“I know.” For a moment Ben thought of the phantom ship that could not be seen, moving in with subtle menace to study his ship and course and then moving away again like a wraith. “Why are you so eager?” he asked Tom Barron suddenly. “What makes you so sure there’s anybody in there at all? Why the rush to go down there?”
Tom look chagrined. “I just thought you might be able to help, if — if somebody’s been hurt.”
Suspicion crystallized in Ben’s mind. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you already know what’s happened down there. Spies have been known to carry homing devices, hidden on their bodies. Maybe you’ve been in contact somehow with that ship we couldn’t see.”
“I never heard of that ship before,” Tom cried angrily. “Use your head! Would I be calling in a ship that might blow us all to flinders? Including my sister and me?”
“Maybe you’re just looking for a rescue,” Ben countered. “Or maybe you figure it would be worth getting blown up just to put a Spacer ship out of commission. Maybe your own military would figure that was a worthwhile sacrifice, if they could wipe out a Spacer ship.”
“You’re crazy. Our pilots aren’t bloodthirsty monsters.” Tom looked at the view screen. “As far as I know, nobody at home even knew for sure that I was aboard your ship when you pulled away from the raid. And I haven’t had any contact with anyone but you since.”
Ben looked at the sandy-haired Earthman, and came to a decision. “Maybe not,” he said. “But there’s one way to be sure.” He signaled Petro’s ship. “I’m going down,” he told the older Spacer. “Pull your ship back, well back, and cover me.”
He waited while Petro’s crippled ship drifted back away from him, then took the controls of the S-80 and nosed down toward the gaping hole of the outpost entry lock. The asteroid loomed larger in the view screen as Ben edged his ship closer; the SOS signal came through stronger by the moment.
And then, with his ship less than a thousand yards from the lock, the SOS stopped as abruptly as it had begun. A moment later Ben heard a cry from Petro as three cruiser-size Earth ships slid out from behind the asteroid, one on either side of him and one below.
He had walked straight into a ambush.
• • •
In the next few seconds Ben Trefon followed his reflexes with a swiftness he could never have copied by reason. He recognized the trap instantly; he was in a crossfire between the ships, with one avenue of escape cut off by the bulk of the asteroid. Landing, he knew, would be suicide. With a snarl he wrenched at the controls, twisting the little ship out of its smooth landing arc. Rockets flared from the belly of one of the Earth ships, and another turned a barrage of homing missiles out toward Petro’s crippled cruiser.
“Run for it, Petro!” Ben shouted. “It’s a trap!” In the same breath he turned to bring the nearest Earth ship into his hairline sights and fired three of his air-to-air missiles. Then without hesitation he fired his rear jets, nosing the S-80 down to follow the shells straight for the Earth ship’s hull. Somewhere near the ship he saw two bright flares as his defensive missiles detonated the Earth ship’s first barrage; moments later he was at close range with the hulking craft, firing off a swarm of wasps, the close-combat weapon that moved so swiftly and in such numbers that big defensive missiles could not stop them readily.
Two of the wasps struck the hull of the Earth ship, leaving a great gaping hole. Then two more struck, and then three more as Ben’s ship jerked with the recoil. Suddenly something in the Earth ship exploded. Great billows of flame poured out of the ship as it began rolling end-over-end away from him.
“One down,” Ben grated. “That leaves two to go.”
He was swinging his ship around when another flare of light caught his eye, off in the distance where Petro’s ship had been waiting. Frantically Ben signaled. There was no answer. Two more fireballs exploded from the crippled cruiser, major missile strikes, and the Spacer ship opened at the seams in dreadful slow motion. Fragments of hull flew out in all directions, only to be sucked back into the vortex of the fireball.
Numbly, Ben knew that Petro was gone, and the two remaining Earth ships were turning to converge their fire on him. “Strap down!” he shouted to the Barrons as he braced himself and seized the controls. Joyce went reeling back to the cots as Ben turned the ship in toward the flank of the closest Earth ship. But Tom Barron grabbed a shock bar and leaped into the weapon-control seat beside Ben.
“Get away from those guns,” Ben snarled.
“Shut up and move this tub,” Tom shot back at him. “Get it out of the crossfire. I’ll handle these things.”
Ben hesitated only an instant. Then he turned his full attention to the controls. The Earth ships were moving apart, trying to keep him in crossfire, and just as stubbornly he was moving out on the flank of the nearest one. If he could get one of the ships between him and the other, he would have only one ship to fight; homing missiles had no minds, and could not distinguish a friendly ship from a foe. The big Earth ship he was flanking seemed to recognize his intent. It started a lumbering turn, moving in toward its sister ship and holding its fire as it maneuvered. But the S-80 was lighter and faster. As the second ship emptied its missile tubes in a broadside barrage, Ben changed his plan. Swiftly, almost recklessly, he reversed direction, hurling himself and Tom up against the control panel as the null-grav units screamed in protest, and then dropped the S-80’s nose sharply down between the two Earth ships.
Tom had been waiting for an opening. Now, with his hairline sights centered on the most distant Earth ship, he began triggering the forward shells. Ben edged the ship in toward the other, staying in a direct line between the two. A moment later a dozen wasps moved out from their tubes at the rear, wavered at the confusion of target signals, and turned sharply on the nearer Earth ship. A shell full of scrap metal burst from the Earth ship’s tubes, scattering a wall of debris between them, and the S-80’s wasps began detonating like firecrackers, out of contact range.
Tom reached for the switch to launch another barrage of wasps, but Ben stopped him.
“Hold onto those,” he said. “Concentrate your fire on the farthest one.”
“But you’re getting too close to this one.”
“I know what I’m doing. Get set to let the other one have a barrage.”
The S-80 was close to the first Earth ship now, and closing in fast. But it was approaching on a side away from the missile tubes. Twice the great cruiser fired homing missiles, but the Spacer ship was too close, and the shells moved harmlessly out into space, finally homing on fragments of debris. Tom Barron was staring at the view screen now as the cruiser loomed up alarmingly. “Ben! You’re going to ram him!”
“Not quite.” Poised for the right instant, Ben slammed down the null-grav switches when the ship was just a few feet from the cruiser. Grappling plates shot out on cables from the S-80’s hull and clanged down on the hull of the Earth ship. “Get that other one, now! He can’t fire on us without blowing his pal here to pieces.”
Tom worked the weapon controls in a kind of frenzy, firing wasps, one at a time to break through the cruiser’s defenses. The Earth ship saw its predicament: it couldn’t fire back, and soon the wasps would exhaust its defensive missiles. For a moment the cruiser lay immobile and vulnerable; then as Tom fired three waves of heavy warhead missiles it seemed to gather its wits and tried to scurry clumsily out of the way of the oncoming shells. But it was too late. With defensive shells exhausted, two of the S-80’s missiles took the ship broadside. There was a mighty orange flare in the center of the ship; it seemed to split down the middle, the fragments breaking into still smaller fragments as the cruiser disintegrated.
“Good boy,” Ben said. “That evens the odds a little. Now let’s see what we can do with our friends here.”
He released the grappling plates. With a burst of side jets the Spacer craft jumped away from the cruiser’s hull. The Earth ship was waiting; with the S-80 so close she was helpless to a
ttack, but the instant the Spacer ship cast off the cruiser moved around with amazing agility.
“They’re centering on us,” Tom cried out. “You’d better move this thing.”
“Hold on.” Ben hit the forward power, trying to slip in behind the asteroid for cover. But the Earth ship was already moving to block the maneuver. Missiles broke free from half a dozen forward tubes and sped toward the Spacer craft, keeping Tom busy launching counter missiles. Once again Ben tried to move so that the asteroid lay between him and the enemy, but the Earth ship was too nimble.
Ben glanced at Tom nervously. “How are our shells holding up?”
“They’re going fast. We’ll be in trouble pretty soon,” Tom said, checking the storage dials.
“Then use the wasps as much as you can. And the forward tubes have a couple of loads of scrap.”
As he talked, Ben was watching the movement of the Earth ship. This craft was not maneuvering clumsily like the other two. The pilot seemed to know his ship’s capabilities. More important, his thinking was uncomfortably in line with Ben’s, for he was anticipating every move Ben made. The two ships were circling the outpost asteroid now, with Ben trying desperately to get the great rock between him and the cruiser, while the Earth ship was equally determined not to let the Spacer craft out of its sights.
Ben worked the controls frantically as move was matched by counter-move. At every opportunity the cruiser was firing; sooner or later, Ben knew, a shell would get past the wasps, or the S-80’s supply of defensive weapons would be exhausted. He ducked the ship down close to the asteroid surface, watched as a warhead from the cruiser was caught by the magnetic bulk of the rock, deflected out of its homing course to detonate harmlessly on the surface.
It gave Ben an idea. For all of its pilot’s skill, the Earth ship was bigger, its reaction time slower than the little S-80. Ben fired his forward jets, moving his ship out in a great arc away from the asteroid. As he anticipated, the Earth ship moved out on his tail, following him doggedly as if waiting for the kill that was certain to come. Away from the rock, the Earth ship accelerated, moving in swiftly. Then, with side jets roaring, Ben cut his arc short and dropped the S-80’s nose back down to skim the surface of the asteroid.
This move took the cruiser by surprise. The Earth ship had been following him move for move; once again it followed suit. Intent on its prey, the pilot had momentarily forgotten the asteroid itself and cut his ship’s arc too short as he curved in to follow the Spacer. The cruiser’s pilot saw his error too late. Without the deft maneuverability of the Spacer craft, the Earth ship crashed broadside into the jagged rock surface of the asteroid, turned a great end-over-end flip and crashed down again, crumbling its main power jets. Ponderously the ship began to ricochet; grappling plates shot out toward the surface of the rock and the wounded vessel crunched down once again, raising a shower of dust and rock fragments in a halo around it.
Ben crowed in triumph, moving his little ship back for a better view. As he balanced the ship’s power at a distance of eight hundred yards, the Barrons crowded around him at the view screen.
“Got his tubes,” Ben said. “That’s why he grappled. He knew he’d be a helpless cripple off the surface.”
“You don’t think he can move?” Joyce asked.
“I think he would if he could. He knows we’ve still got fire power. If he could be running for it, he would be.” Ben stared in silence at the wreck below. “That was quite a trap,” he said finally. “They must have knocked out the outpost early in the game, and then just sucked in every Spacer ship that came along.”
“Well, it was a trap that didn’t work,” Tom said shakily. “He’s not going to chase you, and the other two ships are done for. You might as well get out of here before he calls for help.”
Ben scratched his jaw and continued to stare at the view screen. “Somebody must have survived the crash in order to throw out the grapplers.”
“Okay, why not let them alone?” Tom said. ‘They’re not going to hurt another Spacer ship. You could smash them to pieces with one shell, but what’s the use? That ship isn’t going to ambush anybody again.”
Ben shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking of firing on them,” he said. “I just don’t like leaving them. Seems to me you Earthmen once had a law of the woods, back when you had forests full of game. The law said that when you wound an animal, you go in after him.” He sat down at the controls, and began easing the ship down toward the wreckage of the Earth ship.
Tom and Joyce exchanged glances. “You’ve got room enough for a few survivors on this ship,” Joyce said. “They won’t give you any trouble.”
“I hope not.” Ben altered his course a little, peering at the view screen. He beamed a recognition signal, but there was no answer from the wrecked ship. He dropped lower, to within two hundred yards, and then began settling the S-80 gently down toward the battered hull.
He was within fifty yards of the surface when Tom let out a cry, and Ben saw the blunt muzzles of two missile tubes near the front of the wounded ship swivel upward. Ben’s hand shot out to the braking controls, reversing direction as the missile tubes coughed flame and two shells snaked up toward the Spacer ship like deadly arrows. The reverse slammed them against the control panel; frantically Ben triggered defensive shells from the rear tubes, but he knew as he did so that it was too late. Even if they stopped the cruiser’s shells before contact, they would take the full force of the concussion wave.
“Down!” he shouted. “Fast!” Leaping to his feet he caught Joyce Barron by the shoulders and hurled her to the deck beneath the acceleration cots. Tom dove for the deck on the other side of the cabin, arms covering his head. Ben hesitated just long enough to throw off the ship’s main power switch and then himself turned to hit the deck.
But his last move had taken a split second too long. Even as he turned he heard the deafening crash of the detonation. The rear bulkhead of the cabin bulged inward like a metal bubble and burst along its seams; something struck him a blow on the head as he fell forward to the deck. In that last second he saw an orange inferno behind the split bulkhead, felt himself picked up and hurled backward by the concussion wave and dumped in a heap against the control panel. There was pain and searing heat and blinding light as he lost consciousness.
But the greatest pain of all in that instant was the bitter realization that he had allowed himself to be trapped again.
7
DERELICT
SOMEWHERE far in the distance a hammer was pounding on steel, a steady, nerve-shattering din that seemed to have been going on for hours. Slowly, fighting every inch of the way, Ben Trefon dragged himself up into consciousness, wishing desperately that the pounding would cease. Presently he blinked his eyes open, staring around him at the sheet-draped cubicle and fighting down an almost overwhelming wave of helplessness and confusion. It was then that he realized that the pounding was not in the distance at all. It was going on right inside his own head.
Shakily he gripped the edge of the cot and tried to sit up. The pounding in his head picked up speed, and a searing pain shot through his chest and right shoulder. Now he became aware of bulky gauze bandages half covering him. He sank back with a groan, trying to orient himself.
Vaguely he remembered being awake a few times before, for a few moments. Little fragments of clouded memory flooded his mind. Once he had awakened in darkness to hear the muffled throbbing of engines somewhere below him, a throbbing edged with a high-pitched, uneasy whine. Another time there had been light and movement, with the sound of hushed voices, and the feeling of cool moist packs bathing his forehead. Again, a memory of the sharp bite of a needle in his arm, the glitter of an intravenous bottle on a stand above his head, and a soft feminine voice that had sounded incredibly sweet in its reassurance. And through it all, like a red haze, there was the continuing impression of pain and aching in his shoulder and chest and the inability — or unwillingness — to move.
Now alarm flared in hi
s mind. How long had he been unconscious? Where was he, and what was happening? There was a vivid memory of the crippled Earth ship firing upon him as he tried to move to its assistance, waiting until he was in point-blank range. There was the fearful realization that the little S-80 was hit, and the bitter knowledge that he had been trapped once again by a cruel and ruthless enemy, or by an enemy so blinded by fear that it fought back with any vicious weapon at its disposal. And now the sheets draping his cot were hanging from familiar overhead wires, and the wall beside his cot was certainly the wall of the S-80’s bunk room.
Suddenly light flooded the cubicle and Joyce Barron was looking in at him, her sandy hair tousled, a tray in one hand. “Well,” she said. “So you finally decided to wake up and take nourishment.”
Once again Ben tried to sit up. “Take it easy,” the girl said. “Tom will be here in a minute to help you.”
“But we’ve got to get away from them.”
“Don’t worry, we’re safe now. But you’ll go flat on your face if you try to walk. You did that once already. And try not to move your shoulder. I don’t think anything’s broken, but there’s still a lot of drainage.”
“Drainage!” Ben looked down at the bulky dressing. “What happened to me? Shrapnel? How long have I been out like this?”
“About four days.”
“Four days!!”
“Well, we’re not sure. The silly chronometer hasn’t been working right all the time. But that’s pretty close.”
By gripping the shock bar at the edge of the cot, Ben managed to stagger to his feet. He paused for a wave of dizziness to pass, then tottered out into the cabin against Joyce’s protests, feeling like an old, old man.
He could hardly believe what he saw.
The ship was under power, no doubt about it. The radar scanner was making its monotonous sweep, emitting a cheerful beep at the end of each circuit. The rear bulkhead, torn open from top to bottom, was sealed tight with a sheet of plastic. While he was still staring the rear hatchway banged open and Tom Barron came through from the storeroom, his arms stacked high with provisions and boxes of electrical equipment.
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