The Van Rijn Method

by Poul Anderson

  "Hm-m-m," said Firmage. "Their commoners might see things differently, if we could get a few trading ships in there. I've already suggested we use subversive agents—get the Kossalu and his whole bloody government overthrown from within."

  "Of course, of course," said van Rijn. "But that takes more time than we have got, unless we want Spica and Canopus to sew up the Sagittarius frontier while we are stopped dead here."

  "To continue," said Kraaknach, "the Borthudians can produce as many spaceships as they want, which is a great many since their economy is expanding. In fact, its structure—capitalism not unlike ours—requires constant expansion if the whole society is not to collapse. But they cannot produce trained crews fast enough. Pride, and a not unjustified fear of our gradually taking them over, will not let them send students to us any more, or hire from us, and they have only one understaffed academy of their own."

  "I know," said Mjambo. "It'd be a hell of a good market for indentures if we could change their minds for them."

  "Accordingly, they have in the past two years taken to waylaying our ships—in defiance of us and of all interstellar law. They capture the men, hypnocondition them, and assign them to their own merchant fleet. It takes two years to train a spaceman; we are losing an important asset in this alone."

  "Can't we improve our evasive action?" wondered Firmage. "Interstellar space is so big. Why can't we avoid their patrols altogether?"

  "Eighty-five percent of our ships do precisely that," van Rijn told him. "But the hyperdrive vibrations can be detected a light-year away if you have sensitive instruments—pseudogravitational pulses of infinite velocity. Then they close in, using navel vessels, which are faster and more maneuverable than merchantmen. It will not be possible to cut our losses much by evasion tactics. Satan and small pox! You think maybe I have not considered it?"

  "Well, then, how about convoying our ships through?"

  "At what cost? I have been with the figures. It would mean operating the Antares run at a loss—quite apart from all the extra naval units we would have to build."

  "Then how about our arming our merchantmen?"

  "Bah! A frigate-class ship needs twenty men for all the guns and instruments. A merchant ship needs only four. Consider the salaries paid to spacemen. And sixteen extra men on every ship would mean cutting down all our operations elsewhere, for lack of crews. Some pestiferous results: we cannot afford it, we would lose money in big fat gobs. What is worse, the Kossalu knows we would. He needs only wait, holding back his fig-plucking patrols, till we were too broke to continue. Then he would be able to start conquering systems like Antares."

  Firmage tapped the inlaid table with a restless finger. "Bribery, assassination, war, political and economic pressure, all seem to be ruled out," he said. "The meeting is now open to suggestions."

  There was a silence, under the radiant ceiling.

  Gornas-Kiew broke it. "Just how is this shanghaiing done? It is impossible to exchange shots while in hyperdrive."

  "Well, good sir, statistically impossible," amended Kraaknach. "The shells have to be hypered themselves, of course, or they would revert to sublight velocity and be left behind as soon as they emerged from the drive field. Furthermore, to make a hit, they would have to be precisely in phase with the target. A good pilot can phase in on another ship, but the operation is too complex, it involves too many factors, for any artificial brain of useful size."

  "I tell you how," snarled van Rijn. "The pest-bedamned Borthudian ships detect the vibration-wake from afar. They computer the target source and intercept. Coming close, they phase in and slap on a tractor beam. Then they haul themselves up alongside, burn through the hull or the air lock, and board."

  "Why the answer looks simple enough," said Mjambo. "Equip our boats with pressor beams. Keep the enemy ships at arm's length."

  "You forget, esteemed colleague, that beams of either positive or negative sign are powered form the engines," said Kraaknach. "And a naval ship has larger engines than a merchantman."

  "Well then, why not arm our crews? Give 'em heavy blasters and let 'em blow the boarding parties to hell."

  "The illegitimate-offspring-of-interspecies-crosses Borthudians have just such weapons already," snorted van Rijn. "Sulfur and acid! Do you think that four men can stand off twenty?"

  "Mm-m-m . . . yes, I see your point," agreed Firmage. "But look here, we can't do anything about this without laying out some cash. I'm not sure offhand what our margin of profit is—"

  "On the average, for all our combined Antarean voyages, about thirty per cent on each voyage," said van Rijn promptly.

  Mjambo started. "How the devil did you get the figures for my company?"

  Van Rijn grinned and drew on his cigar.

  "that gives us a margin to use," said Gornas-Kiew. "We can invest in fighting equipment to such an extent that our profit is less—though I agree that there must still be a final result in the black—for the duration of the emergency."

  "Ja," said van Rijn, "only I have just told you we have not the men available to handle such fighting equipment."

  "It'll be worth it," said Mjambo viciously. "I'd take a fair-sized loss just to teach them a lesson."

  "No, no." Van Rijn lifted a hand which, after forty years of offices, was still the broad muscular paw of a working spaceman. "Revenge and destruction are un-Christian thoughts. Also, they will not pay very well, since it hard to sell anything to a corpse. The problem is to find some means within our resources which will make it unprofitable for Borthu to raid us and we can maybe later do business."

  "You're a cold-blooded one," said Firmage.

  Van Rijn dropped his eyes and covered a shiver by pouring himself another glass. He had suddenly had an idea.

  He let the other argue for a fruitless hour, then said: "Freemen, this gets us nowhere, nie? Perhaps we are not stimulated enough to think clear."

  "What would you suggest?" asked Mjambo wearily.

  "Oh . . . an agreement. A pool, or prize or reward for whoever solves this problem. For example ten per cent of all the others' Antarean profits for the next ten years."

  "Hoy there!" cried Firmage. "If I know you, you robber, you've just come up with the answer."

  "Oh, no, no, no. By good St. Dismas I swear it. I have some beginning thoughts, maybe, but I am only a poor rough old space walloper without the fine education all you Freemen had. I could so easy be wrong."

  "What is your idea?"

  "Best I not say just yet, until it is more clear in my thick head. But please to note, he who tries solving this problem takes on all the risk and it may well be some small expense. Also, without his solution nobody has any more profits. Does not a little return on his investment sound fair and proper?"

  There was more argument. Van Rijn smiled with infinite benevolence.

  He was satisfied with an agreement in principle, sworn to by mercantile honor, the details to be computed later.

  Beaming, he clapped his hands. "Freemen, we have worked hard tonight and soon comes much harder work. By damn, I think we deserve a little celebration. Simmons, prepare an orgy."

  Captain Torres was shocked. "Are you seriously asking us to risk that?"

  Van Rijn started out through the office wall. "In all secrecy," he answered. "I must have a crew I can trust."

  "But—"

  "We will not be stingy with the bonuses."

  Torres shook his head. "Sir, I'm afraid it's impossible. The Brotherhood has voted absolute refusal of any trips into the Kossaluth except punitive expeditions—which this one is not. Under the constitution, we can't change that policy without another vote, which would have to be a public matter."

  "It can be publicly voted on after we see if it works," urged van Rijn. "The first trip will have to be secret."

  "Then the first trip will have to do without a crew."

  "Rot and pestilence!" Van Rijn's fist crashed down on the desk and he surged to his feet. "What sort of cowards do I deal with? In m
y day we were men! We would have sailed through Hell's open gates if you paid us enough!"

  Torres sucked hard on his cigarette. "I'm stuck with the rules, sir," he declared. "Only a Lodgemaster can . . . well, all right, let me say it!" His temper flared up. "You're asking us to take an untried ship into enemy sky and cruise around till we're attacked. If we succeed, we win a few measly kilocredits of bonus. If we lose, we're condemned to a lifetime of purgatory, locked up in our own skulls and unable to will anything but obedience and knowing how our brains have been chained. Win, lose, or draw for us, you sit back here plump and safe and rake in the money. No."

  Van Rijn sat quiet for a while. This was something he had not foreseen.

  His eyes wandered forth again, to the narrow sea. There was a yacht out there, a lovely thing of white sails and gleaming brass. Really, he ought to spend more time on his own ketch—money wasn't as important as all that. It was not such a bad world, this Earth, even for a lonely old fat man. It was full of blossoms and good wine, clean winds and beautiful women and fine books. In his forebrain, he knew how much his memories of earliest days were colored by nostalgia—space is big and cruel, not meant for humankind. Let's face it, here on Earth we belong.

  He turned around. "You say a Lodgemaster can legally come on such a trip without telling anyone," he remarked quietly. "You think you can raise two more like yourself, hah?"

  "I told you, we won't! And you're only making it worse. Asking an officer to serve as a common crewhand is grounds for a duel."

  "Even if I myself am the skipper?"

  The Mercury did not, outwardly, look different after the engineers were through with her. And the cargo was the same as usual: cinnamon, ginger, pepper, cloves, tea, whiskey, gin. If he was going to Antares, Van Rijn did not intend to waste the voyage. Only wines were omitted from the list, for he doubted if they could stand a trip as rough as this one was likely to be.

  The alteration was internal, extra hull bracing and a new and monstrously powerful engine. The actuarial computers gave the cost of such an outfitting—averaged over many ships and voyages—as equal to three times the total profit from all the vessel's Antarean journeys during her estimated lifetime. Van Rijn had winced, but ordered his shipyards to work.

  It was, in all truth, a very slim margin he had, and he had gambled more on it than he could afford. But if the Kossalu of Borthu had statistical experts of his own—always assuming, of course, that the idea worked in the first place—

  Well, if it didn't, Nicholas van Rijn would die in battle or be executed as useless; or end his days as a brain-churned slave on a filthy Borthudian freighter; or be held for a ruinous ransom. The alternatives all looked equally bad.

  He installed himself, the dark-haired and multiply curved Dorothea McIntyre, and a good supply of brandy, tobacco, and ripe cheese, in the captain's cabin. One might as well be comfortable. Torres was his mate, Captains Petrovich and Seichi his engineers. The Mercury lifted from Quito Spaceport without fanfare, hung unpretentiously in orbit till clearance was given, and accelerated on gravity beams away from the sun. At the required half-billion kilometers' distance, she went on hyperdrive and outpaced light.

  Van Rijn sat back on the bridge and stuffed his churchwarden. "Now is a good month's voyage to Antares," he said piously. "good St. Dismas watch over us."

  "I'll stick by St. Nicholas," murmured Torres. "Even if you do bear the same name."

  Van Rijn looked hurt. "You do not respect my integrity?"

  Torres grinned. "I admire your courage—nobody can say you lack guts and you may very well be able to pull this off. Set a pirate to catch a pirate."

  "You younger generations have a loud mouth and no courtesy." The merchant lit his pipe and blew reeking clouds. "In my day we said 'sir' to the captain even when we mutinied."

  "I'm worrying about one thing," said Torres. "I realize that the enemy probably doesn't know about the strike yet, and so they won't be suspicious of us—and I realize that by passing within one light-year of Borthu itself we're certain to be attacked—but suppose half a dozen of them jump us at once?"

  "On the basis of what we know about their patrol patterns, the estimated probability of more than one ship finding us is only ten per cent, plus or minus three." Van Rijn heaved his bulk onto his feet. One good thing about spacefaring, you could set the artificial gravity low and feel almost young again. "What you do not know so well yet, my young friend, is that there are very few certainties in life. Always we must go on probabilities. The secret of success is to arrange things so the odds favor you—then in the long run you are sure to come out ahead. It is your watch now, and I recommend to you a book on statistical theory to pass the time. As for me, I will be in conference with Freelady McIntyre and a liter of brandy."

  "I wish I could arrange my own captain's chores the way you do," said Torres mournfully.

  Van Rijn waved an expansive hand. "Why not, my boy, why not? So long as you make money and no trouble for the Company, the Company does not interfere with your private life. The trouble with you younger generations is you lack initiative. When you are a poor old feeble fat man like me you will look back and regret so many lost opportunities."

  Even in low-gee, the deck vibrated under his tread as he left.

  Here there was darkness and cold and a blazing glory of suns. The viewscreens held the spilling silver of the Milky Way, the ruby spark of Antares among distorted constellations, the curling edge of a nebula limned by the blue glare of a dwarf star. Brightest among the suns was Borthu's, yellow as minted gold.

  The ship drove on through night, pulsing in and out of four-dimensional reality and filled with waiting.

  Dorothea sat on a wardroom couch, posing long legs and high prow with a care so practiced as to be unconscious. She could not get her eyes from the screen.

  "It's beautiful," she said in a small voice. "And horrible."

  Nicholas van Rijn sprawled beside her, his majestic nose aimed at the ceiling. "What is so bad, my little sinusoid?"

  "Them . . . lying out there to pounce on us and—Why did I come? Why did I let you talk me into it?"

  "I believe there was mention of a tygron coat and Santorian flamedrop earrings."

  "But suppose they catch us?" Her fingers fell cold on his wrist. "What will happen to me?"

  "I told you I have set up a ransom fund for you. I also warned you maybe they would not bother to collect, and maybe we get broken to bits in this fight and all die. Satan's horns and the devil who gave them to him! Be still, will you?"

  The intraship speaker burped and Torres' voice said: "Wake of highpowered ship detected, approaching from direction of Borthu."

  "All hands to posts!" roared van Rijn.

  Dorothea screamed. He picked her up under one arm, carried her down the hall—collecting a few scratches en route—tossed her into his cabin, and locked the door. Puffing, he arrived on the bridge. The visual intercom showed Petrovich and Seichi, radiation-armored, the engines gigantic behind them. Their faces were drawn tight and glistening with sweat. Torres was gnawing his lip, fingers shaking, as he tuned in the hypervid.

  "All right," said van Rijn, "this is the thing we have come for. I hope you each remember what you have to do, because if not we will soon be very dead." He dropped into the main control chair and buckled on the harness. His fingers tickled the keys, feeling the sensitive response of the ship. So far they had been using only normal power, the great converter had been almost idling; it was good to know how many wild horses he could call up.

  The hypervid chimed. Torres pressed the Accept button and the screen came to life.

  It was a Borthudian officer who looked out at them. Skin-tight garments were dead black on the cat-lithe frame. The face was almost human, but hairless and tinged with blues; yellow eyes smoldered under the narrow forehead. Behind him could be seen the bridge, a crouching gunnery officer, and the usual six-armed basalt idol.

  "Terran ship ahoy!" He ripped out crisp, fluent Anglic,
only subtly accented by a larynx and palate of different shape. "This is Captain Rentharik of the Kossalu's frigate Gantok. By the law, most sacred of the Kossaluth of Borthu, you are guilty of trespass on the dominions of His Frightfulness. Stand by to be boarded."