Free To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga by A. Bertram Chandler Page A

do, Skipper,” said the engineer, packing away his tools as he pulled himself toward the exit hatch.
    The ship’s intercom came to life, in Jane Pentecost’s voice. “Connection between vessels severed. Airlock door closed.”
    “We’re still connected,” grumbled Craven. “Delia O’Ryan still has her magnetic grapnels out.” He spoke into the transceiver microphone: “Epsilon Sextans to Delta Orionis. Cast off, please. Over.”
    “Delta Orionis to Epsilon Sextans. Casting off.” Through a viewport Grimes could see one of the bright mooring wires snaking back into its recess. “All clear, Captain.”
    “Thank you, Captain Kennedy.” And in a softer voice, “And I hope you keep that handle to your name, Bill.”
    “Thank you, sir. And all the best, Captain, from all of us, to all of you. And good hunting.”
    “Thanks. And look after the old Delia, Captain. And yourself. Over—and out.”
    “Delta Orionis to Epsilon Sextans. Over and out.”
    (There was something very final, thought Grimes, about those outs.)
    He was aware that the ships were drifting slowly apart. Now he could see all of Delta Orionis from his viewport. He could not help recalling the day on which he had first seen her, at the Woomera spaceport. So much had happened since that day. (And so much was still to happen—he hoped.) He heard Craven say into the intercom, “Stand by for temporal precession. We’re desynchronizing.” Then, there was the giddiness, and the off-beat whine of the Mannschenn Drive that pierced his eardrums painfully, and beyond the viewports the great, shining shape of the other ship shimmered eerily and was suddenly warped into the likeness of a monstrous Klein flash—then vanished. Where she had been (where she still was, in space but not in time) shone the distant stars, the stars that in this distorted continuum were pulsing spirals of iridescence.
    “Mannschenn Drive. Cut !”
    The thin, high keening died abruptly. Outside, the stars were glittering points of light, piercingly bright against the blackness.
    “Mr. Grimes!” Craven’s voice was sharp. “I hope that you take more interest in gunnery than you do in ship handling. In case it has escaped your notice, I would remind you that you are second in command of this vessel, and in full charge in the event of my demise.”
    “Sorry, sir,” stammered Grimes. Then, suddenly bold, “But I’m not your second in command, sir. I’ve signed no Articles.”
    Surprisingly, Craven laughed. “A spacelawyer, yet! Well, Mr. Grimes, as soon as we get this vessel on course we’ll attend to the legal formalities. Meanwhile, may I request your close attention to what I am doing?”
    “You may, sir.”
    Thereafter he watched and listened carefully. He admired the skill with which Craven turned the ship on her directional gyroscopes until the red-glowing target star was centered exactly in the cartwheel sight. He noted that the Captain used his reaction drive at a longer period and at a higher rate of acceleration than usual, and said as much. He was told, the words falling slowly and heavily in the pseudo-gravity, “They . . . will . . . expect . . . us . . . to . . . be . . . in . . . a . . . hurry. We must . . . not . . . disappoint . . . them.”
    Speed built up, fast—but it was a velocity that, in the context of the interstellar distances to be traversed, was no more than a snail’s crawl. Then—and the sudden silence was like a physical blow—the thunder of the rockets ceased. The screaming roar had died, but the ship was not quiet. The whine of the Mannschenn Drive pervaded her every compartment, vibrated through every member of her structure. She was falling, falling through space and time, plunging through the warped continuum to her rendezvous with Death. . . .
    And whose death? wondered Grimes.
    He said, “I should have asked before, sir. But how are . . . how are they going to find us?”
    “I don’t know,” said Craven. “I don’t know.