The Randall Garrett Megapack

by Randall Garrett

  “Further progress will be released by the Soviet Government as it occurs.”

  Senator Cannon dropped the sheet of paper to his side. “That’s it. Matt, come in the bedroom; I’d like to talk to you.”

  * * * *

  Matthew Fisher, candidate for Vice President of the United States, heaved his two-hundred-fifty-pound bulk out of the chair he had been sitting in and followed the senator into the other room. Behind them, the others suddenly broke out into a blather of conversation. Fisher’s closing of the door cut the sound off abruptly.

  Senator Cannon threw the newssheet on the nearest bed and swung around to face Matthew Fisher. He looked at the tall, thick, muscular man trying to detect the emotions behind the ugly-handsome face that had been battered up by football and boxing in college, trying to fathom the thoughts beneath the broad forehead and the receding hairline.

  “You got any idea what this really means, Matt?” he asked after a second.

  Fisher’s blue-gray eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and his gaze sharpened. “Not until just this moment,” he said.

  Cannon looked suddenly puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Fisher said thoughtfully, “you wouldn’t ask me unless it meant something more than appears on the surface.” He grinned rather apologetically. “I’m sorry, Jim; it takes a second or two to reconstruct exactly what did go through my mind.” His grin faded into a thoughtful frown. “Anyway, you asked me, and since you’re head of the Committee on SPACE Travel and Exploration—” He spread his hands in a gesture that managed to convey both futility and apology. “The mystery spacecraft is ours,” he said decisively.

  James Cannon wiped a palm over his forehead and sat down heavily on one of the beds. “Right. Sit down. Fine. Now; listen: We—the United States—have a space drive that compares to the rocket in the same way that the jet engine compares to the horse. We’ve been keeping it under wraps that are comparable to those the Manhattan Project was kept under ’way back during World War II. Maybe more so. But—” He stopped, watching Fisher’s face. Then: “Can you see it from there?”

  “I think so,” Fisher said. “The Soviet Government knows that we have something…in fact, they’ve known it for a long time. They don’t know what, though.” He found a heavy briar in his pocket, pulled it out, and began absently stuffing it with tobacco from a pouch he’d pulled out with the pipe. “Our ship didn’t shoot at their base. Couldn’t, wouldn’t have. Um. They shot it down to try to look it over. Purposely made a near-miss with an atomic warhead.” He struck a match and puffed the pipe alight.

  “Hm-m-m. The Soviet Government,” he went on, “must have known that we had something ’way back when they signed the Greenston Agreement.” Fisher blew out a cloud of smoke. “They wanted to change the wording of that, as I remember.”

  “That’s right,” Cannon said. “We wanted it to read that ‘any advances in rocket engineering shall be shared equally among the Members of the United Nations’, but the Soviet delegation wanted to change that to ‘any advances in space travel’. We only beat them out by a verbal quibble; we insisted that the word ‘space’, as used, could apply equally to the space between continents or cities or, for that matter, between any two points. By the time we got through arguing, the UN had given up on the Soviet amendment, and the agreement was passed as was.”

  “Yeah,” said Fisher, “I remember. So now we have a space drive that doesn’t depend on rockets, and the USSR wants it.” He stared at the bowl of his briar for a moment, then looked up at Cannon. “The point is that they’ve brought down one of our ships, and we have to get it out of there before the Russians get to it. Even if we manage to keep them from finding out anything about the drive, they can raise a lot of fuss in the UN if they can prove that it’s our ship.”

  “Right. They’ll ring in the Greenston Agreement even if the ship technically isn’t a rocket,” Cannon said. “Typical Soviet tactics. They try to time these things to hit at the most embarrassing moments. Four years ago, our worthy opponent got into office because our administration was embarrassed by the Madagascar Crisis. They simply try to show the rest of the world that, no matter which party is in, the United states is run by a bunch of inept fools.” He slapped his hand down on the newssheet that lay near him. “This may win us the election,” he said angrily, “but it will do us more harm in the long run than if our worthy opponent stayed in the White House.”

  “Of what avail to win an election and lose the whole Solar System,” Fisher paraphrased. “It looks as though the President has a hot potato.”

  “‘Hot’ is the word. Pure californium-254.” Cannon lit a cigarette and looked moodily at the glowing end. “But this puts us in a hole, too. Do we, or don’t we, mention it on the TV debate this evening? If we don’t, the public will wonder why; if we do, we’ll put the country on the spot.”

  Matt Fisher thought for a few seconds. Then he said, “The ship must have already been having trouble. Otherwise it wouldn’t have been hovering in plain sight of the Soviet radar. How many men does one of those ships hold?”

  “Two,” the senator told him.

  “We do have more than one of those ships, don’t we?” Fisher asked suddenly.

  “Four on Moon Base; six more building,” said Senator Cannon.

  “The downed ship must have been in touch with—” He stopped abruptly, paused for a second, then said: “I have an idea, Senator, but you’ll have to do the talking. We’ll have to convince the President that what we’re suggesting is for the good of the country and not just a political trick. And we don’t have much time. Those moon-cats shouldn’t take more than twelve or fifteen hours to reach the ship.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “Well, it’s pretty rough right now; we can’t fill in the details until we get more information, but—” He knocked the dottle from his pipe and began outlining his scheme to the senator.

  * * * *

  Major Valentin Udovichenko peered through the “windshield” of his moon-cat and slowed the vehicle down as he saw the glint of metal on the Earthlit plain ahead. “Captain!” he snapped. “What does that look like to you?” He pointed with a gloved hand.

  The other officer looked. “I should say,” he said after a moment, “that we have found what we have been looking for, major.”

  “So would I. It’s a little closer to our base than the radarmen calculated, but it certainly could have swerved after it dropped below the horizon. And we know there hasn’t been another ship in this vicinity.”

  The captain was focusing a pair of powerful field glasses on the object. “That’s it!” he said bridling his excitement. “Egg-shaped, and no sign of rocket exhausts. Big dent in one side.”

  Major Udovichenko had his own binoculars out. “It’s as plain as day in this Earthlight. No sign of life, either. We shouldn’t have any trouble.” He lowered the binoculars and picked up a microphone to give the other nine moon-cats their instructions.

  Eight of the vehicles stayed well back, ready to launch rockets directly at the fallen spacecraft if there were any sign of hostility, while two more crept carefully up on her.

  They were less than a hundred and fifty yards away when the object they were heading for caught fire. The major braked his vehicle to a sudden halt and stared at the bright blaze that was growing and spreading over the metallic shape ahead. Bursts of flame sprayed out in every direction, the hot gases meeting no resistance from the near-vacuum into which they spread.

  Major Udovichenko shouted orders into his microphone and gunned his own motor into life again. The caterpillar treads crunched against the lunar surface as both moon-cats wheeled about and fled. Four hundred yards from the blaze, they stopped again and watched.

  By this time, the blaze had eaten away more than half of the hulk, and it was surrounded by a haze of smoke and hot gas that was spreading rapidly away from it. The flare of light far outshone the light reflected from the sun by the Earth overhead.


  “Get those cameras going!” the major snapped. He knew that the eight moon-cats that formed the distant perimeter had been recording steadily, but he wanted close-ups, if possible.

  None of the cameras got much of anything. The blaze didn’t last long, fierce as it was. When it finally died, and the smoke particles settled slowly to the lunar surface, there was only a blackened spot where the bulk of a spaceship had been.

  “Well…I…will…be—,” said Major Valentin Udovichenko.

  * * * *

  The TV debate was over. The senator and the President had gone at each other hot and heavy, hammer and tongs, with the senator clearly emerging as the victor. But no mention whatever had been made of the Soviet announcement from Luna.

  At four thirty-five the next morning, the telephone rang in the senator’s suite. Cannon had been waiting for it, and he was quick to answer.

  The face that appeared on the screen was that of the President of the United States. “Your scheme worked, senator,” he said without preamble. There was an aloofness, a coolness in his voice. Which was only natural, considering the heat of the debate the previous evening.

  “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. President,” the senator said, with only a hair less coolness. “What happened?”

  “Your surmise that the Soviet officials did not realize the potential of the new craft was apparently correct,” the President said. “General Thayer had already sent another ship in to rescue the crew of the disabled vessel, staying low, below the horizon of the Russian radar. The disabled ship had had some trouble with its drive mechanism; it would never have deliberately exposed itself to Russian detection. General Thayer had already asked my permission to destroy the disabled vessel rather than let the Soviets get their hands on it, and, but for your suggestion, I would have given him a go-ahead.

  “But making a replica of the ship in plastic was less than a two-hour job. The materials were at hand; a special foam plastic is used as insulation from the chill of the lunar substrata. The foam plastic was impregnated with ammonium nitrate and foamed up with pure oxygen; since it is catalyst-setting, that could be done at low temperatures. The outside of the form was covered with metallized plastic, also impregnated with ammonium nitrate. I understand that the thing burned like unconfined gunpowder after it was planted in the path of the Soviet moon-cats and set off. The Soviet vehicles are on their way back to their base now.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he went on: “Senator, in spite of our political differences, I want to say that I appreciate a man who can put his country’s welfare ahead of his political ambitions.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. That is a compliment I appreciate and accept. But I want you to know that the notion of decoying them away with an inflammable plastic replica was not my idea; it was Matt Fisher’s.”

  “Oh? My compliments to Mr. Fisher.” He smiled then. It was obviously forced, but, just as obviously, there was sincerity behind it. “I hope the best team wins. But if it does not, I am secure in the knowledge that the second best team is quite competent.”

  Firmly repressing a desire to say, I am sorry that I don’t feel any such security myself, Cannon merely said: “Thank you again, Mr. President.”

  When the connection was cut, Cannon grinned at Matthew Fisher. “That’s it. We’ve saved a ship. It can be repaired where it is without a fleet of Soviet moon-cats prowling around and interfering. And we’ve scotched any attempts at propagandizing that the Soviets may have had in mind.” He chuckled. “I’d like to have seen their faces when that thing started to burn in a vacuum. And I’d like to see the reports that are being flashed back and forth between Moscow and Soviet Moon Base One.”

  “I wasn’t so much worried about the loss of the disabled ship as the way we’d lose it,” Matthew Fisher said.

  “The Soviets getting it?” Cannon asked. “We didn’t have to worry about that. You heard him say that Thayer was going to destroy it.”

  “That’s exactly what I meant,” said Fisher. “How were we going to destroy it? TNT or dynamite or Radex-3 would have still left enough behind for a good Soviet team to make some kind of sense out of it—some kind of hint would be there, unless an awful lot of it were used. A fission or a thermonuclear bomb would have vaporized it, but that would have been a violation of the East-West Agreement. We’d be flatly in the wrong.”

  Senator Cannon walked over to the sideboard and poured Scotch into two glasses. “The way it stands now, the ship will at least be able to limp out of there before anyone in Moscow can figure out what happened and transmit orders back to Luna.” He walked back with the glasses and handed one to Fisher. “Let’s have a drink and go to bed. We have to be in Philadelphia tomorrow, and I’m dead tired.”

  “That’s a pair of us,” said Fisher, taking the glass.

  * * * *

  Another month of campaigning, involving both televised and personal appearances, went by without unusual incidents. The prophets, seers, and pollsters were having themselves a grand time. Some of them—the predicting-by-past-performances men—were pointing out that only four Presidents had failed to succeed themselves when they ran for a second term: Martin Van Buren, Grover Cleveland, Benjamin Harrison, and Herbert Hoover. They argued that this presaged little chance of success for Senator James Cannon. The pollsters said that their samplings had shown a strong leaning toward the President at first, but that eight weeks of campaigning had started a switch toward Cannon, and that the movement seemed to be accelerating. The antipollsters, as usual, simply smiled smugly and said: “Remember Dewey in ’48?”

  Plays on Cannon’s name had caught the popular fancy. The slogan “Blast ’em With Cannon” now appeared on every button worn by those who supported him—who called themselves “Cannoneers.” Their opponents sneeringly referred to them as “Cannon fodder,” and made jokes about “that big bore Cannon.”

  The latter joke was pure epithet, with no meaning behind it; when Senator James Cannon spoke, either in person or over the TV networks, even his opponents listened with grudging interest.

  The less conservative newspapers couldn’t resist the gag, either, and printed headlines on the order of CANNON FIRES BLAST AT FOREIGN POLICY, CANNON HOT OVER CIA ORDER, BUDGET BUREAU SHAKEN BY CANNON REPORT, and TREASURY IS LATEST CANNON TARGET.

  The various newspaper columnists, expanding on the theme, made even more atrocious puns. When the senator praised his running mate, a columnist said that Fisher had been “Cannonized,” and proceeded to call him “Saint” Matthew. The senator’s ability to remember the names and faces of his constituents caused one pundit to remark that “it’s a wise Cannon that knows its own fodder.”

  They whooped with joy when the senator’s plane was delayed by bad weather; causing him to arrive several hours late to a bonfire rally in Texas. Only a strong headline writer could resist: CANNON MISSES FIRE!

  As a result, the senator’s name hit the headlines more frequently than his rival’s did. And the laughter was with Cannon, not at him.

  Nothing more was heard about the “mysterious craft” that the Soviet claimed to have shot down, except a terse report that said it had “probably been destroyed.” It was impossible to know whether or not they had deduced what had happened, or whether they realized that the new craft was as maneuverable over the surface of the moon as a helicopter was over the surface of Earth.

  Instead, the Sino-Soviet bloc had again shifted the world’s attention to Africa. Like the Balkan States of nearly a century before, the small, independent nations that covered the still-dark continent were a continuing source of trouble. In spite of decades of “civilization,” the thoughts and actions of the majority of Africans were still cast in the matrix of tribal taboos. The changes of government, the internal strife, and the petty brush wars between nations made Central and South America appear rigidly stable by comparison. It had been suggested that the revolutions in Africa occurred so often that only a tachometer could keep up with them.

  If n
othing else, the situation had succeeded in forcing the organization of a permanent UN police force; since back in 1960, there had not been a time when the UN Police were not needed somewhere in Africa.

  In mid-October, a border dispute between North Uganda and South Uganda broke out, and within a week it looked as though the Commonwealth of Victorian Kenya, the Republic of Upper Tanganyika, and the Free and Independent Popular Monarchy of Ruanda-Urundi were all going to try to jump in and grab a piece of territory if possible.

  The Soviet Representative to the United Nations charged that “this is a purely internal situation in Uganda, caused by imperialist agents provocateur financed by the Western Bloc.” He insisted that UN intervention was unnecessary unless the “warmongering” neighbors of Uganda got into the scrap.

  In a televised press interview, Vice Presidential Candidate Matthew Fisher was asked what he thought of the situation in East Africa.

  “Both North and South Uganda,” he said, “are communist controlled, but, like Yugoslavia, they have declared themselves independent of the masters at Moscow. If this conflict was stirred up by special agents—and I have no doubt that it was—those agents were Soviet, not Western agents. As far as the UN can be concerned, the Soviet Minister is correct, since the UN has recognized only the government of North Uganda as the government of all Uganda, and it is, therefore, a purely internal affair.

  “The revolution—that is, partial revolution—which caused the division of Uganda a few years ago, was likewise due to Soviet intervention. They hoped to replace the independent communist government with one which would be, in effect, a puppet of the Kremlin. They failed. Now they are trying again.