tough little bitch, the oldMamelute," announced the objectionable young man with pride.

"Yes, Mr. Williams," enunciated Grimes with difficulty. "But there are some of us who aren't as tough as

the ship. And, talking of lady dogs, I don't think that Mr. Mayhew's amplifier can stand much

acceleration. . . ."

"That pickled poodle's brain, Skip? The bastard's better off than we are, floatin' in its nice warm bath o'

thick soup." He grinned again. "But I was forgettin'. We haven't the regular crew this time. What say we

maintain a nice, steady one and a half Gs? That do yer?"

One G would be better,thought Grimes.After all, those people, whoever they are, are in no

immediate danger of falling into the sun. But perhaps even a few minutes' delay might make all

the difference between life and death to them . . . Even so, toe must be capable of doing work,

heavy, physical work, when we catch them.

"Yes, Mr. Williams," he said slowly. "Maintain one and a half gravities. You've fed the elements of the

trajectory into the computer, of course?"

"Of course, Skip. Soon as I have her round I'll put her on auto. She'll be right."

When the tug had settled down on her long chase, Grimes left Williams in the control room, went down

into the body of the ship. He made his rounds, satisfied himself that all was well in engine room, surgery,

the two communications offices and, finally, the galley. Sonya was standing up to acceleration as though

she had been born and bred on a high gravity planet. He looked at her with envy as she poured him a

cup of coffee, handing it to him without any obvious compensation for its increased weight. Then she

snapped at him, "Sit down, John. If you're as tired as you look you'd better lie down."

He said, "I'm all right."

"You're not," she told him. "And there's no need for you to put on the big, tough space captain act in

front of me."

"If you can stand it. . ."

"What if I can, my dear? I haven't led such a sheltered life as you have. I've knocked around in little

ships more than I have in big ones, and I'm far more used to going places in a hurry than you."

He lowered himself to a bench and she sat beside him. He sipped his coffee, then asked her, "Do you

think, then, that we should be in more of a hurry?"

"Frankly, no. Salvage work is heavy work, and if we maintain more than one and a half Gs over a quite

long period we shall all of us be too tired to function properly, even that tough Mate of yours." She

smiled. "I mean the Mate who's on Articles as such, not the one you're married to."

He chuckled. "But she's tough, too."

"Only when I have to be, my dear."

Grimes looked at her, and thought of the old proverb which says that there is many a true word spoken

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in jest.

The strange vessel was a slowly expanding speck of light in the globular screen of the Mass Proximity

Indicator; it was a gradually brightening blip onMamelute's radar display that seemed as though it were

being drawn in towards the tug by the ever decreasing spiral of the range marker. Clearly it showed up

on the instruments, although it was still too far distant for visual sighting, and it was obvious that the

extrapolation of trajectory made by Station 3 was an accurate one. It was falling free, neither accelerating

nor decelerating, its course determined only by the gravitational forces within the Lorn Star's planetary

system, and left to itself must inevitably fall into the sun. But long before its shell plating began to heat it

would be overhauled by the salvage ship and dragged away and clear from its suicide orbit.

And it was silent. It made no reply to the signals beamed at it from RimMamelute's powerful transmitter.

Bennett, the Radio Officer, complained to Grimes, "I've tried every frequency known to civilized man,

and a few that, aren't. But, so far, no joy."

"Keep on trying," Grimes told him, then went to the cabin that Mayhew, the telepath, shared with his

organic amplifier.

The Psionic Radio Officer was slumped in his chair, staring vacantly at the glass tank in which, immersed

in its cloudy nutrient fluid, floated the obscenely naked brain. The Commodore tried to ignore the thing. It

made him uneasy. Every time that he saw one of the amplifiers he could not help wondering that it would

be like to be, as it were, disembodied, to be deprived of all external stimuli but the stray thoughts of

other, more fortunate (or less unfortunate) beings and those thoughts, as like as not, on an

incomprehensible level. What would a man do, were he so used, his brain removed from his skull and

employed by some race of superior beings for their own fantastic purposes? Go mad, probably. And did

the dogs sacrificed so that Man could communicate with his fellows over the light years ever go mad?

"Mr. Mayhew," he said.

"Sir?" muttered the telepath.

"As far as electronic radio is concerned, that ship is dead."

"Dead?" repeated Mayhew in a thin whisper.

"Then you think that there's nobody alive on board her?"

"I ... I don't know. I told you before we started that Lassie's not a well dog. She's old, Commodore.

She's old, and she dreams most of the time, almost all of the time. She . . . she just ignores me . . ." His

voice was louder as he defended his weird pet against the implied imputation that he had made himself.

"It's just that she's old, and her mind is getting very dim. Just vague dreams and ghostly memories, and

the past more real than the present, even so."

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"What sort of dreams?" asked Grimes, stirred to pity for that naked canine brain in its glass canister.

"Hunting dreams, mainly. She was a terrier, you know, before she was . . . conscripted. Hunting dreams.

Chasing small animals, like rats. They're good dreams, except when they turn to nightmares. And then I

have to wake her up but she's in such a state of terror that she's no good for anything."

"I didn't think that dogs have nightmares," remarked Grimes.

"Oh, but they do, sir, they do. Poor Lassie always has the same one about an enormous rat that's just

about to kill her. It must be some old memory of her puppy days, when she ran up against such an

animal, a big one, bigger than she was. . . ."

"H'm. And, meanwhile, nothing from the ship."

"Nothing at all, sir."

"Have you tried transmitting, as well as just maintaining a listening watch?"

"Of course, sir." Mayhew's voice was pained. "During Lassie's lucid moments I've been punching out a

strong signal, strong enough even to be picked up by non-telepaths. You must have felt it yourself, sir.

Help is on the way. But there's been no indication of mental acknowledgement."

"All we know about the ship, Mayhew, is that she seems to be a derelict. We don't know who built her.

We don't know who mans her or manned her."

"Anybody who builds a ship, sir, must be able to think."

Grimes, remembering some of the unhandier vessels in which he had served in his youth, said, "Not

necessarily."

Mayhew, not getting the point, insisted, "But they must be able to think. And, in order to think, you must

have a brain to think with. And any brain at all, emits psionic radiation. Furthermore, sir, such radiation

sets up secondary radiation in the inanimate surroundings of the brain. What is the average haunt but a

psionic record on the walls of a house in which strong emotions have been let loose? A record that is

played back given the right conditions."

"H'm. But you say that the derelict is psionically dead, that there's not even a record left by her builders,

or her crew, to be played back to you."

"The range is still extreme, sir. And as for this secondary psionic radiation, sir, sometimes it fades

rapidly, sometimes it lingers for years. There must be laws governing it, but nobody has yet been able to

work them out."

"So there could be something . . ."

"There could be, sir. And there could not."

"Just go on trying, Mr. Mayhew."

"Of course, sir. But with poor Lassie in her present state I can't promise anything."

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摘要：

A.BertramChandler,whoisbothaMasterMarinerandaFellowoftheBritishInterplanetarySociety,andwhoiscurrentlyCaptainofatrans-Tasmancargoliner,writesofhimself: "Ihavealwaysbeenanavidreaderofsciencefictionand,frankly,Ienjoywritingit,althoughithasbeensaidthatmostofmyoutputcouldbeclassedas'costumeseastories'. ...

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A. Bertram Chandler - Contraband from Otherspace

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