The Weapon Makers

by A. E. van Vogt

  “I still don’t see—”

  “Let me put it like this,” she said coolly. “At this final hour we do not take chances. You have permission to go upstairs and overpower Greer. In fact, I order you to take the risks of a soldier and prevent him from successfully launching this ship out of its hangar. However, just in case our vague suspicions of you have any basis, I am now, this instant, ordering the attack. If you have any private plans of your own, abandon them now, and cooperate with us. Climb up, while the attack is in progress, and do anything that is necessary against Greer. But you’ll have to hurry.”

  Her voice grew stronger, and it was clear that she was giving orders into other ’stats, as she cried in a tone that was like a deep violin note, “All forces act. Break in!”

  Hedrock heard that command as he started for the stairway. He had to pause to open the radiation door, and then he was racing up the steps, still hopeful, still convinced that in spite of what had happened he could climb up above the ground level before anybody could stop him.

  The first shot struck then. It shook the ship. It was violent beyond his wildest preconception. It brought a moment of horrible daze, and the mind-racking thought that he had forgotten concussion. He raced on up, up, the fear of defeat already in his heart. The second titanic shot sent him reeling back. But he recovered and climbed on.

  The third shot raged then. And blood spurted from his nose; a warm stream trickled out of his ears. The fourth shot—he was dimly aware that he was half-way to the control room—crumpled him in a heap. He half-rolled down an entire section of the stairway. And the fifth shot caught him as he was staggering erect.

  He knew his defeat now, a sick and deadly knowledge, but he kept moving his legs, and felt amazed when he reached the next level. The sixth intolerable explosion caught him there at the head of that long stairway, and sent him spinning down like a leaf engulfed in a storm. There was a door at the bottom; and he closed it with automatic intention. He stared dully as the great door lifted from its hinges, grazed him as it fell, and clanged to the floor. That was the seventh shot.

  Like an animal now, he retreated from pain, down the next line of steps, instinctively locking the lower door. He was standing there, infinitely weary, half leaning against the wall when the shouts of men roused his stunned mind. Voices, he thought then, inside the ship. He shook his head, unbelievingly. The voices came nearer; and then abruptly, the truth penetrated.

  They were in. It had only taken seven shots.

  A man shouted arrogantly from the other side of the door beside which he was standing, “Quick, break it down! Capture everybody aboard. That’s orders!”

  Eight

  HEDROCK BEGAN TO RETREAT, IT WAS A SLOW BUSINESS, because his mind wouldn’t gather around any one thought, and his reflexes were disorganized.

  His knees trembled as he kept going down the stairs. Down, down—the feeling came that he was climbing down into his grave. Not, he thought, that there was much farther to go now. The storerooms were past. Next would be the insulation room, then the repair room, then the engine room, then the drive chamber; and then—

  And then—

  Hope came. Because there was a way. The ship was lost, of course. And with it the chance of all the billions of human beings who might have carried the torch of civilization to the farthest stars of the universe—their chance, their destiny, their hope of greater happiness was gone. But once more there was hope for him. He reached the engine room, and forgot all else but the work that had to be done. It took a precious minute to discover which of the electric switches controlled the ship’s lighting system and other power functions. During that minute the floors shuddered as another of the doors he had locked went down with a distant clang before the hissing roar of a mobile unit. Instantly, the shouting of men came nearer.

  Hedrock began to pull switches. He wanted all the upper lights off. It should take them several minutes to get more. He had already visually located the six-foot drill he wanted. He floated it out on its antigravity base, pushing it urgently down the two flights of stairs from the repair room, where it had been, down past the engine room, into the great drive chamber that was the final room of the big spaceship. And there, in spite of himself, in spite of urgency, Hedrock paused and stared at what must be the stellar drive itself.

  Here was the treasure that all the fighting was about. Yesterday—how long ago that seemed—he hadn’t had time to come down to this room. Now, he had to make the time. He snatched the transparency bar of the giant drill and focused its penetrating light at the thirty-foot-thick drive shaft. He saw dark mist—and realized his failure. The metal was too hard, too thick. There were too many interlayers and reflectors. No known transparency would ever approach the core of that drive.

  Defeated, he whirled and began to run, pushing the drill which, weightless though it was, nevertheless offered a “mass” resistance to his straining muscles. He got through the first door of the bottom lock, then the second, then the third, and then he stood there in a wild surmise. He had been gathering his reserves of strength and will for the job of drilling a six-foot hole through the earth on a steep slanting thrust for the surface. He didn’t have to. The hole, the passageway, was there. A line of dim ceiling lights made a straight but upward slanting path into the distance.

  It was not the moment to think of why it was there. Hedrock grabbed the transparency, bar, squeezed past the now unnecessary drill, and raced along the tunnel. It was much longer than he would have had time to drill. The angle of ascent was only about twenty degrees. But actually the greater distance was all to the good. The farther he got away from the ship before emerging into the open, the better.

  He reached the end suddenly. It was a metal door; and, using the transparency, he could see that beyond it was an empty cellar. The door had a simple latch that opened at his touch and closed behind him like amorphous metal sinking tracelessly into a solid wall. Hedrock paused inside the cellar and studied the door. He had taken it for granted that Greer had been back from Centaurus for a long time. But there was another explanation. Not Greer, but Kershaw and the others, had built this. They, too, had been cautious about their contacts with the outside world. It was possible that Greer had not even known of this passageway. In fact—Hedrock felt suddenly positive—the man would never have left him alone in the engine room yesterday morning, so near an exit, if he had known. The other, the telestat contacts with the outside world had probably been handed into Greer’s control as general handy man by those brilliant nitwits, Kershaw and Gil Neelan, who thought of every precaution against outside” interference but had failed to protect themselves against their own employee.

  It was an interesting but academic point in view of what had happened. Depressed, Hedrock headed for a set of stairs to his left. Halfway up, the stairs branched. The left way led up to a rather ornate door beyond which his transparency showed a vacant kitchen. The right way proved to be the one he wanted.

  Hedrock laid the transparency down on the steps. He wouldn’t be needing it any more. He straightened, opened the second door, and stepped into bright sunlight. He found himself in the back yard of a large, vacant house. There was the usual green wonder of lawn, the perpetually flowering garden, the carplane garage, and a high fence with a gate. The gate opened easily from inside on to a back-alley boulevard, the kind where the sidewalks hug the sides of the street. Farther along, Hedrock could see a broad thoroughfare.

  He hurried toward it, anxious to identify it so that he could judge how far he was from the spaceship. Knowing where he was would give him a better idea of what he must do, could do, next.

  There was a uniformed guard at the corner, and he wore the glittering viewer headpiece. He waved at Hedrock from a distance.

  “How’re things going?”

  “We’re in!” Hedrock called. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s a solid line of us out here.”

  Hedrock turned away, thoughtfully, an
d walked hastily back the way he had come. Trapped. The streets would be covered for blocks; and, in minutes, a yelling crew would smash the last of the hard doors that barred their way in the spaceship, realize what had happened, and the search with its certainty of capture would be on. Or, worse still, perhaps they were already by the final barrier, and in minutes would break from the house, where the tunnel ended, and seeing him, swoop for the kill.

  He vaulted a high fence into another back yard. There was a line of viewer-helmeted men along the front of the house. But now that he was heading for the ship, with the hope it suddenly offered, the spirit of retreat faded. Nobody tried to stop him. And, after a tense minute, he had to smile at the psychology that permitted a man to head toward a center of infection, but not away from it. He crossed boldly to the corner of the street, from where he could see the needle-shaped hangar just down the block. A few seconds later he reached the ship. No one tried to stop him as he climbed gingerly through the jagged gap the cannon had made, and so into the control room.

  The lights he had turned off were on. That was the first thing Hedrock noticed. The searchers had reached the engine room. Presently, they would come surging up to explore the rest of the ship. Meanwhile, he had the opportunity he needed. Hedrock glanced around the control room. There were several dozen men standing around, and every one of them was dressed in the regulation insulation suit. There was no suspicion in their eyes.

  To them he was just one more member of the secret police, wearing protective clothing in a radioactive area.

  Crash! The sound coming from deep in the ship galvanized Hedrock. That must be the door to the drive chamber. His freedom was just now being discovered. In seconds, the alarm would clamor forth. Hedrock walked without haste toward the stairway, jostled past several men waiting there, and began to climb up. It was as simple as that. He came to the lifeboat. He searched it quickly. It was untenanted. With a sigh, he sank into the multipurpose chair before the control board, drew a shaky breath, and pressed the launching lever.

  Like a ball rolling down a glass incline, the little ship slid up into the air.

  The old and wonderful city, seen from the height of half a mile, sparkled in the sun. It seemed very close, some of the spearheads of buildings almost scraping the bottom of his ship as he flew. Hedrock sat almost without thought. His first wonder that the warships had not attacked him had already yielded to the belief that they were on the lookout for an eight-hundred-foot spaceship; this tiny craft resembled at a distance a public carplane, or a dozen types of pleasure craft. He had two purposes. The first one was to escape, if he could, to one of his hiding places. Failing that he intended to use the special drive of the lifeboat to help him get away.

  It was a dark spot on the upper rim of the rear-view ’stat that brought him out of his hopeful mood. The spot hurtled down out of the blue, became a ship, became a thousand-foot cruiser. Simultaneously, his general call ’stat (usable now that he was out in the open) broke into life. A stern voice said:

  “Didn’t you hear the universal order to ground? Carry on straight ahead, stay on your present level till you come to the military airport beacon due east. Land there, or be blown to bits.”

  Hedrock’s fingers, reaching for the white accelerator, paused in midair. The command showed no suspicion of his identity. His gaze flashed to the telestat plates again and saw that, except for the cruiser, he was alone in the air. All traffic had been forced down.

  Hedrock flashed a frowning glance at the cruiser on the ’stat plate. It showed directly above him and startlingly close. Too close. His eyes narrowed. It blocked an entire section of the upper sky from him. He realized the truth as a second cruiser slipped down to his right, and a third cruiser slid to his left, and a small swarm of destroyers rocketed into view behind and in front of him. The first ship, in almost hugging him, had screened the approach of the others. And there was no doubt that, whatever the army might be,-’the fleet was efficient. A second time his hand reached toward the white accelerator. He clenched it, and then paused as the long, patrician face of the Empress appeared on the general call plate.

  “Neelan,” she said, “I don’t understand. Surely, you’re not going to be foolish enough to oppose your government.”

  Hedrock made no reply. He was tilting his ship ever so slightly. He had his eye on an open space above and between the destroyers ahead. And, besides, his end of these conversations could no longer be carried on in whispers. Which meant that he would have to disguise his voice, something which he hadn’t done for years. It was not the moment to risk his future relationship with her by an unskillful performance.

  “Dan Neelan—” The Empress’ voice was low and intense—“think before you commit yourself irrevocably to ruin. My offer is still open. Simply land that lifeboat as directed and—”

  Her voice went on, but Hedrock was intent on escape. Her interruption had given him time to make a further adjustment on his course, and his little ship was titled now toward the southern hemisphere in the general direction of Centaurus. It was a rough aim, but he had a suspicion that the acceleration he’d need to escape the warships would black him out for a while and he might as well be going somewhere that he knew about,

  “—I offer you one billion credits—”

  His fingers were clenched around the white lever on which were engraved the words, infinity drive, and now that the time had come he did not hesitate. With a flick of his arm, he pulled the lever all the way over.

  There was a blow as from a sledge hammer.

  Nine

  THE MORNING DRAGGED. THE EMPRESS PACED THE FLOOR of her office in front of the mirrors that lined the walls, a tall, handsome young woman.

  She thought once, “How strained I look, like an overworked kitchen maid. I’m beginning to feel sorry for myself and all the hard things I have to do. I’m getting old.”

  She felt older. For the dozenth time, she turned on one of the bank of telestats and stared at the men working in the drive chamber of the Greer spaceship. She had a frantic sense of wanting to shout at them, to urge them to hurry, hurry. Didn’t they realize that any hour, any minute, the Weapon Shops might discover where the ship was hidden, and attack with all their power?

  A score of times during that long morning, she thought, “Destroy the ship now, before it’s too late.”

  With a nervous flick of her finger, she turned on her news ’stat and listened to the clamor that roared at her: Weapon Shops, charge that the Empress has secret of interstellar travel ... Weapon Shops demand that the Empress release to the people the secret of—

  She clicked it off, and stood briefly startled by the sharp silence. After a moment she felt better. They didn’t know. That was the essence of the reports. The Weapon Shops didn’t know the secret. It was true that they had somehow divined what she had. But too late. As soon as the ship was destroyed—she felt another flare of anxiety—there would remain the one doubtful point, one man, the incomprehensible Dan Neelan.

  But Neelan must be dead, or lost. During the two seconds that his little ship had been within range of the warship radar beams, technical officers had estimated its acceleration at well beyond that which a human being could endure and remain conscious. The pressure that had produced the unconscious state would continue for an indefinite period. Let the Weapon Shops rave and rant. The House of Isher had survived greater storms than this.

  An involuntary glance at the ’stat, which was attuned to the Greer spaceship, jarred her mind back to her basic danger. For a long minute she stared at the uncompleted work. Then, trembling, she broke the connection. It was a nightmare, she thought, this waiting.

  It was heartening to listen to the early-afternoon news. It was more reassuring. Everything about the Weapon Shops was against them. She mustered a wry smile. How low she had sunk when her own propaganda could cheer her up.

  But it did. So much so that her nerves quieted sufficiently for her to feel up to an interview she had been putting off all
morning. The interview with Greer. She sat cold as rock while the frightened wretch poured out his story. The man almost beside himself with terror, and his tongue kept running off into pleas for mercy. For a time that didn’t bother her. There was only the thread of his tale about Kershaw and Neelan and—

  And Neelan!

  She sighed her understanding. What an impregnable wall of purpose she had smashed up against. The relationship, it seemed to her, explained the unexpected resistance he had offered her, though there was still no explanation of how he had located the ship. Whatever the details, within a few hours of boarding the machine he had had control of it. His efforts to get the drives working again had been herculean, but the odds against his success had been out of proportion to the enormousness of the task. That was particularly true, and even unfair, because in the final issue she herself had ordered the attack on the basis of her terrible anxiety. Logically, she should have accepted his reasons for delaying the assault. There was no question but that she had run up against a remarkable man.

  She came out of her reverie, and said softly to Greer, “And where did you leave Kershaw and the others?”

  The man broke into a frenzy of babbling, something about there being seven habitable planets altogether in the Alpha Centauri system, three of them lovelier than earth—“And I swear I left them on one of those. They’ll be all right. The first ship will pick them up. All I wanted was to get back here and sell the invention. It’s a crime, of course. But these days everybody’s out for himself.”

  She knew he was lying about where he had left the men. She felt cold and merciless. People who were afraid always did that to her. She had a sense of loathing, as if something unclean was near her. It didn’t really matter whether such people lived or died. She hesitated in spite of the simple logic, and the simpler impulse involved. It took a long second to realize why. It was because, fantastically, she was afraid, too. Not in the way he was. Not for herself. But for the House of Isher.