Galactic Patrol

by Edward E Smith

  “Nels, we need you badly,” Kinnison informed him as soon as greetings had been exchanged. “The pirates have a beam, carrying a peculiarly scrambled signal, that they can receive and decode through any ordinary kind of blanketing interference, and you’re the best man we’ve got to study their system. Some of these Velantian scientists can probably help you a lot on that—any race that can develop a screen against thought figures to know more than somewhat about vibration in general. We’ve got working models of the pirates’ instruments, so you can figure out their patterns and formulas. When you’ve done that, I want you and your Velantians to design something that will scramble all the pirates’ communicator beams in space, as far as you can reach. If you can fix things so they can’t talk, any more than we can, it’ll help a lot, believe me!”

  “QX, Chief, we’ll give it the works,” and the radio man called for tools, apparatus, and electricians.

  Then throughout the great airport the many Velantians and the handful of Patrolmen labored mightily, side by side, and to very good effect indeed. Slowly the port became ringed about by, and studded everywhere with, monstrous mechanisms. Everywhere there were projectors: refractory-throated demons ready to vomit forth every force known to the expert technicians of the Patrol. There were absorbers, too, backed by their bleeder resistors, air-gaps, ground-rods, and racks for discharged accumulators. There, too, were receptors and converters for the cosmic energy which was to empower many of the devices. There were, of course, atomic motor-generators by the score, and battery upon battery of gigantic accumulators. And Nelson’s high-powered scrambler was ready to go to work.

  These machines appeared crude, rough, unfinished; for neither time nor labor had been wasted upon non-essentials. But inside each one the moving parts fitted with micrometric accuracy and with hair-spring balance. All, without exception, functioned perfectly.

  At Worsel’s call, Kinnison climbed up out of a great beam-proof pit, the top of whose wall was practically composed of tractor-beam projectors. Pausing only to make sure that a sticking switch on one of the screen-dome generators had been replaced, he hurried to the heavily armored control room, where his little force of fellow Patrolmen awaited him.

  “They’re coming, boys,” he announced. “You all know what to do. There are a lot more things we could have done if we’d had more time, but as it is we’ll just go to work on them with what we’ve got,” and Kinnison, again all brisk Captain, bent over his instruments.

  In the ordinary course of events the pirate would have flashed up to the planet with spy-rays out and issuing a peremptory demand for the planet to show a clean bill of health or to surrender instantly such fugitives as might lately have landed upon it. But Kinnison did not—could not—wait for that. The spy-rays, he knew, would reveal the presence of his armament; and such armament most certainly did not belong to this planet. Therefore he acted first, and everything happened practically at once.

  A tracer lashed out, the pilot-ray of the rim-battery of extraordinarily powerful tractors. Under their terrific pull the inertialess ship flashed toward their center of action. At the same moment there burst into activity Nelson’s scrambler, a dome-screen against cosmic-energy intake, and a full circle of super-powered projectors.

  All these things occurred in the twinkling of an eye, and the vessel was being slowed down by the atmosphere of Velantia before her startled commander could even realize that he was being attacked. Only the automatically-reacting defensive screens saved that ship from instant destruction; but they did so save it and in seconds the pirates’ every weapon was furiously ablaze.

  In vain. The defenses of that pit could take it. They were driven by mechanisms easily able to absorb the output of any equipment mountable upon a mobile base, and to his consternation the pirate found that his cosmic-energy intake was at, and remained at, zero. He sent out call after call for help, but could not make contact with any other pirate station—ether and sub-ether alike were closed to him, his signals were blanketed completely. Nor could his drivers, even though operating at ruinous overload, move him from the geometrical center of that incandescently flaming pit, so inconceivably rigid were the tractors’ clamps upon him.

  And soon his power began to fail. His vessel, designed to operate upon cosmic-energy intake, carried only enough accumulators for stabilization of power-flow, an amount ridiculously inadequate for a combat as profligate of energy as this. But strangely enough, as his defenses weakened, so lessened the power of the attack. It was no part of the Lensman’s plan to destroy this superdreadnaught of the void.

  “That was one good thing about the old Brittania,” he gritted, as he cut down step by step the power of his beams, “what power she had, nobody could block her off from!”

  Soon the stored-up energy of the battleship was exhausted and she lay there, quiescent. Then giant pressors went into action and she was lifted over the wall of the pit, to settle down in an open space beside it—open, but still under the domes of force.

  Kinnison had no needle-rays as yet, the time at his disposal having been sufficient only for the construction of the absolutely essential items of equipment. Now, while he debated with his fellows as to what part of the vessel to destroy in order to wipe out its crew, the pirates themselves ended the debate. Ports yawned in the vessel’s side and they came out fighting.

  For they were not a breed to die like rats in a trap, and they knew that to remain inside their vessel was to die whenever and however their captors willed. They knew also that die they must if they could not conquer. Their surrender, even if it should be accepted, would mean only a somewhat later death in the lethal chambers of the Law. In the open, they could at least take some of their foes with them.

  Furthermore, not being men as we know men, they had nothing in common with either human beings or Velantians. Both to them were vermin, as they themselves were to the beings manning this surprisingly impregnable fortress here in this waste corner of the galaxy. Therefore, space-hardened veterans all, they fought, with the insane ferocity and desperation of the ultimately last stand; but they did not conquer. Instead, and to the last man, they died.

  As soon as the battle was over, before the interference blanketing the pirates’ communicators was cut off, Kinnison went through the captured vessel, destroying the headquarters visiplates and every automatic sender which could transmit any kind of a message to any pirate base. Then the interference was stopped, the domes were released, and the ship was removed from the field of operations. Then, while Thorndyke and his reptilian aides—themselves now radio experts of no mean attainments—busied themselves at installing a high-powered scrambler aboard her, Kinnison and Worsel scanned space in search of more prey. Soon they found it, more distant than the first one had been—two solar systems away—and in an entirely different direction. Tracers and tractors and interference and domes of force again became the order of the day. Projectors again raved out in their incandescent might, and soon another immense cruiser of the void lay beside her sister ship. Another, and another; then for a long time space was blank.

  The Lensman then energized his ultra-receiver, pointing his antenna carefully into the galactic line to Helmuth’s base, as laid down for him by the Velantian astronomers. Again, so tight and hard was Helmuth’s beam, he had to drive his apparatus so unmercifully that the tube-noise almost drowned out the signals, but again he was rewarded by hearing faintly the voice of the pirate Director of Operations:

  “…four vessels, all within or near one of those five solar systems, have ceased communicating; each cessation being accompanied by a period of blanketing interference of a pattern never before registered. You two vessels who are receiving these orders are instructed to investigate that region with the utmost care. Go with screens out and everything on the trips, and with automatic recorders set on me here. It is not believed that the Patrol has anything to do with this, as ability has been shown transcending anything it has been known to possess. As a working hypothesis it is
assumed that one of the solar systems, hitherto practically unexplored and unknown is in reality the seat of a highly advanced race, which perhaps has taken offense at the attitude or conduct of our first ship to visit them. Therefore proceed with extreme caution, with a thorough spy-ray search at extreme range before approaching at all. If you land, use tact and diplomacy instead of the customary tactics. Find out whether our ships and crews have been destroyed, or are only being held: and remember, automatic reporters on me at all times. Helmuth speaking for Boskone—off!”

  For minutes Kinnison manipulated his controls in vain—he could not get another sound.

  “What are you trying to get, Kim?” asked Thorndyke. “Wasn’t that enough?”

  “No, that’s only half of it,” Kinnison returned. “Helmuth’s nobody’s fool. He’s certainly trying to plot the boundaries of our interference, and I want to see how he’s coming out with it. But no dice. He’s so far away and his beam’s so hard I can’t work him unless he happens to be talking almost directly toward us. Well, it won’t be long now until we’ll give him some real interference to plot. Now let’s see what we can do about those two other ships that are heading this way.”

  Carefully as those two ships investigated, and sedulously as they sought to obey Helmuth’s instructions, all their precautions amounted to exactly nothing. As ordered, they began to spy-ray survey at extreme range; but even at that range Kinnison’s tracers were effective and those pirates also ceased communicating in a blaze of interference. Then recent history repeated itself. The details were changed somewhat, since there were two vessels instead of one; but the pit was of ample size to accommodate two ships, and the tractors could hold two as well and as rigidly as one. The conflict was a little longer, the beaming a little hotter and more coruscant, but the ending was the same. Scramblers and other special apparatus were installed and Kinnison called his men together.

  “We’re about ready to shove off again. Running away has worked twice so far and should work once more, if we can ring in enough variations on the theme to keep Helmuth guessing a while longer. Maybe, if the supply of pirate ships holds up, we can make Helmuth furnish us transportation clear back to Prime Base!

  “Here’s the idea. We’ve got six ships, and enough Velantians have volunteered to man them—in spite of the fact that they probably won’t get back. Six ships, of course, isn’t enough of a task force to fight its way through Helmuth’s fleets; so we’ll spread out, covering plenty of parsecs and broadcasting every watt of interference we can put out, in as many different shapes and sizes as our generators can figure. We won’t be able to talk to each other, but nobody else can talk, either, anywhere near us, and that ought to give us a chance. Each ship will be on its own, like we were before, in the boats; the big difference being that we’ll be in superdreadnaughts.

  “Question—should we split up again or stick together? We’d better all go in one ship, I think—with spools aboard the others, of course. What do you think?”

  They agreed with him to a man and he directed a thought at the Velantian.

  “Now, Worsel, about you fellows here—you probably won’t have it so easy, either. Sooner or later—and sooner would be my guess—Helmuth’s boys will be coming to see you. In force and cocked and primed and with blood in their eyes. It’ll be a battle, not a slaughter.”

  “Let them come, in whatever force they care to bring. The more who attack here, the less there will be to halt your progress. This armament represents the best of that possessed by both your Patrol and the pirates, with improvements developed by your scientists and ours in full cooperation. We understand thoroughly its construction, operation, and maintenance. You may rest assured that the pirates will never levy tribute upon us, and that any pirate visiting this system will remain in it—permanently!”

  “At-a-snake, Worsel—long may you wiggle!” Kinnison exclaimed. Then, more seriously, “Maybe, after this is all over, I’ll see you again sometime. If not, goodbye. Goodbye, all Velantia. All set, everybody? Clear ether—blast off!”

  Six ships, once pirate crafts, now vessels of the Galactic Patrol, hurled themselves into and through Velantian air; into and through interplanetary space; out into the larger, wider, opener emptiness of the interstellar void. Six ships, each broadcasting with prodigious power and volume an all-inclusive interference through which not even a CRX tracer could be driven.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Breakdown

  IMBALL KINNISON SAT AT THE controls, smoking a rare, festive cigarette and smiling; at peace with the entire universe. For this new picture was in every element a different one from the old. Instead of being in a pitifully weak and defenseless lifeboat, skulking and hiding, he was in one of the most powerful battleships afloat, driving boldly at full blast almost directly toward home. While the Patrolmen were so terribly few in number that most of them had to work double shifts—Kinnison and Henderson had to do all the piloting and navigating—they had under them a full crew of alert and highly-trained Velantians. And the enemy, instead of being a close-knit group, keeping Helmuth informed moment by moment of the situation and instantly responsive to his orders, were now entirely out of communication with each other and with their headquarters; groping helplessly. Literally as well as figuratively the pirates were in the dark; the absolute blackness of interstellar space.

  Thorndyke entered the room, frowning slightly. “You look like the fabled Cheshire cat, Kim. I hate to spoil such perfect bliss, but I’m here to tell you that we ain’t out of the woods yet, by seven thousand rows of big, green, peppermint trees.”

  “Maybe not,” the Lensman returned blithely, “but compared to the jam we were in a little while back we’re not only sitting on top of the world; we’re perched right on the exact apex of the universe. They can’t send or receive reports or orders and they can’t communicate. Even their detectors are mighty lame—you know how far they can get on electromagnetics and visual apparatus. Furthermore, there isn’t an identification number, symbol, or name on the outside of this buzz-buggy. If it ever had one the friction and attrition have worn it off, clear down to the armor. What can happen that we can’t cope with?”

  “These engines can happen,” the technician responded, bluntly. “The Bergenholm is developing a meter-jump that I don’t like a little bit.”

  “Does she knock? Or even tick?” demanded Kinnison.

  “Not yet,” Thorndyke confessed, reluctantly.

  “How big a jump?”

  “Pretty near two thousandths maximum. Average a thousandth and a half.”

  “That’s hardly a wiggle on the recorder line. Drivers run for months with bigger jumps than that.”

  “Yeah—drivers. But of all the troubles anybody ever had with Bergenholms, a meter-kick was never one of them, and that’s what’s got me guessing as to the whichness of the why. I’m not trying to scare you—yet. I’m just telling you.”

  The machine referred to was the neutralizer of inertia, the sine qua non of interstellar speed, and it was not to be wondered at that the slightest irregularity in its performance was to the technician a matter of grave concern. Day after day passed, however, and the huge converter continued to function; taking in and sending out its wonted torrents of power. It developed not even a tick, and the meter-jump did not grow worse. And during those days they put an inconceivable distance behind them.

  During all this time their visual instruments remained blank; to all optical apparatus space was empty save for the normal tenancy of celestial bodies. From time to time something invisible or beyond the range of vision registered upon one of the electromagnetic detectors, but so slow were these instruments that nothing came of their signals. In fact, by the time the warnings were recorded, the objects causing the disturbance were probably far astern.

  One day, however, the Bergenholm quit—cold. There was no laboring, no knocking, no heating up, no warning at all. One instant the ship was speeding along in free flight, the next she was lying
inert in space. Practically motionless, for any possible velocity built up by inert acceleration is scarcely a crawl, as free space-speeds go.

  Then the whole crew labored like mad. As soon as they had the massive covers off, Thorndyke scanned the interior of the machine and turned to Kinnison.

  “I think we can patch her up, but it’ll take quite a while. Maybe you’d be of more use in the control room—this isn’t quite as safe as church, is it, lying here inert?”

  “Most of the stuff is on automatic trip, but maybe I’d better keep an eye on things, at that. Let me know occasionally how you’re getting along,” and the Lensman went back to his controls—none too soon.

  For one pirate ship was already beaming him viciously. Only the fact that his defensive armament was upon its automatic trips had saved the stolen battleship from practically instantaneous destruction. And as the surprised Lensman began to check his other instruments another spaceship flashed into being upon his other side and also went to work.

  As Kinnison had already remarked more than once, Helmuth was far from being a fool, and that new and amazingly effective blanketing of his every means of communication was a problem whose solution was of paramount importance. Almost every available ship had been for days upon the fringe of that interference; observing and reporting continuously. So rapidly was it moving, however, so peculiar was its apparent shape, and so contradictory were the directional readings obtained, that Helmuth’s computers had been baffled.

  Then Kinnison’s Bergenholm failed and his ship went inert. In a space of minutes the location of one center of interference was known. Its coordinates were determined and half a dozen warships were ordered to rush that spot. The raider first to arrive had signaled, visually and audibly; then, obtaining no response, had anchored with a tractor and had loosed his bolts. Nor would the result have been different had everyone aboard, instead of no one, been in the control room at the time of the signalling. Kinnison could have read the messages, but neither he nor anyone else then aboard the erstwhile pirate craft could have answered them in kind.