Next of Kin

  Next of Kin

  Eric Frank Russell

  Originally published as “The Space Willies” in 1958. A slightly extended version of it was published a year later under the title “Next of Kin”.

  This is a comic story of a military misfit who successfully conducts a one-man psychological warfare operation against an alien race and its allies, with whom humans and allied races are at war.

  Next of Kin

  by Eric Frank Russell

  Achtung!

  Upon the cover the nominal publisher claims that this superb story was produced by Eric Frank Russell. It is a barefaced lie because his Eustace knows better.

  Apart from the typing of it I had nothing whatever to do with the book. It was ghost-written for me by my next of kin. Or perhaps I should say it was kin-written by my next of ghost.

  This character, the real author, deposes that his name is Eustace Postlethwaite and considers it a handicap to literary fame. All the same, he swears that this yarn will be printed because he has fraternal influence with the real publisher, Eustace Bam, who is a shady relative of the nominal publisher.

  I am given to understand that neither of these Eustaces would ever be seen dead with a Willy and that where the name appears herein it should be viewed as obscene. Does this baffle you? Do you crave enlightenment? Read on…

  ONE

  He knew he’d stuck his neck out and it was too late to withdraw. It had been the same since early childhood when he’d accepted dares and been sorry immediately afterward. They say that one learns from experience; if that were true the human race would now be devoid of folly. He’d learned plenty in his time and forgotten most of it within a week. So yet again he’d wangled himself into a predicament and undoubtedly would be left to wangle himself out of it as best he could.

  Once more he knocked at the door, a little harder but not imperatively. Behind the panels a chair scraped and a harsh voice responded with hearable impatience.

  “Come in!”

  Marching inside, he stood at attention before the desk; head erect, thumbs in line with the seams of the pants, feet at an angle of forty-five degrees. A robot, he thought, just a damned robot.

  Fleet-Admiral Markham surveyed him from beneath bushy brows, his cold gaze slowly rising from feet to head then descending from head to feet.

  “Who are you?”

  “Scout-Officer John Leeming, sir.”

  “Oh, yes.” Markham maintained the stare then suddenly barked, “Button your fly.”

  Leeming jerked and showed embarrassment. “I can’t, sir. It has defective zipper.”

  “Then why haven’t you visited the tailor? That’s what the base tailor-shop is for, isn’t it. Does your commanding officer approve of his men appearing before him sloppily dressed? I doubt it!, What the devil do you mean by it?”

  “I haven’t had time to tend to it, sir. The zipper packed up only a few minutes ago,” explained Leeming.

  “Is that so?” Fleet Admiral Markham lay back in his chair and scowled at nothing. “There’s a war on, a galactic war. To fight it successfully and to win it we are wholly dependent upon our space-navies. It’s a hell of a thing when the navy goes into battle with defective zippers.”

  Since he seemed to expect a reply to that one, Leeming gave it: “With all respect, sir, I don’t see that it matters. During a battle a man doesn’t care what happens to his pants so long as he survives intact.”

  “I agree,” said Markham. “But what worries me is the question of how much other and more important material may prove to be substandard. If civilian contractors fail on little things they’ll certainly fail on big ones. Such failures can cost lives.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Leeming; wondering what the other was getting at.

  “A new and untried ship, for instance,” Markham went on. “If it operates as planned, we’ll and good. If it doesn’t—” He let the sentence peter out, thought awhile, continued, “We asked for volunteers for special long-range reconnaissance patrols: You were the first to hand in your name. I want to know why.”

  “If the job has to be done somebody must do it,” answered Leeming evasively.

  “I am fully aware of the fact. But I want to know exactly why you volunteered.” He waited a bit, urged, “Come on, speak up! I won’t penalize a risk-taker for giving his reasons.”

  Thus encouraged, Leeming said, “I like action. I like working on my own. I don’t like the time-wasting discipline they go in for around the base. It gives me a pain in the seat, Stand here, stand there, put your chest out, pull your belly in, polish your shoes, get a haircut, take that silly look off your face, who d’you think you’re speaking to? I’m a fully trained scout pilot and not a dressed-up dummy for uniformed loudmouths to bark at. I want to get on with the work for which I am suited and that’s all there is to it”

  Markham showed no ire. On the contrary, he nodded understandingly. “So do most of us. Terrans always were an impatient bunch. Do you think I’m not frustrated sitting behind a desk while a major war is being fought?” Without waiting for a response he added, “I’ve no time far a man who volunteers because he’s been crossed in love or wants to do some heavy bragging or anything like that. I want a competent pilot who is an individualist afflicted with the fidgets.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You seem to fit the part all right. Your technical record is first-class. Your disciplinary record stinks to high heaven.” He eyed his listener blank-faced. “Two charges of refusing to obey a lawful order. Four for insolence and insubordination. One for parading with your cap on back to front. What on earth made you do that?”

  “I had a bad attack of what-the-hell, sir,” explained Leeming.

  “Did you? Well, it’s obvious that you’re a confounded nuisance. The space-base would be better off without you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As you know, we and a few allies are fighting a big combine led by the Lathians. The size of the opposition doesn’t worry us. What we lack in numbers we more than make up for in competence and efficiency. Our war-potential is great and rapidly growing greater. We’ll skin the Lathians alive before we’re through.”

  Leeming offered no comment, having become tired of yessing.

  “We’ve one serious weakness,” Markham informed. “We lack adequate information about the enemy’s cosmic hinterland. We know how wide the Combine spreads but not how deep into the starfield it goes. It’s true that the enemy is no wiser with regard to us, but that’s his worry.”

  Again Leeming made no remark.

  “Ordinary warships haven’t flight-duration sufficiently prolonged to dig deep behind the Combine’s spatial front. That difficulty will be overcome when we capture one or more of their outpost worlds with repair and refuelling facilities. However, we can’t afford to wait until then. Our Intelligence Service wants some essential data just as soon as it can be got. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good! We have developed. a new kind of superfast scout-ship. I can’t tell you how it functions except that it does not use the normal caesium-ion form of propulsion. Its type of power-unit is a top secret. For that reason it must not fall into the enemy’s hands. At the last resort the pilot must destroy it even if it means also destroying himself.”

  “Completely wrecking a ship, though a small one, is much more difficult than it seems.”

  “Not this ship,” Markham retorted. “She carries an effective charge in her engine-room. The pilot need but press a button to scatter the power-units piecemeal over a wide area”

  “I see.”

  “That charge is the sole explosive aboard. The ship has not a gun, not a guided missile, no armament of any sort. It’s a stripped-down vessel with everything sa
crificed for the sake of speed and its only defence is to scoot good and fast. That, I assure you, it can do. Nothing in the galaxy can catch it providing it is squirting from all twenty propulsors.”

  “Sounds good to me, sir,” approved Leeming, licking his lips. “It is good. It’s got to be good. The unanswered question is that of whether it is good enough to take the beating of a long, long trip. The tubes are the weakest part of any spaceship. Sooner or later they burn out. That’s what bothers me. The tubes on this ship have very special linings. In theory they should last for months. In practice they might not. You know. what that means?”

  “No repairs and no replacements in enemy territory, no means of getting back,” Leeming offered.

  “Correct. And the vessel would have to be destroyed. From that moment the pilot, if still surviving, has isolated himself somewhere within the mists of Creation, His chance of seeing. humankind again is remote enough to verge on the impossible.”

  “There could, be worse situations. I’d rather be alive someplace than stone-dead here. While there’s life there’s hope.”

  “You still wish to go through with this?”

  “Sure thing; sir:”

  “Then upon your own head be it,” said Markham with grim humour. “Go along the corridor, seventh door on the right, report to Colonel Farmer. Tell him I sent you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And before you go try that damned zipper again.”

  Obediently, Leeming tried it. The thing slid all the way as smoothly as if oiled. He stared at the other with a mixture of astonishment and injured innocence.

  “I started in the ranks and I haven’t forgotten it,” said Markham, pointedly. “You can’t fool me.”

  Colonel Farmer, of Military Intelligence, was a beefy, florid-faced character who looked slightly dumb but had a sharp mind. He was examining a huge star-map’ hung upon one wall when Leeming walked in. Farmer swung around as if expecting to be stabbed in the back.

  “Haven’t you been taught to knock before you enter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I forgot, sir. My mind was occupied with the interview I’ve just had with Fleet-Admiral Markham.”

  “Did he send you to me?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Oh, so you’re the long-range reconnaissance pilot, eh? I don’t suppose Commodore Keen will be sorry to see you go. You’ve been somewhat of a thorn in his side, haven’t you?”

  “No, sir,” denied Leeming. “I have been a pain in his. seat-every time he’s tried to sit on me.”

  “In the armed forces one must get used to that sort of thing.”

  “Sorry, sir, but I don’t agree. One joins the forces to help win a war and for no other purpose. I am not a juvenile delinquent called up for reformation by the Commodore or by anyone else.”

  “He’d differ from you there. He’s a stickler for discipline.” Farmer let go a chuckle at some secret joke, added, “Keen by name and keen by nature.” He contemplated the other a short while, went on more soberly, “You’ve picked yourself a tough job.”

  “That doesn’t worry me,” Leeming assured. “Birth, marriage and death are tough jobs.”

  “You might never come back.”

  “Makes little difference. Eventually we’ll all take a ride from which we’ll never come back.”

  “Well, you needn’t mention it with such ghoulish satisfaction,” Farmer complained. “Are you married?”

  “No, sir. Whenever I get the urge I just lie down quietly until the feeling passes off.”

  Farmer eyed the ceiling and said, “God!”

  “What else do you expect?” asked Leeming, displaying slight aggressiveness. “A scout-pilot operates single-handed. He’s like a bug in a metal can and has to learn to dispense with a lot of things; especially companionship. It’s surprising how much one can do without if one really tries.”

  “I’m sure,” soothed Farmer. He gestured toward the starmap. “On that the nearest points of light are arrayed across the enemy’s front. The mist of stars behind them are unknown territory. The Combine may be far weaker than we think because its front is wafer-thin. Or it may be more powerful because its authority stretches far to the rear. The only way to find out exactly what we’re up against is to effect a deep penetration through the enemy’s spatial lines.”

  Leeming said nothing.

  “We propose to sent a special scout-ship through this area where occupied worlds lie far apart, the Combine’s defences are somewhat scattered and their detector devices are relatively sparse.” Farmer put his finger on a dark patch on the map. “With the speed your vessel possesses the enemy will have hardly enough time to identify you as hostile before they lose trace of you We have every reason to believe that you’ll be able to slip through into their rear without trouble”

  “I hope so,” contributed Leeming seeing that a response was expected.

  “The only danger point is here.” Shifting his finger an inch, Farmer placed it on a bright star. “A Lathian-held solar system containing at least four large space-navy stations. If those fleets happen to be zooming around the bolt-hole they might intercept you more by accident than good judgment. So you’ll be accompanied that far by a strong escort.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “If the escort should become involved in a fight you will not attempt to take part. it would be futile to do so, anyway, because your vessel carries no offensive armament. You will take full advantage of the diversion to race out of range and dive through the Combine’s front. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “After you get through you must use your initiative. Bear in mind that we don’t want to know how far beyond there are worlds holding intelligent life-you would never reach the end of those even if you continued to the crack of doom: We want to know only how far back there are such worlds in regular communication with various members of the Combine. Whenever you come across an organised planet playing ball with the Combine you will at once transmit all the details you can offer.”

  “I will.”

  “Immediately you are satisfied that you have gained the measure of the enemy’s depth you will return as quickly as possible. You must get the ship back here if it can be done. If for any reason you cannot return, the ship must be converted into scrap. No abandoning it in free space, no dumping it into an ocean or anything like that. The ship must be destroyed. Markham has emphasised this, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. We’re giving you forty-eight hours in which to clear up your personal affairs. After that, you will report to Number Ten Spaceport.” Farmer held out his hand. I Wish you all the luck you can get.”

  “Thinking I’ll need it?” Leeming grinned and went on, “You’re laying very heavy odds against ever seeing me again. It’s written across your face. I’ll be back-want to bet on it?”

  “No,” said Farmer. “I never gamble because I’m a bad loser. But if and when you do return I’ll tuck you into bed With my own two hands.”

  “That’s a promise,” warned Leeming.

  He went to his tiny room, found another fellow already in occupation. This character eyed him with faint embarrassment.

  “You Leeming?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Davies, Jack Davies.”

  “Glad to know you.” Grabbing his bags, Leeming started packing them, stuffing away with careless haste shirts, collars and handkerchiefs.

  Sitting on the bed, Davies informed, “They told me to take over your room. They said you’d be leaving today.”

  “Correct.”

  “Going far?”

  “Don’t know for certain. It might be too far.”

  “Are you pleased to go?”

  “Sure am,” Leeming enthused.

  “Can’t say I blame you.” Davies ruminated a moment in glum silence; went on, “I arrived a couple of hours ago and reported to the Base
C.O. An autocratic type if ever I saw one.” He gave a brief, unflattering description of Commodore Keen. “I don’t know his name.”

  “Mallarqui,” Leeming informed.

  “That so? Uncommon, isn’t it?”

  “No.” Closing the case, Leeming kneeled on its lid while he locked it, started on the next one. “It’s as old as the hills. You’ve heard of a lot of Mallarqui, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I. have.”

  “Well, in this dump there’s too much of it”

  “I think you’re right. Mallarqui took one look at me and yelled, ‘Haircut!’ ” Ruefully, Davies rubbed the short bristle covering his pate. “So I went and got one. What a Space navy! Immediately you show your face they scalp you. And what d’you suppose happened next?”

  “They issued you with a brush and comb.”

  “They did just that.” He massaged the bristle again. “What for?”

  “Same reason as they do everything else,” explained Leeming, “B.B.B.”

  “B.B.B? What d’you mean?”

  “It’s a motto adopted by the boys on inactive service. You’ll find yourself reciting it about twenty times per day. Baloney Baffles Brains.”

  “I see,” said Davies, taking on a worried look:

  “The only way to escape is to fall foul of Keen. He’ll get rid of you-after he’s broken your heart.”

  “Keen? Who’s he?”

  “Mallarqui,” corrected Leeming, hurriedly. “The fellows call him Keen behind his back. If you want to stay out of the pokey don’t ever ever call him Commodore Keen to his face. He likes to be addressed as Mr. Mallarqui.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” said Davies, innocently grateful.

  “You’re quite welcome. Take your butt off the bed—I want my pyjamas.”

  “Sorry,” Davies stood up, sat dawn again.

  Cramming the pyjamas into the case, Leeming closed it, took a long look around.

  “That’s about all, I guess. Victory has been postponed by sheer lack of efficient zippers. I got that information straight from the top. So they’re rushing me out to win the war. From now on all you need do is sit around and count the days.” He made for the door, a bag in each hand. Coming to his feet again, Davies said awkwardly, “Happy landings.”