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Outer space isn't silent.
If you've got the ears---the appropriate method to listen with ---the seeming emptiness and black desolation is transformed into a raucous chorus of bleeps, pops, whistles, and hums. The steady modulated whines of patient quasars, the discordant sizzle of black holes, and the stentorian drone of unseen pulsars---all contribute their voices to a heavenly choir of awesome complexity and rhythm.
From white dwarf to red giant, every sun exhibits its own distinctive, individual sizzle-plop in the same way that animals give off special odors, or flowers display color.
At this particular moment, in this typically insignificant corner of the universe, an exceptionally unusual sound was being generated. It came from a minute, irregularly shaped, and rapidly moving object of considerably less than solar mass. And yet the sounds it was producing were at once less powerful and more distinctive than those given off by any sun, or pulsar, or radio nebula.
Anyone passing near this object would have needed very, very sensitive instruments indeed to pick up the sound at all. But if one had the proper detection equipment and an enormous quantity of amplification at immediate disposal, one might just be able to hear:
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-lalala-lalalalala----'Tis the season to be jolly, fa...!"
But by then, of course, the Esmeralda would have shot far out of detector range.
Once a year the tree was carefully unwrapped and lifted from its special cold storage compartment at the bottom of the starship's cold storage room. Then, amid much gaiety and boozing, it was set up in the main crew lounge and decorated with everything from genuine gingerbread cookies to holographic angels.
It was a real evergreen, fine, and upstanding Tannenbaum as any celebrant could wish for. No one minded that it had sprung from the soil of a world unknown to Man when words were first spoken on his moon.
A group of engineers and techs had organized an unprofessional yet enthusiastic barbershop quartet near the base of the glowing tree. They were caroling away lustily to the accompaniment of a small electric piano.
Lt. Nevtiri leaned against the fake fireplace set up nearby. She was talking to a tall young ensign from the quartermaster section. Every so often she'd emphasize some point or other by jabbing him in the chest with a finger---one of those not wrapped around a glass.
For his part, the ensign was still unsure about how to react. On the one hand, the sudden unexpected situation involving the most desirable lieutenant on the ship was developing promisingly. On the other, he couldn't forget that she was his superior officer. Given the current lack of equilibrium the senior lieutenant was displaying, he'd have to be careful things didn't turn awkward.
"Lischen.....listen, Ensign Bultongez----I tell you there's nothing like working in communications! Communication is the most important, most necessary section on this ship. Why, without communication we---we couldn't speak to each other!" She seemed overwhelmed at this sudden insight.
"I ask you---where'd the Esmeralda be without communications? Where!"
"I couldn't agree with you more, Lieutenant," agreed Bultongez, cautiously slipping an agreeing arm around her shoulders. "Of course, we should bear in mind that there are all kinds of communications---here, let me get you a refill. I have some interesting theories of my own which I'm sure would benefit greatly from the comments and suggestions of a senior officer like you."
"If you could spare a minute ....I've drawn up some interesting schematics that...."
On the far side of the lounge, Engineer Gordon had corralled Balus Spock at an unoccupied table. The surface between them was swamped with seemingly endless sheets of paper filled with hurriedly roughed-out engineering diagrams.
"I say, Spock, old boy," Gordon was saying intensely, tracing a rather wobbly line on one sheet with his drafting pen, "this is..." He paused and stared disapprovingly at the Esmeralda's first officer.
"Oh, do smile, Spock, please. 'Tis the season to be jolly, fa-lalalala....."
Spock's reaction was similar to the one he'd already used several times that day, in response to the explosion of illogical activity. To him, this "season" seemed a cyclical madness that, fortunately, had to be borne only once a year.
But, by Vulcan's long deserts, it was hard on him.
"I am sorry, Mr. Gordon. First of all, I do not 'fa-lala,' as you well know. Also, even if this were my holiday and not yours, I do not think I could bring myself to perform even the slightest of the many unreasonable activities that seemed to be the normal method of celebration.
"For one thing, Vulcans do not voluntarily pollute their bloodstream with odd combinations of ethyl alcohol molecules." That seemed to outrage the chief and he drew back in stunned disbelief.
"Pollute? Mr. Flock, do I understand you to be saying---? Are you calling---? Do you mean to say that you regard this outstanding eggnog as a pollutant?"
"I believe that is what I just said, Mr. Gordon. If you cannot see...."
"No. No, that's all right, Block. I see. I see just fine." He shoved his chin out and managed to look like a Celtic martyr. He started gathering up armfuls of drawings. They overflowed his arms and fell to the floor. When he bent over to retrieve those that had fallen, he lost another set.
"If that's the way you feel about it," he continued, picking up one and dropping three, "I'll just have to find someone else to share this with. Someone who can appreciate my design. Someone who'll be happy to share the income."
Deciding he'd reached the point of diminishing returns as far as dropped papers were concerned, he turned and staggered off in the direction of a knot of nearby subengineers, dripping diagrams all the way. The subengineers saw him coming, but couldn't get out of the way fast enough.
Spock watched him go. A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned 'round, looking up at the new arrival.
"Hello, Captain." Spock's first worry---that he might find the U.S.S.Esmeralda's commanding officer in a state similar to that of its chief engineer---was groundless. On the contrary, Sawyer's face was noticeably devoid of seasonal spirit. His current expression was a mixture of curiosity and puzzlement.
"Something is happening?"
Sawyer nodded. "It's probably nothing serious, Bal. As you know, meteor activity has been unusually heavy in this sector for two days now. This morning, Ko-Ko thought he'd detected a blip in the normal shower pattern that shouldn't have been there. I checked his readings and the computer seems to confirm them. Something is moving in the shower that's acting very unmeteorilike.
"Still, it may be nothing more than a somewhat different hunk of cosmic flotsam---but it's drifting in a course almost parallel to ours. Since it's not out of our way, I told Ko-Ko to veer toward it."
"Any idea what it might be, Captain?"
Sawyer looked skeptical. "Ko-Ko thinks it might be a ship."
"You have of course considered our position?"
Sawyer nodded. "I know we're on the edge of the Sebacean Demilitarized Zone, Balus. If it's a ship, there's the chance it might be Sebacean. Regardless...." He glanced around the lounge, in which the noise level had risen several unsteady decibels in the last few minutes, "if you can spare a moment away from the local hilarity, I'd appreciate your presence on the bridge."
"I assure you, Captain, I can spare a great deal more than a moment."
Spock continued his thoughts as they began moving toward the bridge elevator.
"Sometimes, Captain," and he looked back to where Ensign Bultongez was now chasing Nevtiri around the tree, "I often wonder how you humans ever managed to discover fire." Sawyer hit the elevator switch, and they entered the lift.
"Sometimes, Balus, we're not quite sure ourselves." He nudged the lever that sent them rising toward the bridge.
Spock said nothing for a while as the lights indicating other decks flashed past. But Sawyer knew his first officer well enough to tell that something was bothering him.
"What is it, Bal?"
"An absurdity, Captain. It is merely that Engineer Gordon was forcing me to look at plans for...." He paused awkwardly in midsentence, something he seldom did.
"Captain, do you think there would be much of a market on human-populated worlds for a 4-dimensional Christmas tree?"
"A what? Balus, have you been....?"
"Captain, I do not object to the diverse ingredients included in the liquid solution known as eggnog---though I find many of them frivolous rather than nutritional. But please rest assured the beverage itself has no attraction for me.
"Besides, I believe I may be allergic to nutmeg."
Sawyer lost the answer to Spock's original question in the atmosphere of this rarified possibility.
Mr. Ko-Ko was the only officer at a station on the bridge. On special occasions Sawyer sometimes allowed the Esmeralda to cruise free, operating on the reasonable theory that no one had yet found a way to get a computer drunk. Ko-Ko would have his chance at losing control of himself when the starship changed over to the next watch.
For now, the helmsman's full attention was focused on his fore scanners.
"We're coming up on the object now, Captain."
"How's shower activity, Mr. Ko-Ko?" Sawyer slipped easily into the command chair and Spock moved to the library computer station.
"Heavy, sir, but no abnormal. Our shields and deflectors are handling it easily." Concern was in his voice. "But from what I can read, that ship out there hasn't done nearly as well."
"It is a ship, then?"
"Yes, sir." He made a delicate adjustment to a control. "Should have it on the screen any second now."
The main telescreen blurred, then cleared. Meteors that occasionally shot across the field of vision moved too fast to be seen, but the little craft centered in the viewfinder stood out sharply in amplified starlight.
Its design was compact and very expensive. Only the very rich could afford to put warp-drive engines in small ships. That maxim held true for governments as well as individuals.
Right now, however, the ship looked more like a prime candidate for the scrapyard. The rear section had been twisted and bent in places by some violent, overwhelming force. The engines weren't twisted or bent because they weren't there anymore. The whole power plant was missing, torn from the stern of the battered craft.
Numerous gaping holes showed in the mid-and fore-sections as well. It was a choice hunk of junk.
"Take us in closer, Mr. Ko-Ko."
"Aye, sir."
Matching velocity and direction with care, the helmsman edged the Esmeralda close to the little vessel. It was a feat made possible only with the aid of the starship's navigational computer. No human could handle so many complex calculations alone.
"It's not a Sebacean, anyway," Sawyer muttered. He was mildly relieved. Realistically, aiding a distressed craft could in no way be interpreted as warlike. Not by humans or Vulcans, anyway. But the Sebaceans were not always realistic. They had some odd ideas as to what complicated an aggressive act. At least Sawyer would be spared that worry. Instead, he could focus his thoughts on the plight of the survivors, if any.
He didn't have to consult the computer records to see that the little craft was of Space Federation design and make. "Close scan, Mr. Ko-Ko."
Ko-Ko touched a switch. Immediately the rear section of the injured ship seemed to jump out at them. Moving slowly forward along the pitted fuselage, the telescopic scanner finally stopped on a set of identification numbers. Set just behind the living area, the glowing numbers were barely legible. A near-miss by a small chunk of nickel-iron had almost wiped them out.
"I have it, Captain," noted Spock. That was the signal for Ko-Ko to move the scanner further along the side of the craft.
"I am now checking the number against Space Federation records." There was a brief pause and then Spock added idly, "I might also say, Captain, that unless you are wrong, and it is possible to induce a state of inebriation into computers, our sensors claim that at least one occupant of that ship is still alive."
Sawyer's surprise was authentic. He hadn't expected that a ship this badly hulled, drifting alone in a little-visited sector of space, might still be able to sustain life.
Still, they didn't know how long the vessel had been drifting helplessly or when its power plant had been destroyed. Its life-support systems could have been successfully sealed off from the rest of the damage and might have continued to function on stored emergency power; the state of the ship said otherwise.
Yet life-sensors rarely make mistakes.
Possibly someone else was due for a Merry Christmas.
"Mr. Ko-Ko. Since Lt. Nevtiri is----uh, otherwise engaged, I'd like you to try contacting that ship."
"Trying sir," replied the helmsman, as he rerouted basic communications through the helm. There was a pause of several minutes, after which Ko-Ko looked back and shook his head slowly.
"Nothing, sir. Not even a carrier wave. And no SOS."
Sawyer tried to sound philosophical. "I guess it's too much to expect any of their communications equipment to have survived intact. Not after the beating she's taken. Your occupant may still be alive, Mr. Spock, but I wouldn't bet that he or she is in very good condition." He nudged a switch on his armrest.
"Life Station---Dr. Finn, please. Captain calling." All that came back over the intercom was a muffled and suspiciously feminine giggle. "Huck, are you there?" An unidentifiable fumbling sound followed.
"Here, Tom. What's up?" Sawyer suppressed an urge to echo Finn's query and follow up his curiosity. Instead, he managed to focus on the problem at hand.
"Huck, we've run across a small Space Federation ship. It's a derelict, been through the mill, but according to our sensors, at least one survivor is on board. We can't be sure yet. I'm going to have them beamed aboard, and you'd better be standing by in the transporter room."
"Right, Tom." The giggle sounded again, and Finn switched off---rather hurriedly, Sawyer thought. He sighed and turned to Spock.
"Anything on the ship itself, yet?"
"Not yet, Captain. But we should have some information soon. I have already established that it is not a government vessel. Private listings of interstellar ships require more time to check thoroughly. I will join you and Dr. Finn in the transporter room."
"You do that, Bal."
Finn was already waiting when Sawyer arrived in the transporter chamber. The doctor was engaged in an amiable conversation with Transporter Chief Schmidt. Chatting ceased abruptly when Sawyer entered and he had the impression their discussion had been on matters other than the derelict ship. Finn struggled to put up a concerted front.
"Do we know anything about her yet, Tom?"
"Only that she's Space Federation, that she's privately owned, that in all likelihood she contains no more than one survivor, and fix your shirt."
Finn looked down at himself and fumbled quickly with his clothing. Sawyer nodded to the transporter chief.
"All right, Mr. Schmidt," he ordered dryly. "The doctor is ready. Bring 'em aboard."
"Yes, sir."
A familiar musical whine started to rise in the room. Spock walked in and moved to stand between Sawyer and Finn as the transporter effect began to build.
"Readings indicated only one person aboard, Captain," informed Schmidt. Sawyer acknowledged.
"Thank you, Chief." He glanced at his first officer. "Have you I.D.'d her, Mr. Spock?"
"Yes, Captain," Spock replied quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the reception alcove. Was there a hint of suppressed excitement in Spock's voice?"
"You may find this hard to believe, but the vessel is registered to one Peter Griffin. I cross-checked and triple-checked. There is no mistake."
"The Peter Griffin?"
Spock nodded once.
"That can't be, Balus!" objected Finn. He had recognized the name instantly, too. So had Schmidt, but the transporter chief was too busy to give vent to his disbelief.
Everyone knew what Peter Griffin had been.
"Peter Griffin's been missing and presumed dead for over five years."
"It is possible, Doctor," mused Spock unemotionally, "that he is no longer missing." Sawyer gestured toward the alcove where the outline of a figure was building.
"We'll know in a minute, gentlemen."
The outline began to fill in and become solid. Gradually certain characteristics established themselves. The figure was bipedal, human, male. Effect solidified and the glowing mist became man. At the same time, Schmidt deftly dropped the single remaining control level down and snapped off power.
Nobody spoke.
A simple coverall suit of rich brown wood colors clothed the man. Its top was inlaid with accenting gold thread. The garment was a mixture of the restrained and expensive. A lime-gold aura still surrounded him, the product of the life-support belt encircling his waist.
The new arrival looked them over briefly, then stepped off the platform and switched off his belt. The aura vanished. It was obvious that as a doctor, Finn's presence was superfluous. The survivor looked none the worse for wear after what must have been, at its mildest, a devastating ordeal.
Physically he seemed untouched, not so much as a scratch marring his attractive, famous features. Although now in his late thirties, his long absence had not affected his body. After half a decade of nonexistence, he showed no signs of deprivation.
He smiled slightly---his famous smile.
"Incredible!" Finn finally managed to stutter, breaking the silence. "It is him!"
"Peter Griffin," Sawyer murmured, in tones usually reserved for addressing Fleet admirals. It was appropriate. The man standing so composedly before them was a legend. Dead legends aren't supposed to come back to life. The men grouped in the transporter room could be allowed a little awe.
Griffin bestowed a curious, bemused glance on each of them in turn. A second later he showed that there was nothing the matter with his vocal cords, either.
"Well, I guess I don't need to introduce myself." Sawyer stepped forward and shook his hand.
"There are few in the Space Federation who wouldn't recognize you, sir. Even after all this time. It's good to know you're no longer a piece of history.
"I'm Captain Thomas Sawyer, commanding this vessel. It's an honor to have you aboard the Esmeralda." He gestured in turn to each of the others.
"My first officer, Balus Spock. Dr. Finn, senior medical officer...." Finn stepped forward and shook hands exuberantly.
"I'm especially honored to meet you, Mr. Griffin. I expect you're being alive means more to me than the others. You see," he hesitated slightly, "my daughter was going to school on Blios ten years ago when the crop failure occurred."
"Ah, yes," Griffin murmured. "Blios."
"It was estimated that fifty to sixty percent of the population would have starved if Griffin, here, hadn't used his---well, you remember the stories.
"Bureaucracy in the Blios Crisis moved at two speeds---dead slow and slower than dead. But Griffin spent his fortune to bring in enough food and goods to carry the Blios II inhabitants through the danger period until those idiots," and he spoke the word with as much bitterness as Sawyer had ever heard from him, "at Administration got themselves straightened out."
Sawyer recalled the incident faintly and was impressed with the memory. He wasn't as intimately acquainted with the Blios incident as Finn, but he remembered some of the resulting tremors. There had been a real shakeup in certain sections of Fleet Command. One of those rare instances where ministers and executives in high positions lost their jobs.
"One of the man stories I've heard about you, Mr. Griffin. It's a great pleasure for all of us to see you alive and well."
"Thank you, gentlemen." Griffin smiled again, the same infectious grin that had more than once graced broadcast screens from the Far Arm to Earth itself....and had helped to build one of the greatest if most unstable fortunes of all time.
"I'd like to say it's a pleasure to be on the Esmeralda, but frankly, after what I've been through these past five years, it'd be a pleasure to be on board a pressurized bathtub."
The four humans shared a convivial laugh. Spock waited and watched impatiently. There were two things he badly wanted to say, and he had held his piece while jovial greetings had been exchanged.
"There is one person aboard who will be especially glad to learn you're alive.....Lieutenant Brenda Chenowith of our Security Section."
Griffin kept his composure, but not enough to hide the shock he felt.
"My fiancée! Brenda's aboard this ship?"
"Yes, doesn't it please you?"
Finn broke in before an astonished Griffin had a chance to reply. "How did you know that, Mr. Spock?"
"As soon as it was determined that the craft we located was registered to Mr. Griffin, I began processing information on him on the chance that he was the sole survivor. The information concerning his engagement to Lieutenant Chenowith was in the capsule summary the computer produced. It is a surprise to me, too, doctor." He turned back to Griffin.
"We will notify her as soon as we have verified and processed your credentials, sir. If you have your identity tapes with you...?"
"Balus Spock!" Finn looked angry. "Of all the cold-blooded, inhospitable, and inhuman requests I've ever heard..."
"I believe the regulations are quite clear on the matter, Doctor," replied a composed Spock. "An immediate identity check and a full medical examination are standard procedures in situations like this. Despite the unusual nature of the rescue, I find no reason for deviating from the procedure."
Finn felt otherwise and seemed ready to say so. But Sawyer, after a questioning glance at Spock, moved quickly to defuse the awkward moment.
"Bal's right, Huck. Be reasonable."
Finn hesitated and still looked upset, but said nothing."
"And I understand, of course," smiled Griffin. "My credentials, Captain." He reached into a suit pocket and withdrew a small microtape cassette. Sawyer gave it a cursory, curious glance. Tape models had changed slightly in five years. If nothing else, the cassette Griffin held out to him was genuine as to age.
"We'll get through the formalities as rapidly as possible, Mr. Griffin. Huck, why don't you take our guest down to Life Station and run him through a standard medical check."
Finn nodded and smiled at Griffin. "I was going to suggest a twelve-course meal first, but it would be a good idea to make sure your insides are in shape to appreciate it. I'll make it fast, Mr. Griffin."
The two men left the chamber, chatting excitedly. Finn was doing most of the talking as the elevator doors slid together in front of them, but that didn't surprise Sawyer. After all, a man can miss a lot of news in five years.
"Five years! It's still hard to believe, Bal."
"I know, Captain." The two officers turned into the small briefing room. It was the nearest place to the transporter room that had the proper computer-access module.
"Nonetheless, he produced his identity tapes immediately. His actions thus far have been perfectly normal. Oh, maybe he's a bit composed for someone who's been out of touch with civilization for five years, but...."
"It is a part of his character. Yes, Captain, everything seems to indicate that he is indeed Peter Griffin."
"We'll know in a minute." Sawyer took a seat at the briefing table and activated a small switch set into the compact console before him.
"Ship's log, please." There was a short pause, then a soft beep indicating that the computer had recognized his voice and would now deign to record. Sawyer spoke into the little grid set into the tabletop.
"Captain's log, supplemental. The Esmeralda has rescued a living legend---the foremost interstellar trader of all time, Peter Griffin. Who, as I recall, has acquired a dozen fortunes, only to use his great wealth again and again to aid Space Federation colonies in times of need or disaster.
"Altogether a remarkable man and one who many people, myself included, are glad to discover is still alive. We are in the process of carrying out standard postrescue identification procedures." He hit another switch, then slipped the microtape cassette into a slot suddenly appearing on the desk.
"Library computer---process identification tapes on a male human called Peter Griffin. Verification of I.D. needed." A three-side viewscreen popped out of the desktop. It immediately displayed a set of fingerprints in triplicate. These were followed rapidly by a series of retinal patterns, oscilloscope readings, and other information.
"Working," informed the slightly feminine machine voice. There was a muted hum.
"Positive I.D.," it finally declaimed. Sawyer gave an inward sigh. Of course, it was Peter Griffin! The need for Bal Spock's logical mind to cross i's and dot t's had made him overcautious.
The computer continued. "I.D. confirmation is as follows: fingerprints positive, voiceprints positive, retinal relief positive. All registration and documentation in order."
"Original visual display, please." The abstracts disappeared, to be replaced by a hologram of Griffin. Except for a few touches Sawyer quickly ascribed to normal aging, it different in no way from the man they had beamed aboard. An extra line here, a slight softening of flesh there. Both men studied the 'gram for another minute. Then Sawyer hit the switch, and the tripartite screen sank back into the table.
He leaned back in the chair and gazed at his first officer across the table. "Everything checks out. So we've got a distinguished passenger for a while. I expect he won't be a boring gust---ought to have one or two stories to tell."
"It would seem so, Captain. I am much relieved."
"You worry too much, Bal. And now, if you'll excuse me---" Sawyer moved briskly out of the chair. "It's time for me to go and pollute myself with exotic combinations of protein solids and ethanol molecules."
"Et tu, Captain? You were listening?"
Sawyer only grinned as they exited the briefing room.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
