The Vortex Blaster

by Edward E Smith

  That sounded to Cloud like good advice, but he didn’t want to take such drastic action without more comprehensive data.

  “Why?” he asked.

  But this was too much for the communications relays to handle. Cloud did not know spaceal any too well, since he had not been out in deep space very long. Also, spaceal is a very simple language, not well adapted to the accurate expression of subtle nuances of thought; and all those intermediate translations were garbling things up terrifically. Hence Cloud was not surprised that nothing much was coming through, even though the prettied-up monster was, by this time, just about throwing a fit.

  “She’s quit trying to spin her yarn,” the pilot said finally. “She says she’s been trying to talk to you direct, but she can’t get through. Says to unseal your ports—cut your screens—let down your guard—something like that, anyway. Don’t know what she does mean, exactly. None of us does except maybe the Manarkan, and if she does she can’t get it across on her fingers.”

  “Perhaps my thought-screen?” Cloud cut it.

  “More yet,” the Chickladorian went on, shortly. “She says there’s another one, just as bad or worse. On your head, she says… No, on your head-bone—what the hell! Skull? No, inside your skull, she says now… Hell’s bells! I don’t know what she is trying to say!”

  “Maybe I do—keep still a minute, all of you.” A telepath undoubtedly, like the Manarkans—that was why she had to talk to her first. He’d never been around telepaths much—never tried it. He walked a few steps and stared directly into one pair of Luda’s eyes—large, expressive eyes, now soft and gentle.

  “That’s it, chief! Now blast away…baffle your jets…relax, I guess she means. Open your locks and let her in.”

  Cloud did relax, but gingerly. He didn’t like this mind-to-mind stuff at all, particularly when the other mind belonged to such a monster. He lowered his mental barriers skittishly, ready to revolt at any instant; but as soon as he began to understand the meaning of her thoughts he forgot completely that he was not talking man to man. And at that moment—such was the power of Luda’s mind and the precision of her telepathy—every nuance of thought became sharp and clear.

  “I demand Darjeeb’s life!” Luda stormed. “Not because he is the enemy of all my race—that would not weigh with you—but because he has done what no one else, however base, has ever been so lost to shame as to do. In our city upon Lune he kindled an atomic flame which is killing us in multitudes. In case you do not know, such flames can never be extinguished.”

  “I know. We call them loose atomic vortices; but they can be extinguished. In fact, putting them out is my business.”

  “Oh—incredible but glorious news…” Luda’s thought seethed, became incomprehensible for a space. Then: “To win your help for my race I perceive that I must be completely frank. Observe my mind closely, please—see for yourself that I withhold nothing. Darjeeb wants at any cost the secret of your vessel’s speed. With it, his race would destroy mine utterly. I want it too, of course—with it we would wipe out the Nhalians. However, since you are so much stronger than would be believed possible—since you defeated Darjeeb in single combat—I realize my helplessness. I tell you, therefore, that both Darjeeb and I have long since summoned help. Warships of both sides are approaching, to capture one or both of these vessels. The Nhalians are the nearer, and these secrets must not, under any conditions, go to Nhal. Dash out into space with both of these ships, so that we can plan at leisure. First, however, kill that unspeakable murderer—you have scarcely injured him the way it is—or give me that so-deceptive little axe and I’ll be only too glad to do it myself.”

  A chain snapped ringingly; metal clanged against metal. Only two of Darjeeb’s major arms had been incapacitated; his two others had lost only a few fingers apiece from their hands. His immense bodily strength was almost unimpaired. He could have broken free at any lime, but he had waited; hoping to take Cloud by surprise or that some opportunity would arise for him to regain control of the lifeboat. But now, feeling sure that Luda’s eminently sensible advice would be taken, he decided to let inertialessness go, for the moment, in the interest of saving his life.

  “Kill him!” Luda shrieked the thought and Cloud swung his weapon aloft, but Darjeeb was not attacking. Instead, he was rushing into the airlock—escaping!

  “Go free, pilot!” Cloud commanded, and leaped; but the inner valve swung shut before he could reach it.

  As soon as he could operate the lock Cloud went through it. He knew that Darjeeb could not have boarded the scout, since her ports were locked. He hurried to his control room and scanned space. There the Nhalian was, falling like a plummet. There also were a dozen or so space-ships, too close for comfort, blasting upward.

  Cloud cut in his Bergenholm, kicked on his driving blasts, cut off, and went back into the lifeboat.

  “Safe enough now,” he thought. “They’ll never get out here inert. I’m surprised he jumped—didn’t figure him as a suicidal type.”

  “He isn’t. He didn’t.” Luda thought, dryly.

  “Huh? He must have. That was a mighty long flit he took off on, and his suit wouldn’t hold air.”

  “He would stuff something into the holes. If necessary he could have made it without air—or armor, either. He’s tough. He still lives, curse him! But it is of no use for me to bewail that fact now. Let us make plans. You must put out the flame, and the leaders of our people will convince you…”

  “Just a second—some other things come first.” He fell silent.

  First of all, he had to report to the Patrol, so they could get some Lensmen and a task force out here to straighten up this mess. With ordinary communicators, that would take some doing—but wait, he had a double-ended tight beam to the Laboratory. He could get through on that, probably, even from here. He’d have to mark the lifeboat as a derelict and get these people aboard his cruiser. No space-tube. The women could wear suits, but this Luda…

  “Don’t worry about me!” that entity cut in. “You saw how I came aboard. I don’t enjoy breathing vacuum, but I’m as tough as Darjeeb is. So hurry! During every moment you delay, more of my people are dying!”

  “QX. While we’re transferring, give me the dope.”

  Luda did so. Darjeeb’s coup had been carefully planned and brilliantly executed, Drugged by one of her own staff, she had been taken without a struggle. She did not know how far-reaching the stroke had been, but she was pretty sure that most, if not all, of the Dhilian fortresses were now held by the enemy.

  Nhal probably had the advantage in numbers and in firepower then upon Lune—Darjeeb would not have made his bid unless he had found a way to violate the treaty of strict equality. Dhil was, however, much the nearer of the two worlds. Hence, if this initial advantage could be overcome, Dhil’s reenforcements could be brought up much sooner than the enemy’s. If, in addition, the vortex could be extinguished before it had done irreparable damage, neither side would have any real advantage and the conflict would subside instead of flaring into another tri-world holocaust.

  Cloud pondered. He would have to do something, but what? That vortex had to be snuffed; but, with the whole Nhalian army to cope with, how could he make the approach? His vortex-bombing flitter was screened against radiation, not war-beams. His cruiser was clothed to stop anything short of G-P primaries, but it would take a month at a Patrol base to adapt her for vortex work…and he’d have to analyze it, anyway, preferably from the ground. He had no beams, no ordinary bombs, no negabombs. How could he use what he had to clear a station?

  “Draw me a map, will you, Luda?” he asked.

  She did so. The cratered vortex, where an immense building had been. The ring of fortresses: two of which were unusually far apart, separated by a parkway and a shallow lagoon.

  “Shallow? How deep?” Cloud interrupted. She indicated a depth of a couple of feet.

  “That’s enough map, then. Thanks.” Cloud thought for minutes. “You seem to be quite an
engineer. Can you give me exact details on your defensive screen? Power, radius, wave-form, generator type, phasing, interlocking, blow-off, and so on?”

  She could. Complex mathematical equations and electrical formulae flashed through his mind, each leaving a residue of fact.

  “Maybe we can do something,” the Blaster said finally, turning to the Chickladorian. “Depends pretty much on our friend here. Are you a pilot, or just an emergency assignment?”

  “Master pilot. Rating unlimited, tonnage or space.”

  “Good! Think you’re in shape to take three thousand centimeters of acceleration?”

  “Pretty sure of it. If I was right I could take three thousand standing on my head. I’m feeling better all the time. Let’s hot ’er up and find out.”

  “Not until after we’ve unloaded these passengers somewhere,” and Cloud went on to explain what be had in mind.

  “Afraid it can’t be done.” The pilot shook his head glumly. “Your timing has got to be too ungodly fine. I can do the piloting, meter the blast, and so on. I can balance her down on her tail, steady to a hair, but piloting’s only half what you got to have. Pilots never land on a constant blast, and your leeway here is damn near zero. To hit it as close as you want, your timing has got to be accurate to a tenth of a second. You don’t know it, mister, but it’d take a master computer half a day to…”

  “I know all about that. I’m a master computer and I’ll have everything figured. I’ll give you a zero exact to plus-or-minus a hundredth.”

  “QX, then. Let’s dump the non-combatants and flit.”

  “Luda, where shall we land them? And maybe you’d better call out your army and navy—we can’t blow out that vortex until we control both air and ground.”

  “Land them there.” Luda swung the plate and pointed. “The call was sent long since. They come.”

  They landed: but four of the women would not leave the vessel. The Manarkan had to stay aboard, she declared, or be disgraced for life. What would happen if the pilot passed out again, with only laymen around? She was right, Cloud conceded, and she could take it. She was a Manarkan, built of whalebone and rubber. She’d bend under 3+ G’s, but she wouldn’t break.

  The squatty insisted upon staying. Since when had a woman of Tominga hidden from danger or run away from a fight? She could hold the pilot’s head up through an acceleration that would put any damn-fragile Tellurian into a pack—or give her that funny axe and she’d show him how it ought to be swung!

  The Chickladorian girl, too, stayed on. Her eyes—not pink, but a deep, cool green, brimming with unshed tears—flashed at the idea of leaving her man to die alone. She just knew they were all going to die. Even if she couldn’t be of any use, what of it? If her Thlaskin died she was going to die too, right then, and that was all there was to it. If they made her go ashore she’d cut her own throat that very minute, so there! So that was that.

  So did the Vegian. Tail-tip twitching slightly, eyes sparkling, she swore by three deities to claw the eyes out of, and then to strangle with her tail, anyone who tried to put her off ship. She had come on this trip to see things, and did Cloud think she was going to miss seeing this? Hardly!

  Cloud studied her briefly. The short, thick, incredibly soft fur—like the fur on the upper lip of a week-old kitten, except more so—did not conceal the determined set of her lovely jaw; the tight shorts and the even tighter, purely conventional breastband did not conceal the tigerish strength and agility of her lovely body. It’d be better, the Blaster decided, not to argue the point.

  A dozen armed Dhilians came aboard, as pre-arranged, and the cruiser blasted off. Then, while Thlaskin was maneuvering inert, to familiarize himself with the controls and to calibrate the blast, Cloud brought out the four semi-portable projectors. They were frightful weapons, designed for tripod mounting; so heavy that it took a very strong man to lift one on Earth. They carried no batteries or accumulators, but were powered by tight beams from the mother ship.

  Luda was right; such weapons were unknown in that solar system. They had no beam transmission of power. The Dhilians radiated glee as they studied the things. They had stronger stuff, but it was fixed-mount and far too heavy to move. This was wonderful—these were magnificent weapons indeed!

  High above the stratosphere, inert, the pilot found his spot and flipped the cruiser around, cross-hairs centering the objective. Then, using his forward, braking jets as drivers, he blasted her straight downward.

  She struck atmosphere almost with a thud. Only her fiercely-driven meteorite-screens and wall-shields held her together.

  “I hope to Klono you know what you’re doing, chum,” the Chickladorian remarked conversationally as the fortress below leaped upward with appalling speed. “I’ve made hot landings before, but I always had a hair or two of leeway. If you don’t hit this to a couple of hundredths we’ll splash when we strike. We won’t bounce, brother.”

  “I can compute it to a thousandth and I can set the clicker to within five, but it’s you that’ll have to do the real hitting.” Cloud grinned back at the iron-nerved pilot. “Sure a four-second call is enough to get your rhythm, allow for reaction time and lag, and blast right on the click?”

  “Absolutely. If I can’t get it in four I can’t get it at all. Got your stuff ready?”

  “Uh-huh.” Cloud, staring into the radarscope, began to sway his shoulders. He knew the exact point in space and the exact instant of time at which the calculated deceleration must begin; by the aid of his millisecond timer—two full revolutions of the dial every second—he was about to set the clicker to announce that instant. His hand swayed back and forth—a finger snapped down—the sharp-toned instrument began to give out its crisp, precisely-spaced clicks.

  “Got it!” Cloud snapped. “Right on the middle of the click! Get ready, Thlaskin—seconds! Four! Three! Two! One! Click!”

  Exactly with the click the vessel’s brakes cut off and her terrific driving blasts smashed on. There was a cruelly wrenching shock as everything aboard acquired suddenly a more-than-three-times-Earthly weight.

  Luda and her fellows merely twitched. The Tomingan, standing behind the pilot, supporting and steadying his wounded head in its rest, settled almost imperceptibly, but her firmly gentle hands did not yield a millimeter. The Manarkan sank deeply into the cushioned bench upon which she was lying; her quick, bright eyes remaining fixed upon her patient.

  The Chickladorian girl, in her hammock, fainted quietly.

  The Vegian, who had flashed one hand up to an overhead bar at the pilot’s first move, stood up—although she seemed to shorten a good two inches and her tight upper garment parted with a snap as back- and shoulder-muscles swelled to take the strain. That wouldn’t worry her, Cloud knew—what was she stewing about? Oh—her tail! It was too heavy for its own strength, great as it was, to lift! Her left hand came down, around, and back; with its help the tail came up. To the bar above her head, around it, tip pointing stiffly straight upward. Then, smiling gleefully at both Thlaskin and the Blaster, she shouted something that neither could understand, but which was the war-cry of her race:

  “Tails high, brothers!”

  Downward the big ship hurtled, toward the now glowing screens of the fortress. Driving jets are not orthodox weapons, but properly applied, they can be deadly ones indeed: and these were being applied with micrometric exactitude.

  Down! DOWN!! The threatened fortress and its neighbors hurled their every beam; Nhalian ships dived frantically at the invader and did their useless best to blast her down.

  Down she drove, the fortress’ screens flaming ever brighter under the terrific blast.

  Closer! Hotter! Still closer! Hotter still! Nor did the furious flame waver—the Chickladorian was indeed a master pilot.

  “Set up a plus ten, Thlaskin,” Cloud directed. “Air density and temperature are changing. Their beams, too, you know.”

  “Check. Plus ten, sir—set up.”

  “Give it to her on the fourth
click from…this.”

  “On, sir.” The vessel seemed to pause momentarily, to stumble; but the added weight was almost imperceptible.

  A bare hundred yards now, and the ship of space was still plunging downward at terrific speed. The screens were furiously incandescent, but were still holding.

  A hundred feet. Velocity appallingly high, the enemy’s screens still up. Something had to give now! If that screen stood up the ship would vanish as she struck it, but Thlaskin the Chickladorian made no move and spoke no word. If the skipper was willing to bet his own life on his computations, who was he to squawk? But…he must have miscalculated!

  No! While the vessel’s driving projectors were still a few yards away the defending screens exploded into blackness; the awful streams of energy raved directly into the structures beneath. Metal and stone glared white, then flowed—sluggishly at first, but ever faster and more mobile—then boiled coruscantly into vapor.

  The cruiser slowed—stopped—seemed to hang for an instant poised. Then she darted upward, her dreadful exhausts continuing and completing the utter devastation.

  “That’s computin’, mister,” the pilot breathed as he cut the fierce acceleration to a heavenly one thousand. “To figure a dive like that to three decimals and have the guts to hold to it cold—skipper, that’s com-pu-tation!”

  “All yours, pilot,” Cloud demurred. “All I did was give you the dope. You’re the guy that made it good. Hurt, anybody?”

  Nobody was. “QX. We’ll repeat, then, on the other side of the lagoon.”

  As the ship began to descend on the new course the vengeful Dhilian fleet arrived. Looping, diving, beaming, oftentimes crashing in suicidal collision, the two factions went maniacally to war. There were no attacks, however, against the plunging Tellurian ship. The Nhalians had learned that they could do nothing about that vessel.