He was trembling a little with fury. “You damned louse. Why don’t you make it a clean job by giving it to me, now?”
“I’ll need you, now if not before,” said the Panclast softly. “Your friends would have stayed alive if that warship hadn’t showed its nose. You must understand that. I was forced into counter-measures.”
Then Ryd, squirming sidewise in his seat, understood. Those studs had controlled the outer airlocks. And now the men who had been in those locks, the young guardsman and the Shahrazad’s pilot and engineer—were no longer there.
“You—need met,” Arliess was briefly incredulous. “Oh—I get it. There have to be three in the crew.” Then he sprang like a tiger.
But the moment in which he had thumbed the release and wrenched free of the padded clamps had been too long. Ryd flinched away—but there was no roar, no flame stabbed blue. They grappled an instant, swaying on the tilted floor—and then the pistol, reversed in Mury’s hand, chopped down on Arliess’ temple, a glancing blow, but fiercely struck.
The astrogator let go, staggering; and the gun swung up again and felled him.
Mury let the pistol drop into his own crew-seat, and, lugging Arliess under the arms, got him into his seat with a grunting heave. He said breathlessly, regretfully, “It was the only way . . .” The mask came off at once; the shock-pale face that emerged was even more youthful than Ryd had thought. The red trickle across the forehead was startling against its pallor.
Ryd sat staring—unshaken by the thought of yet another murder, but with a knot of fear tightening in his stomach as he thought of the warship somewhere out of their vision, questing nearer with every racing second—while the motors throbbed, the airvalves sang softly, and the gyroscopes whinned somewhere.
And Mury’s long, brown fingers explored rapidly through the stunned man’s blond thatch; he nodded with satisfaction, and then with sure motions secured Arliess in his place. Ryd, on peremptory gesture, did for himself the same, with fingers that were oddly numb and jointless.
Then Mury was back in the pilot’s chair. For a moment he sat as if poised, staring into starry space with knitted brows; then he reached far over, in front of the sagging astrogator, and with a decisive flick of the wrist switched on the ship’s magnets to their full power.
“What’s that for?” stammered Ryd, bewildered and more than a little scared. “Why—”
Mury made no answer. Instead, he had fixed once more on the detector box, watching it intently as the minutes crawled. The movements by which he secured his own anticlamps were automatonlike.
TWICE the needles jumped briefly.
Mury did not stir. But when they began to swing slowly over the scale, his hands leaped at the control studs; in the next instant Shahrazad leaped and shivered, and a powerful acceleration fought to lever them out of their seats. The noise was deafening; one thin layer of sound proofing was between the cabin and the one-inch tubes of the overdrive.
Ryd’s eyes rolled up in his head and grew filmed; the control room for him a blur of dizzy flame. He almost blacked out again; he seemed to see the face of the white Moon, leprously diseased, float like a runaway balloon past the curved nose window and disappear below his topsy-turvy field of vision; but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his own head spiraling away from its moorings. And then it was over and the ship bored steadily along her new tangent through space.
But now she vibrated yet more deeply to the great thrust of the afterdrive, and the light blurred more and grew dim. Shahrazad raced into darkness, and the needles that told of a magnetic mass somewhere not far ahead, cutting swiftly through her far-flung field, swung steadily over.
Then bang! in one unreverberating explosion, and the ship bucked hard and the blurred lights came down in a rain of fiery pinwheels. The motor died with a snap. Silence rang and Ryd’s stomach boiled with weightlessness; slowly his eyes could see again. Shahrazad held straight on her course toward some unknown target star; the gyroscopes still whined.
“Seven thousand feet a second,” came Mury’s voice from nowhere. “That’s the speed at which we overran the meteoroid. It wouldn’t have been nice if it had come through here; the armor before the control panel would have stopped it if it didn’t strike higher . . .”
Ryd fell to shuddering. He mouthed with difficulty, “My God, you don’t hit meteors on purpose!”
“You damned well do,” said Mury crisply, “if you have to.” His manner brought a sort of frightened admiration into Ryd’s dark, unsteady eyes. Mury added, with apparent lack of connectedness, “Astrogators’ heads don’t just crack themselves on switch handles.” The underdrive, roaring alive as he pressed the bottom stud on the control circle, caught Ryd’s breath against his diaphragm and left him none to answer with if he had wished to.
She leveled out on course with short jerky bursts from the various banks of tubes. Mury was doing all his own courseplotting now, and his teeth were sunk in his lower lip as he frowned at the charts and at the rows of figures that spun into view on the calculator. He was still correcting feverishly when the stars dimmed and space throbbed like a tympanum.
A voice clanged through the strobophones. “Shahrazad! Algot calling Shahrazad! Cut your drive to one vertical gravity. We will parallel and send a boat across. That is all.”
Mury’s right hand moved slightly on the sloping ledge and closed the throttle. The forward thrust again collapsed into weightlessness, and the Shahrazad seemed to hang motionless for a moment before the underdrive took up the load. And meanwhile the meters told their tale of the swift onrush of the great battle cruiser in whose forward sphere of exhaust gases they already flew. Across the starry sky ahead crept a vast belt of hazy light like a zodiacal glow.
“The Algol,” said Mury musingly. A stellar dreadnaught. They aren’t sparing precautions . . .” Abruptly he dropped his right hand from the dashboard, grasped a sheathed wire that curved away beneath the radiodetector box, and detached it with a brisk jerk. The needles dropped instantly to a uniform zero. The chain of causation was complete.
SO THERE was no warning of the approach of the space-boat. It bumped alongside and grappled to the towship’s starboard airlock a couple of minutes later; Ryd stiffened, drew a long breath, and held it as if he would hold it forever. Mury, hand steady, depressed the studs that opened the lock . . . for the second time since the ship had lifted.
The man who came aboard, from the warship hanging somewhere out there among the stars, was the very avatar of the Fleet in that second decade of the ninth century. Incarnate in space-blue and silver stars, with smoothly smiling face, shaven with a more than military meticulousness, that radiated power and the confidence of power. Power flanked and overshadowed his medium-tall figure, in the shape of two armed robot marines. The eyes of the Panclast masked their smoldering lights as they met those beneath the winged officer’s cap; but the latter, aristocratically bored, noticed little or nothing.
“You appear to have had an accident, Captain Yaher,” said the lieutenant with unblinking calm. “We noticed from a distance that your undershell was badly scored as if by collision with some solid body. Unfortunately . . . and remarkably. Is any of your equipment out of order?” Mury shrugged without effort, jerked a gloved thumb at the dangling wire. The lieutenant raised narrow eyebrows. “Damaged before you lifted?”
“We were inspected thoroughly on the runway. It must have happened during initial acceleration.”
The other frowned, fine vertical lines creasing his smooth forehead. “Odd.” Mury smiled a thin, crooked smile. “You military men don’t know what can happen aboard a run-down towship. Anything, literally. The merchant fleet isn’t at its best since the embargo.”
“I know,” said the officer curtly. “Even in the Fleet—” He stopped short, and his eyes, shifting, found a new subject ready-made in the slumped figure of Arliess. “Was this man seriously injured, Captain?”
“Just stunned, I think. He’s an astrogator, and astrogators are toug
h.”
THE OFFICER laughed perfunctorily.
He moved forward and made a brief, distasteful examination of Arliess’ tousled head, then stepped back, rubbing his fingers together.
“There’s no fracture. But if he’s concussed, he’s in no shape to stand heavy acceleration.”
Mury said smoothly, “We’re not going to be using any. We’re up to speed and our orders are to handle that power cylinder like a soap bubble.”
The young lieutenant stroked his smooth chin, standing with feet braced against the tilt of the floor beneath which the rockets rumbled steadily, holding him erect as if under Earth gravity. The two men at the control board watched him with stares equilly unblinkingly but far different in sentiment. Mury’s was inscrutable; it might have veiled anything. Ryd’s was all sick fear and certainty that something would betray them before the nerve-racking scene was played out.
“I think,” said the blue-clad officer, “that if it won’t incommode you too much to hold this acceleration a bit longer—”
“Not at all,” said Mury, and Ryd silently but no less hysterically cursed his facile confidence.
“. . . I’ll cross over again and send a ship’s doctor to attend to your astrogator. A shot in the arm should bring him around.”
Mury nodded placidly. The officer turned casually, spoke to the two blue-chromiumed robots, who faced about smartly; then, snapping his fingers, their master wheeled once more. “Just a moment. I almost forgot this. . . . Strangely enough, one of my men stumbled over it in your starboard lock.” He fumbled inside his tunic a moment, displayed in his hand a heavy .20 service flame gun.
A flat and terrible silence lay in the control room. Then Mury broke it, as it had to be broken quickly:
“We weren’t supposed to have any arms aboard. I can’t say where that came from.”
“Can’t say, eh?” said the other musingly. Ryd, cold sweat on his forehead, stared in horrid fascination, first at the man and then at the fighter robots. He tensed himself to fight back, now, at the last, like a cornered rat—he hardly knew how or why.
With a shrug, the officer dropped the weapon into his pocket. “Ah, well—so many of these little mysteries remain just that. We mustn’t hold up Terra’s power supply.” He turned once more to go. “I’ll have the medico here in a flicker.”
The trio passed out through the whispering locks, out to the waiting spaceboat. Ryd found that his mouth was parchment-dry; he stared at the apparently unshaken Mury, and drew a shuddering breath.
“I guess,” he said jerkily, “we fooled them.”
Mury smiled. “Yes,” he agreed. “We fooled them this time.”
Then a thought jolted Ryd; he gasped, “Listen! Did you think about—That battleship might have picked up those guys you dropped out of the locks! They’ve got us right here—we can’t get away—maybe they’re just—”
“Why would they?” Mury shrugged again. “But that chance had to be taken. Space is rather big, you know.”
IV
IT WAS NOT more than three minutes later that young Arliess began to twitch and mutter under the neuromuscular impact of a cc. of arterially-injected vitalin. The Fleet doctor straightened and returned his small, bright needle to its velvet-lined case, snapping it shut hurriedly.
“He’ll recover consciousness within a very few minutes. You’ll be wanting to be on your way, no doubt. . . .”
When the doctor had escaped gratefully from the Shahrazad’s topsy-turvy gravity, Mury gave power to the overdrive, sent the ship swinging back into a course for the point of intersection with the flight of the power projectile. The great curve that had taken them off the planet had placed them now almost directly in front of that hurtling objective; Shahrazad, still slowly gathering additional momentum, would be overtaken by the cargo shell at the moment that she reached a velocity practically equal with its own.
To ensure that, Mury’s long, skillful fingers twirled a vernier, finely adjusting the fuel flow into the disintegration chambers behind the after bulkhead, and with it the volume of steam which, smashed to atoms, was hurled at stupendous velocity from the driving jets to propel the rocket ship. An acceleration just a trifle under one gravity—the calculator clicked out its results down to six decimals. The gyroscopes locked the towship in its new groove in space.
Yet Arliess jerked ineffectually in his clamps, cried out thickly. His eyes came stickily open behind their square goggles. He sat stiff and still for a long minute.
Ryd underwent a considerable egoflation in his contempt for this other man’s defeat. It had been long since he had known the savage joy of winning.
Arliess said weakly, raising both hands to press flat against his temples, “Where—are we?” The same words Ryd had whimpered not so long ago.
Mury turned slightly to look at the astrogator out of the comers of his eyes. He said deliberately, “We’re past. Inspection’s over, and—thanks largely to you, Yet Arliess, we’re clear.”
The young man sat for a moment with head buried in his hands. Then he looked up and out toward the motionless star fields that glittered ahead.
“So?” he said bitterly. “What next? Are you going to try to steal the power shell? And if so, where are you going to escape to? I suppose you realize that you’d have to scoot right out of the System to even get clear of the Algol’s guns—and there are four other Earth dreadnaughts in planetary space alone?”
Arliess’ words, coldly confident of a victory that would be death for him, chilled Ryd. But he took heart from Mury’s jeering laughter.
“Do you think I’d have come this far if I had feared your dreadnaughts? They’ll have enough to think of before the next twenty-four hours are past, when they are hurled in battle against all the power of Mars!”
Arliess stiffened. “Are you crazy? There’s no war in the air. A year ago, yes, perhaps—but now, with the treaties signed and trade resuming—”
“And Earth,” snapped Mury, “sold for that very trade into the hands of the Martian overlords. No, war is preferable—and we’ll have war, now.”
“You talk,” said Arliess in a curiously flat voice, “as if the choice of courses rested in your hands.”
“It does. Or rather, it will—so soon as I hold in these hands the weapon of the power projectile.”
MURY’S voice became orotund. His hands rested lightly on the pilot’s controls before him and he gazed into space-darkness as if toward an invisible dawn. “When a Terrestial city goes skyward in one terrific blast of disintegration—When Pi Mesa and Dynamopolis vanish together from the face of Earth in a warningless holocaust—Then Earth will realize the truth, if only through deception.”
Ryd’s veins were trickling ice water instead of warm blood, and his nerve centers were paralyzed. It was too big for him, and his courage was gone again.
Mury talked on, and his voice was that of one sincerely and earnestly trying to convince:
“Earth’s government has made peace with the Martians, but the instinct of the people infallibly distrusts the treacherous rival world. Why not—since Mars is indeed ready and avid to topple Earth from her old place as the mother-planet, mistress of the System? Mars, with twice Earth’s area and five times the sunlight to drive his heliodynes—Mars with his robot millions and his human oligarchy athirst for power and glory, intoxicated with the strength of a new, raw, rich world. Only if we fight now can we escape domination. I am going to strike the blow that will wake Earth to battle, and bring her at last through pain and repentance to her age-old greatness!”
Shahrazad hurtled steadily on before the long hydrogen flares of her afterdrive, and three men sat behind her controls—and their triumph and fear and hate might have been strong enough to reach out beyond the metal shell and form an auro, not so bright but more fiercely potent, about the rushing ship.
Then young Arliess said through his teeth, “You know damn well it won’t work.”
“It will,” said the Panclast, preternaturally ca
lm, while his eyes were watchful on the slowly shifting dials. Somewhere behind them in bleak space sixty tons of concentrated hell was creeping up.
“You can’t deceive a whole planet,” exclaimed Arliess rapidly, desperately. “You can’t plunge them into a war that will cost a hundred million lives, that will wreck the cities and the commerce of the whole System. There hasn’t been war for seventy years . . . between Earth and Mars, never . . .” His voice trailed off and he gasped for breath as if the cabin had grown stifling.
“It is almost done,” said Mury solemnly. With the words he cut off the afterdrive. Silence fell clublike, mind-numbing after the pounding of the rockets.
Arliess spoke again, with all the feeling washed out of his voice. “Where do you and your pal come out on this?” he demanded carefully. “You don’t think you can get away with this, do you, even if you succeed in blowing up Dynamopolis?”
“There are some things I can’t reveal even now, slight as are the chances of failure,” said Mury smoothly. “We won’t be caught, though; I can tell you that surely. And you’ll accompany us to our destination. It would be best if you did so willingly.” Ryd thought he knew what was implicit in the Panclast’s words. There would be some hiding-place maintained by the secret power of We. In Antarctica, perhaps, as rumor whispered. Ryd clung hard to his new faith in Mury, and was warmed by it. He dreamed. . . . Perhaps, he, Ryd, in some new world to come from chaos . . .
MURY thumbed a stud; the sidethrust of the starboard drive made the counterpoised seats tilt far to the left. Then, as they drifted in free flight again: “Perhaps, since you have heard the truth, Arliess, you would like to join our cause. Secret now, it will soon be victorious over all Earth . . . a cause of glory which will have its heroes. . .
The astrogator gazed stonily ahead. “You may be right,” he said stiffly, strangely. “But right on wrong, you’re mad. Mad with power.”
The other laughed softly. “That’s very true. It is a little heady. The power that will rock any planet—power indeed!”
Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 10
