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

saw Grimes. “Give me that!” he snapped, and snatched the pistol from the Ensign’s hand. Then, to the engineers, “Stand back!”
    The little weapon rattled sharply and viciously. To the other smells was added the acridity of burned propellant. What had been Wolverton was driven to the deck by the impact of the tiny projectiles, and adhered there. There was surprisingly little blood, but the body had stopped twitching.
    Craven handed the empty pistol back to the Ensign. He ordered, “You stay here, Mr. Grimes, and organize the disposal of the body.” He went to the locker where he had put the initiator, took out the little instrument and, carrying it carefully, left the Mannschenn Drive room. Neither of the engineers, still staring with horrified fascination at their dead Chief, noticed.
    “How . . . how did it happen?” asked the Second, after a long silence.
    “He fell into the field,” said Grimes.
    “But how? How? He was always getting on us about being careless, and telling us what was liable to happen to us, and now it’s happened to him—”
    “That’s the way of it,” contributed the Third, with a certain glum satisfaction. “Don’t do as I do, do as I say.”
    “Have you a box?” asked Grimes.
    “A box?” echoed the Second.
    “Yes. A box.” Now that he was doing something, doing something useful, Grimes was beginning to feel a little better. “We can’t have a funeral while we’re running under interstellar drive. We have to . . . to put him somewhere.” Out of sight, he mentally added.
    “That chest of spares?” muttered the Second.
    “Just the right size,” agreed the Third.
    “Then get it,” ordered Grimes.
    The chest, once the spares and their packing had been removed and stowed elsewhere, was just the right size. Its dimensions were almost those of a coffin. It was made of steel, its bottom magnetized, and remained where placed on the deck while the three men, fighting down their recurring nausea, handled the body into it. All of them sighed audibly in relief when, at last, the close-fitting lid covered the remains. Finally, the Third ran a welding torch around the joint. As he was doing so the lights flickered.
    Was it because of the torch? wondered Grimes. Or was it because the beacon in the hold had been reactivated?
    Somehow he could not feel any real interest.

    Cleaned up after a fashion, but still feeling physically ill, he was back in the Control Room. Craven was there, and Baxter was with him. Jane Pentecost had been relieved so that she could attend to her duties in the galley. “Not that I feel like a meal,” the Captain had said. “And I doubt very much that Mr. Grimes does either.”
    “Takes a lot ter put me off me tucker,” the engineer declared cheerfully as he worked on the airlock door telltale panel.
    “You didn’t see Mr. Wolverton, Mr. Baxter,” said Craven grimly.
    “No, Skipper. An’ I’m not sorry I didn’t.” He paused in his work to rummage in his tool bag. He produced bulbs of brandy. “But I thought you an’ the Ensign might need some o’ this.”
    Craven started to say something about cargo pillage, then changed his mind. He accepted the liquor without further quibbling. The three men sipped in silence.
    Baxter carelessly tossed his squeezed empty bulb aside, continued with what he had been doing. The Captain said to Grimes, “Yes. We got the thing started again. And we’ve improved upon it.”
    “Improved upon it, sir? How?”
    “It’s no longer only a beacon. It’s also an alarm. As soon as it picks up the radiation from the similar pieces of apparatus aboard the enemy frigates, the buzzer that Mr. Baxter is fitting up will sound, the red light will flash. We shall have ample warning. . . .”
    “She’ll be right, Skipper,” said the engineer.
    “Thank you, Mr. Baxter. And now; if you don’t mind, I’d like a few words in private with Mr. Grimes.”
    “Don’t be too hard on him, Skipper.”
    Baxter winked cheerfully