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A Matter Of Importance
by
Sergeant Madden swore. As a prospective bridegroom, Timmy’s place was on this call for help to the Cerberus. But he wasn’t available. It was in his line, because it was specifically a traffic job. The cops handled traffic, naturally, as they handled sanitary-code enforcement and delinks and mercantile offenses and murderers and swindlers and missing persons. Everything was dumped on the cops. They’d even handled the Huks in time gone by–which in still earlier times would have been called a space war and put down in all the history books. It was routine for the cops to handle the disabled or partly disabled Cerberus.
* * * * *
Sergeant Madden pushed a button marked “Traffic Emergency” and held it down until it lighted.
“You got that Cerberus report?” he demanded of the air about him.
“Just,” said a voice overhead.
“What’ve you got on hand?” demanded Sergeant Madden.
“The Aldeb‘s here,” said the voice. “There’s a minor overhaul going on, but we can get her going in six hours. She’s slow, but you know her.”
“Hm-m-m. Yeah,” said Sergeant Madden. He added vexedly: “My son Timmy’s girl is on board the Cerberus. He’ll be wild he wasn’t here. I’m going to take the ready squad ship and go on out. Passengers always fret when there’s trouble and no cop around. Too bad Timmy’s off on assignment.”
“Yeah,” said the Traffic Emergency voice. “Too bad. But we’ll get the Aldeb off in six hours.”
Sergeant Madden pushed another button. It lighted.
“Madden,” he rumbled. “Desk. The Cerberus‘ had a breakdown. She’s limpin’ over to Procyron III for refuge to wait for help. The Aldeb‘ll do the job on her, but I’m going to ride the squad ship out and make up the report. Who’s next on call-duty?”
“Willis,” said a crisp voice. “Squad ship 390. He’s up for next call. Playing squint-eye in the squad room now.”
“Pull him loose,” Sergeant Madden ordered, “and send somebody to take the desk. Tell Willis I’ll be on the tarmac in five minutes.”
“Check,” said the crisp voice.
Sergeant Madden lifted his thumb. All this was standard operational procedure. A man had the desk. An emergency call came in. That man took it and somebody else took the desk. Eminently fair. No favoritism; no throwing weight around; no glory-grabbing. Not that there was much glory in being a cop. But as long as a man was a cop, he was good. Sergeant Madden reflected with satisfaction that even if he was getting on to retirement age, he was still a cop.
He made two more calls. One was to Records for the customary full information on the Cerberus and on the Procyron system. The other was to the flat where Timmy lived with him. It was going to be lonely when Timmy got married and had a home of his own. Sergeant Madden dialed for message-recording and gruffly left word for Timmy. He, Timmy’s father, was going on ahead to make the report on the Cerberus. Timmy wasn’t to worry. The ship might be a few days late, but Timmy’d better make the most of them. He’d be married a long time!
Sergeant Madden got up, grunting, from his chair. Somebody came in to take over the desk. Sergeant Madden nodded and waved his hand. He went out and took the slide-stair down to the tarmac where squad ship 390 waited in standard police readiness. Patrolman Willis arrived at the stubby little craft seconds after the sergeant.
“Procyron III,” said Sergeant Madden, rumbling. “I figure three days. You told your wife?”
“I called,” said Patrolman Willis resignedly.
They climbed into the squad ship. Police ships, naturally, had their special drive, which could lift them off without rocket aid and gave them plenty of speed, but filled up the hull with so much machinery that it was only practical for such ships. Commercial craft were satisfied with low-power drives, which meant that spaceport facilities lifted them to space and pulled them down again. They carried rockets for emergency landing, but the main thing was that they had a profitable pay load. Squad ships didn’t carry anything but two men and their equipment.