"Yes, sir," answered Barngate. He shot a curious glance at York before motioning toward his companions. "Lee Chun, maintenance first, and Jarrett Shumway, maintenance second," he continued.
"How many survivors?" asked Hull crisply.
"Nine, sir. It was quite a tragedy."
"Later," the captain cut in harshly. "Where are the others?"
"Sleeping. They're dead tired." Barngate gestured to the plain off to one side of the Rigel's bridge, and York saw several lines of small mounds. The quartermaster chief continued. "We buried the captain and ten other officers -- all the men we could find. We did the best we could."
As he spoke, York studied his companions covertly. Lee Chun was slender, poised, almost dapper despite his soiled clothes and grimy hands. His face held the inscrutability common to his race. Around forty, he reminded him of Char Wong. In contrast, Jarrett Shumway was burly, with a heavy, sullen face and dark eyes that he kept averted. He plainly was more than willing to let Barngate do the talking.
Hull jerked his head toward Wexby. "Lieutenant, awaken the remaining men and escort them to the lander. Have Osborn return with these men."
"Yes, sir." As Wexby sprang to obey, Hull gave Barngate a piercing glance and walked past him, continuing silently toward the Rigel. York glanced at the quartermaster chief and his two companions before following. They looked as if they had come straight from the fires of hell, he thought. Their clothing was rumpled, dirty, and lines of strain and fatigue marked their faces. Whatever their roles had been, their lot hadn't been easy.
Hull paused several times, scrutinizing the ship critically before going on. As they drew closer, York saw that it was smashed even worse than he had first believed. The lower half was buckled and crumpled, and midway down its length its back was broken so that the aft end jutted away at a crazy angle, leaving a great gaping wound amidship. But the bridge, riding high on the armament snout, appeared fairly intact.
Benbow, who had been studying a meter, said, "No sign of radiation. They must have thrown the pile safety switch."
If Hull heard, he didn't answer.
"Could anyone have lived through that?" asked York.
"I very much doubt it," replied Benbow solemnly. "The impact force must have been tremendous."
"The human animal is tough, Doc."
Benbow shook his head, "Not that tough."
Hull halted a dozen yards from the ship and ran his eyes over its length, studying the deep gashes and rents. Finally he said, "We'll have to pick our way to the bridge."
"I'll prowl the after end," Benbow said.
"Very well," Hull answered absently. Benbow glanced at the radiation meter again and started toward the ship's stern, walking with a gangling stride. Hull moved to a large gash in the ship's side, almost directly under the bridge. Peering inside, he extracted a small flashlight from his pocket and entered, vanishing in the gloom. York followed, walking gingerly to avoid the jagged edges of metal and debris while attempting to follow the captain's light. Hull walked with a light, quick step, picking his way unerringly through the wreckage to the central passageway, where he waited for York to catch up.
"You're too fast for me," York said when he reached his side.
"I've lived in such ships for thirty years," Hull explained solemnly. He flicked his light along the passageway to survey the buckled walls. "This is a hellish thing, York. A ship was not meant to die like this."
"Murdered," he corrected.
"If it was, they'll pay."
"Yes, they'll pay."
Passing through a small compartment less damaged than the others, York caught a whiff of something that held the odor of peach kernels, a tantalizing scent that scarcely touched his nostrils before it was gone. Hull apparently hadn't noticed. Something clicked in York's mind; he grimly noted the fact and went on, hurrying to keep up. Several times he glimpsed bodies half buried under the wreckage, but didn't stop. That was Benbow's province; the doctor would earn his keep this day, he thought.
Hull came to a ladder and moved up agilely. "Looks clear to the bridge," he called back. When York reached the top, he was waiting. "The number two lander was launched," he said noncommittally. He flicked the beam into the empty lander bubble.
"What does that indicate?" York asked.
"Perhaps nothing." He hesitated. "Short of a sudden, violent explosion, the bridge personnel could certainly have reached it."
"But there wasn't an explosion," York remonstrated.
"No." Hull gestured around him. "This is all impact damage. There's no question of that."
"Would you say that the Rigel was in the Gelhart system when the emergency occurred, Captain?"
Hull worked his lips thoughtfully before a startled look came to his eyes. "I can't understand why the Rigel was in this system, York. It's certainly no part of the operational sweep."
"Then the emergency must have occurred while it was in hypertime. Is that correct?"
"It would seem so," Hull returned dubiously, "but it doesn't make sense."
"Why not?" he challenged.
"In such an event, the captain most certainly wouldn't have chosen Bonoplane for an emergency landing. He could have reached any of several inhabited planets as quickly. Grydo for one."
"But he didn't," York said.
"No, he didn't."
"That means the Rigel was operational for several days at least, following this so-called emergency," York observed.
"Good God!" Hull exclaimed.
York nodded. "It looks like the captain didn't have much choice."
"You're saying -- ?"
"Later, when the pieces fall together," he replied. He felt a quiet satisfaction, almost certain that his earlier suspicions had been right. Trapping the saboteurs could be easy, but his own mission? He dismissed the perturbing thought and asked, "Wouldn't locating a planet like Bonoplane from hypertime require considerable navigational knowledge?"
"Certainly," Hull snapped. "I wish I knew what you are driving at."
"Just an observation."
"I very much doubt that," Hull rejoined sourly. He flicked the beam around again and started across the lander deck.
The bridge was a wreck. The great star window was smashed, and the instrument consoles were twisted and torn, exposing their intricate innards. Dial faces gaped emptily, no longer filled with the life that had flowed through their wires. York found the scene depressing.
Hull went directly to the officer of the deck's watch post, sorting through the rubble until he came up with the logbook. York waited while he scanned it, almost certain of what he would find.
Finally Hull looked up, his eyes vaguely puzzled. "There's no mention of trouble," he said speculatively.
"Were they in hypertime?"
"On the last entry, yes."
"That indicates that whatever happened, happened suddenly," York observed.
"Very suddenly." Hull's face tightened. "What does this mean, York?"
"I'm not certain," he answered honestly, "but I think I know. The crime is fairly stark in its broad details, Captain, but there are little odds and ends. The tracks are too big to be covered. I feel certain of that."
"It won't go unpunished, York. I can promise you that."
"No, it won't go unpunished." He glanced around. "Shall we unveil the pet?"
"Pet?"
"The N-bomb," he explained. "That's what we came for, isn't it?"
Hull nodded reluctantly, letting his gaze wander around the wrecked bridge. Finally he moved toward a ladder located immediately behind the captain's chair and paused, eyeing the agent quizzically.
York looked down into a black well. "After you," he said. Hull descended slowly, waiting at the bottom until York reached him before switching on his light. York didn't see the wrecked console or the debris in the room. Instead, his eyes riveted on the great steel door which hung twisted and awry, swinging half open, revealing a dark cylindrica
l compartment beyond. For a moment they stared silently at it.
While Hull stood riveted to the spot, he walked to the door, examining it curiously. No impact had caused that damage; more damning, the door was bent outward toward the stern of the ship, the opposite of what would have occurred had the damage resulted from the G forces of impact. He wondered if Hull had noticed.
"The light," he said softly.
Hull moved forward, hesitating before he flashed the beam through the opening. "Empty!" The word sprang savagely to his lips. York looked past him, seeing that the compartment contained exactly nothing. It was little more than a tube with a port at the opposite end, which, when opened, would look out into galactic space. "Empty," Hull repeated. He stared perplexedly into the empty chamber.
York eyed him curiously. "They couldn't steal an N-bomb, Captain." He made it a statement.
Hull pursed his lips. "No, of course not." Sudden relief flooded his face as he looked at the agent. "By whatever gods favored us, the Rigel was traveling unarmed, York. It wasn't carrying the bomb. They chose an unarmed ship to sabotage!"
York gazed around the small compartment, his mind grappling with the captain's assertion. Sailors knew when a ship was armed or unarmed. Despite the secrecy shrouding the bomb, it could not have been removed without some rumors flying among the crew -- not from the size of the weapon, if he were to judge by the cylindrical compartment which housed it. By the same token, it couldn't have been removed since the emergency. Where did that leave him?
He looked back at Hull. "The Rigel's mission was operational." He made it a statement.
"She wasn't carrying the bomb," asserted Hull. He gestured toward the compartment. "The evidence is there."
"Would she be on an operational mission without the bomb?"
"I couldn't say. I know very little about it, York."
"Would the log state whether the mission was a usual one? That is, whether it was operational?"
Hull nodded. "Certainly."
"Let's determine that," York said abruptly. Feeling a surge of impatience, he swung toward the ladder, waiting at the bottom for the captain to precede him.
While Hull went to the logbook, York sat in a broken chair and rested his head in his hands, an enormous suspicion growing in his mind. It seemed so unbelievable that he wanted to reject it, and yet it wasn't so unbelievable at all, he thought. Nothing was unbelievable, not in this universe or the next or the next. He let the thought grow and flower, examining every aspect of it.
Hull's voice floated over from the log desk. "The mission was operational. That's definite."
"I thought so," York said.
"I don't understand what you're driving at," Hull persisted. "As far as I'm concerned, the bomb secret is safe. They've destroyed the ship for nothing, York, but they didn't get what they were after."
"Would the admiral have rushed you here if the Rigel were unarmed?" York asked quietly.
"My God!" Hull stood as if transfixed.
"Would they divert the Cetus to Grydo, blockade the Alphan worlds? I think not."
"I don't understand this at all." Hull raised his eyes. "What does it mean? Tell me that, York, what does it mean?"
"If it means what I think it means, you've just made rear admiral," he answered.
"What nonsense is that?" demanded Hull.
"Nonsense?" York gazed thoughtfully at him. "I think not, Captain, but let's wait and see."
York stood on the plain in the yellow light, watching the lander that was bringing the burial party from the Draco let down from the sky. It came like a graceful bird, its engines pulsing in the thin atmosphere as it slid lower and lower, finally hanging just above the surface before settling down a scant fifty yards away. Tregaski went to meet it.
With Gelhart plummeting below the horizon, the first chill already was in the air, bringing promise of a bitter night. York looked toward the Rigel. A landing party under Wexby was ringing the ship with floodlights, not so much to aid the burial party, he knew, as to keep anyone from approaching the bridge. York had been adamant on that point, and although Hull had wondered why, he had passed the necessary orders. But Hull couldn't know the reason, he reflected, except deep in his subconscious. And that was the thing -- his subconscious -- that made the captain dangerous to the Empire, hence undoubtedly would result in his quick promotion. Hull couldn't guess that, either.
From York's standpoint, his position was as precarious as ever. He had scant doubt but that the Rigel case was just about wrapped up as far as the saboteurs were concerned; they had practically hanged themselves. It was just a matter of absolute identification, clearing up small details, and unmasking the Li-Ru agents aboard the Draco, he thought grimly. They also would pay the price.
But none of that had a bearing on him, his fate. The thought sobered him. He needed time. Time and luck, neither of which he could control. Grydo. The planet's name formed in his mind. Grydo of the green-white sun Geddes. Success or failure -- everything depended on what happened on Grydo.
His own fate hung in the balance.
Night comes swiftly on Bonoplane. It comes as the light of the pale yellow sun deepens, dusk steals over the plain, and then blackness, all in the space of less than half an hour. And night is strange. The stars through the thin atmosphere glow almost as gloriously as from space itself. They twinkle and dance as their rays pass through the turbulence of high, fast-moving jet streams that Galton had described as "nitrogen rivers." And to all sides they reach a flat, unbroken horizon.
After supper York walked out to the plain with Benbow to watch the work under the distant floodlights. Benbow's brief examination had confirmed his own suspicions on how the Rigel had been taken over. More, he believed he knew who one of the saboteurs had been. At least he hoped he knew. Give him one name, he reflected, and the rest would come easily. He didn't doubt that.
Standing with Benbow, he watched the occasional figures emerge from the ship, plodding slowly as they bore their burdens toward the burial ground Barngate had started. They moved equally slowly as they returned, as if reluctant to take up another such burden. Now and then he saw the violet, dancing shadows of cutting torches, an eerie sight on the black plain. And occasionally there was Lieutenant Wexby's gaunt, towering figure stalking in the glare of the floodlights as he commanded the operation.
"A hellish place to remain for an eternity," Benbow murmured.
"We usually can't choose the time of our death or where it might be," York answered.
"No, but I hold to the belief that a man should be buried under his own sun," Benbow commented.
York asked wonderingly, "Does it really matter?"
"We have an instinct that demands it, or most of us do," replied Benbow. "Even many animals have it."
"I've heard that," he acknowledged.
"But don't feel it?" Benbow eyed him inquisitively.
"Perhaps, if I had a choice." York shrugged. "Choice is not a common thing in my business, Doc."
"I can see that," Benbow replied gravely.
York looked up, searching the sky until his eyes found Geddes. Glowing like an emerald, it seemed scarcely more than a speck in the vault of the heavens. Somewhere around Geddes was Grydo, and on it was the Programmed Man.
York wondered what he was doing.
In the dawn light of the yellow sun, Captain Hull emerged from the lander, followed by York, Benbow, and Tregaski. After them came the Rigel survivors and a few of the crewmen who could be spared. If the men from the Rigel noted that the crewmen flanked them and were armed, they gave no indication. Once Barngate caught York's eye and nodded.
No one spoke as they walked slowly toward the graveyard that had grown during the night on the planet's dun-colored face. It was a silence born of solemnity, so deep that the crunching of boots in the gritty sand was clearly audible. Shivering in the cold, York wondered if ever before a human had been buried under this yellow sun.
Lie
utenant Wexby, working throughout the night, had built a small monument on which was displayed the Rigel's plaque; on it he had engraved the names of the dead. Below it he had placed the captain's chair, a custom which symbolized his watch over the dead.
Wexby snapped the burial detail to attention as the captain arrived.
Standing before the monument, Hull removed his cap and raised his face to the sky. In the dead silence that followed, he said solemnly, "We are gathered here to bury our comrades in the name of the Empire." His words began the age-old rite for men who had given their lives in the service.
York was moved by the compassion he sensed in Hull's voice and realized that here was yet another facet of the Draco's gruff master. Hull was a stickler for naval etiquette, a strong believer in the disparity of man when it came to rank, but they were all comrades in death. That was the essence of his belief.
As he spoke, York glanced at the Rigel survivors. They stood off to one side in a tight group, their faces set and expressionless, their bodies as rigid as the small stakes Wexby had set out to mark the area. Barngate, towering above the others, moved his lips silently as if following the captain's words.
"No man who gives his life to the glory of the Empire will have died in vain," the captain intoned, "for he will become part of the Empire for all time to come."
York moved his eyes. Wexby stood absolutely immobile, the black eyes in his ridged face staring out over the even rows of mounds. Benbow held himself erect, his head back, his expression somber in contrast to Tregaski, who plainly was waiting for the captain to finish. Tregaski is a man who has not lived, York thought, for he has not felt. Perhaps, in some future time, Tregaski would stand as Doctor Benbow was now standing, sensing the greatness that lay beneath the word and the deed.
A man should die under his own sun. Benbow's words came back, and looking at the bleak plain on which they stood, he felt he better understood them. The dead of the Rigel, now buried, in short time would be utterly forgotten; perhaps no human eye ever again would see their graves, nor would life stir around them. No wind would blow or rain fall; they would be the forgotten ones.
The captain said, "The glory of the Empire shall never diminish, even to the day when the ultimate matter of nature shall collapse and flare anew into a proto-future; then shall the Empire rise in greater glory than ever. Long live Terra."
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