“The committing of atrocities has been the mistake of aggressors throughout Earth’s history. The battle cries of countless wars have called upon the people to remember an atrocity. Nothing else hits an Earthman as hard as a vicious, brutal, unnecessary murder.
“So I gave them the incentive to fight, Tallis. That was my message.”
Tallis was staring at him wide eyed. “You are insane.”
“No. It worked. In six months, they found something that would enable them to blast the devil Kerothi from the skies. I don’t know what the society of Earth is like now—and I never will. But at least I know that men are allowed to think again. And I know they’ll survive.”
He suddenly realized how much time had passed. Had it been too long? No. There would still be Earth ships prowling the vicinity, waiting for any sign of a Kerothi ship that had hidden in the vastness of space by not using its engines.
“I have some things I must do, Tallis,” he said, standing up slowly. “Is there anything else you want to know?”
Tallis frowned a little, as though he were trying to think of something, but then he closed his eyes and relaxed. “No, Sepastian. Nothing. Do whatever it is you have to do.”
“Tallis,” MacMaine said. Tallis didn’t open his eyes, and MacMaine was very glad of that. “Tallis, I want you to know that, in all my life, you were the only friend I ever had.”
The bright green eyes remained closed. “That may be so. Yes, Sepastian, I honestly think you believe that.”
“I do,” said MacMaine, and shot him carefully through the head.
THE END
—and Epilogue.
“Hold it!” The voice bellowed thunderingly from the loud-speakers of the six Earth ships that had boxed in the derelict. “Hold it! Don’t bomb that ship! I’ll personally have the head of any man who damages that ship!”
In five of the ships, the commanders simply held off the bombardment that would have vaporized the derelict. In the sixth, Major Thornton, the Group Commander, snapped off the microphone. His voice was shaky as he said: “That was close! Another second, and we’d have lost that ship forever.”
Captain Verenski’s Oriental features had a half-startled, half-puzzled look. “I don’t get it. You grabbed that mike control as if you’d been bitten. I know that she’s only a derelict. After that burst of fifty-gee acceleration for fifteen minutes, there couldn’t be anyone left alive on her. But there must have been a reason for using atomic rockets instead of their antiacceleration fields. What makes you think she’s not dangerous?”
“I didn’t say she wasn’t dangerous,” the major snapped. “She may be. Probably is. But we’re going to capture her if we can. Look!” He pointed at the image of the ship in the screen.
She wasn’t spinning now, or looping end-over-end. After fifteen minutes of high acceleration, her atomic rockets had cut out, and now she moved serenely at constant velocity, looking as dead as a battered tin can.
“I don’t see anything,” Captain Verenski said.
“The Kerothic symbols on the side. Palatal unvoiced sibilant, rounded——”
“I don’t read Kerothic, major,” said the captain. “I——” Then he blinked and said, “Shudos!”
“That’s it. The Shudos of Keroth. The flagship of the Kerothi Fleet.”
The look in the major’s eyes was the same look of hatred that had come into the captain’s.
“Even if its armament is still functioning, we have to take the chance,” Major Thornton said. “Even if they’re all dead, we have to try to get The Butcher’s body.” He picked up the microphone again.
“Attention, Group. Listen carefully and don’t get itchy trigger fingers. That ship is the Shudos. The Butcher’s ship. It’s a ten-man ship, and the most she could have aboard would be thirty, even if they jammed her full to the hull. I don’t know of any way that anyone could be alive on her after fifteen minutes at fifty gees of atomic drive, but remember that they don’t have any idea of how our counteraction generators damp out spatial distortion either. Remember what Dr. Pendric said: ‘No man is superior to any other in all ways. Every man is superior to every other in some way.’ We may have the counteraction generator, but they may have something else that we don’t know about. So stay alert.
“I am going to take a landing-party aboard. There’s a reward out for The Butcher, and that reward will be split proportionately among us. It’s big enough for us all to enjoy it, and we’ll probably get citations if we bring him in.
“I want ten men from each ship. I’m not asking for volunteers; I want each ship commander to pick the ten men he thinks will be least likely to lose their heads in an emergency. I don’t want anyone to panic and shoot when he should be thinking. I don’t want anyone who had any relatives on Houston’s World. Sorry, but I can’t allow vengeance yet.
“We’re a thousand miles from the Shudos now; close in slowly until we’re within a hundred yards. The boarding parties will don armor and prepare to board while we’re closing in. At a hundred yards, we stop and the boarding parties will land on the hull. I’ll give further orders then.
“One more thing. I don’t think her A-A generators could possibly be functioning, judging from that dent in her hull, but we can’t be sure. If she tries to go into A-A drive, she is to be bombed—no matter who is aboard. It is better that sixty men die than that The Butcher escape.
“All right, let’s go. Move in.”
* * * *
Half an hour later, Major Thornton stood on the hull of the Shudos, surrounded by the sixty men of the boarding party. “Anybody see anything through those windows?” he asked.
Several of the men had peered through the direct-vision ports, playing spotlight beams through them.
“Nothing alive,” said a sergeant, a remark which was followed by a chorus of agreement.
“Pretty much of a mess in there,” said another sergeant. “That fifty gees mashed everything to the floor. Why’d anyone want to use acceleration like that?”
“Let’s go in and find out,” said Major Thornton.
The outer door to the air lock was closed, but not locked. It swung open easily to disclose the room between the outer and inner doors. Ten men went in with the major, the others stayed outside with orders to cut through the hull if anything went wrong.
“If he’s still alive,” the major said, “we don’t want to kill him by blowing the air. Sergeant, start the airlock cycle.”
There was barely room for ten men in the air lock. It had been built big enough for the full crew to use it at one time, but it was only just big enough.
When the inner door opened, they went in cautiously. They spread out and searched cautiously. The caution was unnecessary, as it turned out. There wasn’t a living thing aboard.
“Three officers shot through the head, sir,” said the sergeant. “One of ’em looks like he died of a broken neck, but it’s hard to tell after that fifty gees mashed ’em. Crewmen in the engine room—five of ’em. Mashed up, but I’d say they died of radiation, since the shielding on one of the generators was ruptured by the blast that made that dent in the hull.”
“Nine bodies,” the major said musingly. “All Kerothi. And all of them probably dead before the fifty-gee acceleration. Keep looking, sergeant. We’ve got to find the tenth man.”
Another twenty-minute search gave them all the information they were ever to get.
* * * *
“No Earth food aboard,” said the major. “One spacesuit missing. Handweapons missing. Two emergency survival kits and two medical kits missing. And—most important of all—the courier boat is missing.” He bit at his lower lip for a moment, then went on. “Outer air lock door left unlocked. Three Kerothi shot—after the explosion that ruined the A-A drive, and before the fifty-gee acceleration.” He looked at the sergeant. “What do you think happened?”
“He got away,” the tough-looking noncom said grimly. “Took the courier boat and scooted away from here.”
&
nbsp; “Why did he set the timer on the drive, then? What was the purpose of that fifty-gee blast?”
“To distract us, I’d say, sir. While we were chasing this thing, he hightailed it out.”
“He might have, at that,” the major said musingly. “A one-man courier could have gotten away. Our new detection equipment isn’t perfect yet. But—”
At that moment, one of the troopers pushed himself down the corridor toward them. “Look, sir! I found this in the pocket of the Carrot-skin who was taped up in there!” He was holding a piece of paper.
The major took it, read it, then read it aloud. “Greetings, fellow Earthmen: When you read this, I will be safe from any power you may think you have to arrest or punish me. But don’t think you are safe from me. There are other intelligent races in the galaxy, and I’ll be around for a long time to come. You haven’t heard the last of me. With love—Sebastian MacMaine.”
The silence that followed was almost deadly.
“He did get away!” snarled the sergeant at last.
“Maybe,” said the major. “But it doesn’t make sense.” He sounded agitated. “Look. In the first place, how do we know the courier boat was even aboard? They’ve been trying frantically to get word back to Keroth; does it make sense that they’d save this boat? And why all the fanfare? Suppose he did have a boat? Why would he attract our attention with that fifty-gee flare? Just so he could leave us a note?”
“What do you think happened, sir?” the sergeant asked.
“I don’t think he had a boat. If he did, he’d want us to think he was dead, not the other way around. I think he set the drive timer on this ship, went outside with his supplies, crawled up a drive tube and waited until that atomic rocket blast blew him into plasma. He was probably badly wounded and didn’t want us to know that we’d won. That way, we’d never find him.”
There was no belief on the faces of the men around him.
“Why’d he want to do that, sir?” asked the sergeant.
“Because as long as we don’t know, he’ll haunt us. He’ll be like Hitler or Jack the Ripper. He’ll be an immortal menace instead of a dead villain who could be forgotten.”
“Maybe so, sir,” said the sergeant, but there was an utter lack of conviction in his voice. “But we’d still better comb this area and keep our detectors hot. We’ll know what he was up to when we catch him.”
“But if we don’t find him,” the major said softly, “we’ll never know. That’s the beauty of it, sergeant. If we don’t find him, then he’s won. In his own fiendish, twisted way, he’s won.”
“If we don’t find him,” said the sergeant stolidly, “I think we better keep a sharp eye out for the next intelligent race we meet. He might find ’em first.”
“Maybe,” said the major very softly, “that’s just what he wanted. I wish I knew why.”
A SPACESHIP NAMED McGUIRE (1961)
No. Nobody ever deliberately named a spaceship that. The staid and stolid minds that run the companies which design and build spaceships rarely let their minds run to fancy. The only example I can think of is the unsung hero of the last century who had puckish imagination enough to name the first atomic-powered submarine Nautilus. Such minds are rare. Most minds equate dignity with dullness.
This ship happened to have a magnetogravitic drive, which automatically put it into the MG class. It also happened to be the first successful model to be equipped with a Yale robotic brain, so it was given the designation MG-YR-7—the first six had had more bugs in them than a Leopoldville tenement.
So somebody at Yale—another unsung hero—named the ship McGuire; it wasn’t official, but it stuck.
The next step was to get someone to test-hop McGuire. They needed just the right man—quick-minded, tough, imaginative, and a whole slew of complementary adjectives. They wanted a perfect superman to test pilot their baby, even if they knew they’d eventually have to take second best.
It took the Yale Space Foundation a long time to pick the right man.
No, I’m not the guy who tested the McGuire.
I’m the guy who stole it.
* * * *
Shalimar Ravenhurst is not the kind of bloke that very many people can bring themselves to like, and, in this respect, I’m like a great many people, if not more so. In the first place, a man has no right to go around toting a name like “Shalimar”; it makes names like “Beverly” and “Leslie” and “Evelyn” sound almost hairy chested. You want a dozen other reasons, you’ll get them.
Shalimar Ravenhurst owned a little planetoid out in the Belt, a hunk of nickel-iron about the size of a smallish mountain with a gee-pull measurable in fractions of a centimeter per second squared. If you’re susceptible to spacesickness, that kind of gravity is about as much help as aspirin would have been to Marie Antoinette. You get the feeling of a floor beneath you, but there’s a distinct impression that it won’t be there for long. It keeps trying to drop out from under you.
I dropped my flitterboat on the landing field and looked around without any hope of seeing anything. I didn’t. The field was about the size of a football field, a bright, shiny expanse of rough-polished metal, carved and smoothed flat from the nickel-iron of the planetoid itself. It not only served as a landing field, but as a reflector beacon, a mirror that flashed out the sun’s reflection as the planetoid turned slowly on its axis. I’d homed in on that beacon, and now I was sitting on it.
There wasn’t a soul in sight. Off to one end of the rectangular field was a single dome, a hemisphere about twenty feet in diameter and half as high. Nothing else.
I sighed and flipped on the magnetic anchor, which grabbed hold of the metal beneath me and held the flitterboat tightly to the surface. Then I cut the drive, plugged in the telephone, and punched for “Local.”
The automatic finder searched around for the Ravenhurst tickler signal, found it, and sent out a beep along the same channel.
I waited while the thing beeped twice. There was a click, and a voice said: “Raven’s Rest. Yes?” It wasn’t Ravenhurst.
I said: “This is Daniel Oak. I want to talk to Mr. Ravenhurst.”
“Mr. Oak? But you weren’t expected until tomorrow.”
“Fine. I’m early. Let me talk to Ravenhurst.”
“But Mr. Ravenhurst wasn’t expecting you to—”
I got all-of-a-sudden exasperated. “Unless your instruments are running on secondhand flashlight batteries, you’ve known I was coming for the past half hour. I followed Ravenhurst’s instructions not to use radio, but he should know I’m here by this time. He told me to come as fast as possible, and I followed those instructions, too. I always follow instructions when I’m paid enough.
“Now, I’m here; tell Ravenhurst I want to talk to him, or I’ll simply flit back to Eros, and thank him much for a pretty retainer that didn’t do him any good but gave me a nice profit for my trouble.”
“One moment, please,” said the voice.
It took about a minute and a half, which was about nine billion jiffies too long, as far as I was concerned.
Then another voice said: “Oak? Wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.”
“So I hear. I thought you were in a hurry, but if you’re not, you can just provide me with wine, women, and other necessities until tomorrow. That’s above and beyond my fee, of course, since you’re wasting my time, and I’m evidently not wasting yours.”
I couldn’t be sure whether the noise he made was a grunt or a muffled chuckle, and I didn’t much care. “Sorry, Oak; I really didn’t expect you so soon, but I do want to…I want you to get started right away. Leave your flitterboat where it is; I’ll have someone take care of it. Walk on over to the dome and come on in.” And he cut off.
I growled something I was glad he didn’t hear and hung up. I wished that I’d had a vision unit on the phone; I’d like to have seen his face. Although I knew I might not have learned much more from his expression than I had from his voice.
* * * *
&n
bsp; I got out of the flitterboat, and walked across the dome, my magnetic soles making subdued clicking noises inside the suit as they caught and released the metallic plain beneath me. Beyond the field, I was surrounded by a lumpy horizon and a black sky full of bright, hard stars.
The green light was on when I reached the door to the dome, so I opened it and went on in, closing it behind me. I flipped the toggle that began flooding the room with air. When it was up to pressure, a trap-door in the floor of the dome opened and a crew-cut, blond young man stuck his head up. “Mr. Oak?”
I toyed, for an instant, with the idea of giving him a sarcastic answer. Who else would it be? How many other visitors were running around on the surface of Raven’s Rest?
Instead, I said: “That’s right.” My voice must have sounded pretty muffled to him through my fishbowl.
“Come on down, Mr. Oak. You can shuck your vac suit below.”
I thought “below” was a pretty ambiguous term on a low-gee lump like this, but I followed him down the ladder. The ladder was a necessity for fast transportation; if I’d just tried to jump down from one floor to the next, it would’ve taken me until a month from next St. Swithin’s Day to land.
The door overhead closed, and I could hear the pumps start cycling. The warning light turned red.
I took off my suit, hung it in a handy locker, showing that all I had on underneath was my skin-tight “union suit.”
“All right if I wear this?” I asked the blond young man, “Or should I borrow a set of shorts and a jacket?” Most places in the Belt, a union suit is considered normal dress; a man never knows when he might have to climb into a vac suit—fast. But there are a few of the hoity-toity places on Eros and Ceres and a few of the other well-settled places where a man or woman is required to put on shorts and jacket before entering. And in good old New York City, a man and woman were locked up for “indecent exposure” a few months ago. The judge threw the case out of court, but he told them they were lucky they hadn’t been picked up in Boston. It seems that the eye of the bluenose turns a jaundiced yellow at the sight of a union suit, and he sees red.
The Randall Garrett Megapack Page 52
