Bors swore again. That was where he was to meet the cargo-ship captured and sent aloft, supposedly destroyed on Tralee. But he drove on out, around and away from Tralee.
He was reasonably satisfied with his landing on Tralee. With some luck, the news of the landing of a lone survivor of the Kandarian fleet might reach Mekin before it was aware of what had happened to its occupation force. With a little more luck, the attention of Mekin would be devoted more to a ship which dared to turn pirate than to Kandar itself. With unlimited favorable fortune, Mekin might actually send ships to hunt the Isis instead of asking questions on Kandar.
But Bors made a mental note. The more time that passed before Mekin knew what had happened, the better. So a ship or two or three might be detached from the fleet and sent back to hang off Kandar. If a single ship came inquiringly, it might be sniped and the news of Kandar suppressed for a while longer. And it was conceivable that Mekin might come to worry more about other matters than the success or failure of a routine expansion of its empire.
The fourth planet loomed up on schedule. Bors was irritated, as often before, by the relatively slow solar-system drive. Overdrive was sometimes not fast enough—but solar-system drive was infuriatingly slow. Yet one couldn’t use overdrive in a solar system. Approaching a planet on overdrive would be like trying to garage a ground-car at sixty miles an hour. One couldn’t stop where one wanted to. He wondered vaguely if Logan, the math Talent, could handle such a problem, and dismissed the idea. One could break a circuit with an accuracy of microseconds, but that wouldn’t be close enough for overdrive. It wouldn’t be practical.
Then the ice-sheet of Tralee’s nearest neighbor planet spread out in the vision-port’s range of view. Bors called for the cargo-ship. It answered almost immediately. It was standard practice, of course, that the site of a meeting planned at a given planet would be wherever its poles pointed nearest to galactic north. The cargo-ship had just arrived. It barely responded before the Sylva began to call again.
The three ships, then, joined their orbits and went swinging about the glacier-world beneath them while they conferred.
The report from the cargo-ship was unexpectedly satisfactory. It had been almost completely loaded, and its cargo was largely foodstuffs intended for Mekin. Kandar’s fleet-in-hiding was already subsisting on emergency rations. This cargo of assorted frozen foods would be welcome. Bors gave orders for it to head for Glamis immediately, in overdrive.
Communication had been three-way, and Gwenlyn said quickly;
“Just a moment! Did you pick up any news-reports on Tralee?”
“Hm. Yes. I’d better send them—”
“You’d better?” echoed Gwenlyn, scolding. “My father stayed with the fleet to try to explain what Talents, Incorporated can do! He kept most of the Talents with him, for demonstrations! The Department for Predicting Dirty Tricks is there! Don’t you remember what that Department works on? Of course you’ve got to send those news-reports!”
Bors ordered a space-boat to come from the cargo-ship for the reports.
“Would you like to come to dinner on the yacht?” asked Gwenlyn. “You’re all living on emergency rations. Nobody asked us to divide our supplies with the fleet. I can give you a nice meal.”
“Better not,” said Bors curtly, and mumbled thanks.
He ordered the cargo-ship to send as much of its stores as the space-boat could conveniently carry.
“Then how about some cigars?” asked Gwenlyn. She seemed at once amused and approving, because Bors would not indulge himself in a really satisfying meal while his crew lived on far from appetizing emergency foodstuffs.
“No,” said Bors. “No cigars either. You said you had some news for me. What is it?”
“I brought along our ship-arrival Talent,” said Gwenlyn blandly. “He can only tell when a ship will arrive at the solar system where he is, so he had to come here to precognize.”
Bors felt again that stubborn incredulity which Talents, Incorporated would always rouse in a mind like his.
“There’ll be a ship arriving here in two days, four hours, sixteen minutes from now,” said Gwenlyn matter-of-factly. “He thinks it’s a fighting ship, though he can’t be sure. It could be a cruiser or something like that doing mail duty, coming to deliver orders and receive reports. You can’t run an empire without a regular news system, and Mekin wouldn’t depend on commercial ships for government business.”
“Good!” said Bors. “Thanks!”
There was a pause.
“What will you do now?”
“Try to raise the devil somewhere else,” said Bors. “Try to pick up another food-ship, probably. Maybe I ought to let this ship alone, to carry news of the pirate ship Isis back to Mekin, but—No. They use booby-traps as police devices!”
It was not reasonable, but Bors could not think of missing a Mekinese warship. The idea of a government using booby-traps to enforce its orders somehow put it beyond forgiveness, and with the government all those who served it willingly.
“You’ll go to Garen then?” asked Gwenlyn.
Bors felt a sharp sting of annoyance. He had carefully kept secret the choice of Garen Three as the next planet to be invaded by the pseudo-pirate ship. It was upsetting to find that Gwenlyn knew about it. Blast Talents, Incorporated!
“The dowsing Talent,” said Gwenlyn, “says there’s a battleship aground there. There’ve been some riots. The people of Garen don’t like Mekin, either. Strange? The battleship is to overawe them.”
“How do you know that?” demanded Bors.
“The Department for Predicting Dirty Tricks was reading old news-reports,” she told him. “We’re leaving now. ’Bye.”
“Goodbye,” said Bors, and sighed, not knowing whether he felt regret or relief.
The space-yacht Sylva flicked out of sight. It had gone into overdrive. Bors realized that he hadn’t noticed which way it pointed. He should have taken note. But he shook his head. He gave the cargo-ship detailed orders, receiving its space-boat and what food it had been able to bring. He sent it off to meet his fleet at Glamis.
He stayed in orbit around the fourth planet to wait for a Mekinese fighting-ship. He began, too, to make long-range plans.
PART THREE
Chapter 7
The Mekinese ship was a cruiser, and it broke out of overdrive within the Tralee solar system just two days, four hours, and some odd minutes after Gwenlyn predicted its coming. Presumably, it had made the customary earlier breakout to correct its course and measure the distance remaining to be run. In overdrive there was not as yet a way to know accurately one’s actual speed, and at astronomical distances small errors piled up. Correction of line was important, too, because a course that was even a second off arc could mount up to hundreds of thousands of miles. But even with that usual previous breakout, the Mekinese cruiser did not turn up conveniently close to its destination. It needed a long solar-system drive to make its planetfall.
Bors’s long-range radar picked it up before it was near enough to notify its arrival to the planet—if it intended to notify at all. Most likely its program was simply and frighteningly to appear overhead and arrogantly demand the services of the landing-grid to lower it to the ground.
Bors’s radar detected the cruiser and instantly cut itself off. The cry of “Co-o-ntact!” went through the ship and all inner doors closed, sealing the ship into sections. Bors was already at the board in the control room. He did not accept the predictions of Talents, Incorporated as absolute truth. It bothered him that such irrational means of securing information should be so accurate. So he compromised in his own mind to the point where, when Talents, Incorporated gave specific information, it was possible; no more. Then, having admitted so much, he acted on the mere possibility, and pretended to be surprised when it turned out to be a fact.
That was the case now. A ship had appeared in this solar system at the time the ship-arrival Talent on the Sylva predicted. Bors scowled, and swung the Isis
in line between Tralee and the new arrival. He turned, then, and drove steadily out toward it. The other ship’s screens would show a large blip which was the planet, and in direct line a very much smaller blip which was the Isis. The small blip might not be noticed because it was in line with the larger. If it were noticed, it would be confusing, because such things should not happen. But the cruisers of Mekin were not apt to be easily alarmed. They represented a great empire, all of whose landing-grids were safely controlled, and though there was disaffection everywhere there was no reason to suspect rebellion at operations in space.
For a long time nothing happened. The Isis drove to meet the cruiser. The two vessels should be approaching each other at a rate which was the total of their speeds. Bors punched computer-keys and got the gravitational factor at this distance from Tralee’s sun. He set the Isis’s solar-system drive to that exact quantity. He waited.
His own radar was now non-operative. Its first discovery-pulse would have been observed by the Mekinese duty-officer. The fact that it did not repeat would be abnormal. The duty-officer would wonder why it didn’t come again.
The astrogation-radar cut off. Then a single strong pulse came. It would be a ranging-pulse. Cargo-ship radars sacrificed high accuracy for wide and deep coverage. But war-vessels carried pulse instruments which could measure distances within feet up to thousands of miles, and by phase-scrambling among the echoes even get some information about the size and shape of the object examined. Not much, but some.
Bors relaxed. Things were going well. When four other ranging-pulses arrived at second intervals, he nodded to himself. This was a warship’s reaction. It could be nothing else. That officer knew that something was coming out from Tralee. It was on approximately a collision course. But a ship traveling under power should gain velocity as long as its drive was on. When traveling outward from the sun and not under power, it should lose velocity by so many feet per second to the sun’s gravitational pull. Bors’s ship did neither. It displayed the remarkably unlikely characteristic of absolutely steady motion. It was not normal. It was not possible. It could not have any reasonable explanation, in the mind of a Mekinese.
Which was its purpose. It would arouse professional curiosity on the cruiser, which would then waste some precious time attempting to identify it. There wouldn’t be suspicion because it didn’t act suspiciously. Still, it couldn’t be dismissed, because it didn’t behave in any recognizable fashion. The cruiser would want to know more about it; it shouldn’t move at a steady velocity going outward from a sun.
In consequence, Bors got in the first shot.
He said, “Fire one!” when the Mekinese would be just about planning to turn their electron-telescope upon it. A missile leaped away from the Isis. It went off at an angle, and it curved madly, and the instrumentation of the cruiser could spot it as now there, now here, now nearer, and now nearer still. But the computers could not handle an object which not only changed velocity but changed the rate at which its velocity changed.
Missiles came pouring out of the Mekinese ship. They were infinitesimal, bright specks on the radar-screen. They curved violently in flight trying to intercept the Isis’s missile. They failed.
There was a flash of sun-bright flame very, very far away. There was a little cloud of vapor which dissipated swiftly. Then there was nothing but two or three specks moving at random, their target lost, their purpose forgotten. The fact of victory was an anticlimax.
“All clear,” said Bors grimly.
The inner-compartment doors opened. The normal sounds of the ship were heard again. Bors began to calculate the data needed for the journey to Garen. There was the angle and the distance and the proper motions and the time elapsed.… He found it difficult to think in such terms. He was discontented. He’d ambushed a Mekinese cruiser. True, he’d let his own ship be seen, and the Mekinese had warning enough to launch missiles in their own defense. It was not even faintly like the ambush of a cruiser on the bottom of a Kandarian sea, waiting to assassinate a fleet when its complement went on board. But Bors didn’t like what he’d just done.
The figures wouldn’t come out right. Impatiently, he sent for Logan. The mathematical Talent came into the control room.
“Will you calculate this for me?” Bors asked irritably.
Logan glanced casually at the figures and wrote down the answer. Instantly. Without thought or reflection. Instantly!
Bors couldn’t quite believe it. The distance between the two stars was a rounded-off number, of course. The relative proper motion of the two stars had a large plus-or-minus bugger factor. The time-lapse due to distance had a presumed correction and there was a considerable probable error in the speed of translation of the ship during overdrive. It was a moderately complicated equation, and the computation of the probable error was especially tricky. Bors stared at it, and then stared at Logan.
“That’s the answer to what you have written there,” said Logan condescendingly, “but your figures are off. I’ve been talking to your computer men. They’ve given me the log figures on past overdrive jumps and the observed errors on arrival. They’re systematic. I noticed it at once.”
Bors said, “What?”
“There’s a source of consistent error,” Logan said patiently. “I found the values to correct it, then I found the source. It’s in your overdrive speed.”
Bors blinked. Speed in overdrive could not be computed exactly. The approximation was very close—within a fraction of a tenth of one per cent—but when the distance traveled was light-years the uncertainty piled up.
“If you use these figures,” said Logan complacently—and he scribbled figures swiftly—”you’ll get it really accurate.”
Having finished writing the equation, he wrote the solution. Bors asked suspicious questions. Logan answered absently. He knew nothing about overdrive. He didn’t understand anything but numbers and he didn’t know how he did what he did with them. But he’d worked backward from observed errors in calculation and found a way to keep them out of the answer. And he’d done it all in his head. It was unbelievable—yet Bors believed.
“I’ll try your figures,” he said. “Thanks.”
Logan went proudly away, past an orderly bringing cups of coffee to the control room. Bors aimed the ship according to the calculation Logan had given him, scrupulously setting the breakout timer to the exact figure listed.
He was still uncomfortable about the destruction of the Mekinese cruiser when he said curtly, “Overdrive coming!” He’d have preferred a more sportsmanlike type of warfare. He faced the old, deplorable fact that fighting men had had to adjust to throughout the ages; one can fight an honorable enemy honorably, but against some men scruples count as handicaps.
“Swine!” growled Bors. “They’ll make us like them!” Then into the microphone he said, “Five, four, three, two, one.…”
He pressed the overdrive button. The sensation of going into overdrive was acutely uncomfortable, as always. Bors swallowed squeamishly and took his cup of coffee.
The Isis, then, lay wrapped in a cocoon of stressed space. Its properties included the fact that its particular type of stress could travel much more swiftly than the stresses involved in the propagation of radiation, of magnetism, or gravity. And this state of stress—this overdrive field—did not have a position. It was a position. The ship inside it could not be said to be in the real cosmos at all, but when the field collapsed it would be somewhere, and the way it pointed, and how long before collapse, determined in what particular somewhere it would be when it came out. But travel in overdrive was tedious.
As civilization increases man’s control of the cosmos, it takes the fun out of it. In prehistoric days a man who had to hunt animals or go hungry may often have gone hungry, but he was never bored by the sameness of his meals. A man who traveled on horseback often got to his destination late, but he was not troubled with ennui on the way. In overdrive, Bors’s ship traveled almost with the speed of thought, but there
was absolutely nothing to think about while journeying. Not about the journey, anyhow.
While the ship drove on, however, the cargo-ship seized on Tralee made its way toward Glamis and a meeting with the fleet, then gloomily sweeping in orbit around Glamis Two. The food it carried would raise men’s spirits a little, but it would not solve the problem of what the fleet was to do. Morgan, on the flagship, expounded the ability of his Talents to perform the incredible, but nobody could find any application of the incredible to the fix the fleet was in. On Kandar, the population knew that there had been a battle off the gas-giant planet, but they did not know the result. The Mekinese fleet had not come. The fleet of Kandar had not returned. The caretaker government met in council and desperately made guesses. It arrived at no hopeful conclusion whatever. The most probable—because most hopeless—conviction seemed to be that the fleet of Mekin had been met and fought, but that it was victorious, and in retaliation for resistance it had gone away to send back swarms of grisly bomb-carriers which would drop atomic bombs in such quantity that for a thousand years to come there would be no life on Kandar.
The light cruiser, the Isis, was unaware of these frustrations. It remained in overdrive, where absolutely nothing happened.
Bors reviewed his actions and could not but approve of them tepidly. He’d sent food to the fleet, he’d destroyed two enemy fighting ships and he’d done what he could to harm the Mekinese puppets on Tralee. He’d had them publicly humiliated with well-chosen epithets. He’d destroyed the records and archives of the secret political police.… Many people on Tralee already blessed him, without knowing who he was. There might yet be hope of better days.
But all things end, even journeys at excessively great multiples of the speed of light. The overdrive timer rang warning bells. Taped breakout notifications sounded from speakers throughout the ship. There was a count-down of seconds, and the abominably unpleasant sensation of breakout, and the ship was in normal space again.
The Murray Leinster Megapack Page 220
