“We cannot continue to fight!” he said sternly, “not unless we can defend Kandar—which we can’t as against the Mekinese main fleet. We were prepared to sacrifice our lives to earn respect for our world, and to leave a tradition behind us. We must still be prepared to sacrifice even our vanity.”
The vice-admiral said, “But one sacrifices, Majesty, to achieve. Do you believe that Mekin will honor any treaty one second after it ceases to be profitable to Mekin?”
“That,” said the king, “has to be thought about. But Bors is right on one point. We should come to no final conclusion without information—”
“Majesty,” Bors interrupted. His words came slowly, as if an idea were forming as he spoke. “The enemy may have no news at all. They may know they’ve been defeated, but they’dnever expect our freedom from loss. Why couldn’t a single Kandarian ship turn up at some port where its appearance would surely be reported to Mekin? It could pose as the sole survivor of our fleet, which would indicate that the rest of us were wiped out in the battle. If we had all been wiped out, there’d be no point in their fusion-bombing Kandar. Certainly they expected us to be destroyed. One surviving ship can prove that we have been!”
The king’s expression brightened.
“Ah! And we can go and intern ourselves—”
There was a growl. The pompous voice said, “We would gain time, Majesty. Our fear is that Mekin may feel it must avenge a defeat. But if one ship claims to be the sole survivor of our fleet, it announces a Mekinese victory. That is a highly desirable thing!”
The king nodded.
“Yes-s-s.… We were unwise to survive the battle. We can hide our unwisdom. Captain Bors, I will give you orders presently. As of now, I will accept reports on battle-damage given and received.” As Bors saluted and turned to the door, the king added, “I will be with the Pretender presently.”
It was an order and Bors obeyed it. He went to find his uncle. He found the former monarch in the king’s cabin of this, the largest ship of the fleet. The Pretender greeted Bors unhappily.
“A very bad business,” he observed.
“Bad,” agreed Bors. “But for the two of us, a defeat for Mekin is not bad news.”
“For us and Tralee,” the old man said reprovingly, “there is some pleasure. But it is still bad. Every ship we destroyed must be replaced. Like every other subject planet, Tralee will be required to build—how many ships? Ten? Twenty? We have increased the burden Mekin lays on Tralee. And worse—much worse—”
“There’s such a thing,” protested Bors, “as using a microscope on troubles! We did something we badly wanted to! If we can keep it up—”
The Pretender said, “How is the food-supply on your ship? How long can you feed your crew without supplies from some base?”
Bors swore. The question had the impact of a blow. HisIsis, like the rest of the fleet, had taken off from Kandar to fight and be destroyed. There were emergency rations on board, of course. But the food-storage compartments hadn’t been filled. The fleet did not expect to go on living, so it did not prepare to go on eating. It would have been absurd to carry stores for months when they expected to live only hours. It simply hadn’t occurred to anyone to load provisions for a long operation away from base.
“That’s what the king is worrying about,” said the Pretender. “We’ve some thousands of men who will be hungry presently. If we reveal that we survived the battle, Mekin’s tributaries will begin to think. They might even hope—which Mekin would have to stop immediately. If we do not reveal that we still exist, what can be done about starving ship-crews? It is a bad business. It would have been much better if the fleet had been destroyed, as we expected, in a gesture of pure fury over its own helplessness.”
Bors said sardonically, “We can all commit suicide, of course!”
The Pretender did not answer. His nephew sank into a chair and glowered at the wall. The situation was contrary to all the illusions cherished by the human race. To act decently and with honor is somehow fitting to a man and consistent with the nature of the universe, so that decency and honor may prosper. But recent events denied it. Men who were willing to die for their countrymen only injured them by the attempt. And now the conduct which honor would approve turned upon them to bring the consequences of treason and villainy.
A long time passed. Bors sat with clenched hands. It was the barbaric insistence of Mekin upon conquest that was at fault, of course. But this happens everywhere, as it has throughout all history. There are, really, three kinds of people in every community, as there have always been. There are the barbarians, and there are the tribesmen, and there are the civilized. This was true when men lived on only one planet, and doubtless was true when the first village was built. There were civilized men even then. If there was progress, they brought it about. And in every village there were, and are, tribesmen, men who placidly accept the circumstances into which they are born, and who wish no change at all. And everywhere and at all times there are barbarians. They seek personal triumphs. They thrive on high emotional victories. And at no time will barbarians ever leave either civilized men or tribesmen alone. They crave triumphs over them and each other, and they create disaster everywhere, until they are crushed.
Bors said evenly, “If the king’s planning to surrender the fleet to Mekin as ransom for Kandar, it won’t work.”
“He’s considering it,” said his uncle. “It will be a way of giving them the victory we cheated them of, though we didn’t intend to win.”
“It won’t work,” repeated Bors. “It won’t do a bit of good. They’ll want to punish Kandar because it wasn’t beaten. They feed on destruction and brutality. They’re barbarians. The economic interpretation of history doesn’t apply here! The Mekinese who run things want to be evil. They will be until they’re crushed.”
“Crushed?” asked the Pretender bitterly. “Is there a chance of that?”
Bors considered gravely. Then he said, “I think so.”
The door opened and the king came in. Bors rose and the king nodded. He spoke to the Pretender.
“Somebody raised the question of food,” he said. “There isn’t any to speak of, of course. You’d think grown men would face facts! There’s not a man willing to accept what is, and work from that! Lunatics!”
He flung himself into a chair.
“Suggested,” he continued, “that a part of the fleet go to Norden to buy food and bring it back. Of course Mekin wouldn’t hear about it, wouldn’t guess at the survival of the fleet because food was bought in such quantities! Suggested, that a part of the fleet go to some uncolonized planet and hunt meat. Try to imagine success in that venture! Suggested, that we travel a long distance, pick out a relatively small world, land and seize its spaceport and facilities and equip ourselves to bomb Mekin to extinction. And do it in a surprise attack! Suggested—”
The king shook his head angrily. He did not look royal. He did not look confident. He looked embittered and even helpless. But he still looked like a very honest man trying to make up for his admitted deficiencies.
“Majesty,” said Bors.
The king turned his eyes.
“You’re going to send me off for news,” said Bors. “I suggested earlier that my ship pretend to be the sole survivor of the fleet. I suggest now that the ship add the wild and desperate boast that since there’s no longer a world which will sponsor it, it’s turned pirate. It will take vengeance on its own. It defies the might of Mekin and it dares the Mekinese fleet to do something about it.”
“Why?” asked the king.
“Pirates,” Bors answered, controlling his enthusiasm, “have to be hunted down. It takes many ships to hunt down a pirate. I should be able to keep a good-sized slice of the Mekinese navy busy simply lying in wait for me here and there.”
“And?”
“There are tribute-ships which carry food from the subject worlds to Mekin. Hating Mekin as befits the sole survivor of this fleet, Majesty, it would be n
atural for me to capture such ships, even if I could do nothing better with them than send them out to space to be wasted. They wouldn’t be wasted, naturally. They’d come here.”
The king said, “But you couldn’t supply the fleet indefinitely!”
Bors nodded agreement. But he waited.
“You may try,” said the king querulously. “Have you something else up your sleeve?”
Bors nodded in his turn.
“Don’t tell me what it is,” said the king. “So long as the fleet gets some food and its existence isn’t known.… If I knew what you’re up to, I might feel I had to object.”
“I think not, Majesty,” Bors said, showing a rare smile. “I’ll need some extra men. If I do capture food-ships, they’ll be useful.”
“I can’t imagine that anything would be useful,” said the king bitterly. “Tell the admiral to give them to you.”
Bors saluted and left the room. He went directly to the admiral who in theory was second in command only while the king was aboard. He explained his mission and some of his intentions. The admiral listened stonily.
“I’ll give you fifty men,” he said. “I think you’ll be killed, of course. But if you live long enough to convince them that the fleet’s been destroyed, you’ll be of service.”
“What,” Bors asked, with a trace of humor, “can possibly be done about the fact that we wiped out a Mekinese fleet instead of letting it exterminate us?”
“The matter,” the admiral answered seriously, “is under consideration.”
Bors shrugged and went to his own ship, the Isis. He was excessively uncomfortable. He’d said to his uncle, and implied to the king, that he had some plan in mind. He did, but it angered him to know that he counted on assistance; that, in theory, he could not possibly accomplish it alone. It was irritating to realize that he expected Gwenlyn and her father to turn up, with their Talents, when absolutely nobody outside of the fleet could possibly imagine where the fleet had gone. On Kandar it must be assumed, by now, that it was dead.
His ship’s boat clanked into position in the lifeboat blister. The valves closed on it. A moment later there was a whistling murmur, and the boat’s vision-ports clouded over outside and then cleared. He stepped out into the ship’s atmosphere. His second-in-command greeted him in the control-room.
“I was trying to reach you at the flagship, sir,” he said. “The yacht Sylva is lying a few miles off. Her owner has forwarded news reports to the flagship. He asks that you receive him when you can, sir.”
Bors’s apparent lack of surprise was real. He wasn’t surprised. But he was annoyed with himself for expecting something so impossible as the Sylva tracing the fleet through an overdrive voyage of days to a most unlikely destination like Glamis.
“Tell him to come aboard,” he commanded.
He went to talk to the mess officer, reflecting that he would ask the Morgans how the Sylva had known where to come, and they’d tell him, and it would be extremely unlikely, and he would accept the explanation. The mess-officer looked harassed at the news of fifty additional crewmen to be fed.
“Principles of prudence and common sense,” said Bors, “don’t apply any more. We’ll feed them somehow.”
He went back to the control-room. When Morgan appeared, beaming expansively, Bors was again unsurprised to see Gwenlyn with him. Logan, the Mathematics Talent, followed in their wake, looking indifferently about him.
“We wiped out the fleet headed for Kandar,” Bors observed. “I don’t suppose that’s news, to you?”
Morgan cheerfully shook his head.
“And we’re in considerably more trouble than before. Is that news?”
“No,” admitted Morgan. “It’s reasonable for you to be.”
“Then, damnit, I’m going off on a pirating-news-gathering-food-raiding cruise alone,” said Bors. “Is that news?”
“We brought Logan,” said Morgan, “to go with you. He’ll be useful. That’s Talents—”
“—Incorporated information and I can depend on it,” said Bors dourly. “In plain common sense the odds are rather high against my accomplishing anything, such as coming back.”
Morgan looked at his daughter. He grinned.
“We heard gloom from him the other day before a certain space-battle, didn’t we?” He turned back to Bors. “Look, Captain. Our Talents don’t prophesy. Precognition simply says that when there are so many thousand ways an event in the future can happen, then, in one of those several thousand ways, it will. Precognition doesn’t say which way. It doesn’t say how. Especially, it doesn’t say why. But we have a very firm precognition by a very reliable Talent that you’ll be alive and doing something very specific a year from now. So we assume you won’t be permanently killed in the meantime.”
“But anything else can happen?”
“More or less,” admitted Morgan.
“What will happen?”
“We don’t know!” said Morgan again. “Someday I may take you aside and explain the facts of precognition and other talents as I understand them. I’m probably quite wrong. But I do know better than to try to pry certain kinds of information from my Talents. Right now—”
“I’m going to try to capture a, what you might call a tribute-ship, loaded with food for Mekin.”
“Tralee,” said Morgan with finality. “You’ll try there.”
“Will I capture a food-ship there?” asked Bors.
“How the devil would I know?” Morgan snapped.
“You asked the wrong question,” said Gwenlyn cheerfully. “If you asked if there’s a cargo-ship down on Tralee, loading foodstuffs for Mekin, there can be an answer to that.”
“Is there?”
“At the moment, yes,” Morgan answered. “So the dowsing Talent says.”
“Then I’ll go there,” said Bors.
“I thought you might,” said Morgan. He looked at his daughter.
“May I come along?” asked Gwenlyn. “With an assortment of Talents? My father’s going to have long conferences with the king. He’ll need some Talents here to work out things. But I could go along on your ship with a few of the others. We could help a lot.”
“No!” said Bors grimly.
“I thought not,” said Morgan. “Very well. Logan, you’ll help Captain Bors, I’m sure.”
The math Talent said offhandedly;
“Any calculations he needs, of course.”
He looked about him with a confident, modestly complacent air.
Bors walked with Morgan and his daughter to the airlock. He turned to Gwenlyn. “I don’t mean to be ungallant, refusing to let you run risks.”
“I’m flattered but annoyed,” Gwenlyn answered. “It means I’ll have to take drastic measures. Luck!”
She and her father went into the Sylva’s space-boat. The blister doors closed. Bors went back to the control room. He began to set up the computations for astrogation from the sun of Glamis to the sun of Tralee. He shortly heard the sound of arrivals via the Isis’s airlock. Presently, his second-in-command reported fifty additional hands aboard. They included astrogators, drive-engineers and assorted specialists.
After clearance with the flagship, the little warship aimed with painstaking exactitude at Tralee’s sun, making due allowance for its proper motion, Glamis’s proper motion, the length of time the light he aimed by had been on its way, the distance, and the Isis’s travel-rate in overdrive.
Presently Bors said, “Overdrive coming!” and counted down. After “one” he pressed a button. There was the singularly unpleasant sensation of going into overdrive. Then the small fighting ship was alone in its cocoon of warped and twisted space. Until it came out again, there was no possible way by which any message could reach it or its existence be detected or proved. Theory said, in fact, that the cosmos could explode and a ship in overdrive would be unaware of the fact so long as it stayed in overdrive.
But Bors’s light cruiser came out where the sun of Tralee was a disk of intolerable
brilliance, and all the stars in every direction looked exactly as usual.
Chapter 6
The Isis approached Tralee from the night side, and at a time when the planet’s spaceport faced the sun. Tralee was not a base for Mekinese war-craft. To the contrary, it was strictly a conquered world. It was desirable for Mekinese ships to be able to appear as if magically and without warning in its skies. There would be no far-ranging radars on the planet except at its solitary spaceport. Mekinese ships could come out of overdrive, time a solar-system-drive approach to arrive at Tralee’s atmosphere in darkness, and be hovering menacingly overhead when dawn broke. Such an appearance had strong psychological effects upon the population.
Bors used the same device with modifications.
His ship plunged out of the sunrise and across half a continent, descending as it flew. When it reached the planet’s capital city, there had been less than a minute between the first notification by radar and its naked-eye visibility. When it came into sight at the spaceport it was less than four thousand feet high and it went sweeping for the landing-grid at something over mach one. Its emergency-rockets roared. It decelerated smoothly and crossed the upper rim of the great, lacy metal structure with less than a hundred feet to spare. In fractions of an additional minute it was precisely aground some fifty yards from the spaceport office. Steam and smoke rose furiously from where its rocket-flames had played.
Lock-doors opened. Briskly moving landing-parties trotted across the ground toward the grid-control building. There were two ships already in the spaceport. One was a Mekinese guard-ship of approximately the armament of the Isis. Weapons trained swiftly upon it. Missiles roared across the half-mile of distance. They detonated, chemical explosives only. The Mekinese guard-ship flew apart. What remained was not truly identifiable as a former ship. It was fragments.
Bors asked curtly, “Grid office?”
The landing-party was inside. A small tumult came out of a speaker. A voice said:
“All secure in the grid office, sir.”
“Hook in to planetary broadcast, declare a first-priority emergency, and run your tape,” commanded Bors.
The Murray Leinster Megapack Page 218
