The Astounding Science Fiction Anthology

by John W. Campbell Jr.

  “That was Mendez,” Rhys said. “The Mob’s meeting our fleet a hundred miles off the coast. They’ll be under our orders, of course. A good man, Mendez, but I don’t entirely trust him.”

  “You’re not thinking of a double cross, sir?”

  Cinc Rhys made disparaging noises. “Brutus is an honorable man. No, he’ll stick to his bargain. But I wouldn’t cut cards with Mendez. As a Free Companion, he’s trustworthy. Personally—Well, how do things look?”

  “Very good, sir. I’ve an idea about the Armageddon.”

  “I wish I had,” Rhys said frankly. “We can’t get that damned scow into the battle in any way I can figure out. The Helldivers will see it coming, and lead the fight away.”

  “I’m thinking of camouflage.”

  “A monitor’s a monitor. It’s unmistakable. You can’t make it look like anything else.”

  “With one exception, sir. You can make it look like a disabled monitor.”

  Rhys sat back, giving Scott a startled glance. “That’s interesting. Go on.”

  “Look here, sir.” The captain used a stylo to sketch the outline of a monitor on a convenient pad. “Above the surface, the Armageddon’s dome-shaped. Below, it’s a bit different, chiefly because of the keel. Why can’t we put a fake superstructure on the monitor—build a false keel on it, so it’ll seem capsized?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Everybody knows a monitor’s weak spot—that it turns turtle under fire sometimes. If the Helldivers saw an apparently capsized Armageddon drifting toward them, they’d naturally figure the tub was disabled.”

  “It’s crazy,” Rhys said. “One of those crazy ideas that might work.” He used the local telaudio to issue crisp orders. “Got it? Good. Get the Armageddon under way as soon as the equipment’s aboard. Alterations will be made at sea. We can’t waste time. If we had them made in the yards, she’d never catch up with the fleet.”

  The cinc broke the connection, his seamed, leathery face twisting into a grin. “I hope it works. We’ll see.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Almost forgot. President Crosby’s nephew—Kane?—he was with you when you cracked up, wasn’t he? I’ve been wondering whether I should have waived training for him. How did he show up in the jungle?”

  “Quite well,” Scott said. “I had my eye on him. He’ll make a good soldier.”

  Rhys looked keenly at the captain. “What about discipline? I felt that was his weak spot.”

  “I’ve no complaint to make.”

  “So. Well, maybe. Starling’s outfit is bad training for anyone—especially a raw kid. Speaking of Starling, did Cinc Mendez know anything about his using atomic power?”

  “No, sir. If Starling’s doing that, he’s keeping it plenty quiet.”

  “We’ll investigate after the battle. Can’t afford that sort of thing—we don’t want another holocaust. It was bad enough to lose Earth. It decimated the race. If it happened again, it’d wipe the race out.”

  “I don’t think there’s much danger of that. On Earth, it was the big atomic-power stations that got out of control. At worst, Starling can’t have more than hand weapons.”

  “True. You can’t blow up a world with those. But you know the law—no atomic power on Venus.”

  Scott nodded.

  “Well, that’s all.” Rhys waved him away. “Clear weather.”

  Which, on this perpetually clouded world, had a tinge of irony.

  After mess Scott returned to his quarters, for a smoke and a brief rest. He waved away Briggs’ suggestion of a rubdown and sent the orderly to the commissary for fresh tobacco. “Be sure to get Twenty Star,” he cautioned. “I don’t want that green hydroponic cabbage.”

  “I know the brand, sir.” Briggs looked hurt and departed. Scott settled back in his relaxer, sighing.

  Zero hour at twelve. The last zero hour he’d ever know. All through the day he had been conscious that he was fulfilling his duties for the last time.

  His mind went back to Montana Keep. He was living again those other-worldly moments in the cloud-wrapped Olympus with Ilene. Curiously, he found it difficult to visualize the girl’s features. Perhaps she was a symbol—her appearance did not matter. Yet she was very lovely.

  In a different way from Jeana. Scott glanced at Jeana’s picture on the desk, three-dimensional and tinted after life. By pressing a button on the frame, he could have given it sound and motion. He leaned forward and touched the tiny stud. In the depths of the picture the figure of Jeana stirred, smiling. The red lips parted.

  Her voice, though soft, was quite natural.

  “Hello, Brian,” the recording said. “Wish I were with you now. Here’s a present, darling.” The image blew him a kiss, and then faded back to immobility.

  Scott sighed again. Jeana was a comfortable sort of person. But—Oh, hell! She wasn’t willing to change. Very likely she couldn’t. Ilene perhaps was equally dogmatic, but she represented the life of the Keeps—and that was what Scott wanted now.

  It was an artificial life Ilene lived, but she was honest about it. She knew its values were false. At least she didn’t pretend, like the Free Companions, that there were ideals worth dying for. Scott remembered Briggs. The fact that men had been killed during the building of Doone fort meant a lot to the old orderly. He never asked himself—why? Why had they died? Why was Doone fort built in the first place? For war. And war was doomed.

  One had to believe in an ideal before devoting one’s life to it. One had to feel he was helping the ideal to survive—watering the plant with his blood so eventually it would come to flower. The red flower of Mars had long since blown. How did that old poem go?’

  One thing is certain, and the rest is lies;

  The flower that once has blown forever dies.

  It was true. But the Free Companions blindly pretended that the flower was still in blazing scarlet bloom, refusing to admit that even the roots were withered and useless, scarcely able now to suck up the blood sacrificed to its hopeless thirst.

  New flowers bloomed; new buds opened. But in the Keeps, not in the great doomed forts. It was the winter cycle, and, as the last season’s blossoms faded, the buds of the next stirred into life. Life questing and intolerant. Life that fed on the rotting petals of the rose of war.

  But the pretense went on, in the coastal forts that guarded the Keeps. Scott made a grimace of distaste. Blind, stupid folly! He was a man first, not a soldier. And man is essentially a hedonist, whether he identifies himself with the race or not.

  Scott could not. He was not part of the undersea culture, and he could never be. But he could lose himself in the hedonistic backwash of the Keeps, the froth that always overlies any social unit. With Ilene, he could, at least, seek happiness, without the bitter self-mockery he had known for so long. Mockery at his own emotional weaknesses in which he did not believe.

  Ilene was honest. She knew she was damned, because unluckily she had intelligence.

  So—Scott thought—they would make a good pair.

  Scott looked up as Commander Bienne came into the room. Bienne’s sour, mahogany face was flushed deep red under the bronze. His lids were heavy over angry eyes. He swung the door-curtain shut after him and stood rocking on his heels, glowering at Scott.

  He called Scott something unprintable.

  The captain rose, an icy knot of fury in his stomach. Very softly he said, “You’re drunk, Bienne. Get out. Get back to your quarters.”

  “Sure—you little tinhorn soldier. You like to give orders, don’t you? You like to chisel, too. The way you chiseled me out of that left-wing command today. I’m pretty sick of it, Captain Brian Scott.”

  “Don’t be a damned fool! I don’t like you personally any more than you like me, but that’s got nothing to do with the Company. I recommended you for that command.”

  “You lie,” Bienne said, swaying. “And I hate your guts.”

  Scott went pale, the scar on his cheek flaming red. Bienne came forward. He
wasn’t too drunk to co-ordinate. His fist lashed out suddenly and connected agonizingly with Scott’s molar.

  The captain’s reach was less than Bienne’s. He ducked inside of the next swing and carefully smashed a blow home on the point of the other’s jaw. Bienne was driven back, crashing against the wall and sliding down in a limp heap, his head lolling forward.

  Scott, rubbing his knuckles, looked down, considering. Presently he knelt and made a quick examination. A knockout, that was all.

  Oh, well.

  Briggs appeared, showing no surprise at sight of Bienne’s motionless body. The perfect orderly walked across to the table and began to refill the humidor with the tobacco he had brought.

  Scott almost chuckled.

  “Briggs.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Commander Bienne’s had a slight accident. He—slipped. Hit his chin on something. He’s a bit tight, too. Fix him up, will you?”

  “With pleasure, sir.” Briggs hoisted Bienne’s body across his brawny shoulders.

  “Zero hour’s at twelve. The commander must be aboard the Flintlock by then. And sober. Can do?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Briggs said, and went out.

  Scott returned to his chair, filling his pipe. He should have confined Bienne to his quarters, of course. But—well, this was a personal matter. One could afford to stretch a point, especially since Bienne was a valuable man to have aboard during action. Scott vaguely hoped the commander would get his thick head blown off.

  After a time he tapped the dottle from his pipe and went off for a final inspection.

  At midnight the fleet hoisted anchor.

  By dawn the Doones were nearing the Venus Deep.

  The ships of the Mob had already joined them, seven battleships, and assorted cruisers, destroyers, and one carrier. No monitor. The Mob didn’t own one—it had capsized two months before, and was still undergoing repairs.

  The combined fleets sailed in crescent formation, the left wing, commanded by Scott, composed of his own ship, the Flintlock, and the Arquebus, the Arrow, and the Misericordia, all Doone battlewagons. There were two Mob ships with him, the Navaho and the Zuni, the latter commanded by Cinc Mendez. Scott had one carrier with him, the other being at right wing. Besides these, there were the lighter craft.

  In the center were the battleships Arbalest, Lance, Gatling, and Mace, as well as three of Mendez’s. Cinc Rhys was aboard the Lance, controlling operations. The camouflaged monitor Armageddon was puffing away valiantly far behind, well out of sight in the mists.

  Scott was in his control room, surrounded by telaudio screens and switchboards. Six operators were perched on stools before the controls, ready to jump to action when orders came through their earphones. In the din of battle spoken commands often went unheard, which was why Scott wore a hush-mike strapped to his chest.

  His eyes roved over the semicircle of screens before him.

  “Any report from the gliders yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Get me air-spotting command.”

  One of the screens flamed to life; a face snapped into view on it.

  “Report.”

  “Nothing yet, captain. Wait.” There was a distant thunder. “Detectors clamped on a telaudio tight-beam directly overhead.”

  “Enemy glider in the clouds?”

  “Apparently. It’s out of the focus now.”

  “Try to relocate it.”

  A lot of good that would do. Motored planes could easily be detected overhead, but a glider was another matter. The only way to spot one was by clamping a detector focus directly on the glider’s telaudio beam—worse than a needle in a haystack. Luckily the crates didn’t carry bombs.

  “Report coming in, sir. One of our gliders.”

  Another screen showed a face. “Pilot reporting, sir. Located enemy.”

  “Good. Switch in the telaudio, infra. What sector?”

  “V. D. eight hundred seven northwest twenty-one.”

  Scott said into his hush-mike, “Get Cinc Rhys and Commander Geer on tight-beam. And Cinc Mendez.”

  Three more screens lit up, showing the faces of the three officers.

  “Cut in the pilot.”

  Somewhere over Venus Deep the glider pilot was arcing his plane through the cloud-layer, the automatic telaudio-camera, lensed to infrared, penetrating the murk and revealing the ocean below. On the screen ships showed, driving forward in battle formation.

  Scott recognized and enumerated them mentally. The Orion, the Sinus, the Vega, the Polaris—uh-huh. Lighter ships. Plenty of them. The scanner swept on.

  Cinc Rhys said, “We’re outnumbered badly. Cinc Mendez, are your sub-detectors in operation?”

  “They are. Nothing yet.”

  “We’ll join battle in half an hour, I judge. We’ve located them, and they’ve no doubt located us.”

  “Check.”

  The screens blanked out. Scott settled back, alertly at ease. Nothing to do now but wait, keeping ready for the unexpected. The Orion and the Vega were the Helldivers’ biggest battleships, larger than anything in the line of the Doones—or the Mob. Cinc Flynn was no doubt aboard the Orion. The Helldivers owned a monitor, but it had not showed on the infrared aerial scanner. Probably the behemoth wouldn’t even show up in time for the battle.

  But even without the monitor, the Helldivers had an overwhelming surface display. Moreover, their undersea fleet was an important factor. The sub-detectors of Cinc Mendez might—probably would—cut down the odds. But possibly not enough.

  The Armageddon, Scott thought, might be the point of decision, the ultimate argument. And, as yet, the camouflaged monitor was lumbering through the waves far in the wake of the Doones.

  Commander Bienne appeared on a screen. He had frozen into a disciplined, trained robot, personal animosities forgotten for the time. Active duty did that to a man.

  Scott expected nothing different, however, and his voice was completely impersonal as he acknowledged Bienne’s call.

  “The flitterboats are ready to go, captain.”

  “Send them out in fifteen minutes. Relay to left wing, all ships carrying flitters.”

  “Check.”

  For a while there was silence. A booming explosion brought Scott to instant alertness. He glanced up at the screens.

  A new face appeared. “Helldivers opening up. Testing for range. They must have gliders overhead. We can’t spot ‘em.”

  “Get the men under cover. Send up a test barrage. Prepare to return fire. Contact our pilots over the Helldivers.”

  It was beginning now—the incessant, racking thunder that would continue till the last shot was fired. Scott cut in to Cinc Rhys as the latter signaled.

  “Reporting, sir.”

  “Harry the enemy. We can’t do much yet. Change to R-8 formation.”

  Cinc Mendez said, “We’ve got three enemy subs. Our detectors are tuned up to high pitch.”

  “Limit the range so our subs will be outside the sphere of influence.”

  “Already did that. The enemy’s using magnetic depth charges, laying an undersea barrage as they advance.”

  “I’ll talk to the sub command.” Rhys cut off. Scott listened to the increasing fury of explosions. He could not yet hear the distinctive clap-clap of heat rays, but the quarters were not yet close enough for those undependable, though powerful, weapons. It took time for a heat ray to warm up, and during that period a well-aimed bullet could smash the projector lens.

  “Casualty, sir. Direct hit aboard destroyer Bayonet.”

  “Extent of damage?”

  “Not disabled. Complete report later.”

  After a while a glider pilot came in on the beam.

  “Shell landed on the Polaris, sir.”

  “Use the scanner.”

  It showed the Helldivers’ battlewagon, part of the superstructure carried away, but obviously still in fighting trim. Scott nodded. Both sides were getting the range now. The hazy clouds still hid each fle
et from the other, but they were nearing.

  The sound of artillery increased. Problems of trajectory were increased by the violent winds of Venus, but accurate aiming was possible. Scott nodded grimly as a crash shook the Flintlock.

  They were getting it now. Here, in the brain of the ship, he was as close to the battle as any member of a firing crew. The screens were his eyes.

  They had the advantage of being able to use infrared, so that Scott, buried here, could see more than he could have on deck, with his naked eye. Something loomed out of the murk and Scott’s breath stopped before he recognized the lines of the Doone battlewagon Misericordia. She was off course. The captain used his hush-mike to snap a quick reprimand.

  Flitterboats were going out now, speedy hornets that would harry the enemy fleet. In one of them, Scott remembered, was Norman Kane. He thought of Ilene and thrust the thought back, out of his mind. No time for that now.

  Battle stations allowed no time for wool gathering. The distant vanguard of the Helldivers came into sight on the screens. Cinc Mendez called.

  “Eleven more subs. One got through. Seems to be near the Flintlock, Drop depth bombs.”

  Scott nodded and obeyed. Shuddering concussions shook the ship. Presently a report came in: fuel slick to starboard.

  Good. A few well-placed torpedoes could do a lot of damage. The Flintlock heeled incessantly under the action of the heavy guns. Heat rays were lancing out. The big ships could not easily avoid the searing blasts that could melt solid metal, but the flitterboats, dancing around like angry insects, sent a rain of bullets at the projectors. But even that took integration. The rays themselves were invisible, and could only be traced from their targets. The camera crews were working overtime, snapping shots of the enemy ships, tracing the rays’ points of origin, and telaudioing the information to the flitterboats. “Helldivers’ Rigel out of action.”

  On the screen the big destroyer swung around, bow pointing forward. She was going to ram. Scott snapped orders. The Flintlock went hard over, guns pouring death into the doomed Rigel.

  The ships passed, so close that men on the Flintlock’s decks could see the destroyer lurching through the haze. Scott judged her course and tried desperately to get Mendez. There was a delay.