by Various
Except for the whistling of wind, there is complete silence in a soaring glider. Max Mainz began to call back to his superior, was taken back by the volume, and dropped his voice. He said, "Look, captain. What keeps it up?"
Joe grinned. He liked the buoyance of glider flying, the nearest approach of man to the bird, and thus far everything was going well. He told Max, "An airplane plows through the air currents, a glider rides on top of them."
"Yeah, but suppose the current is going down?"
"Then we avoid it. This sailplane only has a gliding angle ratio of one to twenty-five, but it's a workhorse with a payload of some four hundred pounds. A really high performance glider can have a ratio of as much as one to forty."
Joe had found a strong updraft where a wind ran up the side of a mountain. He banked, went into a circling turn. The gauge indicated they were climbing at the rate of eight meters per second, nearly fifteen hundred feet a minute.
Max hadn't got the rundown on the theory of the glider. That was obvious in his expression.
Joe Mauser, even while searching the ground below keenly, went into it further. "A wind up against a mountain will give an updraft, storm clouds will, even a newly plowed field in a bright sun. So you go from one of these to the next."
"Yeah, great, but when you're between," Max protested.
"Then, when you have a one to twenty-five ratio, you go twenty-five feet forward for each one you drop. If you started a mile high, you could go twenty-five miles before you touched ground." He cut himself off quickly. "Look, what's that, down there? Get your glasses on it."
Max caught his excitement. His binoculars were tight to his eyes. "Sojers. Cavalry. They sure ain't ours. They must be Hovercraft lads. And look, field artillery."
Joe Mauser was piloting with his left hand, his right smoothing out a chart on his lap. He growled, "What are they doing there? That's at least a full brigade of cavalry. Here, let me have those glasses."
With his knees gripping the stick, he went into a slow circle, as he stared down at the column of men. "Jack Alshuler," he whistled in surprise. "The marshal's crack heavy cavalry. And several batteries of artillery." He swung the glasses in a wider scope and the whistle turned into a hiss of comprehension. "They're doing a complete circle of the reservation. They're going to hit the Baron from the direction of Phoenicia."
X
Marshal Stonewall Cogswell directed his old fashioned telescope in the direction his chief of staff indicated.
"What is it?" he grunted.
"It's an airplane, sir."
"Over a military reservation with a fracas in progress?"
"Yes, sir." The other put his glasses back on the circling object. "Then what is it, sir? Certainly not a free balloon."
"Balloons," the marshal snorted, as though to himself. "Legal to use. The Union forces had them toward the end of the Civil War. But practically useless in a fracas of movement."
They were standing before the former resort hotel which housed the marshal's headquarters. Other staff members were streaming from the building, and one of the ever-present Telly reporting crews were hurriedly setting up cameras.
The marshal turned and barked, "Does anybody know what in Zen that confounded thing, circling up there, is?"
Baron Zwerdling, the aging Category Transport magnate, head of Continental Hovercraft, hobbled onto the wooden veranda and stared with the others. "An airplane," he croaked. "Haer's gone too far this time. Too far, too far. This will strip him. Strip him, understand." Then he added, "Why doesn't it make any noise?"
Lieutenant Colonel Paul Warren stood next to his commanding officer. "It looks like a glider, sir."
Cogswell glowered at him. "A what?"
"A glider, sir. It's a sport not particularly popular these days."
"What keeps it up, confound it?"
Paul Warren looked at him. "The same thing that keeps a hawk up, an albatross, a gull--"
"A vulture, you mean," Cogswell snarled. He watched it for another long moment, his face working. He whirled on his chief of artillery. "Jed, can you bring that thing down?"
The other had been viewing the craft through field binoculars, his face as shocked as the rest of them. Now he faced his chief, and lowered the glasses, shaking his head. "Not with the artillery of pre-1900. No, sir."
"What can you do?" Cogswell barked.
The artillery man was shaking his head. "We could mount some Maxim guns on wagon wheels, or something. Keep him from coming low."
"He doesn't have to come low," Cogswell growled unhappily. He spun on Lieutenant Colonel Warren again. "When were they invented?" He jerked his thumb upward. "Those things."
Warren was twisting his face in memory. "Some time about the turn of the century."
"How long can the things stay up?"
Warren took in the surrounding mountainous countryside. "Indefinitely, sir. A single pilot, as long as he is physically able to operate. If there are two pilots up there to relieve each other, they could stay until food and water ran out."
"How much weight do they carry?"
"I'm not sure. One that size, certainly enough for two men and any equipment they'd need. Say, five hundred pounds."
Cogswell had his telescope glued to his eyes again, he muttered under his breath, "Five hundred pounds! They could even unload dynamite over our horses. Stampede them all over the reservation."
"What's going on?" Baron Zwerdling shrilled. "What's going on Marshal Cogswell?"
Cogswell ignored him. He watched the circling, circling craft for a full five minutes, breathing deeply. Then he lowered his glass and swept the assembled officers of his staff with an indignant glare. "Ten Eyck!" he grunted.
An infantry colonel came to attention. "Yes, sir."
Cogswell said heavily, deliberately. "Under a white flag. A dispatch to Baron Haer. My compliments and request for his terms. While you're at it, my compliments also to Captain Joseph Mauser."
Zwerdling was bug-eyeing him. "Terms!" he rasped.
The marshal turned to him. "Yes, sir. Face reality. We're in the dill. I suggest you sue for terms as short of complete capitulation as you can make them."
"You call yourself a soldier--!" the transport tycoon began to shrill.
"Yes, sir," Cogswell snapped. "A soldier, not a butcher of the lads under me." He called to the Telly reporter who was getting as much of this as he could. "Mr. Soligen, isn't it?"
* * *
The reporter scurried forward, flicking signals to his cameramen for proper coverage. "Yes, sir. Freddy Soligen, marshal. Could you tell the Telly fans what this is all about, Marshal Cogswell? Folks, you all know the famous marshal. Marshal Stonewall Cogswell, who hasn't lost a fracas in nearly ten years, now commanding the forces of Continental Hovercraft."
"I'm losing one now," Cogswell said grimly. "Vacuum Tube Transport has pulled a gimmick out of the hat and things have pickled for us. It will be debated before the Military Category Department, of course, and undoubtedly the Sov-world military attaches will have things to say. But as it appears now, the fracas as we have known it, has been revolutionized."
"Revolutionized?" Even the Telly reporter was flabbergasted. "You mean by that thing?" He pointed upward, and the lenses of the cameras followed his finger.
"Yes," Cogswell growled unhappily. "Do all of you need a blueprint? Do you think I can fight a fracas with that thing dangling above me, throughout the day hours? Do you understand the importance of reconnaissance in warfare?" His eyes glowered. "Do you think Napoleon would have lost Waterloo if he'd had the advantage of perfect reconnaissance such as that thing can deliver? Do you think Lee would have lost Gettysburg? Don't be ridiculous." He spun on Baron Zwerdling, who was stuttering his complete confusion.
"As it stands, Baron Haer knows every troop dispensation I make. All I know of his movements are from my cavalry scouts. I repeat, I am no butcher, sir. I will gladly cross swords with Baron Haer another day, when I, too, have ... what did you call the
confounded things, Paul?"
"Gliders," Lieutenant Colonel Warren said.
XI
Major Joseph Mauser, now attired in his best off-duty Category Military uniform, spoke his credentials to the receptionist. "I have no definite appointment, but I am sure the Baron will see me," he said.
"Yes, sir." The receptionist did the things that receptionists do, then looked up at him again. "Right through that door, major."
Joe Mauser gave the door a quick double rap and then entered before waiting an answer.
Balt Haer, in mufti, was standing at a far window, a drink in his hand, rather than his customary swagger stick. Nadine Haer sat in an easy-chair. The girl Joe Mauser loved had been crying.
Joe Mauser, suppressing his frown, made with the usual amenities.
Balt Haer without answering them, finished his drink in a gulp and stared at the newcomer. The old stare, the aloof stare, an aristocrat looking at an underling as though wondering what made the fellow tick. He said, finally, "I see you have been raised to Rank Major."
"Yes, sir," Joe said.
"We are obviously occupied, major. What can either my sister or I possibly do for you?"
Joe kept his voice even. He said, "I wanted to see the Baron."
Nadine Haer looked up, a twinge of pain crossing her face.
"Indeed," Balt Haer said flatly. "You are talking to the Baron, Major Mauser."
Joe Mauser looked at him, then at his sister, who had taken to her handkerchief again. Consternation ebbed up and over him in a flood. He wanted to say something such as, "Oh no," but not even that could he utter.
Haer was bitter. "I assume I know why you are here, major. You have come for your pound of flesh, undoubtedly. Even in these hours of our grief--"
"I ... I didn't know. Please believe ..."
"... You are so constituted that your ambition has no decency. Well, Major Mauser, I can only say that your arrangement was with my father. Even if I thought it a reasonable one, I doubt if I would sponsor your ambitions myself."
Nadine Haer looked up wearily. "Oh, Balt, come off it," she said. "The fact is, the Haer fortunes contracted a debt to you, major. Unfortunately, it is a debt we cannot pay." She looked into his face. "First, my father's governmental connections do not apply to us. Second, six months ago, my father, worried about his health and attempting to avoid certain death taxes, transferred the family stocks into Balt's name. And Balt saw fit, immediately before the fracas, to sell all Vacuum Tube Transport stocks, and invest in Hovercraft."
"That's enough, Nadine," her brother snapped nastily.
"I see," Joe said. He came to attention. "Dr. Haer, my apologies for intruding upon you in your time of bereavement." He turned to the new Baron. "Baron Haer, my apologies for your bereavement."
Balt Haer glowered at him.
Joe Mauser turned and marched for the door which he opened then closed behind him.
On the street, before the New York offices of Vacuum Tube Transport, he turned and for a moment looked up at the splendor of the building.
Well, at least the common shares of the concern had skyrocketed following the victory. His rank had been upped to Major, and old Stonewall Cogswell had offered him a permanent position on his staff in command of aerial operations, no small matter of prestige. The difficulty was, he wasn't interested in the added money that would accrue to him, nor the higher rank--nor the prestige, for that matter.
He turned to go to his hotel.
An unbelievably beautiful girl came down the steps of the building. She said, "Joe."
He looked at her. "Yes?"
She put a hand on his sleeve. "Let's go somewhere and talk, Joe."
"About what?" He was infinitely weary now.
"About goals," she said. "As long as they exist, whether for individuals, or nations, or a whole species, life is still worth the living. Things are a bit bogged down right now, but at the risk of sounding very trite, there's tomorrow."
* * *
Contents
OFF COURSE
By Mack Reynolds
First on the scene were Larry Dermott and Tim Casey of the State Highway Patrol. They assumed they were witnessing the crash of a new type of Air Force plane and slipped and skidded desperately across the field to within thirty feet of the strange craft, only to discover that the landing had been made without accident.
Patrolman Dermott shook his head. "They're gettin' queerer looking every year. Get a load of it--no wheels, no propeller, no cockpit."
They left the car and made their way toward the strange egg-shaped vessel.
Tim Casey loosened his .38 in its holster and said, "Sure, and I'm beginning to wonder if it's one of ours. No insignia and--"
A circular door slid open at that point and Dameri Tass stepped out, yawning. He spotted them, smiled and said, "Glork."
They gaped at him.
"Glork is right," Dermott swallowed.
Tim Casey closed his mouth with an effort. "Do you mind the color of his face?" he blurted.
"How could I help it?"
Dameri Tass rubbed a blue-nailed pink hand down his purplish countenance and yawned again. "Gorra manigan horp soratium," he said.
Patrolman Dermott and Patrolman Casey shot stares at each other. "'Tis double talk he's after givin' us," Casey said.
Dameri Tass frowned. "Harama?" he asked.
Larry Dermott pushed his cap to the back of his head. "That doesn't sound like any language I've even heard about."
Dameri Tass grimaced, turned and reentered his spacecraft to emerge in half a minute with his hands full of contraption. He held a box-like arrangement under his left arm; in his right hand were two metal caps connected to the box by wires.
While the patrolmen watched him, he set the box on the ground, twirled two dials and put one of the caps on his head. He offered the other to Larry Dermott; his desire was obvious.
Trained to grasp a situation and immediately respond in manner best suited to protect the welfare of the people of New York State, Dermott cleared his throat and said, "Tim, take over while I report."
"Hey!" Casey protested, but his fellow minion had left.
"Mandaia," Dameri Tass told Casey, holding out the metal cap.
"Faith, an' do I look balmy?" Casey told him. "I wouldn't be puttin' that dingus on my head for all the colleens in Ireland."
"Mandaia," the stranger said impatiently.
"Bejasus," Casey snorted, "ye can't--"
Dermott called from the car, "Tim, the captain says to humor this guy. We're to keep him here until the officials arrive."
Tim Casey closed his eyes and groaned. "Humor him, he's after sayin'. Orders it is." He shouted back, "Sure, an' did ye tell 'em he's in technicolor? Begorra, he looks like a man from Mars."
"That's what they think," Larry yelled, "and the governor is on his way. We're to do everything possible short of violence to keep this character here. Humor him, Tim!"
"Mandaia," Dameri Tass snapped, pushing the cap into Casey's reluctant hands.
Muttering his protests, Casey lifted it gingerly and placed it on his head. Not feeling any immediate effect, he said, "There, 'tis satisfied ye are now, I'm supposin'."
The alien stooped down and flicked a switch on the little box. It hummed gently. Tim Casey suddenly shrieked and sat down on the stubble and grass of the field. "Begorra," he yelped, "I've been murthered!" He tore the cap from his head.
His companion came running, "What's the matter, Tim?" he shouted.
Dameri Tass removed the metal cap from his own head. "Sure, an' nothin' is after bein' the matter with him," he said. "Evidently the bhoy has niver been a-wearin' of a kerit helmet afore. 'Twill hurt him not at all."
* * * * *
"You can talk!" Dermott blurted, skidding to a stop.
Dameri Tass shrugged. "Faith, an' why not? As I was after sayin', I shared the kerit helmet with Tim Casey."
Patrolman Dermott glared at him unbelievingly. "You learned the languag
e just by sticking that Rube Goldberg deal on Tim's head?"
"Sure, an' why not?"
Dermott muttered, "And with it he has to pick up the corniest brogue west of Dublin."
Tim Casey got to his feet indignantly. "I'm after resentin' that, Larry Dermott. Sure, an' the way we talk in Ireland is--"
Dameri Tass interrupted, pointing to a bedraggled horse that had made its way to within fifty feet of the vessel. "Now what could that be after bein'?"
The patrolmen followed his stare. "It's a horse. What else?"
"A horse?"
Larry Dermott looked again, just to make sure. "Yeah--not much of a horse, but a horse."
Dameri Tass sighed ecstatically. "And jist what is a horse, if I may be so bold as to be askin'?"
"It's an animal you ride on."
The alien tore his gaze from the animal to look his disbelief at the other. "Are you after meanin' that you climb upon the crature's back and ride him? Faith now, quit your blarney."
He looked at the horse again, then down at his equipment. "Begorra," he muttered, "I'll share the kerit helmet with the crature."
"Hey, hold it," Dermott said anxiously. He was beginning to feel like a character in a shaggy dog story.
Interest in the horse was ended with the sudden arrival of a helicopter. It swooped down on the field and settled within twenty feet of the alien craft. Almost before it had touched, the door was flung open and the flying windmill disgorged two bestarred and efficient-looking Army officers.
Casey and Dermott snapped them a salute.
The senior general didn't take his eyes from the alien and the spacecraft as he spoke, and they bugged quite as effectively as had those of the patrolmen when they'd first arrived on the scene.
"I'm Major General Browning," he rapped. "I want a police cordon thrown up around this, er, vessel. No newsmen, no sightseers, nobody without my permission. As soon as Army personnel arrives, we'll take over completely."
"Yes, sir," Larry Dermott said. "I just got a report on the radio that the governor is on his way, sir. How about him?"
The general muttered something under his breath. Then, "When the governor arrives, let me know; otherwise, nobody gets through!"
