"Quiet!" said Grimes. "Quiet!" he shouted. He grinned at his officers. "All right. You've made your sentiments quite clear, and I'm pleased that you have. The late owners of this ship are intelligent beings—but that does not entitle them to treat other intelligent beings as they treat their slaves. Sonya mentioned the human slaves on the worlds of the Shaara Empire, but those so-called slaves are far better off than many a free peasant on Federation worlds. They're not mistreated, and they're not livestock. But we've seen the bodies of the men, women and children who died aboard this ship. And if we can make their deaths not in vain. . ."
Sonya flashed him an apologetic smile. "But how?" she asked. "But how?"
"That's the question." He turned to Mayhew. "You've been maintaining a listening watch. Do these people have psionic radio?"
"I'm afraid they do, sir," the telepath told him unhappily. "I'm afraid they do. And . . ."
"Out with it, man."
"They use amplifiers, just as we do. But . . ."
"But what?"
"They aren't dogs' brains. They're human ones!"
XV
Sonya asked sharply, "And what else have you to report?"
"I . . . I have been listening."
"That's what you're paid for. And what have you picked up?"
"There's a general alarm out. To all ships, and to Faraway Ultimo and Thule, and to the garrisons on Tharn, Mellise and Grollor . . ."
"And to Stree?"
"No. Nothing at all to Stree."
"It makes sense," murmured the woman. "It makes sense. Tharn, with its humanoids living in the equivalent of Earth's Middle Ages. Grollor, with just the beginnings of an industrial culture. Mellise, with its intelligent amphibians and no industries, no technology at all. Our mutant friends must have found the peoples of all those worlds a push-over."
"But Stree . . . We don't know just what powers-psychic? psionic?—those philosophical lizards can muster, and we're on friendly terms with them. So . . ."
"So we might get help there," said Grimes. "It's worth considering. Meanwhile, Mr. Mayhew, has there been any communication with the anti-matter worlds to the Galactic West?"
"No, sir."
"And any messages to our next door neighbors—the Shakespearian Sector, the Empire of Waverly?"
"No, sir."
Grimes smiled—but it was a cold smile. "Then this is, without doubt, a matter for the Confederacy. The legalities of it all are rather fascinating . . ."
"The illegalities, Skipper," said Williams. "But I don't mind being a pirate in a good cause."
"You don't mind being a pirate. Period," said Sonya.
"Too bloody right I don't. It makes a change."
"Shall we regard ourselves as liberators?" asked Grimes, but it was more an order than a question. "Meanwhile, Commander Williams, I suggest that we set course for Stree. And you, Mr. Mayhew, maintain your listening watch. Let me know at once if there are any other vessels in our vicinity—even though they haven't Mass Proximity Indicators they can still pick up our temporal precession field, and synchronize."
"And what are your intentions when you get to Stree, sir?" asked the Major.
"As I told the Admiral, I play by ear." He unstrapped himself from his chair and, closely followed by Sonya, led the way to the control room. He secured himself in his seat and watched Williams as the Commander went through the familiar routine of setting course—Mannschenn Drive off, directional gyroscopes brought into play to swing the ship to her new heading, the target star steadied in the cartwheel sight, the brief burst of power from the reaction drive. Mannschenn Drive cut in again. The routine was familiar, and the surroundings in which it was carried out were familiar, but he still found it hard to adjust to the near nudity of himself and his officers. But Williams, with only three bands of indigo dye on each thick, hairy wrist to make his rank, was doing the job as efficiently as he would have done had those bands been gold braid on black cloth.
"On course, Skipper," he announced.
"Thank you, Commander Williams. All off duty personnel may stand down. Maintain normal deep space watches." Accompanied by his wife, he returned to his quarters.
* * *
It was, at first and in some respects, just another voyage.
In the Mannschenn Drive Room the complexity of spinning gyroscopes precessed, tumbled, quivered on the very edge of invisibility, pulling the ship and all her people with them down the dark dimensions, through the warped continuum, down and along the empty immensities of the rim of space.
But, reported Mayhew, they were not alone. There were other ships, fortunately distant, too far away for Freedom's wake through Space-Time to register on their instruments.
It was more than just another voyage. There was the hate and the fear with which they were surrounded, said Mayhew. He, of course, was listening only—the other operators were sending. There were warships in orbit about Lorn, Faraway, Ultimo and Thule; there were squadrons hastening to take up positions off Tharn, Mellise, Grollor and Stree. And the orders to single vessels and to fleets were brutally simple: Destroy on sight.
"What else did you expect?" said Sonya, when she was told.
"I thought," said Grimes, "that they might try to capture us."
"Why should they? As far as they know we're just a bunch of escaped slaves who've already tried their hand at piracy. In any case, I should hate to be captured by those . . . things."
"Xenophobia—from you, of all people?"
"No . . . not Xenophobia. Real aliens one can make allowances for. But these aren't real aliens. They're a familiar but dangerous pest, a feared and hated pest that's suddenly started fighting us with our own weapons. We have never had any cause to love them—human beings have gotten, at times, quite sentimental over mice, but never rats—and they've never had any cause to love us. A strong, mutual antipathy. . . ." Absently she rubbed the fading scar between her breasts with her strong fingers.
"What do you make of this squadron dispatched to Stree?"
"A precautionary measure. They think that we might be making for there, and that they might be able to intercept us when we emerge into normal Space-Time. But according to Mayhew, there have been no psionic messages to planetary authorities, as there have been to the military governments on Tharn, Mellise and Grollor." She said, a note of query in her voice, "We shall make it before they do?"
"I think so. I hope so. Our Mannschenn Drive unit is running flat out. It's pushed to the safety limits. And you know what will happen if the governor packs up."
"I don't know," she told him. "Nobody knows. I do know most of the spacemen's fairy stories about what might happen."
"Once you start playing around with Time, anything might happen," he said. "The most important thing is to be able to take advantage of what happens."
She grinned. "I think I can guess what's flitting through your apology for a mind."
"Just an idea," he said. "Just an idea. But I'd like to have a talk with those saurian philosophers before I try to do anything about it."
"If we get there before that squadron," she said.
"If we don't, we may try out the idea before we're ready to. But I think we're still leading the field."
"What's that?" she demanded suddenly.
That was not a noise. That was something that is even more disturbing in any powered ship traversing any medium—a sudden cessation of noise.
The buzzer that broke the tense silence was no proper substitute for the thin, high keening of the Mannschenn Drive.
It was the officer of the watch, calling from Control. "Commodore, sir, O.O.W. here. Reporting breakdown of interstellar drive."
Grimes did not need to be told. He had experienced the uncanny sensation of temporal disorientation when the precessing gyroscopes slowed, ceased to precess. He said, "Don't bother the engineers—every second spent answering the telephone means delay in effecting repairs. I'll be right up."
"Looks as though our friends might beat us to St
ree after all," remarked Sonya quietly.
"That's what I'm afraid of," said Grimes.
XVI
The breakdown of Freedom's Mannschenn Drive unit was a piece of bad luck—but, Grimes admitted, the luck could have been worse, much worse. The ship had made her reentry into the normal continuum many light years from any focal point and well beyond the maximum range of the radar installations of the enemy war vessels. She had Space—or, at any rate, a vast globe of emptiness—all to herself in just this situation. But, as an amateur of naval history, Grimes knew full well what an overly large part is played by sheer, blind mischance in warfare. Far too many times a hunted ship has blundered into the midst of her pursuers when all on board have considered themselves justified in relaxing their vigilance—not that vigilance is of great avail against overwhelming fire power. And fire power, whether it be the muzzle loading cannon of the days of sail or the guided missile and laser beam of today, is what makes the final decision.
But, so far, there was no need to worry about fire power. A good look-out, by all available means, was of primary importance. And so, while Freedom fell—but slowly, slowly, by the accepted standards of interstellar navigation—towards the distant Stree sun the long fingers of her radar pulses probed the emptiness about her and, in the cubby hole that he shared with the naked canine brain that was a poor and untrained substitute for his beloved Lassie, Mayhew listened, alert for the faintest whisper of thought that would offer some clue as to the enemy's whereabouts and intentions.
After a while, having received no reports from the engineers, Grimes went along to the Mannschenn Drive Room. He knew that the engineroom staff was working hard, even desperately, and that the buzz of a telephone in such circumstances can be an almost unbearable irritation. Even so, as Captain of the ship he felt that he was entitled to know what was going on.
He stood for a while in the doorway of the compartment, watching. He could see what had happened—a seized bearing of the main rotor. That huge flywheel, in the gravitational field of an Earth type planet, would weigh at least five tons and, even with Freedom falling free, it still possessed considerable mass. Its spindle had to be eased clear of the damaged bearing, and great care had to be taken that it did not come into contact with and damage the smaller gyroscopes surrounding it. Finally Bronson, the Chief Engineer, pausing to wipe his sweating face, noticed the Commodore and delivered himself of a complaint.
"We should have installed one of our own units, sir."
"Why, Commander?"
"Because ours have a foolproof system of automatic lubrication, that's why. Because the bastards who built this ship don't seem to have heard of such a thing, and must rely on their sense of smell to warn them as soon as anything even starts to run hot."
"And that's possible," murmured Grimes, thinking that the mutants had not been intelligent long enough for their primitive senses to become dulled. Then he asked, "How long will you be?"
"At least two hours. At least. That's the best I can promise you."
"Very good." He paused. "And how long will it take you to modify the lubrication system, to bring it up to our standards?"
"I haven't even thought about that, Commodore. But it'd take days."
"We can't afford the time," said Grimes as much to himself as to the engineer. "Just carry on with the repairs to the main rotor, and let me know as soon as the unit is operational. I shall be in Control." As he turned to go he added, half seriously, "And it might be an idea to see that your watchkeepers possess a keen sense of smell!"
Back in the control room he felt more at home, even though this was the nerve center of a crippled ship. Officers sat at their posts and there was the reassuring glow from the screens of navigational instruments—the chart tank and the radarscopes. Space, for billions of miles on every hand, was still empty, which was just as well.
He went to stand by Sonya and Williams, told them what he had learned.
"So they beat us to Stree," commented the Executive Officer glumly.
"I'm afraid that they will, Commander."
"And then what do we do?"
"I wish I knew just what the situation is on Stree," murmured Grimes. "They don't seem to have taken over, as they have on the other Rim Worlds. Should we be justified in breaking through to make a landing?"
"Trying to break through, you mean," corrected Sonya.
"All right. Trying to break through. Will it be a justified risk?"
"Yes," she said firmly. "As far as I can gather from Mayhew, our rodent friends are scared of Stree—and its people. They've made contact, of course, but that's all. The general feeling seems to be one of you leave us alone and we'll leave you alone."
"I know the Streen," said Grimes. "Don't forget that it was I that made the first landing on their planet when I opened up the Eastern Circuit to trade. They're uncanny brutes—but, after all, mammals and saurians have little in common, psychologically speaking."
"Spare us the lecture, John. Furthermore, while you were nosing around in the engineroom, Mayhew rang Control. He's established contact with the squadron bound for Stree."
"What! Is the man mad? Send for him at once."
"Quietly, John, quietly. Our Mr. Mayhew may be a little round the bend, like all his breed, but he's no fool. When I said that he had made contact with the enemy I didn't mean that he had been nattering with the officer commanding the squadron. Oh, he's made contact—but with the underground."
"Don't talk in riddles."
"Just a delaying action, my dear, to give you time to simmer down. I didn't want you to order that Mayhew be thrown out of the airlock without a spacesuit. The underground, as I have referred to it, is made up of the human brains that our furry friends use as psionic amplifiers."
"But it's still criminal folly. They will employ telepaths as psionic radio officers, just as we do. And those telepaths will read the thoughts of their amplifiers, just as Mayhew reads the thoughts of his dog's brain in aspic."
"But will they? Can they? Don't forget that our telepaths employ as amplifiers the brains of creatures considerably less intelligent than Man. Whoever heard of a dog with any sort of mental screen? They will be using the brains of humans who have been unlucky enough to be born with telepathic ability. And any human telepath, any trained human telepath, is able to set up a screen."
"But why should They use human brains? The risk of sabotage of vital communications . . ."
"What other brains are available for their use? As far as They are concerned, both dogs and cats are out—repeat, out!"
"Why?"
"Far too much mutual antipathy."
"Wouldn't that also apply in the case of themselves and human beings?"
"No. I doubt if they really hate us. After all, we have provided their ancestors with food, shelter and transportation for many centuries. The rats would have survived if they hadn't had the human race to bludge upon, but they wouldn't have flourished, as they have, traps and poisons notwithstanding. Oh, all right. With the exception of the occasional small boy with his albino pets, every human being has this hatred of rats. But hate isn't the only mainspring of human behavior."
"What do you mean?"
"Look at it this way. Suppose you're a telepath, born on one of the Rim Worlds in this continuum. By the time that your talent has been noted, by the time that you're . . . conscripted, you will have come to love your parents and the other members of your family. You will have made friends outside the family circle. Without being overly precocious you may even have acquired a lover."
"I think I see. Play ball, or else."
"Yes."
"Then why should the poor bastards risk the 'or else' now?"
"Because Mayhew's peddled them a line of goods. Very subtly, very carefully. Just induced dreams at first, just dreams of life as it is on the Rim Worlds in our Universe—but a somewhat glamorized version."
"I can imagine it. Mayhew's a very patriotic Rim Worlder."
"First the dreams, and
then the hints. The whisper that all that they have dreamed is true, that all of it could become the way of life of their own people. The story of what actually happened to Freedom and to the escaped slaves. The message that we have come to help them—and the request for help for ourselves."
"But I don't understand how he could have done all this in so short a time."
"How long does a dream take? It is said that a man can dream of a lifetime's happenings in a few seconds."
Already Grimes' active mind was toying with ideas, with ruses and strategems. Deceit, he knew, has always been a legitimate technique of warfare. Not that legalities counted for overmuch in this here-and-now. Or did they? If the Federation got dragged into the mess, he and his people might well find themselves standing trial for piracy. It was unlikely—but, bearing in mind the Federation's pampering of various unpleasant nonhuman races on his time track, possible.
Contraband From Otherspace Page 7
