Thrandirin opened the game, as he always did, with the How-long-are-you-going-to-persist-in-this-idiocy gambit. Dilullo countered, as he always did, with the As-long-as-ittakes-me-to-get-what-I-want one. Then all three told him that was impossible, and demanded to be taken home.
Dilullo nodded and smiled. "Now that we've got that out of the way, perhaps we can just sit around and have a drink or two and talk about the weather." He passed the bottle and the glasses around the scarred table. The Vhollans accepted the liquor stiffly and sat like three statues done in marble and draped in bright tunics. Only their eyes were alive, startlingly blue and bright.
Thrandirin's eyes rested briefly on the photographs in front of Dilullo and moved away again.
"No," said Dilullo. "Go ahead, look at them." He passed them down. "Look at this, too." He passed the disc. "You've seen them before. There's no need to be bashful about it."
Thrandirin shook his head. "I say what I have said before. If I knew any more than you do about those objects I would not tell you. But I don't. I saw them in the warehouse, and that is all. I am not a scientist, I am not a technician, and I have no direct part in this operation."
"Yet you are a government official," said Dilullo. "Pretty top-level, too. Top enough to dicker for weapons."
Thrandirin made no comment.
"I find it very difficult to believe that you do not know where those things came from," said Dilullo softly
Thrandirin shrugged. "I don't see why you find it difficult. You questioned us with a lie-detector of your latest type and it should have proved to you that we know nothing."
Tatichin said brusquely, as though it were an old sore subject with him, "Only six men knpw about this thing. Our ruler, his chief minister, the chief of the War Department, and the navigators who actually take the ships into the nebula. Even the captains do not know the course, and the navigators are under constant guard, virtual prisoners, both in space and on Vhol."
"Then it must be something of tremendous importance," Dilullo said. The three marble statues stared at him with hard blue eyes and said nothing. "The
Kharalis questioned Yorolin under an irresistible drug. He told them that Vhol had a weapon out in the nebula, something powerful enough to wipe them off the face of their world."
The hard blue eyes flared brighter on that, but the Vhollans did not seem too surprised. " "We assumed that they had," said Thrandirin, "though Yorolin could not remember anything beyond the fact that the Kharalis had drugged him. A man cannot lie under that drug, it is true. But he can tell only what is in his mind, no more, no less. Yorolin believed what he said. That does not necessarily make it so."
Now Dilullo's eyes grew very hard and his jaw set like a steel trap. "Your own unlying minds have told me that you too have heard this, and that you are indeed planning the conquest of Kharal. Now that being so, isn't it strange that you were interested in buying weapons from us? Ordinary puny conventional little weapons, even though rather better than the ones you have, when there's a super-weapon lying at hand here in this nebula?"
"Surely we answered that question for you," said Thrandirin.
"Oh, yes, you said the weapons were needed to ensure the safety of the nebula. Now that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, does it?"
"I'm afraid I do not follow your line of reasoning, and I definitely do not enjoy your company." Thrandirin rose, and the generals rose with him. "I most bitterly regret that I did not have you imprisoned the moment you landed. I underestimated your—"
"Gall?" said Dilullo. "Nerve? Plain stupid rashness?"
Thrandirin shrugged. "I could not believe that you would come openly to Vhol from Kharal if you had actually taken service with the Kharalis. And of course there was Yorolin ... we knew the Kharalis would never have given him up willingly, and the fact that you did help him to escape seemed to prove your story. So we hesitated. There was even some discussion"—here he looked rather coldly at Markolin—"about hiring you for our own use against Kharal. You were very adroit, Captain Dilullo. I hope you are enjoying your triumph. But I will remind you again. Even if you should manage to find what you're seeking, they have been warned by sub-spectrum transmission from Vhol. They will be expecting you."
"They? Heavy cruisers, Thrandirin? How many? One? Two? Three?"
Markolin said, "He can't tell you, nor can I. Rest assured the force is sufficient to guard our ... installation." The hesitation before that word was so brief as to be almost unnoticeable. "And I can assure you also that the value of our lives is not great enough to buy your safety there."
"That is so," said Thrandirin. "And now we would prefer to return to our own quarters, if you please."
"Of course," said Dilullo. "No, stay here, Bollard." He spoke briefly over the ship's intercom, and in a moment another man came and took the Vhollans away. Dilullo swung around and looked at Chane and Bollard.
"They wanted to buy our weapons, and they thought of hiring us to use against Kharal."
"I heard that," said Bollard. "I don't see anything too strange about it. It just means that their super-weapon isn't operational yet and won't be for some time, so they're hedging their bets."
Dilullo nodded. "Makes sense. What do you say, Chane?"
"I'd say Bollard was right. Only ..."
"Only what?"
"Well," said Chane, "that recorder thing in the warehouse. If they're constructing a weapon out here in the nebula, they sure aren't bothering to construct audio-visual recorders, and anyway it wasn't a Vhollan artifact." Chane paused. There was something else itching at his mind, and he waited till it came clear. "Besides, what's all this secrecy about? I can understand tight security, sure. And I can understand them being afraid that the Kharalis might hire somebody to go into the nebula, just as they did, and try to capture or destroy the weapon. But they're so afraid that they don't even trust men like Thrandirin and the generals to know where those came from or what they are." Chane pointed to the photographs of the three golden objects. "One of those things makes very strange music and shoots stars, but is no more than an audio-visual recorder. And what is so thunderingly secret about that? It doesn't make sense to me at all."
Dilullo looked at Bollard, who shook his head. "I didn't see his star-shooting recorder, so I can't say yes or no. Why not just come out and say what's on your mind,John?"
Dilullo picked up the little blank analyzer disc, the plastic zero. "I'm beginning to think," he said, "that this may be more important than what Vhol does to Kharal, or vice versa. I think the Vhollans have got hold of something big, all right ... something so big that it frightens the wits out of them. Because," he added slowly, "I don't think they understand whatever it is, or know how to use it, any more than we do."
There was a lengthy silence. Finally Bollard said, "Would you care to explain that a little better, John?"
Dilullo shook his head. "No. Because I'm only guessing, and a man's a fool to go galloping off on a wild guess. The only way we'll ever know is to find the thing and see for ourselves. And I'm beginning to think the Vhollans are right when they say we never will."
He punched the intercom to the navigation room. "Start a sweep pattern, Finney. Plot it to cover as much of the nebula coast as possible without leaving any gaps. That supply ship has to come from Vhol sometime, and all we need is a little bit of luck."
The voice of Finney, the navigator, came back in tones of pure acid. "Sure, John. Just a wee little bit of luck."
Presently the Merc ship was on her way, an infinitesimal spider spinning a small frail web across the burning cliffs of the nebula, and everybody aboard knew what her chances were of catching the tiny fly she wanted. Particularly when the fly had ample warning.
Chane had lost all sense of the passage of time, and Dilullo was acutely aware that there had been far too much of it, when Bixel looked up from his radar screen and said, in a tone of utter disbelief:
"I've got a blip."
Dilullo had one moment of triumphant joy
. But it did not last long, for Bixel said, "I've got another. And another. Hell, I've got a flock of them."
Dilullo bent over the radar screen with a cold premonition clutching at his heart.
"They've changed course," Bixel said. "Heading straight for us now and coming fast. Awfully damned fast."
Bollard had wedged himself into the little room and was peering over both their shoulders. "Those aren't supply ships. Could be a squadron of Vhollan cruisers ... if they've decided they don't mind losing their friends."
Dilullo shook his head dismally. "Only one kind of ship is that size, moves in that kind of formation, and has that kind of speed. I guess Thrandirin wasn't lying after all, about the Starwolves."
XIII
The first Chane knew about it was when the Red Alert signal came howling over the ship's intercom, followed at once by a burst of acceleration that set the ship's seams creaking and laid Chane up hard against a bulkhead. He had been stretched out in a borrowed bunk half asleep, but only half, and even that much was a major achievement. He hated waiting. He hated this business of dangling in a vacuum, waiting for another man to make the decisions. Wisdom and the instinct for survival told him he had better be patient because he had no other choice at the moment. But his physical being found it difficult to obey. It was not used to being inactive. A lifetime of training had taught it that inactivity was the next thing to being dead, a state fit only for the lesser breeds who were meant to be preyed upon. A Varnan fought hard, and when he was through fighting he enjoyed the fruits of his victory just as hard, until it was time to go fight again. Chane's metabolism revolted against waiting.
The alert and the frantic leaping of the ship were like a sudden release from prison.
He jumped up and went into the main passageway. Men were running in what appeared to be wild confusion, but Chane knew it was not, and in a matter of seconds everyone was at his station and the ship was quiet with a quivering, breathing quietness. The quiet of a very different sort of waiting.
Chane had no assigned station. He went on toward the bridge.
Dilullo's voice came rasping over the intercom, speaking to the whole ship.
"I've got a little bad news for you," it said. "We've got a Starwolf squadron on our tail."
Chane froze in the passageway.
Dilullo's voice seemed to have a personal edge in it, a warning edge, as it went on, "I repeat, we have a Star-wolf squadron in pursuit." Talking to me, Chane thought. Well, and here we are. They've caught up with me, Ssander's brothers and the rest.
Dilullo's voice continued. "I am taking evasive action. We'll fight if we have to, but I'm going to do my damndest to run. So prepare for max stress."
Meaning, I won't have time to warn you of abrupt changes in course or velocity. Just hang on and hope the ship holds together.
Chane stood still in the passageway, his body braced, his mind racing.
He might have been in worse spots in his career but he couldn't remember one off-hand. If the Mercs should have any reason to suspect his origin they would kill him long before Ssander's brothers could possibly reach him. And if they didn't suspect him, he would die anyway when the Starwolf squadron caught them.
Because it would catch them. Nobody got away from the Starwolves. Nobody could go fast enough, for nobody could endure physically the shattering impact of inertial stress that the Starwolves endured, maneuvering their little ships at man-killing velocities. That was what made them unbeatable in space.
The Merc ship wrenched screaming onto a tangential course. It seemed to Chane that he could feel the bulkhead bend under his hand. The blood beat up in him hard and hot. He straightened up as the ship steadied again, and went on forward to the bridge room.
It was dark there except for the hooded lights of the instrument panels. Dark enough so that the red-gold fire of the nebula seemed to fill it, pouring in through the forward viewport. Illusion, of course; the viewport was now a viewscreen and the nebula it showed was not the actuality but an FTL stimulus simulcrum. The illusion was good enough. Dilullo's head and shoulders loomed against the fireglow, and the ship plunged through rolling, whipping clouds of cold flame. The suns that set the nebula gas to burning with their light fled past like flung coals.
Dilullo looked up and saw Chane's face in the glow and said, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I get restless just sitting," Chane said in a flat, quiet voice. "I thought I might be able to help."
The copilot, a small dark rawhide man named Gomez, said irritably, "Get him out of here, John. I don't need any rockhopper pilot breathing down my neck. Not now."
Dilullo said, "Hang on."
Chane grabbed a support girder. Again the ship screamed and groaned. The metal bit into Chane's flesh, and again he thought he could feel it bend. The image in the viewscreen blurred to a chaotic jumble of racing sparks. Then it steadied and they were falling down a vast long chute between walls of flame, and Gomez said, "One more time, John, and you're going to crack her bones."
"All right," said Dilullo. "Here's the one more time."
Chane heard more than the ship cry out. The men were beginning to crumple under the hammering. Gomez sagged in his chair. Blood sprang from his nose and went in dark runnels over his mouth and chin. Dilullo sighed a great sigh as the breath was squeezed from his lungs. He seemed to lean over the control panel and Chane reached forward to take the ship, drew back as Dilullo forced himself erect again, his mouth open and biting savagely on air, dragging it into him by main force and stubbornness. On the other side of the bridge room a man hung sideways against his recoil harness and did not move. Unnoticed, Chane grinned a sardonic grin, and clung to his girder, and breathed evenly against the pressure of the inertial hand that tried to crush him and could not.
Then he wondered what he was grinning about. This toughness he was so proud of was about to be his doom. The Mercs could not match it, and so the Starwolves would win.
He wondered if they knew that he was aboard the Merc ship. He didn't see how they could, for sure. But they must have tracked him to Corvus, and that would be enough. They would shake out the whole cluster until they found him or made sure he was dead.
Chane grinned again, thinking how Dilullo must be regretting his own cleverness in keeping his tame Star-wolf alive. Chane felt no responsibility for the results. That had been all Dilullo's idea, and Chane could even take a certain cruel pleasure in the way he was being paid out for it.
He knew that Dilullo must be thinking the same thing. Just once Dilullo turned and met his eye, and Chane thought, He'd give me to them now if he could, if it would save his men. But he knows it wouldn't. The Varnans couldn't let these men live, not knowing what I might have told them. Wouldn't let them live, in any case, for helping me.
The ship lurched and staggered, slowing down. The viewscreen flickered, blanked out, became again a window onto normal space. They drifted underneath the belly of a great orange sun, veiled and misty in the cloudy fire.
After a minute Dilullo said, "Bixel?" And again, "Bixel!"
Bixel's voice came faintly from the navigation room. He sounded as though he was snuffing blood out of his own nose. "I don't see anything," he said. "I think—"
He choked and gasped and went on again, "I think you shook 'em."
"Just as well," muttered Gomez, mopping himself. "One more time and you'd have cracked my bones to a jelly."
Chane said, "They'll be along." He saw Gomez and some of the others turn and glare at him, and he pretended weakness, sliding down along the girder to sit on the floor beside Dilullo. "They know we can't take it like they can. They know we have to stop."
"How did you get to be such an expert on Star-wolves?" asked Gomez. Not suspiciously. Just slapping down a bigmouth. Chane slumped against his girder and shut his eyes.
"You don't have to be an expert," he said, "to know that."
And how many times I've done this, he thought. Watched a ship run and dodge and twist, half ki
lling the men inside, and we watched and followed and waited until the strength was beaten out of them. And now I'm on the receiving end....
Bixel said over the intercom, "They're here."
The Starwolf ships dropped into normal space, showing their bright little blips like sudden sparks on the radar screen. Distant yet. Too far off to be seen. But zeroing in.
Chane's hands ached to take the controls from Dilullo, but he kept them still. It was useless anyway. The Merc ship was no stronger than the men who built it.
"Coordinates!" said Dilullo, and Bixel's tired voice answered, "Coming."
The computer beside the copilot's chair began to chatter. Gomez read the tapes it fed out. Chane knew what he was going to say and waited till he said it.
"They're globing us."
Yes. Break formation and dart like flying slivers of light alt around the exhausted prey. Englobe it, disable it, close and pounce.
"What the devil do they want of us?" roared Bollard's voice from the engine-room.
There was a little silence before Dilullo said, "Maybe just to kill us. It's the nature of the beast."
"I don't think so," Chane said, and he thought, I know damn well. "I think they'd have knocked us apart back there on first contact. I think this is a boarding action. Maybe they got wind of something in the nebula. Maybe they think we know."
"Up shields," said Dilullo.
Bollard's voice answered, "Shields up, John. But they can batter them down. There's too many."
"I know." Dilullo turned to Gomez. "Is there any gap in that globe?"
"Nothing they couldn't close long before we got there." Bixel's voice, high and tight, said, "John, they're coming fast."
Dilullo said quietly, "Does anyone have any suggestions?"
Chane answered, "Take them by surprise."
"The expert again," said Gomez. "Go ahead, John. Take them by surprise."
Dilullo said, "I'm listening, Chane."
"They think we're beat. I don't have to be an expert to know that, either. They're stronger than ordinary people, they count on that, and they count on people feeling helpless and giving up. If you suddenly bulled at them head on, I think you might break out, and you better do it fast before they blow your tail off."
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