“Don’t fire!” said Gloria in an intense voice. “Let him go!”
Even afterwards, she did not seriously question that command, or the impulse that had driven her to say it. Her explanation to herself—later—was that since the intruder had not threatened her, and since he was one of the much-wanted astrogators, to destroy him in order to prevent his escaping to some other part of the ship would be an irrational act.
As a result Maltby left the bridge safely and was able to give the signal that freed the Atmion. As the Fifty Suns’ vessel fled into the distance, the officers of the Earth ship—acting on a final cue from him—began to forget their share in the escape.
Mentally, that was as far as Maltby had gotten. To enter the enemy vessel and to get away again—it had seemed a big enough venture in itself. What he had learned was not altogether satisfactory, but he did know they were dealing with a very large vessel. It was a vessel that would have to be careful in its dealings with a fleet, but he did not doubt that it had weapons capable of destroying several Fifty Suns’ battleships at the same time.
What bothered him was, how would the officers and crew of the Atmion, and the Fifty Suns’ people in general, react to the incident? That seemed too complex for any one man to calculate. And as for what would happen aboard the Star Cluster—that was even more difficult to forecast.
All the reactions did not show immediately. Maltby was aware that Admiral Dreehan made a report to the Fifty Suns government. But for two days nothing occurred.
On the third day, the Star Cluster’s daily broadcast of its course showed that it had drastically altered its direction. The reason for the change was obscure.
On the fourth day, Maltby’s viewplate lighted with the image of Vice-admiral Dreehan. The commanding officer said gravely: “This is a general announcement to all ranks. I have just received the following message from the military headquarters of our fleet.”
Quietly, he read the message.
“It is hereby declared that a state of war exists between the peoples of the Fifty Suns and the Earth ship Star Cluster. The fleet shall place itself in the path of the enemy, and seek battle. Ships incapacitated and in danger of capture must destroy their star maps; and all meteorological and astrogation officers aboard such vessels are patriotically required to commit suicide. It is the declared policy of the sovereign government of the Fifty Suns that the invader must be destroyed.”
Maltby listened, pale and tense, as Dreehan went on in a more conversational tone: “I have private information that the government has drawn the conclusion from our experience, that the Star Cluster released us because they dared not rouse the anger of our people. From this and other data, the leaders have decided that the Earth ship can be destroyed by a determined attack. If we dutifully follow the exact instructions we have received, then even the capture of individual ships will give the enemy no advantage. I have already appointed executioners for all Meteorological and Astrogation officers in the event that they cannot act for themselves at the crucial moment, so please take note.”
Captain Peter Maltby, chief meteorologist of the Atmion, and an assistant astrogator, noted with a sick awareness that he was committed. He had laid down a policy of united action with the people of the Fifty Suns. It was out of the question that he, for personal reasons, now hastily abandon that attitude.
His only hope was that the wolves of space—as the warships were often called—would by pack action make short work of the single Earth ship.
They ran into a tiger.
Chapter
Seven
SHE had lost the plebiscite by a heart-breaking nine to ten vote. Grimly, she ordered the big ship to alter course for home.
Late that “day,” Communication called her: “Shall we continue to broadcast our course?”
At least, she still had control over that. “Most certainly,” she said curtly.
The following afternoon, she awakened from a nap to the sound of alarm bells ringing.
“Thousands of ships ahead!” reported Captain chief of operations.
“Slow for action!” she commanded. “Battle stations.” When that was done, and their speed was less than a thousand miles a second, she spoke to the captains in council.
“Well, sirs and ladies,” she said with unconcealed delight, “I should like to have authorization to wage battle against a recalcitrant government, which is now showing that it is capable of taking the most hostile action against Earth civilization.”
“Gloria,” said one of the women, “please don’t rub it in. This is one of your times for being right.”
The vote to accept battle was unanimous. Afterwards, the question was asked:
“Are we going to destroy them, or capture them?” “Capture.”
“All of them?”
“All.”
When the Fifty Suns fleet and the Earth ship were some four hundred million miles apart, the Star Cluster set up a field that took in a vast section of space.
It was a miniature universe, intensely curved. Ships pursuing an apparently straight course found themselves circling back to their original positions. Attempts to break out of the trap by attaining velocities in excess of light-speed proved futile. A shower of torpedoes directed at the source of the field veered off and had to be exploded in space to avoid damaging their own ships.
It was found impossible to communicate with any planets of the Fifty Suns. Sub-space radio was as silent as death.
At the end of about four hours, the Star Cluster set up a series of tractor beams. One by one, inexorably, ships were drawn towards the giant battleship.
It was at that time that stem orders were issued for all Fifty Suns’ meteorological and astrogation officers to commit suicide at once.
On the Atmion Maltby was one of a pale group of men who shook hands with Vice-admiral Dreehan; and immediately afterwards, in die commanding officer’s presence, pointed a blaster at the side of his head.
At that penultimate moment, he hesitated. “I could take control of him now, this instant—and save my life.”
He told himself angrily that the whole affair was futile and unnecessary. Discovery of the Fifty Suns had been inevitable in the sense that it would occur sooner or later, regardless of what he did now.
And then, he thought: “This is what I’ve stood for among the Mixed Men. We must be one with the group, to death, if necessary.”
His brief hesitation ended. He touched the activator of his weapon.
As the first captured ships were boarded by teams of technicians, the exultant young woman on the bridge of the greatest ship that had ever entered the Greater Magellanic Goud learned of the suicides.
Pity touched her. “Revive them all!” she ordered. “There is no need for anyone to die.”
“Some of them are pretty badly splattered,” was the answer. “They used blasters.”
She frowned at that. It meant an immense amount of extra work. “The fools!” she said. “They almost deserve death.”
She broke off. “Use extra care! If necessary, put whole ships through the matter transmitter with emphasis on synthesis of damaged tissues and organs.”
Far into the sleep period, she sat at her desk receiving reports. Several revived astrogators were brought before her; and, with the help of Lieutenant Neslor, of Psychology, she questioned them.
Before she retired to sleep, a lost civilization had been found.
Chapter
Eight
OVER the miles and the years, the gases drifted. Waste matter from ten thousand suns, a diffuse miasma of spent explosions, of dead hell fires and the furies of a hundred million raging sunspots—formless, purposeless.
But it was the beginning.
Into the great dark the gases crept. Calcium was in them, and sodium, and hydrogen; most of the elements, and the speed of the drift varied up to twenty miles a ‘ second.
There was a timeless period while gravitation performed its function. The inchoate mass beca
me masses. Great blobs of gas took semblance of shape in widely separate areas, and moved on and on and on.
They came finally to where a thousand flaring seetee suns had long before doggedly “crossed the street” of the main stream of terrene suns. Had crossed, and left their excrement and gases.
The first clash quickened the vast worlds of gas. The electron haze of terrene plunged like spurred horses and sped deeper into the equally violently reacting positron haze of contraterrene. Instantly, the lighter orbital positrons and electrons went up in a blaze of hard radiation.
The storm was on.
The stripped seetee nuclei carried now terrific and unbalanced negative charges and repelled electrons, but tended to attract terrene atom nuclei. In their turn the stripped terrene nuclei attracted contraterrene.
Violent beyond all conception were the resulting cancellations of charges. The two opposing masses heaved and spun in a cataclysm of partial adjustment. They had been heading in different directions. More and more they became one tangled, seething whirlpool.
The new course, uncertain at first, steadied; then, on a front of nine light years, at a solid fraction of the velocity of light, the storm roared toward its destiny
Suns were engulfed for a half a hundred years—and left behind with only a hammering of cosmic rays to show that they had been the centers of otherwise invisible, impalpable atomic devastation.
In its four hundred and ninetieth Sidereal year, the storm intersected the orbit of a Nova at the flash moment.
It began to move!
On the three dimensional map at weather headquarters on the planet Kaider III, the storm was colored orange. Which meant it was the biggest of the four hundred odd storms raging in the Fifty Suns region of the Greater Magellanic Cloud.
It showed as an uneven splotch fronting at Latitude 473, Longitude 228, Center 190 parsecs. But that was a special Fifty Suns degree system which had no relation to the magnetic center of the Magellanic Cloud as a whole.
The report about the Nova had not yet been registered on the map. When that happened, the storm color would be changed to an angry red.
They had stopped looking at the map. Maltby stood with the councilors at the great window, staring up at the Earth ship.
The machine was scarcely more than a dark sliver in the distant sky. But the sight of it seemed to hold a deadly fascination for the older men.
Maltby felt cool, determined, but also sardonic. It was funny, these—these people of the Fifty Suns in this hour of their danger calling upon him.
He unfocused his eyes from the ship, fixed his steely gaze on the plump, perspiring chairman of the Kaider III government—and, tensing his mind, forced the man to look at him. The councilor, unaware of the compulsion, conscious only that he had turned, said, “You understand your instructions, Captain Maltby?”
Maltby nodded. “I do.”
It was more than that. He accepted their attitude, their purpose, as part and parcel of his belief that only the fullest cooperation would enable the Mixed Men to take their place safely in the culture from which they had sprung. At this late hour, the resistance of the Fifty Suns was a forlorn hope. And yet, it was not for him as an officer to question their logic.
The curt reply must have evoked a vivid picture. The fat face rippled like palsied jelly and broke out in a new trickle of sweat. He said, “Captain Maltby, you must not fail. They have asked for a meteorologist to guide them to Cassidor VII, where the central government is located. They mustn’t reach there. You must drive them into the great storm at 473. We have commissioned you to do this for us because you have the two minds of the Mixed Men. We regret that we have not always fully appreciated your services in the past. But you must admit that, after the wars of the Mixed Men, it was natural that we should be careful about—”
Maltby cut off the lame apology. “Forget it,” he said. “The Mixed Men are as deeply involved, as I see it, as the Dellians and non-Dellians. I assure you I shall do my best to wreck this ship.”
“Be careful!” the chairman urged anxiously. “It could destroy us, our planet, our sun in a single minute. We never dreamed that Earth could have gotten so far ahead of us and produced such a devastatingly powerful machine. After all, the non-Dellians and, of course, the Mixed Men among us are capable of research work; the former have been laboring feverishly for thousands of years. And, finally, remember that you are not being asked to commit suicide. The battleship is invincible. Just how it will survive a real storm we were not told when we were being shown around. But it will. What happens, however, is that everyone aboard becomes unconscious. As a Mixed Man you will be the first to revive. Our combined fleets, which as you know have been released, will be waiting to board the ship the moment you advise us. Is that clear?”
It had been clear the first time it had been explained, but these non-Dellians had a habit of repeating themselves, as if thoughts kept growing vague in their minds. As Maltby closed the door of the great room behind him, one of the councilors said to his neighbor:
“Has he been told that the storm has gone Nova?” The fat man overheard. He shook his head. His eyes gleamed as he said quietly, “No. After all, he is one of the Mixed Men. We can’t trust him too far, no matter what his record.”
Chapter
Nine
ALL morning the reports had come in. Some showed progress, some didn’t. But her basic good humor was untouched by the failures. The great reality was that her luck had held. The information she wanted was coming in: Population of Kaider III two billion, one hundred million, two-fifths Dellian, three fifths non-Dellian. The former were so-called robots.
Dellians were physically and mentally the higher type, but they lacked creative ability. Non-Dellians dominated in the research laboratories. The forty-nine other suns whose planets were inhabited were called, in alphabetical order. Assora, Atmion, Bresp, Buraco, Cassidor, Corrab— They were located at (1) Assora: Latitude 931, Longitude 27, Center 201 parsecs; (2) Atmion—
It went on and on. Just before noon she noted with , steely amusement that there was still nothing coming through from meteorology, nothing at all about storms. She made the proper connection and flung her words: “What’s the matter, Lieutenant Cannons? Your assistants have been making prints and duplicates of various Kaider maps. Aren’t you getting anything?”
The old meteorologist shook his head. “You will recall, noble lady, that when we captured that robot in space, he had time to send out a warning. Immediately, on every Fifty Suns planet, all maps were destroyed, commercial spaceships were stripped of radios capable of sub-space communication, and they received orders to go to a planet on a chance basis, and stay there until further notice. To my mind, all this was done before it was clearly grasped that their navy hadn’t a chance against us. Now they are going to provide us with a meteorologist, but we shall have to depend on our lie detectors as to whether or not he is telling us the truth.”
“I see.” The woman smiled, “Have no fear. They don’t dare oppose us openly. No doubt there is a plan being built up against us, but it cannot prevail now that we can take action to enforce our unalterable will. Whomever they send must tell us the truth. Let me know when he comes.”
Lunch came, but she ate at her desk, watching the flashing pictures on the astro, listening to the murmur of voices, storing the facts, the general picture, into her brain.
“There’s no doubt, Captain Turgess,” she commenced once, savagely, “that we’re being lied to on a vast scale. But let it be so. We can use psychological tests to verify all the vital details. For the time being it is important that you relieve the fears of everyone you find it necessary to question. We must convince these people that Earth will accept them on an equal basis without bias or prejudice of any kind because of their robot orig—” She bit her lip. “That’s an ugly word, the worst kind of propaganda. We must eliminate it from our thoughts.”
“I’m afraid,” the officer shrugged, “not from our thoughts.”
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She stared at him, narrow eyed, then cut him off angrily. A moment later she was talking into the general transmitter: “The word robot must not be used—by any of our personnel—under pain of fine—”
Switching off, she put a busy signal on her spare receiver, and called Psychology House. Lieutenant Neslor’s face appeared on the plate.
“I heard your order just now, noble lady,” the woman psychologist said. “I’m afraid, however, that we’re dealing with the deepest instincts of the human animal— hatred or fear of the stranger, the alien. Excellency, we come from a long line of ancestors, who, in their time, have felt superior to others because of some slight variation in the pigmentation of the skin. It is even recorded that the color of the eyes has influenced the egoistic in historical decisions. We have sailed into very deep waters, and it will be the crowning achievement of our life if we sail out in a satisfactory fashion.”
There was an eager lilt in the psychologist’s voice; and the grand captain experienced a responsive thrill of joy. If there was one thing she appreciated, it was the positive outlook, the kind of people who faced all obstacles short of the recognizably impossible with a youthful zest, a will to win. She was still smiling as she broke the connection.
The high thrill sagged. She sat cold with her problem. It was a problem. Hers. All aristocratic officers had carte blanche powers, and were expected to resolve difficulties involving anything up to whole groups of planetary systems.
After a minute she dialed the meteorology room again. “Lieutenant Cannons, when the meteorology officer of the Fifty Suns navy arrives, please employ the following tactics—”
Maltby waved dismissal to the driver of his car. The machine pulled away from the curb and Maltby stood frowning at the flaming energy barrier that barred further progress along the street. Finally he took another look at the Earth ship.
It was directly above him now that he had come so many miles across the city toward it. It was tremendously high up, a long, black torpedo shape almost lost in the mist of distance. But high as it was it was still visibly bigger than anything ever seen by the Fifty Suns, an incredible creation of metal from a world so far away that, almost, it had sunk to the status of a myth.
A. E. Van Vogt - Novel 18 - Mission to the Stars Page 8
