By
the Same Author
Earthbound
The Star Seekers Stadium Beyond the Stars
Spacemen, Go Ho me
Milton Lesser
HOLT,
RINEHART AND WINSTON New
York
Copyright
© 1961 by Milton
Lesser
All rights reserved, including the right to
reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Holt,
Rinehart and Winston of Canada, Limited.
First
Edition
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 61-9046
95212-0111
Printed in the United States
of America
This book is for Clara and Sam Lang
Contents
PACE
1.
The Last Spaceship 11
2.
The Edict 16
3.
Secret Spacemen 25
4.
Captain Bollinger 32
5.
Escape! 45
6.
77te TfaiJ of a
Spaceman 55
7.
Freya 69
8.
Land o/ the
Midniglit Sun 78
9.
Peace Plans 89
10.
War Plans 104
11.
Treachery! 113
12.
Mexico Again 125
13.
Return to Space 138
14.
Battle in Space 151
15.
Prisoners 159
16.
Mutiny! 171
17.
Canopus 185
18.
The Star Brain 195
19.
Home 75 fne Spaceman 211
Spacemen, Qo Mome
Chapter / The Last Spaceship
while the
moonship "Tycho III" was settling slowly toward the landing pit
swallowing the fiery exhaust of its braking rockets, Andy Marlow had his first
look in more than a year at the planet Earth.
What
he saw was a spaceport, the New Mexico Spaceport to be exact. Andy felt a lump
in his throat. He couldn't talk, even though he knew his friend Turk stood by
the viewport at his side. It should have been different, Andy thought. It
should have been so different.
He
could almost conjure in his mind an image of what it might have been like—the
proud launching gantries gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight, the doors of
a dozen firing pits rolled back to reveal the sleek noses of as many
space-bound ships, and far below at the edge of the tarmac a band playing the
"Interstellar March" in salute to the space cadets returning from
their training at Luna Academy.
Instead, Andy saw the rusting skeletons of
the big
gantries
that hadn't been used in a year, the tightly
ii
shut
doors of the firing pits, the broken hulks of a few old spacetubs littering the
tarmac like the bones of prehistoric monsters, and a crowd of Earth citizens
milling about where the band should have been.
Turk
punched his shoulder. "Well, come on," he said, "snap out of it.
At least we're home. Aren't you glad to see Earth again?"
"Are you?" Andy asked.
Turk
scowled. Like Andy Marlow, he was eighteen years old. He had been born Backy
Ayoub in Istanbul, Turkey, and the nickname Turk had stuck with him during the
first—and only—year at Luna Academy. Turk was short, dark, stocky, and very
wide across the shoulders. His heavy body always seemed on the verge of
bursting out of the gray jumper that was the Academy uniform. His dark eyes
were intense.
"I
guess I'm not so glad to see Earth again," he said finally. "Not like
this."
By
contrast, Andy Marlow was tall, fair-haired, and lean. He had pale, gray-blue
eyes which, even now at the age of eighteen, had laugh-wrinkles radiating from
their corners. But, as "Tycho III" settled with hardly a bump in the
landing pit, Andy wasn't laughing. He tried to think of the future, but it was
a blank; he found himself wondering if he would ever even smile again.
"Anybody waiting for you?" he asked
Turk. "There's no one who'd care whether I came back to Earth or shipped
out to the Milky Way."
The Last Spaceship 13
Andy didn't answer. No one would ship out
again, ever. "Tycho III" was the last Earth ship to return home. By
interstellar edict, space was now forever closed to Earthmen.
"Say,"
Turk said, trying to break the gloom of their thoughts, "don't you have a
brother who's a spaceman waiting for you?"
"He
was a spaceman," Andy corrected. There were no spacemen now, just
earthbound exiles. "I don't know where he is."
"Maybe
they can tell you at the Placement Center in White Sands."
"Maybe."
Andy
continued to stare out the viewport. He could see nothing but the sheer walls
of the landing pit now.
"You like the view or
something?" Turk said.
"What? Oh, don't mind
me."
Andy
was delaying until the last possible instant the moment when he would step out
of "Tycho III" 's airlock. Probably, he
would never set foot inside a spaceship again; no Earthman would. Earth's brief
two hundred years in space were now history, ancient history.
"Attention!"
an amplified voice blared. "Attention! All Cadets assemble at the aft
airlock for debarkation! All Cadets to the aft airlock!"
Andy
heard the sound of magnet-sheathed boots clomping through "Tycho III" 's narrow companion-ways. Like all the rest, it would
be a sound he would try
to remember. Or, he wondered, would he be better off forgetting it, forgetting
all of it?
He knew he never could do
that.
With Turk alongside, he
went to the airlock.
Most
of the other Cadets already had gathered there. The executive officer, an
ensign named Mac-Ready, made a brief speech:
"Men,
I don't have to tell you we're returning to
Earth for good. I don't have to tell you that though you've all
been trained as spacemen, that's something you'll never be. But all your ex-officers
at the Academy, from Superintendent Archer on down, expect you to behave like spacemen. You'll see a lot of
unpleasantness and ugliness; people will blame you for what happened. Though
most of them never would have gone to space anyway, there isn't a man on Earth
who wanted the space lanes closed to us. And they'll hold you
responsible." MacReady's eyes shifted from one Cadet face
to another. "That's all. Good luck to all of you."
MacReady's
voice broke. Andy wondered how many times the exec had had to make that same
speech to returning Cadets.
With
Turk, Andy followed the other Cadets through the airlock and up the pit stairs
to ground level. The first thing he saw at the top, at the edge of the tarmac,
was a cordon of police. Their faces were set grimly. They stood in close ranks,
shoulder to shoulder. They looked as if they expected trouble.
A crowd of civilians pressed them from
behind.
Andy
saw heads bobbing, faces appearing over the police cordon.
"Go
back to the moon!" a man shouted. "We don't want you here."
"Traitors!"
someone else cried.
"Cadets they call
themselves. Troublemakers. . . ."
Someone
threw a stone. A Cadet in front of Andy cried out and stumbled. The police
formed two lines at the edge of the tarmac, and the Cadets ran for it.
Andy
felt too numb to be dismayed by their homecoming.
Chapter 2 The ma
"name?" asked the machine.
"Ayoub,
Backy."
"Age?" asked the
machine.
"Eighteen . . . and a
half," Turk replied.
"Year
at the Academy?"
"First year,"
Turk said, a little truculently.
"You
wish to remain in the United States of North America?"
Turk looked at Andy, who shrugged.
"I don't know
yet," Turk said.
"Any
family?"
"No."
"Place of birth?"
Turk told the machine,
"Istanbul, Turkey."
Andy
hardly heard the questions as the reception-mech rattled them off from its
voice box. His turn would come next, he knew, and he was impatient to get the
formalities over with here at the Placement Center.
He felt, suddenly,
better than he had at any time
16
since
leaving the moon. He didn't know why, but somewhere between the spaceport and
White Sands City itself the mood of hopelessness which he had carried like a
heavy weight on his shoulders had left him. For the first time he felt
curiosity about the future. There was a
future for him somewhere on Earth, there had to be. And his brother Frank,
whose recommendation had sent Andy to Luna Academy and who had returned home a
few months ago with the other Space Captains from one of Earth's far-flung
interstellar bases, his brother Frank would help him find it.
Wouldn't
they know, here at the Placement Center, where Frank was?
Andy became aware that the reception-mech was
questioning him. He answered the name-rank-and-serial-number questions
automatically. Then the machine asked:
"Do you want work or
further schooling?"
"Schooling?" Andy echoed the word. "In space-manship?"
"Not
in spacemanship. At one of Earth's universities."
"I
don't know, I haven't given it much thought," Andy admitted. "I'd
like to contact my brother. He was a spaceman. Would you have his records here
somewhere?"
"Name?"
"Frank Marlow."
"Marlow,
Frank," the machine said, and then there was silence. Andy stared at the
faceless box of the machine, at the grid from which its mechanical voice
issued. He could almost picture the electronic tape inside the box that filed
data for the machine.
Finally
words came from the voice box: "Cadet Marlow, Captain Strayer will see you
personally."
Andy
was surprised. Captain Strayer, he knew, was in charge of the Placement Center.
"I just wanted to find out where my brother was," he said.
"Captain Strayer will
see you."
Turk,
who had seemed on the verge of inheriting the bad mood Andy had abandoned,
brightened. "Hey now," he said. "We get to see the big boss
himself. How about that?"
The
machine said, "Captain Strayer will see Cadet Marlow only."
"We're together,"
Andy said simply.
Another
pause. Then, "Very well. Both of you."
Moments
later the two Cadets were walking down a wide hall where other new arrivals
were entering the little cubbies of the placement specialists.
"Do you know who
Captain Strayer is?" Turk asked.
"Sure.
He opened up the star trail to Fomalhaut. He's one of the most famous spacemen
around."
"Ex-spacemen,"
Turk said glumly, and Andy had the feeling that somehow they had switched
attitudes.
They reached the end of the
hall.
Turk
was staring down at his boots. Andy took a deep breath and straightened his
shoulders. He could still act like a Cadet, he decided.
"Here it is," Andy said, and he
knocked on the door that bore Captain Lambert Strayer's name. "Come
in!"
In
a bare, functional office, Lambert Strayer sat behind a large uniplast desk.
He looked younger than Andy had expected. lie was tall
and ramrod straight, with a shock of white hair and piercing china-blue eyes.
His skin was darkly bronzed by long years of exposure to the radiation that
had seeped through the hulls of ships under his command. His smile was warm.
"Did they give you a
rough time at the 'port?"
"Not
too bad, sir," Andy said. "Our exec told us to expect it. The police
herded us on a bus and . . . here we are."
Strayer
stood up and shook hands with both of them. "You'll be Mariow," he
told Andy. It wasn't a question. "You look like your brother, son. We
shipped out together to . . . let me see . . . Deneb and Arcturus. Frank was my
exec on the Arcturan expedition. I never served with a better man."
"Thank you, sir."
"Well, sit down, boys.
Tell me, what are your
plans?"
"We don't exactly have
any, sir," Turk admitted.
Captain
Strayer shook his head philosophically. "It's usually that way," he
said. "You boys have been trained for space. All your lives you've been,
well, pointing in one direction . . . outbound. And then along came the
Edict."
"Isn't there a chance, any kind of
chance at all," Andy asked, "that Earth will be allowed into space
again?"
Captain
Strayer shook his head, this time not philosophically but decisively. "Not
after the Edict. Not in our lifetime. Not if the Star Brain has its way."
He shrugged. "And of course it will. It always has. Who are we to
complain? We're just men of flesh and blood. We're not infallible and
sacrosanct, like the Star Brain."
Andy wondered if he detected any sarcasm in
Captain Strayer's tone. He couldn't be sure.
Turk
protested, "Captain Reed Ballinger didn't take the Star Brain's decision
lying down. He complained."
Captain
Strayer scowled. When the expression of warm welcome on his face changed so
suddenly, something of the man's power was revealed to Andy. Captain Strayer
would make you proud if you were his friend, he decided, but he'd make you
quake if you were his enemy.
"Don't
tell me you expect me to defend Ballinger?" Strayer said tonelessly.
"Well,"
Turk said, shuffling his feet, "the way we heard it on Luna. . . ."
Strayer
leaned forward. His intense eyes shifted from Andy's face to Turk's and back
again. "If it wasn't for Reed Ballinger, we'd still be in space. Make no
mistake about that."
"But he. . . ."
Turk protested.
"As you know, Earth and Capella were
contesting for the mineral rights to an uninhabited planet in the Cygni System.
The dispute was brought before the Star Brain, and it decided in favor of Capella.
Make no mistakes about that, either. The Star Brain's decision is objective.
It has to be."
"A
machine . . . telling men what to do," Turk said.
"A
machine," Strayer shot back at him, "developed with all the
scientific skills of humanity and the other intelligent races in the Galaxy. A
machine developed for one purpose only: to keep the peace in the Galaxy. Reed
Ballinger chose to ignore that."
"And bombed the Star
Brain," Andy said.
"Yes, and bombed the
Star Brain."
"He
did it for Earth," Turk grumbled. "He didn't think the Star Brain's
decision was fair to Earth."
Strayer
shook his head. "It had to be fair, by objective standards. That was the
way it had been built. And Ballinger didn't do what he did for Earth. Ballinger
was working for a group of business enterprises that was going to develop the
Cygni planet. If they'd been allowed to, Reed Ballinger would have been a rich
man. That was why he bombed the Star Brain."
"With
an Earth ship," Andy said. Turk didn't say anything.
"Right. With an Earth ship under his command.
Fortunately, the Star Brain was damaged but not destroyed."
"Fortunately?" Turk asked.
"Of course fortunately. The Star Brain's one function is to keep
the peace. What if Ballinger had decided, after bombing the Brain, to bomb
Capella as well? The point is, boys, you can't take the law into your own
hands. Ballinger tried. When the Star Brain was repaired, it passed the Edict. Thanks
to Reed Ballinger, we're outlawed from space. Thanks to Ballinger, Earth is
ringed by monitoring satellites which would detect by infrared sensitivity any
attempt on our part to send up a spaceship. Thanks to Ballinger, any ship that
does make the attempt would be destroyed by the satellites before it cleared
Luna's orbit. You have Reed Ballinger to thank for all of that."
Strayer
settled back in his chair. His face was pale, his expression bleak. Then, quite
suddenly, he smiled. Once again, the change was disconcerting. "But that's
history, boys, and you didn't come here to ask about it. What are your
plans?" He turned to Turk first.
"I
guess I'd like to work around the intercontinental ramjets," Turk said.
"It's the nearest thing to spaceships we have left."
"You
and just about every ex-spaceman and ex-Cadet," Captain Strayer said.
Respectful
but still truculent, Turk said, "Begging your pardon, sir, but if the
Placement Center can't get us the jobs we want, what's it for?"
Strayer
didn't answer immediately. He stood and gazed out the window over the low
rooftops of White
Sands'
buildings to where the tarmac of the spaceport could be seen. The sun was
setting, the big skeletal gantries silhouetted against its ball of flame.
"Reorientation,
first of all," Strayer said, his back turned. "And orientation to a
world without space travel. You'll be interviewed again outside. We have your
aptitude records here, naturally. We'll find work for you somewhere, Cadet Ayoub.
But I can't guarantee the ramjets. Earth is a crowded planet, and over the
centuries we've squandered our mineral wealth. May I suggest something?"
"Yes, sir," Turk
said.
"I'd
like to suggest schooling. Any boy qualified as a Cadet, as you were, would
qualify for just about any university on Earth, and the appropriations that
used to go for the Academy would pay your tuition."
"I don't know whether I want to go back to school."
"Well,
there's no hurry. We want you to make up your own mind. Why don't you take some
time to think it over? While you do, you'll have passes good for ramjet travel
anywhere on Earth for six months— a chance to familiarize yourself with your
native world again. You can pick them up on the way out." Strayer added,
more slowly, "I hope you make the right decision, Cadet. With training,
there are plenty of good jobs open to you on Earth, in engineering, in the pure
sciences, in océanographie
farming. . . ."
He
turned to Andy. "What about you, Cadet Mar-low? Made up your mind
yet?"
"I think my brother would like me to go
back to school. I'd want to see him first and talk it over with him."
Strayer
was looking out the window again. The silence grew. Andy finally had to say,
"That's why the machine sent us in here, wasn't it? Because you knew where
I could find Frank?"
"When did you hear from him last?" Lambert Strayer asked.
"A few months ago. Frank isn't much of a letter writer."
Strayer
turned back from the window. "Your brother was a top spaceman," he
said. "He qualified as a ramjet pilot on his return to Earth. He flew the
New York-Scandinavian run." Strayer breathed in deeply. "Brace
yourself, lad. Two weeks ago there was an accident. His ramjet crashed. Your
brother Frank is dead."
Ct Secret Spacemen
the sun had
gone down by the time they reached the street again.
Andy
had only been vaguely aware of the words of sympathy from Captain Strayer, of
the pressure of Turks hand squeezing his arm, of the papers Turk had picked up
for both of them in the reception-mech's room. He couldn't think. He wasn't
even aware of going down the escalator with Turk or, when they reached the
street, of the cool night wind blowing in off the desert. He was walking,
placing one foot down in front of the other mechanically, with the same mechanical
inevitability of the reception-mech's questions or, scores of light years
away, of the Star Brain's decisions.
Frank was dead.
His brother was dead.
He
didn't even feel grief yet, just numb disbelief. Like Turk, Andy was an orphan.
They had had that in common from their first days at the Academy—
25
both their fathers had died heroically in space,
seeking Earth's destiny among the distant stars.
And now Frank, too. But Frank hadn't been killed in space. He
had died earthbound, on a ramjet shuttling passengers in two hours from New
York across the Atlantic to Scandinavia.
If
Reed Ballinger hadn't acted rashly in the name of Earth, Frank would still be
alive.
More
than that, if the Star Brain hadn't passed the Edict that ruled Earth out of
space, Frank would still be alive. If Andy felt anything besides the terrible
emptiness, it was savage resentment.
Each
in his own way, Reed Ballinger and the Star Brain were responsible for what had
happened to his brother. . . .
"Boys!"
It
was dark on the street. A man hurried by, glaring at their uniforms
contemptuously. He hadn't spoken. They reached the corner of the block where
the Placement Center was located. Then who was it who had spoken?
A
figure detached itself from the shadowy facade of a building near the corner.
He was a small, slim man wearing a one-piece jumper of either black or very
dark blue. Andy couldn't make out his features in the darkness.
"Got any plans, boys?" he asked.
Neither Andy nor Turk answered. "Just came from the Placement Center,
didn't you?" The man laughed derisively. "They can't help you there, can they? Didn't even offer you a
job, did they?"
"No,"
Turk admitted. "J°ds are hard to find for ex-Cadets."
"That's true enough," the man said,
all at once sympathetic. "I asked you, what are your plans?"
Turk said, "Well, we
don't have any just yet."
"I'll
bet they wanted you to go back to school. It's a convenient way for getting you
out of the way a few years. They got you into this, and now all they want to do
is wash their hands of you."
"Who
are you to talk like that?" Andy said. "It wasn't Captain Strayer's
fault." He was surprised to find himself defending the ex-spaceman. He
didn't like the stranger's wheedling voice.
"My
name's Gault. I'm an ex-spacer just like Strayer." Though no one was
about, Gault came closer and whispered conspiratorily, "And I can tell you
this ... I know of ten Cadets who
walked out of that Placement Center tonight and got jobs. Good
ones, too."
"You
do?" Turk said. He was interested. "That's right." "What
kind of jobs?" "What kind did you want?"
"Ramjets, I guess," Turk said.
"But there isn't a chance. That's what everyone wants."
That's
what Frank had wanted, Andy thought. Gault said, "Better than ramjets,
boy."
"Are
you kidding?" Turk exclaimed. "There isn't an ex-spaceman who
wouldn't give his bottom credit to pilot a ramjet. It's the nearest thing to
spaceflight there is."
"Better
than ramjets," Gault repeated. "That's all I can say, now," he
added mysteriously.
"Come
on, Turk," Andy told his friend. "Let's get out of here."
"Hold
it a minute, boys," Gault persisted. "Maybe I've got your future, the
whole rest of your lives, right here in the palm of my hand. You just want to
let it go?"
"What do we have to
do?" Turk asked.
"Come
with me is all. I already hired ten ex-Cadets tonight. They're waiting. You two
will make twelve."
"Hired them to do
what?" Andy demanded.
"You'll see when we
get . . . where we're going."
"If
you're an ex-spaceman," Andy challenged him, "let's see your
credentials."
"All
right, all right, so I didn't come down after the Edict. They pulled my license
on me."
"What
for?"
"Smuggling,"
Gault said promptly. He laughed. "At least, that was what they called it. Just like they called Captain Reed Ballinger a mad dog when they
could have closed ranks behind him as the greatest hero Earth's ever
known." He shrugged then. "Well, if you want to be stupid
enough not to come along, good riddance."
"Wait a minute, Mr. Gault," Turk
said. He took Andy aside. "What have we got to lose?" "He hasn't
even told us what kind of job."
"He said he can't." "Doesn't
that bother you?"
"I
still don't think we have anything to lose," Turk said.
Gault
called to them, "Make up your minds, I don't have all night."
Turk
looked at Andy. "I . . . I'm sorry, Andy. I'm going with him. I've got to.
What if he's right about getting us out of the way at school? What if. . .
."
Andy
didn't hear the rest of it. Suddenly the most important thing in the world was
to keep Turk's friendship. He had nothing else left, not now, and Turk was the
best friend he'd ever had.
". . . going to
take the chance," Turk finished.
Andy
listened to the wind moaning in off the desert. "I'm going with you,"
he said.
A
copter-cab took the three of them to White Sands airport, which lay south of
the city about five miles from the all but abandoned spaceport. A twin-engined
ramjet was waiting on the tarmac. As they approached, Andy saw a group of
ex-Cadets filing out of the administration building in the glare of the tarmac
floodlights.
Andy
was drawn into a reunion with his Luna Academy classmates. He heard their
shouts:
"Turk, you old
Sirian!"
"Thought I'd see your
ugly face here."
"Hey look, there's Andy, too."
"Wouldn't have been complete without them. Now we're
ready to go."
Andy began to feel better. Turk was his
friend, and these were his friends, too. What did it matter where they were
going, as long as they were together?
Gault
took the controls of the ramjet, and five minutes later they were roaring down
the runway. Charlie Sands, one of Andy's classmates, shouted over the thunder
of the ramjets, "The only thing Mr. Gault would tell us is that we're
heading south."
"That's more than he
told us," Turk complained.
"To
Mexico," Charlie said, and then they all settled back and unfastened their
safety belts as the ramjet reached cruising altitude at fifty thousand feet. At
that height, the flame of the sunset was still visible in the west, but all the
world below them was shrouded in darkness.
It
was dark again when they landed two hours later. At the ramjet's cruising
speed, Andy realized, they had come a long way. If their destination really was
Mexico, they must have flown south clear across the Mexican peninsula to the
Yucatan jungle.
Charlie
Sands unbolted the lugs of the ramjet's door.
Here
in Mexico, the night was windless. Beyond the asphalt of the runway, a fat moon
hung low over tropical trees. Andy could smell the strange, alien perfume of
the tropical air.
"Welcome aboard,
boys," Gault said.
Aboard?
But they were just leaving the ramjet, weren't they?
Andy and Turk were the first down the flight
stairs after Gault himself.
That was when Andy saw rocket gantries silhouetted
against the moonlit sky. There were dozens of them.
"Spaceships!" Turk cried.
Gault chided him,
"Still want to pilot ramjets?"
It
was true. Nose pointing skyward, hull hard against the superstructure of every
gantry, was a spaceship.
On an Earth where
spaceflight had been outlawed.
CkUptet 4 Captain Batlinger
even before
the blazing tropical dawn burst over the Yucatan jungle, Andy was waiting at
the dormitory window.
He
had to see the gantries and spaceships again for himself. He'd had a brief view
of them on landing, and then all of Gault's recruits had been herded from the
ramjet quickly across the chuckholed asphalt of what could only be an abandoned
spaceport by two silent men who would answer none of the eager questions of
the ex-Cadets.
They had been ushered to a
dormitory and assigned beds. Fifteen minutes later the lights went out,
and a few moments after that there had been a creaking, groaning sound outside.
It was tantalizingly familiar, but Andy hadn't been able to identify it. For a
while the Cadets had talked excitedly—those were spaceships they had seen, it
was as if their wildest dreams suddenly had come true, space wasn't closed to
them, somehow, someway, they'd be going to space again. They couldn't believe
it; it was too good to be true.
32
Turk's last sleepy words to Andy were,
"Now I'll bet you're glad you came along."
When
Andy awoke, he saw the mound of Turk's sleeping form under the coversheet in
the adjacent bed. All the others were still asleep, too. He padded barefoot to
the window, where the gray predawn light seeped in. In his mind's eye he
pictured the gaunt shapes of the gantries, the sleek proud hulls of the secret
spaceships.
He peered out the window
expectantly.
And
saw only the empty gray flatness of the abandoned spaceport, stretching drably
to the rim of jungle.
The gantries, the
spaceships, were gone.
"Turk!"
he called, and Turk and the others joined him at the window one by one, rubbing
sleep from their eyes, stretching, then blinking and gaping.
"Where'd they
go?" someone cried.
"What is this?"
Charlie Sands wanted to know.
"Deserted. . . ."
"Impossible, last
night they. . . ."
"Where's
Mr. Gault? Mr. Gault can explain it." That was Turk.
Andy,
who had had more time to adjust to the unexpected disappearance of the
spaceships, was scowling. In the dim light he could barely make out dozens of
large, dark circles on the pitted asphalt. Wordless, he touched Turk's shoulder
and pointed to one of them.
"Hey, wait a minute," Turk said.
"Are they underground?"
Andy
nodded; then everyone was talking at once again. Andy hardly heard their words.
Suppose, he thought, your job was to recruit spacemen on a world where
spaceflight was illegal. Suppose your job was to recruit them among ex-spacemen
and Cadets. Suppose you couldn't tell them, because a few might balk and go to
the authorities.
And
finally, suppose you'd want to reveal the purpose of their ramjet flight to
Mexico in the most dramatic way.
What
way would be more effective than to have them see, silhouetted on their arrival
against the tropic moon, the spaceships themselves?
That
had been Gault's job. He had planned it that way.
But
of course the illegal spaceships couldn't remain above the ground. A chance
flyer might spot them from the air. So, Andy decided, once their dramatic
purpose had been achieved, the gantries and spaceships had been lowered
underground in their launching pits. That would explain the creaking and groaning
they had all heard last night.
Conclusion:
someone was assembling a fleet of illegal spaceships. Gault?
Somehow Andy didn't think so. The little smuggler might make a good recruiting
agent, but Andy just didn't see him as the brains behind what was obviously a
tremendous undertaking.
Andy's thoughts were whirling. You hijack the
powerplant of an abandoned spaceship one place, the hull another, the fittings
a third. Then take them secretly by surface truck, monorail, and ramjet transport
to Mexico, assemble them again. . . .
An
amplified voice in the dormitory boomed: "Attention, new recruits! All new recruits to the administration building. Follow the
green arrows to the administration building."
"That means us,"
Turk said.
Andy's
stomach was grumbling protestingly by the time his interview ended. The last
meal he'd eaten was aboard "Tycho III" before landing in White Sands.
It
was an exhaustive interview conducted by an ex-spaceman named Odet, and it
reminded Andy of his first day at Luna Academy. Taking notes throughout, Odet
asked him the same sort of thorough questions he'd been asked at his arrival
on the moon a year ago. Further, Odet was intensely curious about Andy's
training at Luna Academy.
"First-year man?"
he asked.
"Yes, that's
right."
"Had you started to
specialize?"
Andy nodded.
"Pilot?"
"No," Andy said, "I was
enrolled in the astrogation school at Luna." Odet smiled. "Fledgling astrogator, eh? That's splendid. We have a
shortage of astrogators. We can really use you."
"Can
I ask what this is all about? I mean, what can you use me for?"
"You saw the
spaceships, didn't you?"
"Yes,
sir."
"We
can use you to astrogate . . . aboard a spaceship."
"But. . . ."
"It will all be
explained."
And a fresh flow of
questions started.
Andy didn't find out what it was all about that day, or the next, or the
day after that.
Instead,
it was almost as if he had returned to Luna Academy. In fact, he never had
worked so hard at the task he loved. He spent hours at underground
control-cabin mockups; saw motion pictures of space through make-believe
viewports; had to plot interstellar orbits and then replot them and then change
them again.
He was in astrogation
school again.
To
make the unexpected similarity complete, his teachers, like the teachers at
Luna Academy, were ex-spacemen.
But why were they here?
How had they obtained the
illegal spaceships?
What
could they do with them? Weren't
monitoring satellites circling Earth, ready to destroy any ships that blasted
off?
Question after question buzzed through Andy's
head. In the breaks between classes he asked his instructors. They changed the
subject. They wouldn't talk to him about it.
On
his third day in Mexico, Andy was given the task of plotting an orbit out of
subspace. He wished he had access to star charts, for the patterns of stars
that emerged out of the smoky haze of simulated sub-space looked tantalizingly
familiar.
Wasn't
that extremely bright Class Fo star on the right edge
of the viewport Canopus?
The
home of the Star Brain?
The
unknown star's spectrum was Fo, of that Andy was
almost sure. And, even accounting for simulated proximity, it was extremely
bright. Of the brightest stars in the sky, Andy remembered from his lessons at
Luna Academy, Canopus stood second only to Sirius. And that was because Sirius'
distance from Sol System was a mere 8.7 light years, whereas eighty times that
distance separated Canopus from Sol System.
Sirius' apparent visual
magnitude was —1.58.
Canopus' apparent visual
magnitide was —0.86.
But
Sirius' absolute visual magnitude was only 1.3 on a scale that placed the sun itself at 4.8.
And
Canopus' absolute visual magnitude, on the same scale, was an astonishing —7.5.
The
intelligent races of the Galaxy had selected a truly spectacular star system as
the home of the Star Brain.
Was Andy plotting a
simulated orbit toward it now?
He
thought so but wasn't positive—another question with no immediate answer.
Could
Andy conclude that, if the illegal spaceships blasted off and somehow managed
to elude the monitoring satellites, their destination would be Canopus?
His
instructor looked up from Andy's computations. "Your orbit checks out,
Cadet," he said. He even called Andy that.
"Checks
out ... to Canopus?" Andy asked.
The
ex-spaceman looked startled. Then he smiled grudgingly. "No comment,
Cadet. You'll find out soon enough."
That
night, Andy returned to the dormitory before Turk. He was polishing his boots
when his friend appeared. Turk was excited.
"You'll never guess
what they have me working on."
"Piloting?"
Turk
said nothing, and Andy added; "On a simulated
flight to Canopus?"
Turk shook his head. "Gunnery," he
said. "Gunnery?"
"They have more junior
pilots than they need."
"What do you mean by
gunnery?"
"Just what I said. I'm learning how to use a gun, a space cannon, I guess you'd call
it." Turk smiled. "Or maybe a pint-sized
rocket-within-a-rocket. All I have to do is some fast mathematical
figuring, almost like an astrogator. Then I press a button, and out streaks a
rocket, or anyway a simulated rocket, toward its target." "What
target?"
"Nobody
told me," Turk said. "But I can take a good guess. It looks like a
small sphere, and it's circling an Earth-sized and cloud-covered planet in an
orbit about ten thousand miles out."
"A
monitoring satellite!" Andy cried.
"That's the way I see
it."
Neither
of them voiced what came into his mind: Were they going to blast their way into
space?
After
lights-out, it took Andy a long time to fall asleep. If they fired rockets at
the monitors, he knew, it would mean war, the first interstellar war in
history. Because, expectedly, the Star Brain's response would be: punish
Earth. And for what? Whoever commanded the fleet of
illegal space ships would risk interstellar war, risk a ravaged Earth with
bombed-out cities.
In
his history classes at the Academy Andy had learned that war was now
impossible. Mankind and the other races of the Galaxy had mastered weapons of
such power that war would be unthinkable. First had come
atomic warheads and then hydrogen warheads and finally cobalt warheads, each
potentially more devastating than the one before.
The
only protection against them was a quick and equally brutal counterattack. As
Andy's instructor at the Academy had put it, "Offensive weapons are several
generations ahead of defensive countermeasures. That's been true ever since the
middle of the twentieth century. War is unthinkable—if no one can win it. . .
."
Andy drifted off to troubled sleep.
And awoke to bright lights
and shouting.
"He's here!"
"Outside. . . ."
"Waiting to make a speech. . , ." "Everybody out!"
Turk
jumped into his boots and zipped them. "What's going on?" Andy asked.
"Who's here?"
Turk
tousled his hair. "Boy, you sleep like a log. Didn't you hear? Lieutenant
Odet came through with the news."
"What
news?" Andy asked in mounting exasperation.
"Ballinger,"
Turk said. "Captain Reed Ballinger flew into Mexico today. He's running
the show here. Come on."
Andy
zipped his own boots and, with Turk, joined the crowd in the quadrangle outside
their dormitory. Ex-spacemen and Cadets alike, old hands and newcomers, were
trotting toward the administration building. Floodlights lit the steps in front.
The night was hot, the moon high. The jungle seemed very close.
A
tall figure resplendent in the dress uniform of a Senior Captain of the Space
Corps stepped into the glare of the floodlights.
This, Andy knew, was
Captain Reed Baliinger.
Shouldering
his way through the crowd with Turk, he felt his breath catch. Depending on
your point of view, Baliinger was a hero ...
or a villain. Even if his motives had been selfish—and according to Lambert
Strayer they were—he had defended Earth's rights in defiance of the Star Brain
and the entire Galactic Confederacy which, to a world, followed the Star
Brain's dicta like shorn lambs. But his defense of Earth's rights had cost
Earth possibly its greatest right of all: access to the far star trails of the
Galaxy.
Reed
Baliinger, standing dramatically in the floodlights' glare while the crowd
settled down, had a ruggedly handsome face. It was all crags, straight lines,
and shadows—the heavy brow, the straight nose, the firm hard line of the lips,
the thrusting jaw. Baliinger stood there waiting. He had a sense of timing that
was almost theatrical, Andy realized. The crowd grew silent, and he let the
silence grow. He stood ramrod straight without moving.
And then, finally, he took
a step forward and spoke.
His voice was deep, his words slow, loud, and clear.
"Some of you know me. Others don't. All
of you know of me.
But I'm here to tell you that I, as an individual, am unimportant."
There were muttered denials
in the crowd.
"If
I'm unimportant as an individual, it is because, pitted against a hostile
Galactic Confederacy, all individuals are unimportant.
"But with your help, with the help of
other brave men like you, waiting even now at a dozen other secret spacefields
from here to Indochina, we can make Earth's power felt across the length and
breadth of the Galaxy."
Someone
behind Andy shouted. Applause swept like a wave through the darkness.
Ballinger, timing it perfectly again, went on:
"We're
Earthmen. I don't know what that means . . . yet ... to Sirians or Procyonians or the fish life of Fomalhaut or
Capellans . . . but they'll know before we're finished. We're Earthmen.
"We won't have exile
crammed down our throats.
"If
it's necessary to blast a path back into space, then we're prepared to do that.
We're Earth-men. . . ."
This
time it was several minutes before the roaring crowd would let Ballinger
continue. He smiled patiently, waiting. His attitude was clear: he, Reed Ballinger,
was their servant; he would continue when they were ready.
"Do we have rocket
weapons?" he cried.
"Ye-e$!" The answer was like thunder.
"Are
we afraid of a fight? Will we let a handful of monitoring satellites keep us
earthbound when the whole Galaxy is waiting for the proud shape of our ships
and the dauntless tread of our boots on far worlds?"
"Noo-oo!"
"If we have to blast
the monitors out of the sky, are we prepared to do it? If we have to bomb the
Star Brain again ..." here
Ballinger smiled in self-mockery . . this time more effectively than my first hasty effort, are
we prepared for that too?
"Men,
our heritage is out there, in deep space. We're spacemen. Tied to a planet,
even Mother Earth, we're nothing. In space we come alive. Will we let a machine
keep us dead?
"I'm
here to tell you we can do it. I'm here to tell you we have to do it. Men,
except for the monitors, there isn't an armed ship between Earth and Canopus
—and I hear tell that the Canopus fleet, the Guardians of the Brain, is just a
wee bit creaky with age." Bal-linger's voice was soft now with mild,
chiding contempt. Nervous laughter greeted his words, and he went on:
"We've scoured Earth for our own weapon
systems. We've found them in the garbage heaps of a civilization gone soft ... in museums, rusting in public parks,
once or twice at the bottom of the sea. We've all spent a busy year. The fruits
of our labor are now hanging ripe before our eyes.
"Men, we are ready.
"The challenge awaits
us.
"Is
there anyone among you without the courage to accept it?"
There was, apparently, no
one.
"We
blast off in two weeks' time," Reed Ballinger said, calm now.
"Hundreds of ships from twelve bases scattered across the globe. They
won't expect so many ships, and some of us are bound to reach Canopus."
Reed Ballinger bowed his head.
"When
that happens, when we destroy the Star Brain, space is ours. . . ."
Ballinger
capped his dramatic speech with a dramatic curtain. The floodlights just
blinked out. The night swallowed Ballinger, and the stars of space were very
bright, as if trying to outshine the full moon.
In
the darkness, Andy was aware of shouts and backslapping and roars of approval.
If
they all agreed with Ballinger, Andy thought in despair, the Galaxy might be
plunged into its first interstellar war.
Chapter
5 Escape!
the next afternoon,
a score of Indians arrived at the illegal spaceport with a burro train of
supplies for the ex-Cadets.
They were small brown men, heirs of the
ancient Mayas who once had ruled the Yucatec jungle, and they still clung to
their age-old ways. They were barefoot and wore loose white garments. They
spent two hours at the spaceport, unloading their burros and driving hard
bargains for the salted meat, starchy root vegetables, and melons they had
brought from the nearby town.
Their arrival was a welcome diversion. All
day Andy had been thinking of Captain Ballinger's speech and the obvious
enthusiasm with which the ex-Cadets had greeted it. Now Ballinger was gone, but
his name was on everyone's lips. No one doubted for a minute that Reed
Ballinger would lead them back into space.
Andy's
only solace was the memory of the brief meeting with Lambert Strayer in New
Mexico. Strayer
45
had
been a Space Captain, too, one of the greatest. And Strayer had nothing but
contempt for Reed Ballinger.
But
maybe Strayer, Andy thought in despair, was just a lonely voice out of the
past, an anachronism like the Indians. Maybe Reed Ballinger really stood for
the wave of the future.
Andy
stood for a long time at the edge of the spaceport tarmac, watching the
Indians lead their unloaded burros off into the
jungle. An armed sentry paraded by and gave him a flinty-eyed look. A voice
said, "You better get back to work."
It
was Turk. Andy realized that except for the sentry they were all alone on the
edge of the tarmac, close to the encroaching jungle. When Andy didn't answer,
Turk said, "What's eating you? You've been acting queer ever since Captain
Ballinger was here."
"I was thinking of
Lambert Strayer."
"What
about him? He's ancient history," Turk said. "Captain Ballinger. . .
."
All
of Andy's uncertainty and confusion were blurted out in a few words.
"Captain Ballinger? Your Captain Ballinger isn't fit to wipe Lambert
Strayer's boots. You heard what Strayer told us: Ballinger was responsible for
Earth being ruled out of space."
Turk
glanced around, alarmed, but the sentry was a long way off. "Hey," he
advised, "keep it down to a dull roar, will you? Don't talk about Reed
Ballinger like that . . . not around here."
"I'm just talking to
you. No one else."
"Then
don't. Because I don't want to hear it." "Afraid to?" Andy asked curtly. "Now, look .
. ." Turk began.
"You
look," Andy cut him off. "Maybe you can forget all the history they
taught us on Luna. I can't. There's never been an interstellar war. They said
it was unthinkable. They said mankind and the other intelligent races of the
Galaxy had developed weapons that could destroy civilization. They said. . .
."
"Professors,"
Turk scoffed. "I'll tell you something they didn't know about. I'll bet
they never saw a couple of dozen Indians leading a train of burros through the
jungle."
"What
does that have to do with it?"
"Now
who's forgetting history? A couple of thousand years ago the ancestors of
those Indians had a great civilization going. They . . . well, they got soft.
Look at them now."
"They
couldn't meet the challenge of the jungle," Andy protested. "Okay,
I'll admit that. So they reverted to savagery. What are you driving at?"
"What
do you think will happen to mankind, if we can't meet the challenge of
space?"
"It
was Ballinger who couldn't meet it, Ballinger who had to take the law into his
own hands."
"Andy,
Andy. Do you want
to stay earthbound all your
life?"
"No,
I. . . ." But Andy's voice trailed off. If he admitted that space was a
fire in his blood, wasn't Bal-linger's the only way back
to the star trails?
"It's like we're at a crossroads of
history," Turk said, speaking slowly, struggling with the unfamiliar concepts.
"We go one way, and we're like those Indians. We go another, and we seek
our destiny in space. We need a man like Reed Ballinger to lead us."
"Just like he led us
the last time?"
Turk
looked away. "There's no use talking to you," he said. "You're
in a rut. You're living in the past. You don't care if you never set foot
inside a spaceship again. And you're just going to get into trouble thinking
like that."
"When
I came down here, nobody told me there'd be thought control."
"I
give up," Turk said. He started to walk away, and flung over his shoulder,
"Nobody made you come here. Just remember that. Like the rest of us, you
flew down of your own free will."
"I'll
remember it, all right," Andy promised, but by then Turk was out of
earshot.
The rain drummed on the tarmac and roared
through the heavy foliage of the surrounding jungle. Andy was drenched to the
skin seconds after going outside. He could see the lights in the windows of the
other dormitories, and brighter light in the administration building. All else
was blackness. The rain poured down in endless sheets. There was no wind. Andy
wondered about the Indian village. It had to be nearby; he hoped he could find
it in the darkness and the rain. If he got lost in the jungle, he'd be in
serious trouble. He had decided to escape.
At
first the use of the word escape in his thoughts surprised him. Escape? From what?
But,
he told himself now at midnight as he trotted swiftly across the tarmac, often
splashing ankle-deep in water, it would be escape. Armed guards patrolled the
periphery of the spaceport day and night. Whether they changed their minds or
not, Reed Bal-linger's "volunteers" were supposed to stay put.
Oddly
enough, what had made up Andy's mind had nothing to do with Ballinger or the
secret spaceport or the Indians or his argument with Turk. He remembered a day
almost two years ago when he was ready to apply for admission to Luna Academy.
He'd filled out all the forms, but he didn't mail them.
His
brother Frank was home then, between flights, and they were living in a hotel
near Kansas City Spaceport.
Frank had said, "Got your application
all ready?" "Yes."
"I saw it in your desk. What's the
matter, Andy?" "It's nothing."
"Come on, now. This is your brother
Frank you're talking to." "I guess I'm not sure, that's all."
"About being a spaceman? What else do you want
to be?"
"You'll laugh if I
tell you."
"Try me," Frank
suggested.
And
Andy, averting his eyes, had said uncomfortably, "Well, I was thinking of
maybe being an archaeologist."
"A
digger, huh?"
Andy's
face reddened as he defended the idea. "Did you ever stop to think of all
the mysteries of mankind's past that haven't been solved? Angkor, the origin of
the Cretans, the way we keep on finding that so many of the ancient myths
really happened, it's . . . fascinating," Andy finished lamely.
His
brother Frank had surprised him. "Sure it is. And I can see how it would
interest a bright kid like you."
"You mean you're not mad
at me?"
"What for? You want to be an archaeologist; go ahead and be one. I have a hunch
you'll make me proud of you."
"But
I thought . . . you being a spaceman and all. . . ."
"What
does that have to do with it? I'm me, I'm Frank Marlow, and I guess space is in
my blood. I'm not happy unless I eat it and breathe it and sleep it. But you're
Andy Marlow, and whatever else you do, you've got to live with yourself."
An
enormous smile of relief covered Andy's face. "Gosh, I thought. . .
."
"That I'd be ripping mad? Not on your life, Andy. Make up your own
mind. I won't push you one way or the other." Frank said thoughtfully,
"Look, there are maybe three ways a man can see himself and his position
in the world." He ticked the three ways off on his fingers. "One, you
think what other people will say about any decision you make is important. It's
a pretty comfortable way to live, because you're always in step. But if it's so
important to be in step like that, you lose something of what makes you tick as
Andy Mar low.
"Two,
you pick out one person—like a father, maybe, or in your case an older
brother—and say whatever he does or whatever he expects me to do is what I'm
going to do. That's a pretty comfortable way to live, too. You're following the
footsteps of someone you respect and admire; so your orbit's all charted for
you. But again, you're a little less Andy Marlow.
"Three—and
this is the one I'm plugging for, Andy —you get this sort of image in your head
of what you think Andy Marlow ought to be like, what he ought to do, and you
stick to it. That isn't necessarily a comfortable way to live. Lots of times
you'll disagree with people you love and want to agree with; lots of times
you'll feel out of step because the decisions you reach won't always gain the
approval of all the other people you come into contact with. But this way
you're your own man, Andy, and anything you decide to do with your own life,
well, it comes from the inside out. It's Andy Marlow acting on the world, and
not the other way around. In the long run, if you have what it takes, you'll be
happiest that way."
Frank picked the Academy application up and
studied it for a long moment. "Would you feel better if I threw this thing
away? Maybe one spaceman in the family is enough."
"No,"
Andy said. "But thanks for the speech, Frank. I won't forget it. I just
haven t made up my mind yet."
He
hadn't forgotten the advice, but in the end he had decided on Luna Academy.
Archaeology would always be his second love, but the call of space was too
strong to resist. It was only after he had made the decision, completely on his
own, that Frank had pointed out:
"Could be you'll be
able to mix them, Andy."
"Mix what?"
"Space and archaeology. I didn't want to tell you till you made up
your mind. But didn't it occur to you that every civilized world in the Galaxy
has its archaeological past, just as Earth does?"
"I
guess so, but you never hear of diggers visiting each other's worlds to study
alien ancient history."
"That's
true, you don't," Frank said soberly. "Maybe it's one trouble with
the Galaxy. Maybe it's why we need a Star Brain to tell us what to do, because
we don't take the trouble to understand each other."
"I think we ought
to."
Frank
smiled. "Keep thinking like that, and I have a
hunch one of these years I'll sit back and watch my famous brother."
Now
in the rain at the spaceport in Mexico Andy remembered Frank's words. You get this sort of image in your head of
what you think Andy
Marlow ought
to be like, what he ought to do, and you stick to it.
Frank
was dead, had died earthbound though his own idea of Frank Marlow had been of Frank Mar-low, spaceman. And all at once nothing was as
important to Andy as Frank's advice. Whatever else you did, you had to be true
to yourself—it boiled down to that.
If
space was important enough to him, and it was, Andy
could see himself disobeying the Edict and returning to the star trails.
But
he couldn't see himself following Reed Ballinger
with his rocket guns and
cobalt bombs to interstellar war.
Soaked and breathless, he reached the edge of
the tarmac. In the light shed by the windows of the nearby administration
building he could see a sentry patrolling, head low, body huddled under a poncho,
the sheets of tropical rain bouncing off his slumped shoulders.
Andy
waited until the sentry was out of sight. As nearly as he could remember, it
was at about this point that the Indians and their burros had entered the
jungle. Andy stumbled into the first thick undergrowth and searched for the
trail that would lead to their village. He didn't know exactly what he would do
when he got there. He only knew he wanted to leave Reed Ballinger's spaceport,
return to civilization and then. .
. .
And
then what?
He couldn't report to the authorities on
Ballinger's plans. Turk and too many of his old friends from Luna Academy had
joined up with Ballinger, and if Andy betrayed the ex-Space Captain, even if
Ballinger deserved it, he'd be betraying his friends as well. Yet if he
didn't, if he allowed Ballinger to go ahead with his plans, the result might
well be the first . . . and the last . . . interstellar war in history.
Betrayal
of his friends through action or betrayal of mankind through lack of action, it
came down to that.
Andy
found the jungle trail and sloshed along it. The water swirled at his feet. In
places it was knee-deep. Despite that, Andy set a grueling pace for himself.
He had no idea how far the village was, and there were now less than six hours
till sunrise when he would be missed.
He
counted cadence—walk quickstep two hundred paces, then double time two hundred
paces, then quickstep again. Splashing, floundering, he made his way along the
narrow jungle trail.
After
half an hour he allowed himself the luxury of a five-minute break. He sat,
drenched and panting, on a stump, listening to the sound of his own breathing
and the steady roar of the storm.
Then
he heard another sound. It was unmistakable, footsteps slogging along the trail
behind him.
He was being followed.
The Trail of a Spaceman
andy stood in a crouch at the edge of the trail.
He
could see nothing. The darkness was complete. He felt steamy with sweat under
his sodden jumper. His own breath was loud in his ears, and he wondered whether
his pursuer would hear it. For the first time he felt fear . . . what if it
were an armed sentry splashing toward him through the night? He knew he had no
choice. He had to wait for whoever it was and subdue him. If
he didn't, if he were pursued all the way to the Indian village, and if the man
who had followed him were armed. . . .
A
wet branch slapped against his face. His pursuer had reached him.
Andy
sprang at him, hitting him waist-high with a shoulder and bringing him down in
the muddy water.
They
floundered there, rolling over and over in the mud.
The
man was very strong and seemed as determined as Andy was. Once Andy went over
on his back, to feel himself pinned in the mud. His head was
55
under
water; he swallowed a mouthful and gagged and lashed out with arms and legs to
scramble atop his still unseen antagonist. There was a gurgling sound as he
forced the man's head under water as he straddled him. Andy let go. Whoever it
was, he didn't want to drown him.
A familiar voice cried out,
"Leggo, darn you!"
It was Turk.
Andy
released his grip and rose shakily to his feet. His knees trembled with
reaction.
Turk said, "You want
to kill a guy?"
Relief
flooded through Andy. It was Turk, he told himself, and Turk had followed him.
Turk had decided to join him; they were still friends; together they could
work out what they had to do. . . .
"You're coming back
with me," Turk said.
The
disappointment of those few words was like a blow. Andy didn't answer.
"We
can get back in the dorm safe and sound before dawn, and nobody but me will
know what a darned fool you almost were," Turk said.
"I'm not going back,
Turk."
"Are
you crazy? You've got to go back. Do you think I can let you go? One word out
of you and the police will have us all flushed out of Captain Ballinger's
spaceport inside of twenty-four hours."
"Maybe
that would be the best thing that could happen to you."
There
was a silence. Turk sighed finally. "We used to be friends, Andy."
"I know."
"There's
a whole bunch of your friends back there, guys you lived with on Luna. Do you
want to betray all of them?"
"I don't know,"
Andy admitted.
"Don't
you realize Reed Ballinger's doing what he's doing for the good of
mankind?"
"That's not the way I
see it."
"Do you see any other
way?"
"No," Andy said.
"Maybe
you'd like to see over five billion Earth-men make like Yucatec Indians?"
"I
wouldn't like to see one Earthman start a war no one will finish."
"Listen,"
Turk said, "if you're dumb enough to kick over your one chance to get back
into space, go ahead. I won't stop you. But a lot of guys who were your friends
are in this up to their ears, and a lot of guys your
brother would have been proud to call his friends, too. You go to the police,
and we all face prison. Go on, get out if you're dumb
enough to. But don't turn us in, Andy. You can't."
"I
never said I would," Andy heard himself saying, because the plea in his
old friend's words was more than he could bear. "I just want out; that's
all."
"You mean you won't
turn us in?"
Andy
took a deep breath. "No, Turk. I couldn't do that."
Turk
brightened. "Then come on back with me before it's too late."
"I couldn't do that either."
"You're making a mistake," Turk said. "Maybe I am. But I'm the
one who has to live with myself."
The
two friends were silent for a while. Andy's throat felt sore. He hadn't
realized it, but they had both been shouting to make themselves heard over the
roar of the downpour.
Suddenly
Andy felt Turk's wet hand groping for his. They stood there, in the dark,
utterly drenched, unable to see each other, and shook hands.
"I
hope someday. . . ." Turk began, and his voice
trailed off.
"We're
still friends if you want to be, Turk," Andy's voice was choked. Turk was
his best friend, and probably his last remaining friend since he'd fled from
Reed Ballinger's spaceport. He wondered whether he would ever see Turk again.
And then he realized, even though he didn't know where he would go or what he
would do, that if they did meet again circumstances might make them enemies.
Whatever happened, Andy wanted no part of Reed Ballinger's schemes.
"I
want to be," Turk said and pumped Andy's hand vigorously again. Then he
was gone. Andy listened for the sound of his retreating footsteps but heard
only the storm.
Head
down, dispirited, Andy continued along the jungle trail.
Andy reached the Indian village at dawn. The
storm had stopped, and the sun burst over the horizon to reveal a clearing
several hundred yards in diameter. Crude huts dotted it, and stolid Indians in
their doorways looked at Andy without interest.
He
felt cut off, not merely from civilization but from any sort of life he had
ever known. It was like the landing at White Sands all over again, but at least
then Andy had known that the Placement Center was doing what it could for the
ex-Cadets. Now Andy was completely on his own. His
brother Frank was dead; he had deserted his best friend because he'd had to.
There was no one who would care whether he remained in the Yucatec jungle all
his life or returned to civilization, no one whose life would be touched one
iota whether he lived or died.
"Hello,"
an Indian called and marched from his hut to greet Andy. He had a broad square
face and alert, friendly dark eyes. "You are from the spaceport?"
The
unexpected sound of his own language encouraged Andy. "That's right. I ... I'd like to get back to North
America."
"It is a long way," the Indian said
gravely. Proudly he added, "I speak good English, yes? I learn it in
mission school. There is a bus that goes to Merida, and from Merida the
airplane."
"I have no money for
the bus," Andy said.
The
Indian flashed white teeth. "Still, you are lucky. I, Tuhalpa, am driver
of the bus. For chance to speak the language English, I will take you."
Tuhalpa told him the bus didn't leave until
late afternoon. Andy's spirits plummeted. That meant Bal-lingers guards would
come searching for him while he was still in the village.
He
said, "I've had some trouble at the spaceport. You'd only get in trouble
yourself if you . .
Tuhalpa
raised a hand and told him, "Please, you are not only one. In past, three
young spacemen come here to village of Tuhalpa. It is safe, young friend."
"You mean I'm not the
first who . . . ran away?"
"Three
others," Tuhalpa repeated, and the knowledge heartened Andy as nothing
had since his return to Earth from the Academy on Luna. It meant he wasn't the
only one who didn't believe Reed Bal-linger's way was right. But if three
others had escaped, he suddenly thought, why hadn't
the police landed their jet-copters at the spaceport and put a stop to
Ballinger's illegal activities?
"Come
inside, please," Tuhalpa urged. "For speaking
English."
Three armed spaceport guards reached the
little village in midafternoon.
With
Tuhalpa and his wife, a plump and cheerful woman who spoke no English but who
all but force fed Andy on the simple Indian fare, Andy watched them through the
chinks in the wall of the hut. They spoke to the headman; Andy couldn't hear
what they said. He saw the old headman gesturing and shrugging-
Tuhalpa smiled and said softly, "He is
telling them no visitor came to village today."
"Why?" Andy
asked. "Why is he doing it?"
Tuhalpa's
answer was simple and somehow encouraging. "Yucatec Indians give up warfare
in time of my great-grandfather. Yucatec Indians no like men with guns."
Andy
nodded slowly. He was aware of Tuhalpa's strong hand on his shoulder. "Now
it is time you hide."
"Hide?"
"They
have great fear of trickery. They search all houses."
There
was a stuffy little storeroom in the back of the hut, and Tuhalpa's wife led
Andy in there. Crates and slats and bales of the coarse white fabric from which
the Indians wove their garments were piled in the little room. Tuhalpa's wife
made a nest of logs and boards and fabric for Andy. He nestled down in it and
heard her departing footsteps. After that he could hear the sound of his own
heartbeat, then voices dimly, and then one voice close and loud.
"What's in
there?"
"Storeroom," said
Tuhalpa.
"Let's have a
look."
"If
the spaceman wishes."
Andy held his breath.
Boots
clomped on the clay of the storeroom floor. "Nothing in here," a
voice said.
"It's always the same," another
voice complained. "They must go somewhere."
"Not to this village.
Come on."
Then
barely heard voices again, and then silence. After a long time, Andy felt the
slats and logs and boards being lifted away. He blinked at the light.
"Young Cadet safe
now," Tuhalpa smiled at him.
"I don't know how to
thank you."
"There is way,"
Tuhalpa said gravely.
"I'll do anything I
can."
"After Merida, where
will young Cadet go?"
"I
don't know. North America. White Sands, I guess."
Tuhalpa
shook his head. "As special favor to Tuhalpa, young Cadet will go to
Mexico City. Young Cadet can fly without ticket, yes?"
"Yes, but . . . who
are you?"
"Am
only poor bus driver to Merida. In Mexico City, young Cadet will visit friend
of Tuhalpa, yes? Name of Ruy Alvarez."
"Alvarez?" Andy
gasped. "Captain
Alvarez?"
"Young
Cadet knows Ruy Alvarez?" Tuhalpa asked with a mysterious smile.
"He
was just one of the most famous Space Captains of them all," Andy said
eagerly.
"Good.
Bus leaves in one hour." Tuhalpa gave Andy Ruy Alvarez's address in Mexico
City.
An
hour later they were on the road to Merida in an ancient, clattering bus. A
dozen or so Indians, some carrying caged chickens, little bundles, and small
crates, shared the bus with him. Andy sat up front near Tuhalpa. The Indian
parried all his questions about Ruy Alvarez.
They
said good-by at the Merida airport. Tuhalpa would not accept Andy's thanks.
"It is I, young Cadet, who should thank you. Have much valuable practice
of the language English, yes?" He blinked and smiled in the bright
sunlight on the edge of the runway and mentioned Captain Alvarez's name for the
first time since leaving the village. "And Ruy Alvarez, he says to help
young Cadets like you is to help all my people and even all mankind."
"But how did he. . . ."
"Good luck,
Cadet."
Tuhalpa
turned and strode briskly away toward his waiting bus. A few minutes later Andy
boarded a turbo-jet airliner that was as old as the bus itself. The flight
stairs were withdrawn. Turbo-jets whining, the plane roared down the runway and
was airborne.
The patio of Captain Ruy Alvarez's big
hacienda on the southern outskirts of Mexico City was lit by candlelight.
Insects chirped in the darkness, and the scent of tropical flowers was strong
in Andy's nostrils. Distantly he could hear the roar of jet-car traffic on the big
boulevard running north to the city.
"Is
there anything else you wish?" Ruy Alvarez asked.
Andy shook his head. "If I eat any more,
I'll burst, Captain Alvarez."
Ruy Alvarez was a small, dark-haired man as
lean as a foil. He had olive skin and a small, serious mouth. He suddenly
leaned forward across the table. Until then he'd been making only small talk,
and though he was a splendid host Andy felt a growing sense of impatience.
"Now
that you've left Ballinger's spaceport," Captain Alvarez asked—and
looking at him Andy knew the small talk was over-—"what do you intend to
do?"
"I don't know,"
Andy said frankly.
"Ballinger's
activities are illegal," Alvarez pointed out. "Why don't you make a
report to the police?"
"I can't," Andy
said.
"No? And why can't
you?"
"I made a promise . .
. to a friend."
"One
of Ballinger's men?"
"Yes."
"I
see. But you couldn't stop me from reporting what you have told me to the
police, could you?"
"No," Andy
admitted, "I couldn't."
Captain
Alvarez stood up and paced back and forth on the terrazzo floor of the patio.
Behind him an ornate fountain gurgled. "I'm not going to," he said at
last.
Andy said nothing.
"We've
known what Ballinger has been doing for months. We've known it ever since the
first disenchanted Cadet fled from his port in Arabia."
"Arabia?"
"Arabia, and here in
Mexico, and in Argentina,
Japan,
India, twelve in all." Captain Alvarez smiled. "You see, we don't
want to stop Ballinger."
Andy
stood up, too. He was shocked. "Don't tell me you believe in what he's
trying to do?"
"This
friend of yours," Alvarez said evasively. "You would protect him no
matter what?"
"I'm
not sure. I think he's doing the wrong thing. But I made a promise. So many of my friends are there."
With
his back turned Alvarez said slowly, "I knew another Marlow once, a brave
man who would put principle above friendship if he had to . . . and who made a
better friend for it."
Andy felt a lump in his throat. "You
knew Frank Marlow? You knew my brother?"
"We
rocketed down the star trails many times together, Andy."
"Then
try to tell me. If he had a friend ... if he. ..."
"No one can tell you what to do, Andy.
You yourself must decide."
"But you already said you won't go to
the police. Doesn't that mean you don't want me to go either?"
"Yes, it means
that."
"Can you tell me
why?"
Alvarez
shook his head. "If you hadn't made that promise, Andy, then I could have
told you." Alvarez stopped his pacing and asked again, "What are your
plans?"
"I guess I haven't any. Space is closed
to us forever, I don't have to tell you that. Once I
wanted to be an archaeologist but ...
I don't know . . . who cares about the past?"
Alvarez's
black eyes studied him. "Perhaps more people than you think." The
ex-Space Captain began pacing again. His words had been cryptic. Andy didn't
know what he possibly could have meant. "If I asked you to, would you
withdraw the promise you made to your friend?" Alvarez raised a hand, for
Andy was about to speak. "Wait. Before you answer.
If you did withdraw it, there is much I could tell you."
"About
what?"
"First
I have to know I can trust you. But remember this: three other Cadets left
Ballinger's Yucatec spaceport. All went to Tuhalpa's village. All drove with
Tuhalpa to Merida. All flew from Merida to Mexico City. I saw them all."
Andy
shook his head. "I gave Turk my word. I can't go back on it."
"Your brother. . .
."
"My brother is
dead."
Captain
Alvarez turned his back again. "The ramjet he was piloting crashed at
Stavanger Airport in Norway."
"You know about
that?"
"I
know ... all about it. What will you
do when you leave here, Andy?"
"I don't know. There's
nothing I. . . ."
"May I make a suggestion?
You have a pass to fly
wherever you wish. Why don't you fly to Stavanger?"
"What good would that
do? Frank's dead."
"You thought a great
deal of your brother?"
Andy
swallowed hard. "I was the luckiest kid in the world to have a brother
like Frank."
"Very well. Then I repeat: go to Stavanger, Andy. He
flew the New York-Stavanger run many times. The people who knew him, his
friends, are in Norway. He crashed there." Alvarez went on, again
mysteriously, "Perhaps the people there who called Frank Marlow their
friend could tell you things I am unable to tell you here."
Andy
didn't answer right away, but he knew what his answer would be. Maybe Alvarez
was right, he thought. Maybe meeting the people who had known Frank in Norway
would help Andy decide what to do with his own life.
"I'll
go," he said finally. "I guess I should have gone as soon as Captain
Strayer told me Frank was dead."
Surprisingly,
Alvarez disagreed. "I think not. I think
it is well you saw Ballinger's spaceport and learned Ballinger's plans."
"I
can't understand you at all," Andy said rashly. "One minute I get the
impression you don't like Reed Ballinger; the next it's as if you admire him
tremendously."
Alvarez's
small mouth became prim. "There is much to admire about a man like Reed
Ballinger. He is a born leader of men. He is a superb pilot. He is brave and
strong-willed." Alvarez concluded, "But with his bravery and
willfulness he has done humanity more harm than any man in modern history, and
if he is allowed to go through with his plans it will mean war from here to
Canopus, such a war as humanity and the other intelligent races of the Galaxy
have never known."
"Then
why don't you stop him? If you know all about him, why don't you. . . ."
"We can't because we
need him."
"You keep saying that: we need him. Who do you mean?"
"If
you catch the night ramjet to New York," Alvarez said, "you can be in
Norway in the morning."
Chapter
7^
the great ramjet
lines cruise in the upper stratosphere at fifty thousand feet.
There
the sky is a deep, velvety blue, as close to the black star-studded immensity
of space itself as an ex-Cadet on an earthbound world
can come.
Andy
sat at the window amidships in the huge liner, staring out at the deep, deep
blueness. It was early morning, and the ramjet, at two thousand miles per hour,
was bound from New York to what had been Stavanger Interstellar Spaceport in
Norway and was now a planetary airport.
It
was late spring, and with the blossoms in full bloom along Norway's fjords the
New York-Stavanger run was busy. Norway in late spring was a perfect vacation
land.
Of
the two hundred passengers aboard the ramjet, only Andy wasn't in a holiday
mood. Almost, he felt contempt for his fellow passengers. Tourists, holiday
bound, they seemed unaware of the Edict that had outlawed Earth from space. But
then Andy realized
69
his
attitude wasn't fair; the Edict hadn't been in effect long enough for the
economic pinch of isolation to be felt on Earth. Why shouldn't they enjoy
themselves? This year, or next year, or perhaps the one after that, Earth would
become a poor, overcrowded planet, with not enough jobs to go around, maybe not
even enough food.
The
attitude of his fellow passengers toward Andy was one of indifference, for Ruy
Alvarez had given him a change of clothing in Mexico and he no longer wore the
telltale Cadet jumper. Remembering the ugly scene at New Mexico Spaceport, he
decided he was lucky.
Just
as he decided that, the public address system of the liner squawked on, and a
voice announced, "Attention please, ladies and gentlemen. Fasten your
seat belts. We are losing altitude now and approaching Sola Airport in
Stavanger. We are due to land in fifteen minutes."
Sola
Airport, Andy knew, was the old name for Stavanger Interstellar Spaceport. Now
they were using it again, as if, this soon, the very thought of space was alien
to them.
He
looked out the window, and far ahead under the wing where the shoal waters were
pale blue he could see the green-gray of the Norwegian headlands near
Stavanger. He guessed their altitude at about fifteen thousand feet; the ramjet
had gone into a long descending glide.
Perhaps Frank had come down like this, Andy thought, suddenly to lose control of the big
liner and meet shattering death on the low, rugged mountains below.
"My brother used to work here,"
Andy told the uniformed man at the information desk a half hour later.
"What as?"
"A pilot. He was Frank Marlow. I wonder if you could. . . ."
"Frank
Marlow? Say, I remember. Come to think of it, he looked something like
you." The man stared down at his desk top suddenly. "Wait a minute.
He . . . died, didn't he?"
"That's
right," Andy said. "He crashed here. If I can, I want to find out
exactly how it happened." The words came with surprising ease, as if they
had nothing to do with Andy Marlow and his big brother Frank who had died. But
Andy's eyes were smarting.
". . . Captain
Olafson," the man was saying.
"I'm sorry. I didn't
hear you."
"Captain
Olafson knew your brother. He's in the ready-room now. If anybody can tell you
what happened, OIlie can." The man scribbled a pass for Andy and gave him
directions.
After
thanking him, Andy went across the big rotunda of the terminal building, then
up a ramp to the ready-room where half a dozen uniformed pilots were sitting
around drinking hot coffee and smoking.
"I'm looking for Captain Olafson,"
Andy said to the nearest pilot.
"You're
not just looking for him, you re looking at him. What can I do for you, son?"
Captain
Olafson was a giant of a man, close to six and a half feet tall, with enormous
shoulders and arms. He had a red face and an unruly thatch of white-blond hair.
"I
m Andy Marlow. I.
. . ."
Captain
Olafson didn't let him finish. Instead, a huge hand pounded Andy's back as
Olafson's voice boomed, "Frank's brother! Sure, I should have known it,
son. Maybe you could stand a few pounds, but except for that you're the image
of him. What brings you to Stavanger ...
as if I didn't know." For some reason, Olafson
winked.
Puzzled,
Andy said: "I want to find out exactly how my brother died."
The
expectant grin that had followed the wink on Olafson's big red face vanished.
He scowled at Andy. The big shoulders moved in a shrug. "Exactly how he died, is it?"
"That's right."
"Well,
there isn't much to tell. We had an engine failure on one of the big babies
here in Sola. Frank flew to Oslo in a jet-copter to ferry back a spare
ram-jet"
"Then
there weren't any passengers when he crashed?"
"No, just Frank and his co-pilot. By the time they flew the ramjet in from
Oslo, fog had shrouded the entire coast from Bergen south. They made an instrument
landing, but something went wrong. She came down on one wing and bellied over.
The co-pilot died instantly. Frank was taken to the hospital here in Stavanger, critically injured."
"He died there?"
Captain
Olafson looked long at Andy before answering. Finally he said, "He was
badly injured, son. It was a miracle he stayed alive that long. Maybe they can
tell you more at the hospital." Olafson finished his coffee. "Matter
of fact, you can see my sister Freya there. She's a nurse, and she was on the
emergency ward when they brought Frank in. That's all I can tell you."
Andy
nodded, and then because he'd always been outspoken and frank, and because
Captain Olafson seemed at the same time both friendly and somehow lacking in
sympathy, he said, "Were you Frank's friend?"
"Yes, I was."
"Spaceman?"
Olafson
scowled. "I wish I had been. I washed out ten years ago, son, and took to
ramjets instead, but that doesn't mean I didn't recognize a good spaceman when
I saw one. Your brother was one of the best."
"You're hiding
something from me, aren't you?"
"Hiding something? Why
should I?"
"I don't know. I'm
asking you."
"You
asked me about the crash, and I told you. What else did you expect?"
Before
Andy could answer, a loudspeaker on the wall blared, "Captain Olafson,
board your plane. Captain Olafson, board your plane."
Olafson
headed for the door. He turned there to tell Andy, "See my sister at the
hospital, son. See Freya."
And then he was gone.
Freya Olafson had just completed her tour of
duty when Andy reached the hospital. It was a large plasti-glass-walled
building perched on a rocky bluff above the waters of the Stavanger Fjord. When
Andy reached the reception desk, a voice behind him said,
"You must be
Andy."
He
whirled, surprised. Coming toward him in her pale blue nurse's uniform was a
tall, pretty girl with silver-blond hair. She had big blue eyes the same deep
color as the waters of the fjord. She was smiling.
"Miss Olafson?"
"Yes."
Her voice was low-pitched, deep for a woman's, but musical.
"How did you know who
I was?"
"Looking
at you, anyone can tell. It is like seeing your brother all over again, a
younger edition." Though Freya Olafson's English was excellent, her voice
had the cadence and lilt of someone who felt most at home with the Norwegian
language.
"I've been told that before," Andy
said. "But how did you know I was
coming?"
Freya's
cheeks dimpled. "I could say my brother called me from Sola Airport."
"You
could, except that he went to board his plane."
"Well then, Captain Alvarez called me
from Mexico."
That surprised Andy. "He did? What's so
important about me?"
"Every
Cadet or ex-spaceman who defects from Reed Ballinger is important to us."
"I
came here to find out all I could about my brother," Andy said.
"I
can tell you everything you want to know," Freya answered.
Andy nodded slowly. They went outside
together into the bright transparent northern sunlight.
Stavanger Fjord was not one of the awesome
chasms like Hardanger, Sogne, and Geiranger to the north. Instead, it looked almost as tranquil as a
lake surrounded by wooded hills, the pines so thick on them they looked black.
But Andy knew the water was sea water and incredibly deep. It mirrored the
pines on its still surface. A small white hovercraft went swiftly up the fjord
like a stone scaled on the water. From it Andy heard faintly the sound of
singing. Except for the hovercraft, to walk along the shore of Stavanger Fjord
was to open the pages of a history book to a quieter, simpler time.
Neither
of them spoke for a long time. Finally Freya said, "You asked what is so
important about you, Andy, and I told you that every Cadet who defects from
Reed Ballinger is important to us. Do you know what happens to every Cadet who
flees from one of Ballinger s spaceports? Through an intermediary like Ruy
Alvarez, he is sent here to Norway."
"Then
Alvarez was just humoring me when he told me to find out about my brother? He
wanted me to come here anyway?"
"I suppose
. . . yes . . . you could put it that way. Because he couldn't tell you the
real reason we wanted you to come."
"Why not?" But Andy answered his own question. "Oh, now I get it. Because I'd
made a promise to a friend that I wouldn't betray Ballinger. Is that what you
mean?"
"Andy,
listen to me. The most valuable recruits we can get are Cadets or ex-spacemen
like you."
"There
are thousands of us who've been exiled back to Earth. Why am I so
special?"
"Because you spent some time with Ballinger. Because you have friends
at one of Ballinger's spaceports."
"Now
look," Andy said, exasperated. "First Ruy Alvarez gave me the big
mystery treatment, then your brother did, and now you are. What's
happening?"
Freya stopped walking. Behind her were the
waters of the fjord and the dark pine-clad hills. "What would you say,
Andy, if I told you Reed Ballinger wasn't the only one
determined to return to space? What would you say if I told you we were,
too?" Freya laughed. "You look shocked."
"I'd
say you were as bad as he was. I'd say Lambert Strayer was right. I'd say anyone who tried to blast his way back
into space. . . ."
"But
I never said anything about blasting our way back into space. For one thing,
someone must go if Ballinger goes, if for no other reason, than to prevent him
from starting an interstellar war."
"That's
not true," Andy bristled. "If you wanted to stop him, you could stop
him right here on Earth."
Andy
stared at her accusingly, and Freya said slowly, "But that is precisely
the point. We do not want to stop him."
"You just said. . .
."
"Perhaps
someone can explain it to you better than I can. Captain Lambert Strayer is
here in Norway."
That
surprised Andy. "He is? Is he one of the people you and Ruy Alvarez keep
talking about?"
"Yes."
"And
he's going to explain things to me? Then why didn't he do it in White
Sands?"
"I already told you. The more recruits we get
who know Ballinger's forces, who have worked with them, the better it is for
us. But it wasn't Lambert Strayer I was talking about. Someone else who was in
it from the very beginning can tell you what we are trying to do even better
than Strayer can."
Andy
waited. He was aware again of Freya's smile and aware too that she was smiling
and almost crying at the same time. Her eyes had filled with tears.
And
then as the tears of incredulous disbelief and joy sprang to his own eyes, too,
he heard Freya's words, "Ruy Alvarez left it to me whether to tell you or
not. I am taking you north to our headquarters, Andy. Now,
this afternoon. There, one of the greatest spacemen who ever lived will
tell you all you want to know. His name is Frank Marlow, Andy. He isn't dead.
Your brother isn't dead."
Chapter o
Land of
the Midnight Sun
there were the
roar of the jet-copter's rotors and the whine of the wind past its thin-skinned
fuselage. There were the deep silver fingers of the mighty fjords far below,
poking into the mountainous coast of western Norway, and later the snow ridges
and eternally snow-capped peaks and glaciers of the Jotunheim mountains, and
still later the broad vistas of tundra country above the Arctic Circle. There
was the square back of the taciturn pilot whose name Andy never learned. And
most of all there was Freya, telling him about his brother.
"The crash was just as Ollie must have
told you," she said. "Frank's co-pilot died instantly. He was a
German named Speer, who had been a Space Captain with Frank. Your brother was
badly injured. When they took him to the hospital, we hardly had hope. He had
lost a great deal of blood, and both his arms and one leg were fractured.
Almost miraculously, there were no severe internal injuries. After a week, he
was out of danger. After two . . ." here Freya smiled
79
".
. . it was hard to keep him in bed. And after three,
the first man to flee from Ballinger's spaceports contacted us. That was the
first time we had heard of what Reed Ballinger wanted to do. It was what Frank
had been waiting for." "What was?"
"Ballinger. If his fleet actually leaves Earth—and it will—we can leave, too."
"But what does that
have to do with. . . ."
"Later. Frank will
tell you. We are almost there."
Andy
leaned forward in his seat and peered out the window. The jet-copter had
dropped closer to Earth. Andy saw the flat tundra, a range of low pine-covered
hills, a little valley beyond them with the glistening silver thread of a river
twisting through it . . . and in the valley surrounded by row after row of tiny
rectangles that Andy realized were small buildings, a single enormous
spaceship.
It stood, tail down, near the girders of its gantry, proud slim
nose pointing at the sky. It seemed poised and expectant, as if ready to blast
off momentarily.
"That
is the old 'Thule III'," Freya said. "Your
brother's ship on his last command. An accident was arranged when it was
sent to a European base for dismantling, and the authorities think 'Thule III'
lies at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Instead, as you can see, it is here.
In it we will win our way back to space again."
"A single spaceship, against the rockets of the Monitor
Satellites?"
"Yes, Andy. A single
spaceship. But we have a weapon Reed Ballinger never thought of."
"Then
you are going to blast your way back into
space," Andy said, trying unsuccessfully to check the anger in his voice.
"Perhaps
you can call it that. 'Thule IIT has been renamed. Now
it is the 'Nobel,' named for the nineteenth century Swede, Alfred Nobel, who
gave the world dynamite and lived to regret it and to establish the prizes
given in his name."
"Nobel?"
Andy repeated the man's name. It sounded familiar.
"Yes.
And the most coveted prize conferred in his name was the Nobel Peace Prize.
That will be our secret weapon, Andy."
"What will? I don't
understand."
"Ballinger
showed the Galaxy the violence we human beings are capable of and, if he has
his way, will do so again. Nobel invented dynamite in the pre-atomic age and
lived to see the world ravaged by terrible wars his invention made possible.
Alfred Nobel established his peace prize to honor the greatest achievements of
mankind in his time." Freya finished, "The ship which is his namesake
will take into space a record of humanity's proudest achievements. Not achievements
for war and destruction, Andy, but for peace. Our secret weapon will be the
history of mankind. Despite the Genghis Khans and Neros and Hitlers and
Stalins and Ballingers, we think it is a good history and a glorious one. We
will offer it to the Galaxy as our answer to the Edict."
Freya
was breathless when she finished speaking. A moment later, the little
jet-copter landed in the shadow of the huge spaceship "Nobel."
A
single figure came running toward them, taller than Andy but not so lean.
It was Frank.
"Just stand there a minute. Let me look
at you. By space, you ve grown," Frank said exuberantly in his deep voice.
"You're almost as tall as I am. Stand still, will you?" Frank
grinned. "Are you going to slobber all over me or something? Let me have a
look at you."
Andy
didn't say anything. He couldn't talk. He pounded Frank's arms, one hand on
each side of him, until his brother said, "Hey, go easy. They were broken
once." Then he stood back and just stared at Frank and had a wild impulse
to throw his head back and laugh. But he knew if he did that he'd probably bawl
like a baby. Finally he managed to say, "I thought you were dead. I
thought you were dead.
I thought. . . ."
"I
get the idea," Frank said, still grinning. "You thought I was
dead." Andy was grinning, too, by then, and he felt the tears on his
cheeks, but he didn't care. Frank turned to Freya and said, "This specimen
of composed teen-ager is my brother Andy."
"As
if I didn't know," said Freya with a smile. "You practically look
like twins."
"Who, us?" Frank said. "Sometimes I almost feel
old enough to be his great-grandfather. Why, I was all of eleven years old when
he uttered his first cry. Nobody could understand it, except of course me. What
he was bawling about was that he wanted to go to space."
Freya
laughed. "Two men, and they are so happy to see each other again that one
can hardly talk and the other can't stop talking long enough to. . . ."
"Oh
yeah," Frank interrupted her. "A minor detail I forgot to mention,
sprout. This Viking-style woman over here is Freya Olafson. One of these days
now— say as soon as we clear up this Edict
business—she's going to be Freya Marlow."
"Can you do it?"
Andy said.
"Well, she claims
she'll have me."
"No,
I mean the Edict. Can you . . . did you say you were going to get married?"
"Don't
look so surprised, sprout. It happens to the best of spacemen."
It was almost midnight. The sun hung low on
the horizon but did not, and would not, dip below it. Here only fifty miles
below North Cape, the northernmost tip of Scandinavia that looked out across
the Arctic Ocean to the North Pole, the sun remained above the horizon for more
than six weeks from early June to late July. Now with its lambent light
streaming in through the windows of Frank's room, Andy and his brother and Lambert
Strayer were talking. They had been at it for hours, and instead of feeling
sleepy as he should have, Andy felt exhilarated.
".
. . can imagine how I felt when I received word that
Frank was still alive," Strayer said. "My job was placement of the
returning Cadets, not just at White Sands but all over the world. I was always
on the move, and even though the base here in Norway has an underground
communications network on every continent, it's good but it's not that good. So
by the time the news that Frank was still alive caught up with me, you'd
already left White Sands, Andy. I tried to find you but couldn't."
Strayer
shrugged. "You'll have to forgive me, boy. Not knowing any different
myself, I told you your brother was dead. Add that to the fact that you looked
so . . . well, so unsettled and mixed up, as if you didn't care what happened
to you, and you wound up doing what so many ex-Cadets did. You joined one of
Reed Ballinger's camps."
"But
why didn't Ruy Alvarez tell me Frank was still alive?" Andy protested.
"You'll
have to forgive Captain Alvarez for another reason. He was concerned about you.
From what you said he was afraid you still had strong ties with some of
Ballinger's men. And Captain Alvarez is dedicated, boy. He took it on himself
to decide that a little more uncertainty would help you. Though he could have
told you in Mexico that Frank was still alive, he figured a dramatic meeting,
like the one you had today, would go a long way toward opening your
eyes."
"From
what you've seen so far, sprout," Frank asked, "how do we shape up
compared to Ballinger?"
"Why ask me? I'm just.
. . ."
"Freya
said you were ready to accuse us of taking a page out of Ballinger's
book," Frank reminded him.
"Sure,
but I didn't know then what I know now. Ballinger takes ex-Cadet pilots like my
friend Turk and makes gunners out of them. From what I've been able to gather,
you're collecting a kind of . . . uh, graphic history of humanity's
achievements. Right?"
"Right," said
Lambert Strayer.
"Then I guess that
answers your question."
Frank
said, "They're repairing the Star Brain, sprout. When it's in business
again, we want to be there. We've assembled all the top men in all the sciences
and arts who'll listen to us. Each one is preparing a summary of what's been
done in his own field through five thousand years of
history. They're going to help us tell Earth's real story to the Star Brain, because
like us they're convinced if they're just given the chance to tell it, no
single rash act of a Captain Ballinger could possibly cancel out all that's
worth-while in the past, present, and future of our planet. If we're right and
if they're right . . . we hope the Star Brain will give us another chance in
space." Frank scowled. "Don't mind the speech, Andy. I'm all wrapped
up in this business."
"After all,"
Lambert Strayer said, "the one thing the
Star
Brain fears more than anything else is war on a vast interstellar scale. That's
why we've been ruled out of space. What we hope to prove is that Earth's left
its days of warfare far behind."
"Aren't you forgetting
something?" Andy asked.
"Such
as what?"
Frank said.
"Reed Ballinger. If his fleet blasts off, they'll undo whatever good you can do. As far
as the Star Brain's concerned, they'll prove the Edict was justified."
"There's
one thing you
re forgetting,"
Frank said. "The Monitors, sprout. If a single ship like the 'Nobel'
ventured into space, they'd blast it to dust in seconds. But if Ballinger's
fleet blasts off and we time our takeoff to match his, Ballinger's ships would
decoy the Monitors. We'd have a chance to get through."
The
idea hadn't occurred to Andy, but now he could see the logic in it. Still, he
thought, there'd be trouble, and he voiced his objection aloud. "But if
some of Ballinger's ships get through, and if they attack
the Star Brain again. . . ."
"Whoa,
slow down," Frank said. "First place, Ballinger's fleet probably will get through. If we didn't think it would, we couldn't go ahead with our
plans. We don't want to see thousands of ex-spacemen slaughtered needlessly by
the Monitors, even if they are Ballinger's crews."
"The
Monitors are geared to stop minor violations," Lambert Strayer said.
"A single ship, two or three of them perhaps, but not a ship armed to the
teeth and
certainly not a fleet of more than four hundred ships."
"Ballinger's
whole fleet," Frank pointed out, "is armed to the teeth. Isn't
it?"
"That's right,"
Andy agreed.
"Okay.
They take care of the Monitors for our own passage. They wouldn't have killed
anyone, because the Monitors are not manned."
"Back
to somebody forgetting something," Andy protested. "What about the
fleet that guards the Star Brain? It's manned."
"Sure,"
Frank said. "The Star Brain's going to give us trouble.
It has, all along, since the Capellan dispute, even forgetting Reed Ballinger
for the moment."
"What do you
mean?" Andy asked.
"Normally,
the Brain maintains radio communication through subspace with every civilized
world in the Galaxy. But after the Brain ruled in favor of Capella and against
Earth—this was before Ballinger bombed it, remember—Earth sent through a
protest. It was ignored. We tried again, and again the Brain didn't answer us.
From its point of view it had no reason to: its decisions are irrevocable.
Then along came Ballinger with his bomb, and then the Brain was put out of
commission. Obviously, if it ignored our protest before Ballinger came along,
it has a hundred times the reason to ignore any radio message we send now that
the Edict's been enforced. We are outlaws here on Earth. As far as the Star
Brain is concerned, we're just the little planet that isn't there.
"So the only way we can get through to
the Star Brain is, literally, by getting through to it in space. And of course
the guardian fleet is manned. Well just have to take our chances with it. But
remember this: we hope that by the time we get there every ship in Ballinger's
fleet will be on our side/'
"You're
kidding," Andy blurted. "How's that going to happen?"
"Like
this. Ballinger needs all the recruits he can get. Some of his defectors are
going to start filtering back to his bases. When the time comes, they'll take
over his ships."
"They will?" Andy
said.
And
Frank nodded. "You
will, sprout. Because you're going to be one of them."
Chapter
9 peace m»»
the high tundra
country above the Arctic Circle had never seen anything like it. Even the sun,
here in this summer of perpetual daylight, seemed to stand still in awe and
watch.
Mankind
was assembling the strangest weapon ever devised.
In
the bustling camp south of Hammerfest on the North Cape, under the thrusting
spire of the waiting spaceship "Nobel," scientists from all over the
world had come in answer to Frank Marlow's and Lambert Strayer's summons. Their
task: in a few short weeks to assemble a history of humanity to show the Star
Brain and the other civilized races of the Galaxy as proof that Earth had
earned its place in the concert of worlds.
Andy
was put to work under a small, bespectacled Austrian named Dr. Seys. He had a
chirping, birdlike voice and infectious energy and enthusiasm. He had been an
expert in Greek and Roman civilization at the University of Vienna.
"They tell me you know some archaeology,
yes?" he asked Andy on their first meeting. "Well, sir, just a
little."
"A little? Bah, there is no such thing. Either you know archaeology, or you do not
know archaeology. Would you fly with me if I said I knew a little
astroga-tion?"
"No, but. . . ." Andy started.
"Is archaeology any different?" "No, but they said you needed a
technician who. . . ."
"I
cannot make an archaeologist of you. Do not expect me to make one of you in a
few days. Are you clever with your hands?"
"Well, I. . . ."
"We
are building a scale model of the Acropolis, the High City, of Athens, as it
was at the end of the fourth century B.C. By then, of course, my young friend,
the light of Athens had begun to wane, but there were still some buildings on
the Acropolis which . . . did you say you were clever with your hands or
not?"
"You
didn't give me a chance to say so," Andy told Dr. Seys boldly, and the
little man smiled.
"Yes,
that is true. Indeed I didn't. The model is of plaster, Mr. Morrow."
"Marlow, Dr.
Seys."
"Morrell,
Morrow, what is the difference? The plaster model will be built to an exact
scale of one to one-thousand. We want it to be perfect, and it will be perfeet.
Do you know why I have agreed to do this?" Before Andy could answer, Dr.
Seys chirped on, "After all, you must realize that I left Vienna in the middle of the summer semester, and my students do not
even know where I have gone or why. Well, Mr. Morrell, don't just stand there
gaping. Do you know why I have agreed to help?"
"No,
sir," Andy managed to say before Dr. Seys was talking again.
"Because
of the hundred worlds that have produced a reasonably high order of
civilization in the Galaxy, we know absolutely nothing about the history of
any of them. It is as if they have all appeared, full blown, with the advent of
the interstellar spaceship." Dr. Seys was pacing in a rapid circle around
Andy with his small, frail hands clasped behind his back. "Spaceships,
bah. I hate them. They bring alien peoples together, they bridge
unthinkable chasms of space—a hundred light years, two hundred, a thousand—and
what do we know of each other? We know that the Arcturans can produce cobalt
bombs as deadly as ours. We know that the Sirians have a vast store of nerve
gas to contaminate the atmosphere of any world foolish enough to attack
Sirius."
"Yes, but. . .
"We
do not know one solitary fact about the past history of the Arcturans. We know
nothing of the Sirians as a civilization. We do not know their past greatness
or their future hopes. We do not know if their civilizations are as old as ours
or older or only perhaps half so old." Dr. Seys took a deep breath. He had
been talking so fast that, as far as Andy could tell, it was his first.
"Once, long ago," he went on,
"a German wrote a book about the tyranny of Greece over Germany. We
Germanic people. . . ."
"I
never knew Germany and Greece fought a war, Dr. Seys."
"War?
Who is talking of war? The tyranny is a tyranny of the intellect. We Germanic
peoples love it. We feel Periclean Greece was the bedrock of civilization on
Earth, the solid foundation on which all subsequent civilizations have built.
That is the tyranny I meant. But don't you see, Mr. Moran, if Greece gave Earth
the high beginnings of so much of our philosophy and art and drama and
architecture and law and morality, isn't it possible that on Fomalhaut or
Aldebaran or Centauri a parallel situation can be found? We know nothing of
those people. Nothing. That is why I am doing
this."
"I beg your pardon," Andy said. "You lost me."
"Because
if we reach the Star Brain with the story of mankind's past, the others from
all the farflung worlds of the Galaxy will come, too. To
watch us, young man. And in watching they will learn about us. And if
they learn about us, they may decide to let us learn about them. What I hope
for, Mr. Moran, is the start of the first exchange of cultural information
among the intelligent races of the Galaxy. What is
Procyon's Greece? Who were Deneb's Hellenes?
What
was it in the past of the Eriadnians which made them develop telepathy as a
means of communications? Why is the number four of mystic significance to the
Antareans?
"Consider,
Mr. Morgan. We human beings have been in space barely two hundred years. But
subspace drive, making journeys among the stars possible, we didn't develop
until two generations ago. To laymen on Earth, the distances are still
unthinkable; young man, there are as yet no pleasure trips among the stars. Our
ships were crammed with technicians, engineers, miners, each one with a
specific job. The same is true of the ships of every other world. Not only
that, but each world has always been jealous of the mining rights assigned to
it by the Star Brain. And each has been even more afraid of the military might
of all the others. I ask you, Mr. Morgan, is this a
good basis for mutual understanding? It has been impossible under the
circumstances. Through fear, through suspicion, through distrust and misunderstanding,
we know no more about each other than we did before subspace travel made
interstellar flights possible. We all are ostriches with our heads in the sand.
"A hundred worlds, my boy, and a hundred
million mysteries for us to solve. This can be the start of a new day in the Galaxy. That is why I am
here." Dr. Seys took his second deep breath. "Are you clever with
your hands?"
"I'll try to help,
sir."
And, in the days that followed, Andy tried.
Under the part-time supervision of the volatile Austrian, he and five other
ex-Cadets painstakingly built the plaster model of the Athenian High City from
the collections of plans and pictures Dr. Seys had brought from Vienna to
Norway. The indefatigable Dr. Seys was busy with a half-dozen other projects
too. Once he paced past the plaster model and said to Andy's back:
"The
good with the bad, we must show them everything. No lies, no half-truths, no
brain-washing, Mr. Morgan. The High City is beautiful, yes? But all was not
beautiful in the fourth century B.C. If Athens was the shining pinnacle of
civilization, Sparta to the south never got over its militaristic ways. Sparta was an armed camp dedicated to its war goddess, Artemis
Orthia. And in the hills to the north, in the rude savage cities of
Macedon, Philip and his son Alexander after him waited patiently to pounce on
the civilization Athens had produced. We are doing a map in plaster, too, my
young friend. The ancient world from Greece to India, and the
trail of Alexander's conquests. We will show them the bad with the
good. We will show them the Earth as it was. It is for them to decide whether
Earth is to be judged by the philosophy of a Plato and the drama of a Euripides
or the barracks-life of a Spartan and the swords and shields of an
Alexander."
Dr.
Seys's projects were ambitious, but they were just a few among the many that
were being assembled in Norway. In plaster, in faithful reproductions of works
of art, in translation of the world's great literature into a dozen
interstellar languages, in maps and drawings and books and microfilm, five
thousand years of human history, all the glory and vanity and tragedy of a
civilization—of all the civilizations that had brought Earth to this particular
point in time and space—were being collected and systematized for their strange
journey across the Galaxy.
The
work was exciting and all-consuming. No one had time to ask himself the one
question that really mattered: when the time came, would they be able to stop
Reed Ballinger, keep him from bombing the Star Brain? And, even if they did,
would the presentation of mankind's history overcome the Edict that ruled
Earth out of space?
After work each night, Andy would talk for a
while with Frank and Captain Strayer. Frank was busy supervising the loading
of the "Nobel," and Strayer was over-all superintendent of the
activities at the base. They'd all be pleasantly fatigued from their long day's
work, but still the talk was optimistic.
"I've
never seen such a group of . . . well, diverse people," Strayer said once,
"pitch in on a job and work so well together.
It's as if they all realize man's future will be determined by what they do
here."
"Or
what we can stop Ballinger from doing once we get to space," Frank pointed
out.
There
was no darkness, and Andy found that he needed little sleep. They worked
sixteen hours a day, and when morning was heralded by the sun's rising a little higher in the sky, they were ready and eager
to work again.
"Our
key problem," Frank said one night, "is this. Everything we achieve
here will come to nothing unless we can blast off precisely when Ballinger
does. Because unless we do, the Monitors will blow us out of
the sky." He turned to Andy. "That's where you come in. Not
just you, I mean all of you who'll be going back to the Ballinger bases. You'll
have to get the word back to us here in Norway."
"How
can you be so sure Ballinger will let us come back?"
"He's
got to. He's undermanned. Besides, I know Reed Ballinger. I flew with him
several times, sprout. He's what they call an anti-intellectual. Feed him the
right kind of story about how you got fed up with all the
professorial goings on around here, and he'll accept you back with open
arms."
Just
then Freya poked her blond head in through the doorway. "Frank, you
promised," she said, pouting-
Frank stood up. "Well, got to be
going." "Going?" said Andy. "You've been on your feet sixteen
hours."
Frank
smiled. "Supper picnic. We found a little lake
that. . . ."
"Shh!"
cautioned Freya. "Advertise it and we'll have to wait in line to push our
boat into the water."
They left, arm in arm.
"What are you scowling about?"
Captain Strayer asked Andy. "Who me?
Scowling?"
"Sure.
An old spacedog like your brother ought to consider himself
lucky she'll have him. Freya's one of the nicest girls I ever met."
Andy
couldn't agree with him more. "I guess
I just look forward to these talk sessions
we've been having," he admitted ruefully.
"Sure,
but Frank's probably the hardest-working man in camp, and he. . . ."
Captain
Strayer's voice trailed off. Outside someone shouted, "New recruit!"
A moment later Andy heard the sound of a
jet-copter droning down toward them. He ran outside with Captain Strayer right
behind him. Though they were all busy compiling the history of a world, they
all paradoxically were cut off from the here and now of that world. A new
recruit meant information from the outside, and a crowd had gathered. Even
Freya and Frank had postponed their picnic. Standing side by side, Frank with a
picnic basket over his arm, Freya with a small rucksack on her back, they were
waiting with the others.
When
the jet-copter landed, first out was the same stocky pilot who had brought Andy
and Freya north from Stavanger.
Right behind him was the ex-spaceman and smuggler
. . . and Reed Ballinger's lieutenant . . . Gault.
He
was immediately the center of attention. A dozen ex-Cadets and Space Captains
clustered around him, shouting questions.
"What base were you
at?"
"When's Ballinger
going to blast off?"
"They have any word of
us in the outside world?"
"Does Ballinger have anybody left?"
"How many ships does
he have now?"
Frank
worked his way close to Gault and shouted, "Give him a chance, men. Give
him room. Wherever he comes from, he's had a long trip. He looks like the first
thing he needs is some rest."
That,
Andy realized, was true. Gault, his hair unkempt, his face unshaven, his
deep-set eyes like black holes punched in his face, his jumper in tatters,
looked as if he'd just come off a battlefield.
Someone
cried, "Wait a minute. I know him! That's Harry Gault. He recruited me for
Ballinger in White Sands. He's Ballinger's right-hand man in Mexico. What's he
doing here is what I want to know!"
There
were other shouts of hostility as others recognized the little ex-smuggler.
But Gault bellowed, "Same as you. Same as any of you.
I got fed up with Captain Reed Ballinger."
Andy
saw Captain Strayer speaking earnestly to Frank, saw
his brother nod. Frank took Harry Gault's arm. The little man seemed unsteady
on his feet. "Make way, men/' Frank directed. "We're
coming through."
The
crowd around Gault thinned as its members moved reluctantly aside. Then Frank
and Captain Strayer led Gault right past Andy. This close, Andy could see that
the ex-smuggler's face was covered with bluish and yellowish bruises. He'd been
through plenty, all right. But, Andy thought, he's a turncoat. How can we trust
him?
Gault's
eyes met Andy's. He smiled and said: "So this is where you disappeared to.
I might have known it.
Frowning, Andy watched them enter Strayer's
quarters. Why single Gault out for suspicion, Andy asked himself. So many of us, exiled from space, turned to Ballinger first.
So many of us are turncoats.
And
anyway, if Gault were anything but a new recruit, Frank and Captain Strayer
would be able to find out.
"I don't know," Captain Strayer
said later. "I just don't know."
Frank
and Freya's picnic was forgotten. Harry Gault had been given quarters of his
own, and Frank, Strayer, and Andy were back in Frank's room.
"Well,
he came to us like anyone else did," Frank pointed out. "Like
my own brother here did."
"That's true," Strayer
admitted.
"And he was really
through the mill, Captain. You saw it yourself. He was half-starved. He'd been
beaten. He made the same contacts anyone else fleeing the base in Mexico would
have made—the Indian bus to Merida, the flight to Mexico City, the meeting with
Ruy Alvarez, the journey here by ramjet."
"That's
just it," Andy said doubtfully. "It's as if the whole thing was carefully planned so Harry Gault could pop in and say,
'I'm here, I'm a fugitive from Reed Ballinger just like the rest of you.'"
"Sure, but the same
thing could be said for you."
Andy had no answer to that.
"Listen,"
Frank said. "Gault can be a lot of help. He says he'll answer anything we
ask. He knows exactly how many bases Ballinger has, exactly how many ships. He
has a pretty good idea of when Ballinger will blast off."
"So
do I," Andy said. "I've been here a week. I
spent a day getting here. The day before that, Ballinger said we'd be leaving
in two weeks. Which means there are five or six days to go.
Can Gault pinpoint it any closer than that?"
"No," Frank
admitted, "he can't."
Strayer
said, "And, by space, he was Ballingers
right-hand man. How can you afford to trust him?"
"How
can I afford not to?" Frank asked. "He's a one-man intelligence
section on the activities of Reed Ballinger."
"And
he knows you think he is," Andy insisted. "Look, Frank, if you piece
together the information I can give you and the information you can get from
all the others who came here from one or another of Bal-linger's bases, don't
you think you could get the same picture Gault can give you?"
"I
can and I have. But you've been out of Mexico a week; you just said so. We
haven't had a new recruit since then, and now here's Gault. He'll be bringing
us up to date."
"Sure,
and then what?"
"What do you mean, and
then what?"
"I mean why did Gault
come here?"
Frank
shrugged. "What harm can he do . . ." he began, and Strayer cut him
off impatiently.
"Even
if he hadn't been working hand in glove with Reed Ballinger, you know the man's
reputation. He was drummed out of the space corps as a smuggler, Frank."
Frank
stood up. Two vertical grooves had appeared on his forehead, but his lips were
smiling. "Okay," he said, "both of you, just how naive do you
think I am? I'd like to trust Gault. I'd like to think that even a doubtful
specimen like Harry Gault had deserted Ballinger. But I wasn't born last week.
I've been bending over backwards talking to you, trying to be as fair to Gault
as I can. He'll have to prove himself, I know that."
Listening
to his brother, Andy began to feel better. "Let's assume now," Frank
went on, "that Ballinger sent him here. Why, I don't know. He'd never
get
away with sabotaging the 'Nobel.' It's guarded around the clock. Don't you see,
there just isn't much he can do to hurt us. But if
he's going to try something, Id like
to see what . . . because then we'll know what Ballinger has up his
sleeve."
"And
meanwhile," Strayer asked, "we go ahead with our plans?"
"Of course. As I see it, Andy and the other 'returnees' ought to be scattering to
the Ballinger bases in about forty-eight hours. Ballinger is no dope, and maybe he'll be suspicious of them just as we're
suspicious of Gault. But suspicion is not confirmation of guilt, and Ballinger
needs all the spacemen he can get. Come to think of it, Gault makes me feel
better about the whole thing. Ballinger's bound to treat the 'returnees' the
same way we're treating Gault, for the same reason. He's even got more reason
to; as I said, he's shorthanded by now. And, if we're lucky, by the time
Ballinger realizes what's happening, his ships will be
taken over."
"Aren't
you getting off orbit?" Andy said. "What about Gault?"
"I'm
getting back to that. I still hope we can trust Gault, still hope he's a new
recruit like you were. But if he's not. . . . Tell me, does Dr. Seys keep you
very busy?"
"We're almost finished
w7ith the Acropolis."
"Then
Gault is going to grow a second shadow. Name of Andy Marlow.
Now do you feel better?"
Andy felt better, and worse. Everything Frank
said made sense, but the one thing they didn't know, assuming Ballinger had
sent Gault to spy on them, was what Ballinger was after. Maybe, Andy thought,
the answer was back in Mexico.
But if it was, Andy had no way of learning
it. All he could do was keep Gault under constant watch.
And
hope that Ballinger s war plans in Mexico wouldn't trample all over their peace
plans here in Norway.
Chapter 10
War
Plans
at the secret
spaceport in Mexico, Turk was sweating.
He
stood rigidly at attention in a little office just off the tarmac of the field.
He was facing Captain Bal-linger s desk, and behind Ballinger, who sat for a
long time studiously ignoring him, the dazzling tropic sun burned in through
the window.
It
was an age-old trick. With the sunlight behind Ballinger, every expression that
crossed Turk's face would be clear to him, but all Turk could see was the
ex-Space Captain's silhouette.
The
silhouette went on pretending Turk wasn't there, and in the stifling heat Turk
felt the sweat dripping off his chin. Turk didn't know why he'd been sent for.
He'd been standing stiffly at attention for half an hour, waiting to find out.
Finally
Ballinger leaned back in his chair. "The name is Ayoub, right?"
"Backy Ayoub, yes,
sir," said Turk.
More silence. Then:
"A citizen of Turkey,
aren't you?"
104
"That's right,
sir."
"Lieutenant Odet tells me you're making
fine progress in gunnery." "I'm glad to hear it, sir."
The
silhouette leaned forward. When its arms moved out of the direct sunlight, Turk
could see the markings of a senior Space Captain on the sleeves.
"Do you like it here,
Ayoub?"
"Begging your pardon,
sir?"
"Do you like it
here?"
"No," Turk said
frankly, and Ballinger laughed.
"Then why do you
stay?"
"You said you'd lead
us back to space, sir."
"And you want to
return to space?"
"More
than anything under the sun."
"Why don't you like it
here?"
For
a while Turk said nothing. "I don't know if I ought to say," he
finally answered.
Another laugh from Ballinger. Turk wished he could see the Captain's face.
"Go ahead, and stand at ease."
Gratefully, Turk stood at ease. "Well, I guess it's a little like being in prison. We're all cut off from the
world; we can't go anywhere; we're . . . like, living in a vacuum."
"That's
because we're waiting to go the one place we want to and the one place we're
not permitted . . . back to space. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, sir." Turk added boldly, "It's why I'm still
here."
"You would have fled otherwise?"
"Escape is the word we use, sir. It's happened before."
Captain
Ballinger sighed. "I know it has. That's why you're here."
"I don't understand,
sir."
There
was a long pause. "What was the name of the Cadet you bunked with on
Luna?"
"Marlow,
sir.
Andy Marlow."
"To
use your word and not mine, he escaped last week."
"Yes,
sir."
"Did you know he was going?"
"Do I have to answer that?"
Ballinger
stood up abruptly and came out from his shield of sunlight. It was a calculated
move; he looked every inch the spaceman, tall, ruggedly handsome, his face
severe, but the suggestion of a smile on his lips. In a friendly voice he said,
"Cadet Ayoub, nothing you say here will prejudice you. That's a promise.
Only silence will."
Turk
licked his lips and shifted his weight from left to right foot. "All right. Yes, I knew he was going. I followed him. I
wanted to stop him."
"You couldn't?"
"I wouldn't, sir. I didn't intend
stopping him by force. I just tried talking him out of it." "And
apparently you failed."
"Yes, sir. His mind was made up." "Where was he going, Cadet?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Come
now, you can do better than that."
"It's
the truth. He didn't know himself. He just wanted out."
"Didn't
he say anything about . . . Norway?"
"Norway?
No, sir."
"Or about Lambert Strayer?"
"You
mean the ex-Captain in charge of the White Sands Center?"
"Exactly. But Strayer isn't in White Sands any longer. You're sure you can't tell
me where Marlow was going, or why?"
"I'm
sure."
"Two
things can prejudice you here, Cadet. Silence . . . and
lying. How would you like to be earthbound the rest of
your life?"
"But
sir, I . . ."
"Where
did Marlow go?"
"I
don't know."
"Had
he been in contact with anyone on the outside?"
"Not that I know of."
"What
is his brother doing in Norway?"
"You
must be mistaken, Captain. His brother is dead."
"His
brother is in Norway, recruiting Spacemen just as I am. What do you have to say
to that?"
"Just that I wish Andy knew. He thinks
his brother's dead."
There
were more questions, and more unsatisfactory answers. At last Captain Ballinger
said, "Ayoub, if I find out you were lying, you'll spend the rest of your
life on Earth. Don't you think we are going to succeed here?"
"I hope so, sir. I
want to get back to space."
"We
will succeed, Ayoub. Make no mistake about that. We are going to ram the Edict
down the Star Brain's mechanical throat. And when we do, after we do, who do
you think will be the hero of the day on Earth?"
"Why, you will."
"You know why I'm telling you
this?" "No, sir."
"Because one day soon, if I say so, a man can be earthbound for
life.
One day soon, if I say so, you'll spend the rest of your life in your native
country without an exit permit." Ballinger stalked behind the desk again,
and once more Turk saw just his silhouette. "You have one more
opportunity, Cadet. Did Marlow indicate where he was going? Think before you
give me your answer."
"There's
nothing to think about, sir. I don't have the slightest idea where he was
going, and I don't think he did either."
"Very well, Cadet. Dismissed."
Turk
came to attention, saluted, executed a stiff about-face and marched from the
office.
For a long time after he had gone, Reed
Ballinger sat behind his desk pondering. His plans were shaping up beautifully.
They now had several hundred spaceships scattered at twelve secret fields all
over Earth. When the day came, and it would be soon, three-quarters of them
would be manned. The rest would be drones.
The unmanned drones would
be expendable.
They
would be launched first, moments before the manned fleet. The Monitor
Satellites would home in on them to destroy them, and Captain Ballinger s
manned fleets would get through to deep space. Once they cut in their subspace
drive, there would be no stopping them until they reached Canopus and the Star
Brain hundreds of light years across the Galaxy.
Everything
was going beautifully, Ballinger thought again, except for the desertions. War plans that couldn't miss, except that every day he had fewer
and fewer men to man his ships.
One
way to learn about the unknown enemy was to interrogate Cadets like Ayoub. But
that had hardly helped. Ballinger had questioned many of them, here and at the
other bases. He believed them as he believed Ayoub. They didn't know where
their friends had gone.
But there was another way, and it had worked.
Under Ballinger's orders, Harry Gault had deserted.
If a Cadet or spaceman fled the Mexican base,
Ballinger had reasoned, he'd probably head for the nearby Indian town. Harry
Gault had done that, after reluctantly submitting to a pummeling which would
convince the contacts he met. An Indian had hid him and then had driven him by
bus to Merida. Gault had called the base from Merida, saying that he'd been instructed
to visit an ex-Space Captain named Ruy Alvarez living in Mexico City. He had
done that and called again from Mexico City after meeting Captain Alvarez.
Though Harry Gault's reputation was unsavory,
he had been in luck. Ruy Alvarez had never heard of him. Resides, on Gault's
face was the evidence that he had had to fight his way to freedom.
Alvarez
had given Gault instructions to fly to Stavanger, Norway. Before going, he'd
been in touch with Captain Ballinger. He'd been nervous and eager, but sure of
himself. "Here is one ostrich with one big head in the ground," he
had gloated. "Can you imagine that, he never even heard of me!"
"What did you
learn?" Ballinger had asked.
"That
we're not the only ones planning to return to space."
"You're joking."
"Not on your
life."
"Very
well, find out who they are. If they're ready to orbit out under my orders,
there's no reason why we couldn't get together. We can use all the recruits we
can get."
"They wouldn't play
ball with you, Captain."
"No? Why not?"
"Because their leaders are Lambert
Strayer and Frank Marlow, that's why."
Strayer
and Marlow, Ballinger had thought bitterly, a pair of do-gooders. They wouldn't
touch him with a launching gantry. But what surprised him more than anything
was the fact that they, like himself, were going to
flaunt the Edict. They were spacemen, of course; they would hate the Edict as
much as he did. But whereas he planned to take the law into his own hands, he
knew they wouldn't.
They
were going to space in violation of the law; why?
Harry Gault had ramjetted
to Norway to find out.
Strayer
and Marlow, Ballinger realized, were potentially the
enemy. They could be numbered among that group of ex-Space Captains who had
blamed Reed Ballinger for the Edict in the first place. It was even possible,
since so many of Ballinger's recruits had fled to them via intermediaries like
Ruy Alvarez, that Strayer and Marlow were going to space simply to stop his own
fleet. If there were another reason, he had to find out what it was.
Harry
Gault, by now, was in a position to find out for him. And as soon as Gault got
his answer, he'd return to Mexico.
All you needed, Ballinger decided, was a
little brains and a little patience.
All you needed, Turk told himself on the
gunnery range, was a good eye and a fair head for figures. He had both. He was
becoming a more competent marksman every day.
But
somehow he didn't feel the elation he should have, and he knew he wasn't the
only one. Charlie Sands and others, after their first flush of enthusiasm over
the possibility of blasting off into space again, were
beginning to wonder.
It
was one thing to return to space as free and equal partners in the Galactic
Confederacy. It was another to shoot your way back to the star trails.
Would anyone but Reed
Ballinger benefit?
Turk
computed a gunnery orbit rapidly and pressed the mock-up firing stud. The
little pip of light that flashed on the blank screen in front of him indicated
that he'd been on target.
Scowling,
Turk wondered if maybe Andy hadn't had the right idea after all.
Fleetingly,
he wished that he had fled with his friend. He wondered what Andy was doing
now.
Chapter 11 Tnadmyi
not even Andy
knew what it was all about until he reached the underground bunker that would
be the operations room for the "Nobel's" launching.
He
had spent scores of hours in the Luna Academy operations room, of course, and
the bunker in Norway was familiar to him. A spaceship, he knew, didn't pass
into its crew's control until escape velocity—more than seven miles a second on
Earth and two and a half miles a second on Luna—had been achieved. By then the
first-stage rocket, the launching rocket, would have burned out and dropped
away. And the launching rocket was guided by the technicians in the operations
bunker, not by the crew aboard the spaceship itself.
All
he knew, now, was that while working on the model of Athens' Acropolis he had
been approached by Dr. Seys who said reluctantly:
"This
afternoon history takes a back seat. This afternoon you will report to the
operations bunker, my
113
young
friend. They cannot decide if it is an archaeologist they want you to be or a
spaceman."
As
it turned out, what they wanted him to be was neither.
When Andy reached the bunker and went down the rough-hewn stone stairs, he
heard the great door shut behind him. He was the last to arrive. Eleven other
ex-Cadets already were waiting, talking quietly. As if the shutting of the door
were a signal, they lapsed into silence. Then one of them said:
"Look, here's Marlow. His brother's a
bigshot around here. Maybe he can tell us what's going on."
But
Andy couldn't. He was as much in the dark as any of them.
The
small door to the ready-room at the far end of the bunker opened, and Frank
came in. Glancing around, he smiled impartially at the ex-Cadets.
He
said, "As you all know, we've asked for volunteers to return to Reed
Ballinger's bases. I think you'll be pleased to learn, as I was, that the
response was terrific. Of seventy-five ex-Ballinger men here in Norway, all
but three or four volunteered. For various reasons, you twelve men have been
chosen by Captain Strayer and me. Among you, you represent everv Ballinger base
now in operation. Within the next forty-eight hours, you'll be going back, and
now Captain Strayer is going to tell you how that will be accomplished."
Frank
moved unobtrusively among the ex-Cadets and took his place beside Andy. The ready-room
door opened again, and Captain Strayer's tall, white-haired figure strode out.
"Men,"
he said in his deep voice, and his eyes roved the bunker as he spoke, locking
glances briefly with all the ex-Cadets, "some time within the next
seventy-two to ninety-six hours, Reed Ballinger's fleet will be blasting off
from a dozen secret spacefields all over the world. You all know what he'll be
attempting, just as you all know what we are trying to do. Once before, in
answer to a decision it reached, Reed Ballinger bombed the Star Brain. The
result was the Edict which ruled Earth out of space. Now the Star Brain has
been repaired. This time Reed Ballinger intends to finish the job. We, on the
other hand, want to show the Star Brain that the rash and unreasoned acts of a
Reed Ballinger do not represent the thoughts and desires and hopes of an entire
world. We want to show the Star Brain what Earth really is like, with the hope
that well be given a second chance in space. Ballinger's aims and ours are
incompatible. If he succeeds, we will fail. If we succeed, it will mean he has
failed. I don't have to tell you the entire future of mankind is in our
hands."
When
Captain Strayer paused, there were no shouts of approval or encouragement.
Tensely, anxiously, the dozen ex-Cadets waited for his next words. Andy
couldn't help remembering another speech, a speech Ballinger had made in Mexico
to another group of ex-Cadets and spacemen. Then the stage had been set
theatrically. Reed Ballinger had seemed a titanic figure in the darkness, with
the torchlights glowing all around him. But Captain Strayer eschewed
dramatics. He spoke simply and gravely. Theatrics weren't necessary; he didn't
have to convince anyone; he was merely stating the facts.
"We
don't have to guess when Ballinger will be blasting off. We know, for dedicated
men like Captain Alvarez in Mexico and Captain Kumar in India have done their work well. Reports have been pouring in to
us daily; in three days, or four at the most, Ballinger will be ready.
"A
dozen reports to a dozen police departments in Mexico, India, Japan, Indochina,
Patagonia, and so on, and Reed Ballinger's fleet would never leave the ground.
But if his ships remain earthbound, then the 'Nobel' does too, and if the
'Nobel' does, then mankind does. It is our hope that Ballinger's fleet will
serve us as a decoy, that the 'Nobel' will escape into
deep space under cover of Reed Ballinger's ships.
"If
that happens, we have a chance. Because, naturally, we'd
still have to convince the Star Brain of our good intentions. We hope
the material we have gathered here to represent five thousand years of human
achievement will do that.
"Just
as important, since we obviously cannot stop Ballinger on Earth, we must at all
costs stop him in space. The 'Nobel' is unarmed. And even if it were armed to
the teeth, a single ship couldn't hope to turn back Ballinger's huge fleet.
"That is where all of you come in. You
are going to serve as agents provocateurs. All our hopes will be riding on your
shoulders. I don't have to tell you that once you return to Ballinger's bases,
you can expect absolutely no help from us. You will be entirely on your own.
"Once
you are in deep space, your task will be to convince Ballinger's crews to
mutiny and come under the command of the 'Nobel.' According to Alvarez, Kumar,
Dinh, and the others, there's a strong possibility you can do it. Because for
every one of you who fled from Ballinger's bases, there are perhaps a dozen or
more who have been beset by doubt but who have lacked either the courage or the
wisdom to make the complete break. It is these men you will have to win over
and, with them as a nucleus, Ballinger's entire fleet.
"Naturally,
we can't deluge Ballinger with 'Nobel' deserters at the last moment. If we
assume his average base has thirty or forty ships, that
means four hundred ships in all . . . or more. And it means that each one of
you, aboard just one ship, will have to convince an entire fleet to mutiny some
time between the moment they enter subspace and the moment they rendezvous
near Canopus.
"As
to how you will convince Ballinger's lieutenants that you really have deserted
the 'Nobel,' Captain Marlow has developed a cover story for you. The important
thing to remember is that Ballinger is impatient with cultural pursuits. He
and his men will readily understand the situation if you tell them you joined
the 'Nobel' with the hope of reaching space again but found yourself bogged
down in history and music and philosophy and art." For the first time
Captain Strayer smiled briefly. "If I know Reed Ballinger, he'll greet
that kind of cover story with an I-toId-you-so and maybe even with a chuckle.
In any event, you'll get the details later.
"As
to how you will be able to take over four hundred ships and more—assuming each
of you can succeed on even one—that task isn't as insurmountable as it seems,
and I need not tell you how much depends on your success. The classic
technique of revolution, or of mutiny, is to gain control of the means of
communication and use them to make your point. In this case, that means the
ships' radios and public address systems. If you can get that far, I hope together
we can do the rest. And, if you have got
that far, it will mean the audience on your ships will be sympathetic. I'll
broadcast to them, or Captain Mar-low will, from the 'Nobel' They'll
be given the choice of a return to space for war or for peace.
"If
the option they choose is war, then we will have lost. If they choose peace,
the ships you have taken over will leave Ballinger's fleet and fall into line
behind the 'Nobel.' Then, from then, you'll broadcast similar messages to the
entire fleet. What we hope for is a chain reaction of desertions. According to
Alvarez and the others, it isn't too much to expect.
And,
if we get it, then mankind has a chance to convince the Star Brain."
Captain
Strayer smiled again, almost apologetically, and asked, "Are there any
questions?"
There
were scores of them, but Andy was hardly listening. The plan was an audacious
one. If they succeeded, the road to space was open again. If they failed, it
was forever closed. And, if they failed, Andy didn't want to think of what
would happen to the dozen volunteers, himself
included.
Two
questions toward the end of the session riveted his attention. The first was
asked by a freckle-faced ex-Cadet near Andy, who said:
"Captain,
how come you picked Cadets for the job instead of spacemen?"
"Two
reasons, lad. In the first place, you'll be dealing primarily with your old
classmates at Luna Academy. Because Ballinger's crews are
made up mostly of Cadets, not graduated Space Captains. Men like Frank
Marlow here tended to take the Edict less . . . well, less obstreperously than
you Cadets did. Perhaps that's because experienced Space Captains had first
crack at the good jobs on Earth and could be absorbed more easily into an
earthbound society than you Cadets could. Perhaps it's also because they have
more maturity and patience. A lot of them gravitated here right away, without
trying their luck with Ballinger first." Again Captain Strayer smiled
wryly. "As I don't have to remind you, many of you Cadets had to see
Ballinger for what he was first. I'm talking to twelve of you who did.
"The
second reason may be more important. It's this: Ballinger is shorthanded and
needs all the help he can get. But even so, if on the eve of departure a dozen
veteran spacemen descended on his bases, he'd be suspicious. For all I know
he'll be suspicious of turncoat Cadets, too. I won't lie to you; you could be
walking into a den of lions. But I think if Ballinger accepts anyone, he'll
accept Cadets who can convince him all this highbrow stuff in Norway's got them
down. As I said before, Captain Marlow will go into detail on the cover story
for you. Does that answer your question?"
It
did. But the second question which riveted Andy's attention was a more difBcult
one for Captain Strayer to answer. A stocky Cadet standing near the fuel gauges
along one wall of the bunker asked:
"What if some of Ballinger's ships refuse to join forces with the
'Nobel,' Captain?
What can we do then?"
For
a long moment Captain Strayer didn't answer. Then he said, "Alvarez and
the others assure us there's discontent at Ballinger's bases. And, till now,
their information has been as reliable as the underground
railroad which brought all of you here from scattered bases all over the
world. For example, their guesses as to when Ballinger will blast off tally
with the information we received from Harry Gault who, as you know, was
Ballinger's lieutenant before be came here. If they say there is discontent, we
can assume there is. Your job is to make it grow."
"Begging
your pardon, sir," the stocky Cadet insisted, "but aren't you
ducking the issue? What if some of Ballinger's warships still
refuse?"
Captain
Strayer sighed, looked at Frank, and finally said, "No, Cadet. I ought to
beg your pardon. I guess I have been evasive. Not
because I wanted to hold anything back from you, but because I didn't want to
admit the possibility even to myself. Maybe it is too much to expect; maybe
there's no chance whatever that all Ballinger's ships will come over."
"If they don't, what
happens, sir?"
Captain
Strayer said somberly, "We can only hope enough of them do, because there
won't be a weapon aboard the 'Nobel.' Any ships still under Ballinger's command
after your mutiny will have to be blasted out of space, as much as we'd hate to
do it."
Frank
said, "Including any ships on which the mutiny was unsuccessful?"
Strayer nodded. "Yes,
Captain. I'm afraid so."
Frank
wouldn't meet Andy's glance. The implication was obvious, and they could do
nothing about it. If the mutiny failed aboard any ship on which an agent
provocateur had been planted, the penalty for failure might unavoidably be
death.
"If
you'll all step into the ready-room," Frank said, "you'll find copies
of your cover stories. I want you to memorize them and then destroy them.
Whatever you do, you must know every detail by heart before Freya Olaf son's
brother flies you down to Stavanger."
Frank
and Andy entered the ready-room first. Just as the operations bunker brought
back memories of Luna, the ready-room did, too. There were the stiff,
uncomfortable chairs, the big coffee urn, the large bare table, the bright
overhead lights, and the rolled-up screen and star charts on the front wall.
"Will
you all please gather around the table?" Frank began . . . and then Andy
saw his brother's eyes grow wide.
"They're
gone!" Frank cried in dismay. "I left
them right here on the table. The cover stories are gone."
Even
before the impact of his words had been driven home, Frank sprinted toward the
door. Andy ran after him and up the stairs that led to ground level. A
semicircular wall of concrete blocked off the top of the stairs, for the
operations bunker and ready-room had to be protected from radiation.
"I
left the door locked,"
Frank called over his shoulder.
He
didn't have to say the rest of it. The lock had been smashed.
When
Andy followed Frank around the wall of concrete, he could see the looming
skeletal structure of the "Nobel's" launching gantry.
A
man was leaning against one of its stanchions, rubbing the back of his head.
Andy recognized him as an ex-Senior Class Cadet named Williams. Near him on the
ground where it had fallen was an atomic rifle.
"What happened?"
Frank said. "Are you all right?"
Senior
Cadet Williams groaned. "Now I am. I . . . a few minutes ago I guess it
was ... I heard a sound behind me. I started to turn. Something slammed into the back of my head. I . . . I'm
sorry, Captain. That's all I remember."
"You didn't see who it
was?"
Williams hadn't seen.
Andy
said one word, "Gault."
And
then he was running again, this time with Frank behind him.
Sprinting along the quarters
hallway twenty running strides ahead of Frank, Andy expected Gault's door to
be locked. When he reached it, he twisted the knob and lunged.
The
door wasn't locked. It burst open, and Andy's momentum carried him into the
small room. He lurched across it to the single window.
Behind
him the door slammed shut. When he whirled he saw an opened travel case,
partially packed, on the bed. Gault was standing in a half-crouch near the
door. The little ex-smuggler seemed quite calm. He was even smiling.
Frank pounded on the door.
"Open up in there!"
The
door was now locked, but the sound of Frank's voice diverted Gault's attention.
Andy sprang at him.
Gault fumbled at his belt
and drew an atomic pistol. Its charge was minute, Andy knew, but more than
enough to kill. He grabbed Gault's arm, and they grappled for the weapon. The
door rattled and then shook as Frank drove his shoulder against it.
Though
small, Gault had a wiry strength. He couldn't bring the pistol to bear, but
Andy couldn't wrench it from his grasp either. They staggered, locked together,
across the room. Gault got his hand free and raised it high over his head.
Andy ducked, not quickly
enough.
The
heavy butt of the atomic pistol slammed into the side of his head. He was aware
of his knees hitting the floor and of Gault's receding footsteps. He turned and
as his vision blurred saw Gault going through the window.
He
was on hands and knees when Frank forced open the door. Mutely Andy raised one
hand to point at the window.
Seconds later, he heard
Frank's voice, "He's gone."
Then Andy lost
consciousness.
Chapter 12 Mexico Again
the same reasons that had prompted Captain Strayer to select northern Norway as
the location of Project Nobel were now working in Harry Gault's favor.
Earth's
population stood at more than five billion, and even during the exciting
decades of interstellar exploration the final frontiers on Earth were being
pushed back.
What
once had been the uncharted Mato Grosso
jungle in Brazil was now
cultivated farmland that helped feed South America's billion inhabitants.
Two
million square miles of what had been the Sahara desert were irrigated by sea
water piped over the Atlas Mountains after its salt content had been removed,
and even the fabled, remote city of Timbuktu was a thriving center of commerce.
The
Gobi desert was a prairie which fed the plumpest cattle on Earth; hundreds of
huge farms sprawled across what once had been the basin of the Congo River; for
the first time in its history the yearly
125
flood of
the great Nile was fully controlled and exploited so that Egypt had become a
vast grainery.
Only the high northern latitudes, because their growing season was too
short and their soil too poor, hadn't changed in hundreds of years. In Norway, the expanse of tundra country
from the Arctic Circle north to Hammerfest and North Cape still supplied barely
enough forage for the nomadic Lapps and their reindeer herds, and civilized
settlements were few and widely scattered. Originally, the Project Nobel base
had been an experimental rocket base for the Scandinavian countries. It was
surrounded by thousands of square miles of bleak tundra covered by many feet
of snow all but a few months of the year. Dotted with lakes and bare hills and
threaded with scores of raging rivers that carried the melted snows to the sea,
it remained much as it had been for thousands of years.
If
you were a fugitive its river gorges and clumps of trees, stunted by frost and
wind, offered numerous hiding places. Even with the eternal summer sunlight you
could elude your pursuers; there were so many places to hide.
Captain
Strayer learned this the hard way after Harry Gault's escape from the base.
Search parties set out on foot; helicopters went aloft; a nearby encampment of
Lapps was recruited to assist the searchers.
None of them so much as found Harry Gault's trail, let alone the man
himself.
Meanwhile, Andy, his head bandaged and still
painful and tender, sat with his brother in Captain Strayer's office. Strayer
was saying:
"It's
no use. We'll never find him now if we haven't already. I'm calling the
'copters in."
"Then
what?"
Frank asked.
Captain
Strayer shrugged. "Making his escape from the base is one thing, but
reporting to Ballinger is another. According to Ruy Alvarez, none of
Ballinger's secret spaceports maintains radio contact with the outside world,
Frank. They don't dare to; it could lead to their discovery. So if Gault
reports to Ballinger, it will have to be in person."
"If
he does report to Ballinger, what happens to our twelve volunteers? We can't
just let them walk into a trap."
Captain
Strayer shook his head and asked a question of his own. "What happens to
Project Nobel if we don't go ahead with our plans?"
"We'd
never get off the ground. If we did, the Monitors would shoot us out of space
unless we used Ballinger's fleet for cover. But even if we did, unless we can
gain control of his fleet what the 'Nobel' does won't matter."
"Then
it looks like you've answered your own question, Frank."
"But we can't just. .
. ."
"I've contacted Stavanger and Tromso and
Oslo. Most of the ramjet personnel are ex-spacemen, don't forget. Harry Gault won't leave Norway if
they can help it. If we're just given a couple of days, what he does after that
won't matter."
Still, Frank was adamant. "Unless we
know for sure that Gault's been stopped, can we let a dozen boys like Andy walk
right into a trap?"
Before
Captain Strayer could answer that question, Andy did. "We have to go
ahead with it, Frank," he said. "Earth's whole future hangs on what
we do. I don't have to tell you that. That's why you
had me shadowing Gault. But he never stepped out of line . . . till now."
Frank
sighed, and grumbled, and hoped for a miracle. But none of the returning
'copters reported any sign of Harry Gault.
Captain Strayer was right about most of the
ramjet personnel at Norway's three big intercontinental airports; almost to a
man they were ex-spacemen.
One
of them, though, like Harry Gault himself, was an ex-smuggler who had lost his
license before the Edict. His name was Daniel Shea. He had known Gault in the
old days and had had his papers lifted at the same hearing that had written an
end to Gault's legal career as a spaceman. Now Shea piloted a ramjet on the
Tromso-Los Angeles over-the-pole run.
Harry
Gault was aware of this. Even before leaving Mexico he knew he'd probably have
to flee Norway as a fugitive. As soon as he left the "Nobel" and its
great gantry behind him, he set out for Tromso.
About midway between Narvik to the south and
Hammerfest to the north, Tromso was the only town of any size north of the
Arctic Circle in Norway. Thanks to its location, it was an ideal spot for the
Los Angeles-Norway transpolar run.
It
was situated less than three hundred miles from Hammerfest and barely two
hundred miles from the Project Nobel base, but those two hundred miles were the
longest of Harry Gault's life. He would never forget the droning whine of the
hovering jet-copters, the quick plunge into a copse of stunted evergreens, the
wading of shallow but turbulent rivers, the icy fear he felt when, every now
and then, he found himself exposed on the bare tundra with nowhere to hide.
He
struck out due west from the base on foot, hoping to reach the coast. There,
among the inlets and fjords that gave Norway one of the longest coastlines in
the world, he knew he could board one of the coastal hovercraft
that plied back and forth between Hammerfest and Tromso.
The
idea was a good one, but it almost was his undoing. He reached the coastal
hovercraft station in six hours, hungry, exhausted, the exposed skin of his
hands and face swollen by countless mosquito bites. He watched the
saucer-shaped hovercraft glide in. He began to walk out on the pier.
Then,
at the far end of the pier, he recognized an ex-spaceman from Project Nobel.
Not only were they seeking him in the air and on the ground, but they had
covered the hovercraft, too.
Harry Gault turned around, forced himself to
walk slowly, and left the pier.
Half
an hour later, he was aboard a small fishing boat, a mile and a half downstream
on the small fjord on which the hovercraft station was located. He had paid the
owner to intercept the hovercraft for him in deep water.
When the saucer-shaped vessel appeared, skimming
over the surface, they hailed it. Gault was taken aboard and paid his fare. He
saw no familiar face and relaxed for the first time since leaving the base.
Less
than twelve hours after leaving Project Nobel, he skimmed into Tromso harbor
aboard the hovercraft. Three and a half hours for the ramjet journey to Los
Angeles, less than an hour from Los Angeles to Mexico City, where a private
'copter could take him to the secret spaceport, he told himself, and he could
still give Captain Ballinger the list of agents provocateur a full day before
any of them arrived in Mexico or at any of the other bases.
He
knew the airport at Tromso would be unsafe. He had to contact Daniel Shea
directly, but he had to stay in hiding, too, for he knew the Nobel spacemen
were searching for him. Waiting in a dark corner of the rotunda, he sent a
porter to the ready-room to inquire about Shea.
The
porter was back in a few minutes. "Not half an hour ago," he said,
and as he spoke Harry Gault's optimism vanished, "Captain Shea took off in
a ramjet."
"Bound for Los Angeles?" "Yes,
that's right."
"Do you know how long he lays over
there?"
The porter shook his head.
Harry Gault realized he was in for a long
wait.
Ollie Olafson smiled fondly at his sister
Freya and Frank Marlow who stood arm in arm near him.
"They
will be packed in like sardines, yes?" He gestured at the small
jet-copter on the field behind him. "But it was the biggest I could get,
and I think we can squeeze in twelve for the flight to Stavanger."
Andy
and the others climbed the stairs out of the operations bunker. They had been
given a final briefing by Captain Strayer. Now he followed them to the waiting
'copter and said, "You all know that what we on the 'Nobel' can hope to
achieve is in your hands. All our preparations will have been for nothing if
you can't prevent Ballinger's bombing of the Star Brain. Perhaps all our preparations
will have been for nothing if a Ballinger ship fires a single rocket at the
fleet protecting Canopus. Because while the Monitor Satellites are not manned,
the Confederacy ships at Canopus are. What happens on Earth and to Earthmen in
the next hundred years or more will be determined by what you can do aboard
Ballinger's ships. I only wish I were going with you."
"You know what I wish, sir?" one of
the volunteers said with a shaky smile. "I wish we were sure Harry Gault
hadn't left Norway." They all laughed
nervously.
"As
far as we can tell," Frank said, "he hasn't." He left Freya's
side and walked among the volunteers, shaking their hands. "But if he has,
or if he manages somehow to get word to Ballinger, they'll be planning a hot
reception for you. If that happens, I want the solemn promise of every one of
you boys that you'll surrender without a fight. Reed Ballinger is ruthless,
remember that. And you'd be completely at his mercy."
As
they boarded the 'copter, Captain Strayer reminded them, "From Stavanger
you'll each make ordinary ramjet connections with the Ballinger base you
originally fled. The rest is up to you."
Andy
was the last to board. He stared across the field at the "Nobel" and
its gantry. Next time he saw the ship, he knew, it would be in deep space. If he ever saw it again.
"Almost
forgot to tell you," Frank called at the last moment. "There's an
ex-Cadet in Mexico who's been feeding valuable information to Ruy Alvarez.
He'll be on your side from the very beginning. Name of
Charlie Sands."
"I
know Charlie," Andy said, surprised. "We served on Luna
together."
The
'copter's rotors started with a roar. Frank had to shout to make himself heard. "Well, boy, the next time we get
together will be on Canopus."
"Right,"
Andy said. "On Canopus." But he wondered
whether he'd ever see his brother again.
Freya
and Frank stood back. Frank waved his arm in a single brief parting salute.
"Fasten
the door, please," Ollie Olafson called from the controls.
Andy
was about to, but just then he saw a small figure rushing breathlessly across
the field. It was the Austrian archaeologist, Dr. Seys.
"Marlow!"
he shouted. "I see out of you again they wish to make a spaceman."
Andy
nodded as, panting, Dr. Seys reached the jet-copter.
"I
only wish to say that if ever it is your desire to become an archaeologist, I
would consider it my good fortune to have you as a student in Vienna."
Andy thanked him.
"On
the Acropolis you did a splendid job, my young friend. On your mission I wish
you all good fortune."
Again
Andy thanked him and shut the door. The Acropolis was a model of plaster, he
thought, and he had been working under Dr. Seys's instructions. To do it he'd
needed patience and a steady hand and an interest in his work. He'd had all
three. There never had been any doubt about the outcome. The mission they were
about to embark on couldn't be more different. When each of the volunteers
arrived at his destination, he'd be all alone in a hostile camp. He'd have no
instructions of a skilled expert to guide him. He'd need courage but prudence
too.
As
well as all the luck in the world.
Was
it worth the risk? As the jet-copter rose, shuddering and whining, Andy knew
that it was. No risk was too grave, no peril too great, if it gave Earthmen a
chance in space again.
"You could have knocked me over with a
hummingbird's feather," Daniel Shea said enthusiastically. "I came
in the door and I just gave one squint and I told myself, If
that isn't my old friend Harry Gault then I'm not Daniel Shea.' What brings you
to Norway?"
"As a matter of
fact," Gault said, "I want out."
"Of
Norway, you mean?" said Shea. "Don't tell me you're in trouble
again!"
"I'll
tell you. I'm in trouble again. When do you fly back to North America?"
"Not
until day after tomorrow. Give a guy a break, will you? I just returned from a
round trip."
"The
day after tomorrow will be too late for me," Gault said slowly. "What
about tonight?"
"Impossible,
old friend," Shea said. His enthusiasm had begun to cool.
"I could pay
you."
"Impossible."
"Tomorrow?"
"How much could you
pay me, old friend?"
Gault told him, and
Daniel Shea whistled softly. "It must be pretty important to you. I think
it can be arranged for tomorrow. I could switch runs with one of our other
pilots."
"There's only one thing," Gault
said. "I can't go through customs. You'll have to get me on and off the
ramjet unseen. Can you do it?"
"Harry,
Harry!" Shea laughed. "Up to your old tricks again, I see. What are
you smuggling out of Norway?"
"Myself,"
Gault said simply.
"Are you serious? I didn't know you were
contraband, old friend." "Can you do it?"
"How much did you say
you'd pay?"
Gault told him again.
"Old friend,"
said Shea, "I can do it."
After he parted from his companions in
Stavan-ger, Andy was shuttled in reverse along the underground railroad that had brought him to Norway. He flew by ramjet
to New York, remembering the parting dinner in Stavanger. All twelve ex-Cadets
vowed that the next time they met would be in deep space where, after all, they
belonged. Andy's ramjet was the third to leave.
He
flew from New York to Mexico City and contacted Captain Alvarez. There was
nothing Alvarez could tell him, except what Frank had mentioned at
Project
Nobel: Charlie Sands, at the Ballinger spaceport, would be an ally. As far as
Alvarez knew, Harry Gault wasn't in Mexico.
Andy
flew south to Merida, where he took the bus to the little Indian village near
the spaceport. It was night when he got there, and after the Land of the
Midnight Sun the darkness seemed strange.
Skirting
the village, Andy struck out on the final leg of his return on foot. The sounds
of the jungle were all around him.
His
first surprise was the ease with which he followed the track through the
jungle. It seemed to have been widened, and in the soft earth underfoot were
the deep gouges of tire tracks.
When
he had covered about half the distance to the secret spacefield, he heard the
drone of a truck behind him. The drone became a roar that drowned the chirping
and rasping of the insects.
Headlights
impaled Andy. He turned directly in their path and raised his hands, waving
them. The truck bore down on him and braked to a stop. Its engine idled
noisily in the night.
"What are you doing
out here?" a voice shouted.
"My
name's Marlow," Andy shouted back. "I'm returning to camp."
"Returning
from where?" Suddenly the curiosity in the voice became suspicion.
"Did you say Marlow?"
"That's right."
Andy heard a door slam. A
man's silhouette appeared in front of the headlights. When he came closer, Andy
recognized Lieutenant Odet.
"Where in space have
you been, Cadet?"
"It's
a long story," Andy said, and waited wondering if the story Frank had
prepared for him and the other volunteers would be accepted.
"Save
it," Lieutenant Odet said at last, neither friendly nor unfriendly.
"Climb in, Marlow. I think Captain Ballinger will want a word with
you."
"That's
just what I was thinking," Andy agreed, and climbed onto the
canvas-covered truck bed with Lieutenant Odet. Seconds later, the truck began
to move.
"Just
tell me this much," Lieutenant Odet said. "Where did you go?"
"Norway," Andy said.
Chapter 13 *> space
"norway," he said again to Captain Ballinger an
hour later.
From
the window of Ballinger's office he could see bright floodlights blazing all
over the spacefield. Their launching pads elevated to ground level, spaceships
and gantries stood ready. A steady stream of trucks flowed in from the Indian
village, and there were shouts and the creaks of winches as supplies were
raised on the gantries and loaded aboard the ships.
"What
made you go there?" Captain Ballinger asked.
Though
Reed Ballinger and his plans had dominated so much of Andy's thinking since
his return from Luna Academy, this was only the second time he'd seen the
renegade ex-Space Captain. Whatever else he was, Reed Ballinger was not a man
you could forget. He was taller than Frank, broad-shouldered and powerfully
built. The dark, intent eyes dominated his handsome face. Even discounting the
uniform of a Senior Space Captain, which he was wearing, he had
138
spaceman
written all over him. And, if first impressions meant anything, he was more
obviously a leader of men than Lambert Strayer. Andy wondered if an ex-Cadet
who still hadn't seen his nineteenth birthday would be able to deceive a man
like Reed Ballinger.
"There
was a spaceman in Mexico City," Andy said, "named Ruy Alvarez. He
sent me there."
"Why'd you go to Alvarez?"
"An Indian told me to."
Ballinger's eyes held his. "Why?"
"You
mean why did he tell me to, or why did I leave in the first place?"
"Let's start with you."
"Well,
it was after you made a speech here, Captain. I
... I guess I wasn't ready to accept
the inevitability of a war in space. I wanted to find out if there was another
way. So I left."
"And
did you find out?" Ballinger asked. "Is there another way?"
"They think so in Norway."
"What do you think?"
"I'm back, Captain," Andy said.
"I came back." "Tell me about Norway."
"Well,"
said Andy," the first thing you ought to know is that Captain Gault is
there."
"Gault?" Ballinger said blandly. "He is?"
Andy
let that pass. There was no doubt that Harry Gault had joined Project Nobel on
Ballinger's instructions. But there was still doubt as to whether Gault had
found a way to leave Norway. If he did, and if he reported that Andy tried to
stop him or that Andy was one of a dozen volunteers who'd been sent back to the
Ballinger bases by Lambert Strayer. . . . Andy felt his heart pounding. If that
happened, they were lost.
"Yes,
sir. I
guess he had the same idea I had."
"But you don't have it
any longer?"
"I
came back," Andy said again. Then he began to tell Captain Ballinger about
Project Nobel. He spoke admiringly of Lambert Strayer but disdainfully of the
"Nobel's" peace plans, of the scores of scientists who had answered
Strayer's call and put together in the bleak tundra country above the Arctic
Circle a capsule history of humanity's achievements, of the naive hope that the
Star Brain could be persuaded by a shipload of artifacts and ideas.
"That's
what opened my eyes, Captain," he said. "While I was here the hope of
a peaceful return to space kept growing on me. There had to be a way other than
war, I kept thinking. At the Academy they always taught us. . . ."
"I
know what they taught you at the Academy. I put in four years on Luna, too,
Cadet."
"Anyway,
Project Nobel convinced me that there wasn't any other way. Don't get the wrong
idea, Captain. I was grateful for the chance to work with men like Dr. Seys
and his colleagues, but. . . ."
"Intellectual
piddlers," scoffed Ballinger.
". . . but now what we
need is boldness, not brilliance; brawn, not brains. The 'Nobel' opened my
eyes, Captain. That's why I came back here."
Andy
was surprised at how easily the lies came to his lips. But as the words poured
glibly forth, one thought alone filled his brain: he had to convince Captain
Ballinger. No matter what, he had to blast off with the fleet. He could almost
picture the same scene taking place at the other spacefields, with Ballinger
lieutenants playing Ballinger's role.
"Then,
after you made up your mind you just walked out of
Project Nobel?"
"Not
just me," Andy said. "There were I think a dozen of us. We ... I guess you'd call it mutinied. We all
decided to return to our original bases. We had to, because there was talk of
more ex-Cadets deserting you every day, Captain, and we wanted to come back
with the real story of Project Nobel. They mean well, Captain. You've got to
understand that. But what does Earth's history matter to the Star Brain? Every
world has its own history, and I guess every world's people think themselves
unique. But the Star Brain functions for the present and the future, not the
past."
"Then you think your
Dr. Seys and the others are fools?"
"No, sir," Andy said promptly,
"I don't. I think they're very brave men. I just think they're mistaken. I
told you I was proud of the chance to work for them, and that still goes. At
any other time"—Andy shrugged—"I would have considered it an
honor."
"But you think what we need now is
incisive action and decisive leadership?"
Andy nodded, "That's
about the size of it."
"And
so you came back," Ballinger said softly. Then all at once his voice was
hard. "Give me one reason why I should trust you."
"I
can't make you trust me. All I want
is a chance . . . with the fleet."
Captain
Ballinger went to the window and gazed out at the floodlights and scurrying
figures, the rumbling trucks and groaning winches. He said slowly:
"We've
advanced our schedule a full thirty-six hours, Cadet. I'll be frank with you:
we had to. We're painfully shorthanded. We've posted guards around the clock,
but our bases are too big, and if men want to leave they can leave. We've
averaged it out. Every six hours we delay means another desertion. Already
we're operating at only three-quarter strength." Ballinger sighed.
"We leave inside of three hours. From here, from the other bases, the
entire fleet is blasting off simultaneously. In three hours we'll be back in
space again."
Ballinger
turned to the window again. His voice seemed far away as he went on, "Do
you wonder why I bother to tell you this? If I accept you back in the fleet,
that would be an act of monumental stupidity on my part, wouldn't it?"
Andy waited. Ballinger said finally:
"But I'm going to. I've got to. We need every recruit we can get, Marlow.
Even turncoats. Even, to
coin a
word, re-turncoats. We're undermanned. But just so we understand each other,
Marlow: I don't trust you. I won't trust you until you prove to me I can. I'm
going to take you aboard the 'Goddard,' my flagship. You were in training as
an astrogator, weren't you?"
"Yes, that's
right."
"Then
you'll be in the astrogation room, under Lieutenant Odet who, as you may have
noticed," Ballinger said dryly, "has been doubling as a
truckman." His voice and his mood changed without warning. "If you
make one wrong move, you'll be put under arrest. Two,
and you'll find yourself going out the disposal chute without a spacesuit. Do I
make myself clear?"
"Yes," Andy said
softly.
"Good.
The quartermaster will issue you a fresh jumper. After that, return to your old
barracks. We'll be assembling soon. That's all, Cadet. I'll see you aboard the
'Goddard' ... in deep space."
Andy came to attention, saluted smartly, executed an about-face, and
left.
They'd
blast off in three hours, Reed Ballinger had told him, not just here in Mexico,
but from all the secret spacefields scattered over the face of the Earth. And,
with just three hours to go, how many of the Project Nobel volunteers would
fail to reach their destinations in time?
"Oh, no!" Turk cried. "It's a mirage. Tell me I'm seeing things."
Stocky, pugnacious, but trying to smile and
glower at the same time, he led the friendly assault on Andy. The ex-Cadets
clustered excitedly around him seconds after he'd come through the door. In
discordant concert, they hurled questions at him.
Turk's
voice was loudest. "Where did you blow in from? I know," he bellowed, pretending belligerence. "Here is one
shrewd Cay-det. He waits off on the beach some place, like in Acapulco or
Mazatlan, while we barely survive the training and spit-and-polish; he waits
while we make like packmules to do the loading, and then he ups and walks in
and says, quote: 'Men, take me to space.'" Turk snorted and made a wry
face.
The
others picked up his raillery, and Andy was grateful for it. He knew he
couldn't reveal his mission until they were spacebound. Whatever happened, he
had to be aboard the "Goddard." Only then would he try to discover
which Cadets he could trust.
Now,
waiting in the dorm, he encouraged the joking and used it himself to parry
serious questions. He had been east of the sun and west of the moon, had
returned on a flying carpet, was Reed Ballinger's secret
weapon.
After
a while, when it became apparent that Andy wasn't going to reveal anything he
didn't want to reveal, Turk said, "It took us a while, but we get the
message. Top-secret stuff, huh?"
"I didn't say
that," Andy said.
"You don t say anything."
Andy shrugged, and then Turk was grinning at
him and pounding him on the back and pumping his hand almost hard enough to
dislocate his shoulder. "Okay, we wait," he said resignedly, but he
was still grinning from ear to ear. "I don't care if you blew in from
Ultima Thule, Andy. It's good to have you back."
Soon
Andy was no longer the center of attention. The ex-Cadets returned to their
bunks and sat on them, or stretched out stiffly, hands clasped behind their
heads. A few of them paced in the narrow aisle. Their
faces were drawn and tense. Andy didn't have to be told that they knew they'd
be blasting off soon, in defiance of the Star Brain and the Monitor Satellites.
Charlie Sands came over to him. He was a
thin, small Cadet with reddish-blond hair and freckles. "Come outside with
me a minute, Andy?" he asked.
"Suits me."
They stood looking at the floodlit gantries.
"Gets dark around here nights," Charlie Sands observed. Andy said
nothing.
"Stays light all
summer in Norway, doesn't it?"
"So I've heard,"
Andy said.
"So you've seen,
firsthand."
"All right, so I've
seen," Andy said.
"Captain
Alvarez told me to expect someone. We've lost about fifteen Cadets since you
were gone, but not all of them went to Norway. I was wondering who it would be.
What do we do?"
"You've been in touch with
Alvarez?" "Constantly. Few
times a week." I see.
"Listen,
Marlow. Maybe you see and maybe you don't. But just get this clear; you're not
the only one who didn't want any part of an interstellar war. Stop playing it
cagey with me, will you? Fifteen of you ran out on it, and that's one way and I
have nothing against it. But me, I've been on and off the base maybe twenty
times, risking my neck each time, and risking it again to return. I've just got
back from contacting Alvarez about the new blast-off time. So will you stop
acting as if you can't trust me?"
"I'm sorry," Andy said.
"Okay. What do we do?"
"We
mutiny," Andy said, and then he told Charlie Sands what Captain Strayer
and Frank had said in the operations bunker.
"Harry
Gault's the biggest problem to start with," Andy explained after he'd
outlined the mutiny plans. "If he shows up before blast-off. . . ."
"He doesn't have much time."
"I
know, but if he does I'll be exposed. If that happens, I'd like to know you'd
take over for me. He doesn't suspect you, does he?"
"Not that I know
of."
"If we do get into space without Gault,
the second problem is recruiting. Is there anybody you can trust, anybody you
think is ready to come over to us?"
Charlie Sands frowned. "Most of them
took off, like you did. I can think of a few, your friend Ayoub, for one. He
needs a little gentle prodding, I'd say, but well be able to rely on him. We
could. . . .**
The
public address amplifier on the outer wall of the dorm squawked and interrupted
him. Andy recognized Captain Ballinger's voice:
"Attention,
spacemen! Attention! Spacemen, board your ships. Board
your ships and prepare for blastoff!"
Andy
barely had time to learn that both Charlie Sands and Turk would be aboard the
"Goddard," the largest ship in the fleet, when the dorm door opened
and two score Cadets burst out of it and sprinted across the tarmac toward
their waiting ships.
The
next few moments were ones Andy had thought he'd never experience again. In the
glare of floodlights he climbed the gantry steps behind Charlie Sands and heard
once more the clanging tramp of spaceboots on metal. He boarded the
"Goddard" from the gantry catwalk and was aware of that instant of
disorientation which a spaceman never loses; what were now the starboard walls
of the "Goddard" would, after blast-off, become the decks of the
various compartments; what were the port walls, the ceilings.
The pre-blast-off decks and ceilings would become the starboard and port
bulkheads or walls.
With
the other ex-Cadets, Andy hurried aloft, scaling the grapple-ladders which
would be removed after blast-off. The acceleration hammocks were temporary,
too, to help cushion the enormous pressure of nine gravities. In the big
hammock room, which would become dining deck after blast-off and burnout,
Lieutenant Odet was checking Cadets off on a clipboard and assigning them to
hammocks.
"Marlow,"
Andy said when he reached the Lieutenant.
"You're not listed," Odet informed
him. "Captain Ballinger assigned me to the 'Goddard,' sir.
Lieutenant
Odet scrawled his name at the bottom of the last sheet on the clipboard and
assigned Andy a spare hammock. He strapped in and listened to the other Cadets
calling their names, watched them strapping in, saw
the look of expectancy and awe on all their faces.
Only
moments were left now, Andy thought, excitement mounting in him. He heard the
last ring of boots on the ladders, heard the metallic sound of bulkhead doors
slamming, saw Lieutenant Odet approaching an empty hammock. In scant seconds,
the firing crew in the operations bunker would send the "Goddard" and
the other ships of the fleet hurtling into space.
But
first Andy heard boots ringing again, and Lieutenant Odet went back to his
clipboard. Strapped in, Andy craned his neck to see the latecomer. All at once
he felt a pulse beating in his throat.
The man was Harry Gault.
"We
didn't think you'd make it," Lieutenant Odet said.
"I'm
here, Lieutenant. I'm here." Gault was grinning.
He
moved among the hammocks. His eyes caught and held Andy's. "I see we both
made it," he said softly, and then went to his assigned hammock. Across
the room Charlie Sands was staring at Andy.
All
Andy could do was wait. If Gault wanted to stop him,
wanted to betray him and his mission before blast-off, he had to act within the
next few seconds. Instead, he was busy with the buckles of his straps. He
grinned again, this time straight at Andy.
"Spacemen,
check your hammocks," blared the amplifier.
Mechanically,
Andy checked out his straps and buckles. The sight of Gault had sent him
plummeting from preblast-off exhilaration to despair. Why Gault was playing a
waiting game, though, he didn't know.
Except
for the occasional creak of a leather strap, there was no sound in the hammock
room.
The amplifier blared:
"Blast-off
minus fifteen. . . . fourteen. . . . thirteen. . . . twelve. . . . eleven. . . . ten. . . ."
Seconds
after blast-off, they would reach escape velocity and the first-stage rocket
would burn out. Seconds after that, they would be within
range of the Monitor Satellites. Perhaps, thought Andy, Gault was
waiting to denounce him until after the battle was won.
. .
five. . . . four. . . . three. . . . two. . . . one. . . . OFF!"
There
was a whine, and then a whining roar, and then a screaming banshee howl through
the thin skin of the "Goddard." Andy felt a huge unseen hand thrust
him back and down against the acceleration hammock, felt the fingers contorting
the skin and flesh of his face, felt the tremendous pressure against his ribs
and arms and legs. . . .
The
"Goddard," along with all the ships of Reed Ballinger's fleet, rising from their pads at all the secret bases, was
spacebound.
Chapter 14 8°»fe spaCe
"spacemen, man your battle stations!*'
They
were in space, and weightless in free fall. Andy unstrapped the buckles and
removed the hammock straps. The brutal pressure of acceleration had vanished,
as had the screech of the thinning upper atmosphere rushing past the hull of
the "Goddard."
As
an astrogator, Andy's real job wouldn't begin until they were ready to plot a
subspace orbit for the "Goddard." Destination: Canopus and the Star
Brain, hundreds of light years across the Galaxy. On a normal ship of the line,
Andy knew, an astrogator would have been supercargo, checking out the crates of
supplies in the hold, ascertaining what damage blast-off had done, repairing
it, making himself generally useful until his unique training as an astrogator
was needed.
But the "Goddard"
was preparing for battle.
Weightless,
Andy floated up from his hammock. He turned lazily against what was now the
ceiling of the hammock room, though up, down, and sideways
151
were
meaningless terms of orientation in a spaceship in free fall.
"First
priority," blared Ballinger's voice,
"gunners. Gunners, man your rockets."
Andy
saw Turk and a dozen other Cadets swim through air toward the hatches.
"Second
priority, rocketeers."
Another
eight Cadets swam from the hammock room. As rocketeers, Andy knew, they would
man the small auxiliary rockets used to correct the "Goddard's" orbit
in normal space. In battle, they would pit their skill against enemy missiles,
their fingers darting over the keys of the firing boards, constantly altering
the "Goddard's" course, making it a difficult target.
"Third
priority, radar technicians."
The
radar technicians floated to their waiting screens, where the flashing green
pips would herald the arrival of the rest of the fleet . . . and of the Monitor
Satellites.
"Fourth priority, astrogators. Astrogators, man the viewscopes."
Instinctively,
Andy found himself obeying the command. The viewscopes, he knew, were
refracting telescopes mounted flush with the hull of the "Goddard."
Their lenses would be adjusted automatically for distance and direction by the
radar screens; so it would be Andy's job, as an astrogator, to follow the
course of the battle in space, to announce when a hit had been made, when a
Satellite had been destroyed, when— to confirm the radar findings—a missile was
launched at the "Goddard."
Andy
saw Lieutenant Odet ahead of him. "Have I been assigned a scope?" he
called.
"We can use a man
starboard. Follow me."
Andy swam after Lieutenant Odet, wondering how long it would take the
Monitor Satellites to respond to the infrared warning device that would send
them homing in on the ships of Reed Ballinger's illegal fleet.
All at once, on the viewscope, what had been
blurry dots swam into focus. Andy counted twenty of them, twenty projectile
shapes hurtling toward the "Goddard."
"Do
they reflect sunlight?" Lieutenant Odet asked behind him, after Andy
announced the approaching fleet.
"No,
sir.
They're dark."
Lieutenant
Odet was correlating viewscope data and radioing it to the gunnery rooms. Andy
could picture Turk and the other gunners waiting tensely at their firing
controls. Triumphantly, Lieutenant Odet said, "Then they're our drones.
They're overage ships and crewless. They're fueled with too much liquid oxygen
so their exhaust is hotter than ours. They ought to attract the satellites like
a magnet attracts iron filings. They're expendable, and while they're being
shot out of space by the Satellites we'll go to work."
The image changed again as the radar
technicians, unseen, altered direction and focal length of Andy's scope. Andy
saw another fleet, fifty projectile shapes at least, silver in the sunlight and
against the velvety black of space.
"Fifty
ships," Andy reported. "Silver." He
looked again and saw behind them, blurred and not quite in focus, the
green-gray globe of Earth a hundred thousand miles away. "Coming
from Earth's day side."
"Our
Asian contingents," Lieutenant Odet said. "We had three bases in
Asia."
After
the Asian, the South American and Oceanic contingents appeared. And behind the
thirty-odd ships from Oceania, Andy saw hundreds of midge-like silver motes in
pursuit.
"The
Monitors," Lieutenant Odet said nervously, and the information was relayed
to gunnery.
Now
that the battle was about to be joined, Andy wondered if he would remain at the
scope to see its outcome. A few words from Harry Gault, he realized, and he
would be revealed as an agent provocateur.
In the first stage of the battle, the crew of the "Goddard" were no more than
spectators.
Andy
saw the Monitor Satellites fan out in long columns as they neared the drone
fleet. The columns formed a net to ensnare the drones, and one by one, as
atomic-warhead missiles homed in on them, the dark ships disappeared in
brilliant flashes of light and en-
Crgy'
Suddenly there was a lurch as the "Goddard," cruising at two
hundred miles a second in free fall, changed direction. In his scope, Andy saw
the fifty ships of the Asian fleet wheel sunward in a long double column. Motes
that were Satellites and black projectiles that were drone ships went out of
focus and then grew larger, silhouetted against the
glare of the sun.
Reed
Ballinger's Mexican fleet was now swiftly approaching the automated battle
with the "Goddard" as vanguard.
The
next half-hour was one Andy would never forget. The ships swam ever closer,
and soon the Satellites became gray globes worrying the bigger ships of the
drone fleet like a swarm of bees. As their position and distance changed, the
scope kept going in and out of focus.
Captain Ballingers voice blared:
"Gunners, fire at will!"
Salvo
after salvo of rockets streaked away from the "Goddard," each
carrying its lethal atomic nose cone, each orbited and triggered to meet a
Satellite in collision course. As each salvo left, the "Goddard"
rocked and swayed in reaction. Andy had to strap himself to a stanchion near
the viewscope.
First
one Satellite and then another . . . and then scores . . . disappeared in a
burst of raw energy. The Monitors broke their net-like formation about the
drone ships.
"Monitors heading this way!" Andy heard one of the other astrogators shout, and the image on his own scope changed so that he
could see them, too.
At least a hundred Satellites streaked toward
the "Goddard" and the other ships of the Mexican fleet. They were
spectators no longer.
"Two o'clock forward!" Andy would
cry, and Lieutenant Odet would relay the message to gunnery and the Satellite
homing in on the "Goddard" would be blown from space.
"Three o'clock
forward. They've fired a salvo."
And
the "Goddard" would shudder as its direction was changed, and changed
again.
The
sweat poured off Andy's face. His eyes could barely follow the rapid sequence
of images on the viewscope. He saw more Monitors blown from space; saw a
collision between a Monitor and the ship next in line behind the
"Goddard"; saw three ships of the Mexican fleet blown apart by the
Monitors' missiles; saw clear space and then the last of the drones enter the
scope at six o'clock and the Monitors enter at seven in interception-course,
saw the dark drones blasted asunder.
His
voice became hoarse, his ribs ached because the full weight of his body under
three or more G's pulled against the stanchion strap every time the "Goddard"
altered course. If they were hit, he knew, there might be a micro-second in
which to register disaster, a micro-second and no more. It seemed as if he had
been glued forever to his station at the viewscope. His mouth was dry. He found
it hard to swallow.
". . . Satellites," he heard after
a long time, and again, clearer, "No more Satellites."
He
watched the scope images changing. Drones and Satellites alike had been swept
from space, but the Ballinger fleets were in ragged formation.
The
command went out: "Fleet Captains, report your losses."
The
grim news trickled back. Oceania, six ships; Asia, twenty-three; Mexico,
eleven; Africa. . . .
Reed
Ballinger himself made the announcement. "Men,"
and his voice was husky with emotion, "we've won. We're in space again,
where we belong. To get here, our brave companions on fifty-eight ships perished.
But they did not die in vain, for the way to Canopus and the Star Brain is now
open. And our remaining ships are more than enough to blast the Brain's
guardians out of space when we get there."
Andy
had a terrible sense of loss. Fifty-eight ships, with how many men aboard each?
Dying so that Reed Ballinger could return to space against the law. . . .
Abruptly,
Andy was thinking of the "Nobel." Had it managed to get past the
Monitors, too? Or, weaponless, had it been destroyed in
battle?
".
. . Ballinger deceived us," Lieutenant Odet was saying bitterly. "The
'Goddard' was a first-rate ship, fast and armed to the teeth. Maybe we had
fifty like it, and they're among the survivors. But in the
last few days, ships as overage as the drones began to join the fleets
assembling at the spacefields. We needed them, Ballinger said." He added
bleakly, "We needed them just as we needed the drones, as decoys. They
added to the size of our fleet, sure; but Ballinger sacrificed their crews so
the rest of us could get through."
"Didn't he tell you
he. . . ."
Lieutenant
Odet cut Andy off, "I
guess he did what he had to
do. That's all. I talk too much."
Andy
unstrapped himself from the stanchion. His fingers were trembling with
reaction. When he started to turn, he saw Harry Gault and two Cadets behind
him.
Gault said, not wasting words, "You're
under arrest, Marlow."
Andy
didn't have to ask why. Nor did he have to ask why Gault had waited until the
battle was won. They'd needed every man they could get to fight it.
The
two Cadets took Andy's arms. They wouldn't meet his eyes. One of them looked as
if he were about to speak and then changed his mind.
They led Andy away from the
viewscope.
Even
if the "Nobel" had managed to get through, there was nothing he could
do now to help Captain Strayer and Frank.
Chapter 15
even though he
was locked in a small storeroom with no windows and a single faint fluoro-tube
burning in the ceiling, Andy knew the exact moment when the
"Goddard," apparently beyond Luna's orbit, cut in its subspace drive
and went shimmering into subspace.
Shimmering
was the only word for it, though this time Andy didn't see the effect which,
looking out aboard the "Goddard," would have been to see the stars of
space blurred and even near-by Luna, the Earth, and the Sun would have gone out
of focus, until suddenly all would be gone, along with the deep black of space,
to be replaced by the murky shifting gray-ness of subspace.
As
a Cadet on Luna, Andy, squinting into a small Academy viewscope, had more than
once watched an outbound interstellar ship suddenly shimmer and become
insubstantial, like a double exposure on a photographic plate or a slow
dissolve on a motion picture film, until it was gone.
Like so many of the world's greatest
scientific dis-
159
coveries,
starting with magnetism and electricity, subspace drive still was not
understood clearly. This much was known: in order to bridge the unthinkable
abysses between the stars, even the speed of laggard light was too slow, for
though light traveled at 186,000 miles per second, it still took 4.3 years to
reach Earth from Alpha Centauri, the nearest star; and the distance to stars
like Deneb, Antares, and Canopus was measured in hundreds of light years.
Some
theorists claimed the subspace drive employed the distance-spanning attributes
of time without recourse to the one attribute which would have made
interstellar travel impossible: duration. Others claimed that subspace was a
completely separate and alien space-time continuum, where the natural laws of
time, space, and motion did not apply as we understood them. Still others
avoided any ultimate explanations of what they claimed was essentially
inexplicable and merely said that the atoms of a spaceship, and everything
aboard it, that entered subspace were speeded up in their inter- and
intra-atomic relations.
All
agreed that, by analogy, to travel through sub-space was like avoiding the
linear distance between two points on opposite ends of a sheet of paper by the
process of folding the paper exactly in half and thus placing the points
adjacent to each other. The analogy further said that if a sheet of paper can
be considered a two-dimensional space-time continuum and the real world a
three-dimensional space-time continuum, then subspace could be considered a
continuum of four dimensions. Just as the third dimension of thickness was
used to bridge the distance between two points on opposite ends of a sheet of
paper by folding it, so the unknown fourth dimension of the subspace continuum
was used to bridge the infinitely vaster distance between the stars.
Most
important, Andy knew, was the fact that sub-space worked. You entered it at a
point in normal space, traveled incredible distances in an elapsed time of just
a few days, and emerged hundreds of light years away.
In this case, destination,
Canopus.
Where
the Star Brain would be bombed a second time, this time thoroughly.
After the transit into subspace, Charlie
Sands, off duty until the next watch, gathered a group of his ex-Luna
classmates in his cabin; Charlie had been the Cadet Captain of his class. The only
comparative stranger among them was Turk, whom Charlie Sands had included in
the council of war because he knew Turk and Andy were friends.
"Men,"
Charlie Sands began, "you all know that Andy Marlow joined the crew of the
'Goddard' at the last minute. What you don't know is that he came here on
direct orders from the commanders of Project Nobel."
"What's Project Nobel?" someone
asked. Charlie Sands explained. He finished, "So you see, I've been in
contact, through Ruy Alvarez, with the
Project
Nobel people all along. But Andy's been working with them on the inside. He
was sent here to do a job, and it's got to be done. Both Captain Ballinger and
Captain Strayer, who commands Project Nobel, want Earthmen to return to space.
The only difference is, Ballinger wants war and Strayer wants peace." Char
he Sands took a deep breath and looked at each of his friends in turn. "If
Andy Marlow remains a prisoner, Captain Ballinger will get his way. If we free
Andy Marlow, there's a chance Captain Strayer will get his way."
Someone
demanded, "You really think the Star Brain will pay any attention to a
history of Earth? Do you tlunk it would even give Captain Strayer a chance to
present his history?"
"Captain
Strayer thinks so. And you already saw a sample of what we can expect if
Ballinger gets his way—his way being war from here to Canopus and back."
"But what can Marlow do, even if we set
him free?" someone else asked.
"There's
only one way to find out, by freeing him," Charlie Sands said. "Are
you with me?"
One
after another, the ex-Cadets agreed to follow wherever Charlie Sands led. All
of them had just witnessed the first space battle since the advent of the
Galactic Confederacy; companions of theirs, boys they had lived with and
studied with and played with on Luna, had died. If Marlow knew another way out,
they said, they were all for it.
Only Turk held back. He was scowling, and his
broad shoulders were slumped. "Look," he said slowly, choosing his
words with an effort because the ideas they represented came hard, "now
that we're back in space, do you want to stay or be exiled to Earth again?"
"Of
course we want to stay," Charlie Sands said. "We belong in space.
We're spacemen."
"Captain
Ballinger led us this far," Turk pointed out. "This is probably the
hardest speech I ever made in my life. Andy's my friend. My best friend, I
guess, and I'd do just about anything for him. But that's just it; he's my
friend, and I know him better than any of the rest of you do. What I'm trying
to say, Andy Mar-low's, well, a dreamer. He's an idealist. In theory maybe he
has the best ideas in the world; when we first entered the Academy together,
they said he was the smartest kid in the class. They made him class Captain
right away, and. . . ."
"Just
like they made Charlie," one of the ex-Cadets said. "And Charlie
doesn't look like a dreamer to you, does he?"
"That's
what I'm getting at. Andy was only class Captain about three months. Any Cadet
would have given his eyeteeth for the honor, and Andy resigned it during the
first semester. You know what he said? He said he didn't come to Luna to wear a
fancy uniform and lead his classmates on parade. He said he came to Luna to be
a spaceman, and that was a full-time job. But half the time that meant, for
Andy, sort of daydreaming and staring off into space and wondering what the
other races of the Galaxy were like."
"I
don't see anything wrong
with that," Charlie Sands said, a little coldly.
"It
depends on what you have to do," Turk insisted. "Andy was studying to
be an astrogator, but right before they shut down the Academy he was thinking
of switching to the School of Interstellar Sociology." Turk looked more
and more uncomfortable. His face was red now, and as he spoke he averted his
eyes. "Not that I have anything against that
kind of stuff. But this is the point: we don't need a sociologist now or a
bunch of historians like you say they have in Norway. We need a leader of men.
We need the toughest leader of men we can get. We need what we have . . . Reed
Ballinger."
"Then you won't help
us?" Charlie Sands asked.
"No.
I'm sorry. Andy's my best friend, and I wish I could.
But I can't. I'm sorry," Turk said again.
"That
puts us in a nice bind," Charlie said. "You know what we're planning
to do."
"I
wouldn't lift a finger to
stop you. I'll just keep out of it," Turk said disconsolately. "I
just wish I could make you change your minds." Turk shook his head slowly.
"No, I'm not even sure of that. I don't know. I plain don't know what to
think. Don't get the idea I like war any more than the rest of you. But maybe
Captain Ballinger is right; maybe war is the only way."
"We're exiles from earth," Charles
Sands pointed out. "If Ballinger has his way and bombs the Star Brain a
second time, there isn't a world that would let us land."
For
a long time Turk did not answer. "Go on," he said finally, "do
what you have to do. I'll keep out of it. I just wish I knew what we should do. But I don't know. That's the whole
thing. I don't know."
"I didn't know," Harry Gault said
at precisely the same moment, "that Marlow wasn't the only turncoat aboard
the 'Goddard.'"
Captain Ballinger said,
"You heard it yourself."
"I
know, but Sands wasn't in Norway. I'm sure of it."
"Of
course he wasn't," Reed Ballinger said. "He never left Mexico until
we blasted off. But he left the spacefield a dozen times and more, and at least
three or four times I had him followed. Alvarez used to fly down from Mexico
City to visit him in the Indian village. Even though he never went to Norway,
Sands was a Project Nobel man from the beginning, and, as you just now heard,
still is."
"So
that's why you had a pickup unit planted in his cabin."
"That's
why." Ballinger gazed at the small TV screen on the wall.
"Listen."
"What we've got to do," the tiny
image of Charlie Sands was saying on the TV screen, "is get Andy free.
And
just as you men are willing to follow me, you'll have to be willing to follow
Andy as soon as we get him out of there."
"But
what's he going to do, if he gets out?" one of the Cadets asked.
"First,
take over the 'Goddard,' by force if he has to. Then. ..."
"We could do that ourselves if he could."
"It's
the next part that's important. Andy'll have to contact the 'Nobel.' He'll know
how to do that. I don't."
Harry Gault smirked. "Take over the
'Goddard,'" he said, sarcastically. "That's a good one. That's rich,
it is."
"Shut
up and listen to what they're saying," Captain Ballinger ordered.
"Don't you have eyes? Don't you have ears? After what happened with the
Monitors, there isn't a man aboard who hasn't toyed with the idea of
mutinying. I couldn't help it. We had to get through, even if it meant losing
fifty ships and their crews. Listen."
".
. . where they took him," Charlie Sands was saying.
"Our best chance ought to come when the watch is changed."
The
tiny image of Turk on the TV screen said, "I'm getting out of here. The
less I know about your plans, the better it will be for all of us."
Some of the Cadets looked at him
challengingly. Two of them moved between him and the door of the cabin.
"Hold your rockets," Charlie Sands
ordered. "Turk's been frank with us. I think we can trust him." To
Turk he said, "Go on, get out of here."
Turk
left the screen. "I think you could be making a mistake, Charlie,"
one of the Cadets said.
"We
ought to be able to free Andy without Turk's help. But eventually we're going
to need the help of every man we can get. I don't want to make an enemy of
Ayoub. Now, when the watch changes. . . ."
"When
the watch changes," Captain Ballinger told Harry Gault, "you and a
dozen picked men will be waiting for them, armed to the teeth."
What Turk needed, more than anything, was a
confidant. He'd never felt so confused and undecided in his life. Maybe, he
kept on thinking, Charlie Sands was right. Maybe Andy had been right in leaving
the secret spacefield in the first place. And maybe, if Turk had gone with him
that night to Norway, things would have been different. Then maybe Turk would
understand what Andy understood and believe what he believed.
Maybe. He didn't know.
He
found Lieutenant Odet on the gunnery deck, where the young officer was
supervising the loading of new atomic warheads in the rocket tubes.
"They took Andy
prisoner," Turk said.
"Don't
you see I'm busy?" Lieutenant Odet snapped at him.
Turk, his broad shoulders slumped still
further, was about to trudge away.
"Wait
a minute, Ayoub. I'm sorry for blasting at you like that. My rating's in
astrogation, with a subrating in gunnery, and they have me doing this."
"This
whole business isn't our fault, is it, sir?" Turk asked.
Lieutenant Odet gave him a searching glance.
"Who am I to say? I'm a spaceman. I've been trained to do what I'm told,
and Captain Ballinger gives the orders aboard the 'Goddard.'"
"I guess so. I guess
he does. But. . . ."
"Something's on your
mind, isn't it?"
"I don't know. . . .
I. . . ."
"Come on, boy. Out
with it."
"Well,"
Turk stammered, "I . . . uh . . . that is . . . you've got to promise to
keep it under a tarp no matter what you think."
"You
won't get any commotion out of me," Lieutenant Odet promised, and Turk,
talking compulsively, began to pour out the whole story.
There was a dumb-waiter chute in the
storeroom where Andy was locked up, and the green light over the sliding door
of the chute had just glowed for the third time. Each time he had found a tray
of food and drink waiting for him. If he hadn't been so concerned about being a
prisoner, he might have read something encouraging into this gesture. With the
"Goddard" streaking through space, passing light years like
mileposts, Captain Ballinger probably had lost part of his hold on the crew. He
could blame the battle with the Monitors for that, Andy knew, and the terrible
losses Ballinger's combined fleet had sustained. As a result Andy was being fed
mechanically because Reed Ballinger didn't want any of the crew contaminated
by his ideas or what he could tell them about Project Nobel.
Ballinger
was afraid of what might happen otherwise.
The
conjecture was disheartening. If he were free, perhaps Andy could take over the "Goddard." But he wasn't free, and at the moment
he didn't even know if the "Nobel" had come through the battle with
the Monitors unscathed or if it had been blasted out of space.
As
a prisoner he could do nothing, not even find out.
Free,
if Ballinger had lost some part of his control over the ex-Space Captains and
Cadets who served under him, Andy might have been able to take over the
"Goddard" and try to contact the "Nobel."
But he wasn't free.
After
he had eaten for the third time and replaced the tray in the dumb-waiter, Andy
heard a disturbance in the corridor outside. There were shouts, and something
heavy thudded against the bulkhead, then more shouts; then, astounded, Andy saw
the door irising open.
Led by Charlie Sands, five Cadets stumbled
into the small room. Behind them, as the door began to shut again, Andy caught
a glimpse of Harry Gault's face.
Then they were all locked in together.
"We could have done it," one of the Cadets said bitterly.
"We were going to free you," said
another. "Charlie explained about Project Nobel," a third said.
Charlie
Sands was panting. A large bluish bruise discolored his right temple and cheek.
"We were betrayed," he told Andy. "W7e
wanted to help you, Mar-low. But they were waiting for us when we got
here."
"We
were betrayed," one of the Cadets said, "by your own best
friend."
"What are you talking about?" Andy
demanded.
"Turk Ayoub. He heard our plans," Charlie explained. "He said he didn't
want any part of them, but he promised to keep his mouth shout. He didn't. He
must have run straight to Ballinger."
Chapter
16 Mutiny!
radio messages can be sent through subspace. In fact, if they couldn't be, radio
communication between interstellar planets would be impossible, for in normal
space radio travels at the speed of light, far too slow to span the gap between
the stars as a means of rapid communication.
But,
though it can be sent through subspace, radio cannot be received in subspace.
Thus, communication between ships traveling in subspace was impossible. This
fact bothered Reed Ballinger.
"Twelve
of them," he was telling Harry Gault. "You said twelve Project Nobel
Cadets joined the fleet before blast-off, and we have no way of telling what
happened on any ship except the 'Goddard.'"
Gault
shrugged. "We'll have to wait and find out when we reach Canopus, Captain.
But what are you worrying about? If we took care of Marlow so easily, what
makes you think the other turncoats had a better time of it?"
"Because you're here," Ballinger
pointed out. "Be-
171
cause you warned me against Marlow. Nobody warned
the other ships. Nobody warned the rest of the fleet."
"They
swore an oath to take their orders from Reed Ballinger, didn't they?"
"That
was before the battle with the Monitors. If the reaction to the battle aboard
the 'Goddard' is any sample, a determined nucleus of turncoats on any other
ship might succeed. You saw what happened with Cadet Sands. If we hadn't
planted a scanner in his cabin, you and I might
be the ones locked up now."
Harry
Gault couldn't debate the logic of that. But he pointed out, "It's almost
twenty-four hours since Sands's mutiny. There hasn't been a peep out of anyone
else. You've got a loyal crew, Captain."
"I
wonder," Ballinger said. Then his moment of in-decisiveness was gone.
"In a little over ten hours we're due to clear back into normal space in
the orbit of Canopus' one planet."
"The
Star Brain's planet, sir?"
"Right. The Star Brain's planet.
As soon as we clear, I want every ship in the fleet contacted. If there's been
a successful mutiny on any one of them, there's only one thing we can do, and
it must be done decisively."
"Blast them out of
space?" Gault offered.
"Correct. Blast them
out of space."
During the transit through sub space, the
rest of the universe ceases to exist for the crew of a star-bound ship. There
are no stars to see, no patterns of constellations either familiar or
unfamiliar, no radio contact either with a planet or another ship in transit. There is not even the
remote possibility of a collision, for the physical law of normal space which
says that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time no longer
applies. Scientists could explain that only by analogy, but they had proof on
several occasions that an orbit had been plotted and executed for a ship in
transit right through what would have been the normal space location of a star.
The
analogy they used was this. Normal space is to subspace as a flat world of two
dimensions is to the normal world of three. On a flat world of length and
breadth but no height, two objects could not occupy the same point at the same
time. But if one of them were lifted in the third dimension, that of height,
but was otherwise at precisely the same point in terms of the two dimensions of
the flat world, then from the viewpoint of any flat-worlders the physical law
would seem to be violated. Similarly, if two objects occupied what would have
been the identical space at the identical time in normal space, but if one of
them were lifted into the fourth dimension of the subspace continuum, the
physical law would seem to be violated if you were oriented to the three
dimensions of normal space.
The
result of all this was that no isolation was more complete than the isolation
of subspace. Physical laws that gave the normal world familiarity were
violated; communication with the normal world was impossible; the only thing
you could see outside the ship in transit itself was the gray, featureless murk
of subspace.
Lieutenant
Odet was explaining all this patiently to Turk. "So you see," he
concluded, "we're all alone here. We're as alone as men can be."
"I
know all that," Turk said. "We had a course in subspace orientation
on Luna."
"True,
but you didn't know that someday you'd have to make a decision in subspace that
might determine whether the Galaxy went to war or entered a new era of mutual
understanding."
"Are
you trying to tell me you want to help Andy?" Turk gasped.
"You
guessed it, Cadet. I've been a fool to believe in Reed Ballinger this long.
He's not interested in Earth's returning to space . . . unless it returns with
Captain Reed Ballinger leading the way."
"And
you actually think that stuff Andy told me and Charlie Sands about Project
Nobel can. . . ."
"It
gives us a chance, Turk. Not just us. Not just Earthmen. Don't you see? Whether
the Star Brain accepts a record of Earth's greatest achievements as a reason
to give Earth a second chance in space is one thing and it's mighty important.
But it can lead to something even more important. Do you know anything of the
history of the Denebians?"
"The
Denebians?
No, I don't," Turk said, puzzled.
"Or the Antareans? The Formalhautians?
The Siri-ans? The Centaurians?"
"No, but. . . ."
"Well, they don't know
anything about us either.
We've
had interstellar contact for the purposes of trade, but if one single
worth-while idea has been exchanged among the Galactic races, I'm not aware of
it. Do you think, if the Star Brain accepts Earth's record, the other races
will just stand by and watch? You can bet your life they won't. They'd all want
to get into the act, Turk. To get back on even cultural terms with Earth,
they'll all prepare their own histories. First for the Star
Brain, then for each other."
"Aren't
you forgetting something, sir? There was a pooling of ideas to build the Star
Brain."
"Sure there was. But
can you tell me its purpose?"
"To keep the
peace," Turk said promptly.
"Right, to keep the peace. Instead of trying to understand each other,
the intelligent races of a hundred star-worlds and more got together and built
the most complex electronic brain ever devised on any world, as a kind of
glorified mechanical watchman to slap the hand of any race incautious enough to
be caught in the cookie jar. But that's the whole point I'm trying to make.
Peace by arbitration of a mechanical brain, of an electronic thinking machine,
is one thing. Peace through mutual understanding is another. We've all
depended on the Star Brain too much, and because we have, humans have become a
little less human, Centaurians a little less . . . well, whatever word passes
for human in their language, and so on. As a result, a ruthless man like
Captain Ballinger is on his way to bomb the Star Brain. And if that happens, if
there's no understanding
among the interstellar civilizations to take the place of the glorified gadget
that's kept them from each other's throats. . . ."
"Once
you were loyal to Captain Ballinger. Now you want to help Andy? Why?"
"I've
got to. When we fought the Monitors I saw Reed Ballinger's way. I don't want
any part of it. I like to think, from what you've told me and from some talks I
had with Charlie Sands in Mexico, I like to think that Captain Strayer's way is
better. Helping Andy will be helping Strayer and his Project Nobel."
"What are you going to
do?"
"What are you going to do?"
Turk
didn't answer right away. Then he said slowly, "Andy was my best friend.
He still is. I ... I let him down once, when Charlie Sands
tried to free him. Maybe if I hadn't. . . ."
"If
you hadn't, you'd be imprisoned with the rest of them right now."
Turk
said, "I'm just a Cadet. A guy my age hates to admit it, but I'm still . .
. uh, wet behind the ears. Maybe if there was somebody around like you when
Charlie Sands first made his proposition, somebody who could explain things
because subspace and interstellar worlds aren't a novelty to him. . . ."
"You'll join me?"
"I'm for freeing them.
Yes, sir."
They
were off duty in Lieutenant Odet's cabin. Turk headed for the door.
"Keep your jumper on," Lieutenant
Odet said, and smiled. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Why,
to get Andy free. I
told you."
"Fine. But how would you like to succeed?"
Turk
returned shamefacedly to his seat. "Sorry, Lieutenant.
You do the planning; I'll do the listen-
"When a ship's in normal space,"
Lieutenant Odet said, "there's plenty for everyone to do. But once it
changes over into sub-space on a predetermined orbit, you've got an entire crew
mostly sitting on its hands. Or, in this case, edgy and more than eager to obey
any orders Captain Ballinger gives on the care and feeding of would-be
mutineers. The situation alters again when you change over back into normal
space. Then we're all technicians again. Then Ballinger will hardly have a man
to spare to put down a mutiny."
"You mean we wait. . . ."
"We
wait until change-over, Turk. And then. . . ." Lieutenant Odet outlined
his plan. Turk clung to every word, grimly determined
to do his part this time.
A gunnery Cadet named Peters was in the
weapons room when Turk got there. "How's the boy, Petey?"
"Raring to go. We're due to change over in about twenty
minutes, aren't we, Turk?" "Right. That's
why I'm here. Got a message for you from Lieutenant Odet.
He wants to see you in starboard gunnery right away."
Cadet
Peters stood up and stretched. His hands were grease-stained. He'd spent all
his duty-hours in subspace servicing the "Goddard's" hand weapons.
"Boy, the way they made me work," he told Turk, "you'd think
there was going to be a mutiny or something. Look at them. They really shine,
don't they?"
The
racks of atomic rifles and atomic pistols were indeed gleaming. "They sure
do," said Turk, trying to hide his impatience. "Lieutenant Odet wants
you up there before change-over, Petey."
"But
I was given orders to watch the gunnery room."
"Why
do you think he didn't send for you on the intercom? That's why I'm here, to
keep watch. Now get going."
Cadet
Peters gave Turk a mock salute. "Aye, aye, sir. I
didn't realize I was talking to the captain of the whole space navy."
After that, Cadet Peters
left.
It
took Turk less than ten minutes to do what he had to do. Under his jumper he
was carrying a plastic bag, Stenciled on it was the
name of the manufacturer and in smaller letters the contents of the bag. It
had contained enough food concentrates, according to the lettering, to feed a
dozen men for a week. Turk now quickly stuffed it with half a dozen atomic pistols.
He tucked another two in his belt, one for himself and one for Lieutenant
Odet.
Then he took the remaining atomic pistols and
atomic rifles down from their racks and piled them near the hatch of the
disposal- and escape-chute, smiling all the while because as he executed his
end of it he began to like Lieutenant Odet's plan better and better. Lieutenant
Odet had known, of course, that there would be an escape-chute in the weapons
room. By law, every room above a certain size aboard a spaceship needed such a
chute.
Lieutenant Odet's plan was
for a bloodless mutiny.
Opening
the inner hatch of the escape-chute, Turk swiftly placed the weapons inside. He
rammed the inner hatch shut and pressed the disposal button which would open
the outer hatch, ejecting into subspace all the weapons but those he now had in
his possession and the few Ballinger and Harry Gault and one or two others
might be carrying.
Then
Turk took his food-concentrates bag and left the weapons room.
When Turk got to the dumb-waiter, a fat
quartermaster Cadet named Stone was just loading trays of food that would be
sent to the storeroom where Andy, Charlie Sands, and the others were
imprisoned.
"Hold
it, Stone! Are you the dim-brain who's been sending them meals?"
"What? Who, me?" Stone said, surprised.
"Are you or aren't
you?"
"Mr. Gault gave me
orders to. . . ."
"That was when there
was just one of them, stupid.
What
have you got, six trays there? Six trays, three times
a day? How much good food do you want to waste on half a dozen would-be mutineers?"
With
an exasperated heave, Turk dropped the plastic bag to the floor.
"What's that?"
Stone said.
"What
does it look like?" Turk demanded, still exasperated.
"Concentrates
?"
"You're
brilliant, Stone. Congratulations. Here, get a move on. Help me with those
trays."
Turk
began to remove the trays of food from the dumb-waiter. Cadet Stone stood for a
moment, perplexed, and then helped him. At last Turk set the bag of atomic
pistols on the dumb-waiter.
"How do you work this
thing?" he asked.
"All you have to do is
. . . never mind, I'll do it."
Cadet
Stone slammed the hatch and pulled a switch. Turk heard a faint groaning sound
that meant the dumb-waiter was operating.
And
that meant the atomic pistols were on their way up
to Andy.
"Use
your head from now on," Turk told the still bewildered Cadet Stone.
"Maybe it will keep you out of trouble."
As
he raced back along the companionway, Turk heard the clanging bells that
announced the "God-dard's" change-over from sub space to normal
space.
It was Charlie Sands who went to the
dumb-waiter hatch when the light flashed on.
"That's
funny," he said. "It's just a bag of concentrates."
At that moment they all heard the faint sound
of the change-over bell.
"Anybody
hungry?"
Charlie asked.
A chorus of not-me's
greeted his question.
"Me neither,"
Charlie Sands said.
Andy
was restless. Thinking of the "Goddard" streaking through subspace
and its rendezvous with destiny at Canopus, he had slept poorly and eaten little.
Now he prowled the length of the small room twice back and forth and stood in
front of the dumbwaiter. He lifted the bag off with one hand, slammed the
hatch with the other, and dropped the bag to the floor.
It clanked.
"That's funny,"
Andy said.
He
crouched and opened the bag. His eyes narrowed. Slowly he drew one of the
atomic pistols out. He started to smile. "Turk!" he cried. "It's
got to be Turk. You were wrong about him. He didn't betray us. He didn't."
The
rest of them pounced on the plastic bag and all but ripped it apart to get at the
atomic pistols.
Andy and Charlie Sands
looked at each other.
"We've just gone
through change-over," Andy said.
"They'll be all jammed
up with work," Charlie said.
"Are
you thinking what I'm thinking?" Andy asked. Charlie nodded mutely.
"Listen,"
Andy said, "the one thing I've got to do is get to the radio. Now that
we're back in normal space, it'll work. We've got to try and contact the
'Nobel,* got to carry out whatever instructions they give us. That's our first
job."
"We've
also got to secure the ship," Charlie Sands pointed out. "We won't be
much use to Captain Strayer if we're captured again."
Andy
said, "You haven't heard Lambert Strayer talk. I have. If he's ready with
a speech for the fleet, and if as a start I can give him a hookup to the
'God-dard's' intercom, I hope we can take the flagship over without a
fight."
"If
the 'Nobel' escaped the
Monitors," Charlie Sands pointed out.
It
was, Andy knew, an awesomely looming if. What if the "Nobel" had been
destroyed? If it had, whatever happened in the next few minutes aboard the
"Goddard" wouldn't matter at all.
Andy
stood in front of the door. The others, each armed with an atomic pistol as he
was, formed a half-circle behind him. Andy looked at Charlie Sands, who nodded slowly.
Andy fired.
The
roar of the atomic pistol's minute charge was deafening. Andy had never fired
one before, and the unexpected recoil dropped him to
one knee. He glanced up and saw smoke and fused metal and Charlie Sands
leading his companions through the blasted doorway. Andy ran after them.
There
were two guards in the companionway. The blast had knocked one flat. He was
struggling to his feet. The second, standing, confronted Charlie Sands with a
short-barreled atomic rifle.
"Drop it," they
both said simultaneously.
A
split second before either fired, a third voice said sharply, "Drop it.
You're covered."
Turk
and Lieutenant Odet, both armed, stood in the companionway behind the guard. He
half turned and dropped his atomic rifle.
Ten
minutes later, Andy, Charlie Sands, and Turk were in the radio room of the
"Goddard." Along the companionways, they had passed several spacemen
hurrying to their stations. Atomic pistols tucked out of sight, Andy, Turk, and
Charlie, who were also hurrying, didn't attract any
attention. Lieutenant Odet had led the other Cadets in search of Captain
BalJin-ger and Harry Gault, hoping to reach them before they could rally
whatever section of the "Goddard's" crew would remain loyal to them.
The two guards were trussed up in the storeroom with rope Lieutenant Odet had
brought for the purpose.
As
Andy, Turk, and Charlie entered the radio room, a Communications Lieutenant
named O'Hara was calling, "Ballinger fleet, attention! Attention, all
ships of the Earth fleet! We are now in normal space near the orbit of the
Canopian planet. We are now. . . ."
"That's enough," Andy said.
"Cut your connection, Lieutenant."
When
Lieutenant O'Hara whirled, he was confronted by three drawn atomic pistols.
"What's
the matter with you?" he cried. "Have you gone crazy?"
"Calm
down," Andy told him. "In a few minutes we'll all be taking orders
from Captain Strayer aboard the Spaceship 'Nobel.' All of us,
you included. Just sit down and calm down."
Turk and Charlie advanced on him. Lieutenant
O'Hara sat down and glared at them.
Andy
twirled the radio dials to the "Nobel's" frequency. There was a
moment of awful silence, and then faint static, and then silence again.
If
the "Nobel" had been destroyed . , . with Frank aboard. . . .
"This is Cadet Marlow aboard the 'Goddard'
calling the spaceship 'Nobel.' 'Goddard' calling the spaceship
'Nobel.' Come in. Come in, 'Nobel.'"
More
static . . . and then, at first faintly and then more clearly, Andy heard a
voice over the radio.
".
. . Captain Lambert Strayer, commander of the spaceship 'Nobel,' calling the
flagships of the Ballin-ger fleet. Do you hear me, flagships of the Ballinger
fleet? Please respond. This is Captain Strayer, commander. . . ."
The "Nobel" had
come through.
Chapter
17 Canopus
one by one, as Andy heard the voices of the other
eleven Hammerfest volunteers, the flagships called in.
" 'White Sands' under your command, Captain."
" 'Cape Canaveral' awaiting orders, sir." " 'Redstone' under your command, Captain." " 'Peenemünde. . . .'" " 'Hokkaido. . . ."'
After eleven ships had reported in, Andy
spoke into the radio, "Marlow
aboard the 'Goddard,' Captain.
We've secured the radio room, but Captain Ballinger is still unaccounted for." Tersely, Andy related the course of
events aboard the "Goddard."
Captain
Strayer said, "We need the 'Goddard.' We want the 'Goddard' to lead the Ballinger ships to our standard. If you lead, and if the other flagships follow,
we hope to get the fleet without a fight."
"What's
your position, sir? We don't have the radar room."
Andy heard another voice. "Hello, Andy.
This is Frank. We are fifty thousand miles Galactic north of the Canopus
ecliptic and directly north of the Star Brain's planet. Your position is a
hundred thousand miles Galactic south of the ecliptic, ten thousand east of the Star Brain and fifteen degrees behind the
planet's current orbital position. The Ballinger ships came out of subspace in
a wedge-shaped formation with you at its apex. Have you got it?"
Jotting
the figures down, Andy said, "I've got it, Frank. I hope we'll be able to
make use of it."
Just
then he heard the sound of footsteps pounding in the companionway outside. The
"Goddard's" radio man waited expectantly. Turk and Charlie Sands
stood with their atomic pistols ready.
Lieutenant
Odet burst into the radio room. "We took Ballinger without a fight,"
he said exultantly. "Not a man aboard tried to stop us. Ever since the
battle with the Monitors, they've been waiting for something like this to
happen."
"What about
Gault?" Charlie Sand asked.
Lieutenant
Odet shook his head. "Couldn't find him. We're
searching the ship. He's aboard somewhere. I don't have to tell you there are
maybe a thousand places he can hide. But you don't have to worry, Cadet. What
can one man do?"
Despite his own exultation at Lieutenant
Odet's report, Andy felt uneasy. Harry Gault had managed to give them the slip
once before, in Norway, and that had resulted in trouble.
"Mariow aboard the 'Goddard,' " he
spoke into the radio. "We've got Ballinger. We're
in control."
Captain
Strayer said, "Then we're ready. All flagships,
attention. Tell your fleets the purpose of Project Nobel. Order them to
the 'Nobel' one at a time; order them to remake their formation with the
'Nobel' at the apex. 'Goddard' first, then the other
flagships, then the ships of the line. They'll be waiting to see what
you do aboard the flagships. We still hope to get the others without a
fight."
"And
if they do fight?" Lieutenant Odet said tensely into the radio.
"Bluff
them. We'll blow out of space any ship that balks."
It was, Andy realized, an audacious bluff.
The "Nobel" itself was unarmed, and at the moment only the dozen
flagships could be relied on. If the remainder of the fleet resisted, the
"Nobel" and all twelve flagships could be blown out of space.
"This
is the 'Goddard,'" Andy said. "We're signing off, 'Nobel.' We'd
better start broadcasting to the rest of the fleet."
Frank said, "Good luck, sprout,"
and then the connection went dead.
Andy
dialed the Ballinger fleet frequency. A hand tapped his shoulder. It was the
"Goddard's" radio man. "I know all the radio ops," he said
slowly. "I went to school with most of them, and I served under Captain
Strayer five years ago aboard the 'Sagittarius.' I think I could get through
to them faster than you could. Just tell me what I'm supposed to say."
"I'll tell him,"
Charlie Sands said.
"Me,"
Lieutenant Odet said, "I'm going to see if I can round up Harry
Gault."
Turk
pretended to spit on his hands and rub them together in the age-old
mock-preparation for action. "I'd better get down to gunnery, in case some
of those ships have the wrong idea."
As
soon as the radio man started broadcasting, Andy went to the radar room to see
the results.
The "Goddard's" radar technicians
left the screens to crowd around him. "What's up, Marlow?"
"Come on, Cadet. Let's have it. You're
on the inside; you know the setup." "What's happening?"
"Is
it true Captain Ballinger was taken prisoner?" "Aren't we going to
fight our way to . . . ?" "Watch the screens," Andy said
tersely. "What for?"
Andy
turned to the main screen. There, as little green pips on the gridded screen,
every ship of the Ballinger fleet except the "Goddard" itself could
be seen. The pips formed a wedge minus its apex. A row of two pips first,
immediately behind the unseen "Goddard," and then rows of three,
four, five, six, and so on.
"In
a few minutes we'll be moving out," Andy said. "To
join Captain Strayer's ship, the 'Nobel.' After that, the other
flagships ought to start moving out, then the rest of the fleet." He
thought, but didn't add: if they don't, we're in trouble.
The
radar technicians waited anxiously behind him. Andy felt a lurch as the
"Goddard" changed course. The wedge of ships seemed to recede on the
screen. On a smaller screen to its left, the single pip that was the
"Goddard" grew larger.
Andy waited, aware that he
was holding his breath.
A
single green pip shot out of the wedge-shaped formation and streaked off the
screen. Seconds later, it appeared on the screen showing the "Nobel."
Then another, and another, and another, left formation.
Eleven
ships ranged themselves behind the "Nobel" ... or twelve, including the "Goddard" itself, as the
radio man relayed Charlie Sands's instructions.
Still Andy waited, his fists clenched. Those
eleven had been a foregone conclusion; they'd been taken over by the Project
Nobel volunteers, as the "Goddard" had.
But the others? They still vastly outnumbered the
"Nobel" fleet. If their Captains decided to disobey.
. . .
Two
more green pips shot out of the radar screen formation. A cheer rose among the
technicians.
Three
more . . . and the formation began to lose its shape.
A single ship, and no more for two agonizing minutes.
Then
ten at one time, and another ten.
A single ship again. And seven. . . .
Reed
Ballinger's war fleet was rapidly becoming the escort for Captain Strayer's
Project Nobel.
A
metallic voice spoke above Andy's head. Startled, he turned. It was the
"Goddard's" intercom, and he recognized Charlie Sands's voice.
"Andy? You'd better get back to the radio room. We've picked up our first
message from Canopus, something that calls itself the Guardian of the Star
Brain. It could mean trouble."
Andy asked the radar technicians, "Who's
in charge here?"
A grizzled, middle-aged man said, "I'm
Moody, Tech 1/c, in charge of radar."
"Get
on the intercom, and stay on it. If you see anything except the ships coming
over, report to the radio room."
Moody came to attention and said smartly, "Yes, sir."
For
the first time in his life, Andy began to feel like an officer in the space
fleet.
Charlie Sands held a finger to his lips for
silence as Andy rushed into the radio room. On the radio, a strange voice was
saying:
"Men
of Earth, you have disobeyed the Edict. We give you three hours Earth time to
change over into subspace and return to your solar system. If you refuse, you
will be destroyed. We have five hundred Monitors and a thousand manned ships
waiting on
Canopus.
If you refuse, we will move against you reluctantly . . . but move we
will."
Andy
heard Lambert Strayer's calm voice. "We come in peace. We have a message
for the Star Brain. We came six hundred light years and more to deliver it. We
intend to deliver it."
"Men
of Earth," said the strange voice, "you claim you come in peace; yet
your ships are armed. This is no fleet of peace. Nor is what you did in your
own solar system an indication of peace. Monitor base on Luna reported a
battle in space and destruction of all the Monitors."
Andy
expected Captain Strayer to argue that there had been two Earth leaders, one
bent on war and the other, himself, on peace. But Strayer surprised him, saying
instead:
"You
gave us no choice. We had to come armed; otherwise the Monitors near Earth
would have shot us out of space. We had to battle the Monitors. They were not
manned; only Earthmen died in the battle." He said slowly, "We
believe our message to be an important one. We hope it will lead to a lifting
of the Edict against Earth, but even if it doesn't we believe it is important
for the welfare of the Galaxy as a whole. We ask your forbearance. We must see
the Star Brain."
All
at once, Captain Strayer was a magnificent figure to Andy. He could have
indicted Reed Ballinger and the crews serving under him with a single word; he
hadn't. Instead, claiming Earth had had no choice but to enter subspace in a
war fleet, he had exonerated the thousands of men formerly under Ballinger's
command. Lambert Strayer himself, as commander of the fleet, would have to
take the blame for whatever happened now.
The
strange voice—Andy suddenly realized it was a speaking machine translating from
an alien tongue —asked, "What is your message?"
"We
have prepared a history of the planet Earth for presentation to the Star
Brain."
"A history of Earth? This is your important message for the Star Brain?" the machine voice
asked. "Who cares about the past of a backwater planet that was ruled out
of space?"
"We
for one care," Strayer said crisply. "If you try to stop us, we'll
resist. There'd be war. That's reason enough for you to let us through to the
Star Brain, isn't it?"
"We
do not see the importance of your message, men of Earth," the voice said
flatly.
"We
of Earth think it high time there was an interchange of ideas. You know
nothing about us; we would like you to know everything. We know nothing about
you; we would like to know everything. We believe such an interchange ol ideas
would lead to understanding and peace such as the Galaxy has never
known."
"There
has never been a war until you men of Earth. . . ."
"We mean peace by
consent, not by force. We mean understanding by mutual curiosity and interest,
not by Edict of a machine. We mean the sort of peace and understanding that
could make the Star Brain obsolete."
"This
is your message?" the translating machine demanded.
"This
is the idea behind the message. The message is for the Star Brain alone. It is
our hope that after Earth gives its history to the Star Brain, a history we are
proud of, other worlds will follow with their own histories. We believe that
someday, as it should have from the beginning, the Star Brain will serve as a
research center where rational beings can get information about each other, in
preparation for exchanging ambassadors of good will and visiting one another's
worlds personally."
"You
would agree to extraterrestrials on Earth?" the voice asked. If a machine
could, it sounded shocked.
Captain
Strayer sighed. "I'm signing off now. Relay our message to the Star Brain.
We can land as soon as we're given clearance."
There
was a long pause. Then, "Very well, men of Earth.
But if the Star Brain s answer is no, as we are sure it will be, the ultimatum
stands. You will have three hours to return to subspace. If you don't, you will
be attacked."
After
five minutes, Tech 1/c Moody reported from the radar room: "We've got an
alien fleet on the screen. At least a thousand ships, four
wedges of them, between our position and Canopus planet."
"Keep watching them/' Andy said. "Right, sir."
Ten
more minutes went by. Tech 1/c Moody made another report: "Our own ships,
sir. All but twenty have joined the fleet, and those twenty are just waiting.
. . . no, here come five of them now!"
Which left fifteen. One by one, Moody reported the fifteen trickling in, until finally
every Ballinger ship had ranged itself behind the "Nobel." Complete
solidarity, Andy realized triumphantly, but it might come to nothing if the
Star Brain rejected Captain Strayer's message.
Forty-five
minutes after the message had been relayed—and they were the longest
forty-five minutes Andy ever spent—the machine voice announced:
"Men
of Earth, the Star Brain has received and considered your message. Men of
Earth, the Star Brain grants permission to land on Canopus."
That was all, but for the moment it was
enough.
Earth
had succeeded in bringing its plea to the electronic brain that had ruled all
Earthmen out of space.
Chapter 18 The Star Brain
in some ways, it was a world like any other world.
With
a diameter of 3,900 miles—larger than Sol System's Mercury
and smaller than Mars—it was a small planet. Because of its relatively low
speed of escape, it had forfeited most of its atmosphere to space; what rare
traces remained were confined to hollows and gorges in
the convoluted crust. But the low speed of escape also meant that enormous
pay-loads could be landed with little expenditure of fuel, and this had been an
important factor in the selection of Canopus' single small planet as the home
of the Star Brain.
Another
important factor was its isolation. It was the only planet in the Canopus
system, and it revolved about its enormously hot sun at a distance of almost a
billion miles, giving it a temperature within the range that most of the
Galactic races would find comfortable. The nearest inhabited star system was
almost eighty light years away, twelve per cent of the dis-
195
tance to
Earth and a vast distance even by interstellar standards.
The
planet was devoted entirely to the housing and operation of the Star Brain.
Four times during each of its long years, each one equal to a hundred Earth
years, the small custodial staff was changed, rotating among the various
civilized worlds. Currently, the Capellans had the honor and the obligation of
caring for the Star Brain. This, Andy realized, was one of the reasons Captain
Ballinger had used to justify his first attack, for the Star Brain had ruled in
favor of Capella and against Earth in a mining dispute on an uninhabited
Cygnian planet. Ballinger claimed the Ca-pellan guardians of the Brain had
influenced its decision.
Like
all thinking machines, no matter how complex, the Star Brain could only
"think" for itself within the limits established in its creation and
with the data presented to its scanner. The guardians had no opportunity to
alter this data, and since the Star Brain employed an objective scanner rather
than a punched-tape input mechanism, there had been no opportunity for the Capellan
guardians to use their position to edit the data on the Capella-Earth dispute.
The
Brain itself was housed underground in an area of several square miles
straddling the planet's equator. The city of the guardians, which had not been
damaged by Reed Ballinger s bombing, was also underground several miles away.
Except for the evidence of the Canopian planet's one huge spacefield, equipped
to handle the largest space fleets in the Galaxy, there were no signs of life,
for, like most of the Canopian atmosphere, every molecule of its water had
escaped to space ages before the Star Brain was built. It was a world of bare,
unweathered rock, of stark mountains and deep basins which, aeons ago, had been
ocean beds. Fossil remains, hundreds of millions of years old, of simple life
forms had been found. Life on the Canopus planet had died before it could
evolve to higher forms.
In
order to supply the answers to any questions fed its scanner, the Star Brain
filed data on every inhabited or explored stellar system in the Galaxy. But its
memory banks were bereft of any information as to culture, history, religion,
philosophy, or art, except as these items were pertinent to current
interstellar activity. The memory banks had no information at all on the
historical development of the Confederacy's scores of worlds prior to the
discovery of interstellar travel and subspace drive.
First
the flagship "Nobel," and then one by one all the other ships of the
fleet from distant Earth, landed at the huge spaceport. Capellan ground
crewmen, in radio contact with each ship in turn, directed the landing
activities.
The
Capellans, who were bilaterally symmetrical like most of the intelligent races
of the Galaxy, were gill- and lung-breathing amphibians with scaly skins.
Despite the suitable temperature of the Canopus planet, they had to wear
spacesuits, as well as helmets to keep their gills moist, while the debarking
Earth-men could suffice with just their transparent plastic helmets.
Knowing
little about their world, which was the fourth planet of the
star Capella, and up to now caring less, and never having set foot on it as the
Capellans never had set foot on Earth, Earthmen called the Capellans
lizard-men. They, in their language, called Earthmen anthropoid-lizards,
which must have meant there were ape-like creatures native to the Capellan
planet. Earth did not know for sure. Men had never been there.
It took the crew of the "Nobel" two
days to unload the records and models and samples of thousands of years of
civilization on Earth. All the while the spaceships of the guardian fleet
orbited watchfully overhead. Earth, after all, was still the mad dog of the
universe.
Units
from all members of the Confederacy except outlawed Earth composed the fleet.
If Earthmen truly had come to Canopus a second time bent on destruction, and
so far there was nothing but Captain Stray-er s word to indicate they hadn't,
they never would leave Canopus planet alive. The grounded Earth fleet would be
helpless under the rocket guns of the orbiting guardian fleet.
At
first there was no fraternization between "lizard-men" and
"anthropoid-lizards." But since before the Edict
Earth's turn hadn't come to take over the twenty-five year guardianship of the
Brain, the crews of the Earth ships were intensely curious about it.
Grudgingly to begin with, and then with more enthusiasm, impromptu groups of
Capellan guides in their spacesuits and helmets, using the built-in helmet
translators which could convert speech from any Confederacy language to any
other, began to show the idle Earth crewmen through the brightly lit
underground chambers and passages of the Star Brain.
Soon
nothing but skeleton crews manned the waiting Earth ships by day, and by night
after the ice was broken some of the Earthmen slept in the guardians' quarters.
On the second day after landing, Andy and
Turk joined a sightseeing group that was led underground by three Capellans.
They passed through the vaults of the Brain's memory banks, through the
chambers of the yes-no digital computers and the more sophisticated analog
computers, through the self-repair bays that had made the guardians' job
largely one of the checking rather than repairing.
Three things remained most vividly in Andy's
memory: the Brain's power plant, its scanning mechanism, and the dome-shaped
answer chamber.
In
the power plant, the spokesman for the three Capellans said, "You will
notice how miniaturization has been used. Enough electricity is generated in
this room to run a small planet. Microscopic germanium crystals have now
replaced the semiconductors which originally were used." The Capellan, his
voice rendered emotionless by his helmet translator, couldn't resist a not too
subtle dig. "We are now in this chamber, men of Earth, a thousand feet
underground. That is why your Captain Ballinger failed to do great damage when
he bombed the Brain. Though he put those units nearer the surface out of
commission, the Brain's self-repair mechanism, a
physical development of what used to be called feedback, could and did handle
the damage." What might have been laughter— lizard-laughter? thought Andy—emerged from the Capellan's speaker.
"Fortunately for you, men of Earth, the Star Brain can harbor no grudge.
Resentment, you see, was not built into its computer system, something
devoutly to be wished for the protoplasmic brains of Earthmen."
The Star Brain's scanning mechanism was next.
It was a long, vault-like chamber with a high ceiling and receiving screens on
all four walls. High along one wall was a narrow catwalk patrolled by the
guardians, and it was on this ramp that the guides took the Earth-men. They had
come just in time to see the beginning of Earth's case on its own behalf.
Three "Nobel" anthropologists stood in the center of the room, preparing
to project slides on one of the screens.
Their
leader was a Lebanese named Habib Malik, and while the Star Brain listened to
and recorded his words, he said:
"My
name is Malik. I am an anthropologist from American University
in Beirut, Lebanon, a small independent state in Western Asia, the largest of
Earth's continents. I am here to tell you of the earliest advent of premodern man
on the planet Earth.
"We
do not know how long ago the prelizard-men of Capella first emerged from their
native swamps, though we would like to. We do not know how long ago the
prebirdmen of Sirius came down from their loftiest branches, though we would
like to. We do not know how long ago the pre-intelligent ungulates of Arcturus
left their meadows to build the cities of their civilization, though we would
like to.
"We
believe, in short, that our presentation of the history and achievements—yes,
and failures—of Earthmen can be a valuable beginning. Whatever your decision on
the merits of Earth's plea to be allowed to return to space, at least this
record we give you will become a part of your memory banks. If nothing else, we
hope it instills a desire in the other members of the Confederacy to do the
same and present their histories. We believe along this road lies the only
sure way to permanent mutual understanding."
Habib
Malik, a small, bald, olive-skinned man of middle age, took a deep breath,
stared at the blank unanswering screen, and went on: "Just. as
the physical sciences on all the worlds have, through new discoveries,
constantly pushed back the date of the beginning of the physical universe of
stars and nebulae so that now we can safely say the Galaxy is not less than
twelve billion years old and may be a very great deal older than that, so the
anthropologists of Earth, through new discoveries, have constantly pushed back
the date of earliest man. By earliest man we mean clearly a member of genus homo rather than a half-man, half-ape. We would
like to begin our story with this earliest true man, not yet homo sapiens as you see him standing before you, but more
than an animal.
"The
distinction between animal and man, we anthropologists always have contended,
is one of tool making. The first true men fashioned tools with a purpose—whether
for hunting or the skinning of animals or, regrettably, warfare against his
fellows—out of material at hand. He. . . ."
Andy's
guide, hearing the translation in his helmet, said excitedly, "Why, it is
so on Capella, too! That is the very distinction we make.''
".
. . tools culminating finally in the most complex
device ever developed on any world," Malik was saying. "And by this,
of course, I mean the Star Brain. But if man and the other
intelligent races had not started with simple flint knives and spearheads, the
ultimate evolution to a Star Brain would have been impossible.
"The
earliest known true man's remains were found on the continent of Africa, in a
place called Olduvi Gorge at the southern end of the Great Rift Valley. For
this reason, we call him Olduvi man.
"Geologically,
he belongs to the Lower Pleistocene period. That is to say, Olduvi man was
making his first crude tools in the Great Rift Valley six hundred thousand
years ago."
"Remarkable!" exclaimed the
Capellan. "We, too, on Capella date our earliest true ancestor back at
least six hundred thousands of your years ago. It is as if our evolutions had
started coevally across the gulf of light years."
They
waited on the catwalk, listening intently to Habib Malik's words. If anything,
the Capellans, for the first time being granted a vision of Earth's past,
seemed more interested than their companions from Earth.
When
Malik finished his presentation, the second anthropologist began to speak.
"If Olduvi man was the first true man, then Cro-Magnon man was the first full man. Thirty or forty thousand years ago, he appeared in Western Europe,
a small peninsula jutting west from the great Asian land mass,
and. . . ."
"I
am afraid we must leave," the Capellan guide said with frank regret.
"We must go on duty shortly, you see. But even if we don't guide you
again, we'll be back here. I for one want to learn more of this."
It
was, Andy told himself happily, a magnificent start. The Star Brain's objective
interest was assured, but the curiosity of their Capellan guides was as
unexpected as it was heartening.
The
dome-shaped answer chamber was next. Here was no drama of an Earthman
presenting his case far across the Galaxy. Here, for now, was utter silence.
Here was the high gleaming dome under which, dispassionately, the Star Brain
administered justice for all the far-flung worlds of the Confederacy. Here, in
a few days' time, an era might end for Earth if the Edict remained in force. Or
here, if Earth made its point, a new era might begin for the entire Galaxy.
"What
happens after that caveman stuff?" Turk asked Andy after their guides had
conducted them back to the surface.
"Frank
told me we keep going around the clock until we finish."
"If
they talk like that," Turk protested, "it will take months."
"No,
it won't," Andy explained. "Each scientist simply introduces his
subject; then written data are fed to the scanner. Captain Strayer thinks
forty-eight hours ought to do the whole job."
"Then why bother to
make the speeches at all?"
"Captain
Strayer says we want to do more than feed objective data to the Star Brain. We
want to show our pride, too, and the easiest way to show it is by talking about
it. You saw how excited the Capellan got, didn't you?"
Later that day, Andy and Turk returned to the
scanner room to see Dr. Seys stand before the four screens.
"My
name is Dr. Seys," he said. "I am a historian of classic civilization
at the University of Vienna in Austria, a small nation in the east of Europe.
"You
have now seen how man's earliest, but admittedly barbaric and
superstition-motivated, civilizations sprang up in the river valleys of the
Indus, the
Tigris-Euphrates, and the Nile. It is now my honor to introduce what many men of Earth
consider the first true rational society. This was no hidebound civilization
limited geographically by the extent of a river valley and morally by the
totalitarian rule of a select group. For its citizens, this was the first
attempt ever made at true democracy, and in some ways, though the franchise was
limited, the attempt never has been surpassed.
"The
civilization I am introducing sprang up on the shores of a great sea, called
the Mediterranean. Its peoples called themselves Hellenes. We today call them
Greeks.
"Three
thousand years ago in one packed century and chiefly in one small city they
built virtually out of chaos a civilization all Earth can look to with pride.
The century was what, in our calendar, was called the fifth century B.C. Later
today you will see with what good reason our calendar is divided into B.C. and
A.D., but that is not my province. The one small city was the city of Athens.
"It
produced in a span of less than a hundred years, three of the greatest
dramatists the Earth ever has known. These were Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides,
and their works will be fed into the scanner later. It produced three
philosophers without peer on Earth: Socrates, his disciple Plato; and Plato's
disciple Aristotle. Its architecture. . . ."
Andy listened, fascinated. He became aware of
several Capellans
joining him and Turk on the catwalk. They were guiding no Earthmen but had come
because they wanted to hear.
".
. . 'nothing in excess,'" Dr. Seys was saying.
"But that is ironic, for though it was the guiding motto of these Hellenes
of Athens, theirs was the most exuberant, active, Dionysian, excessive
civilization the Earth was to know until Elizabethan England, which you shall
hear about later. My point is that such a motto is revered precisely because it
was the opposite of the exuberance confronting Socrates. But if the very
excesses of the Greeks made possible a Socrates or a Euripides, we of Earth are
thankful for it."
Dr.
Seys spoke for fifteen minutes more, and then an historian Andy didn't know
began to speak of the conquest of Greece by the Macedonians and the spreading,
by the sword of Alexander the Great, of Hellenic culture as far as India.
"Incredible!"
said one of the Capellans.
"Starting from one
small city," said another.
"Didn't
our earliest attempts at a moral democracy start in the small seacoast town of
Erbodine?"
At dusk, Andy and Turk
returned to the "Goddard."
They
trudged the several miles from the entrance to the Star Brain's underground
vault to the spaceport on foot. At least, they started out trudging, for both
were tired from sightseeing and the suspense of waiting for the Star Brain's
decision.
But Canopus planet's less than normal Earth
gravity and their optimism
after seeing the Capellan reaction to the first few hours of Earth's
presentation combined to make them kick up their heels. Turk jumped fifteen
feet into the ah*, executed a somersault and landed on
his feet. Andy pranced in fifteen-foot strides. Turk cartwheeled prodigiously.
Andy left the path to clear an enormous boulder in a single leap.
Panting
and sweating under their helmets, they looked at each other and laughed.
"It's almost like Luna," Turk said, referring to the light gravity.
"It's
better than Luna," Andy said. "If we succeed, we can bring the races
of the Galaxy together more than they've ever been before."
"You're
liable to be a spaceman and
an archaeologist,"
Turk predicted.
Andy
nodded happily. A few minutes later, they met a dozen crewmen of the
"Goddard" on the road.
"Why
are you going back to the ship?" one of them asked.
"We've
all been invited to a party at the Capellans," said another. "Going to sample some of the native delicacies."
A third punned, "If we're the skeleton
crew, isn't it time we put some flesh on our bones?"
"Who's still aboard
the 'Goddard'?" Andy asked.
"Charlie
Sands and a radar tech named Moody. Don't worry,
Captain Ballinger will keep."
"I
was thinking of Gault. He still hasn't been found," Andy pointed out.
"What do you expect? The 'Goddard's' twelve hundred feet long and almost two hundred
feet in the beam. Lots of places a man can hide, but so what? Now that
we've landed on Canopus, there's nothing Ballinger or Gault can do. They're
just two men, Gault's in hiding, and Ballinger doesn't have a fleet to back him
up."
Andy and Turk approached the
"Goddard." It was almost dark now. A few lights glowed in the great
ship's portholes, and a firefly sprinkling of lights dotted the field from the
other ships of the fleet.
As
they went up the ramp to the open aft hatch, Andy called, "Charlie? Charlie Sands?"
There was no answer.
"Moody?" Andy
said, and his voice was louder.
All
exits but the aft hatch had been locked on a timing device; so Andy assumed
either Charlie Sands or Moody, or both, would be standing their watch there.
Again
there was no answer. He ran the rest of the way up the ramp, Turk at his heels.
They
found Charlie Sands on the companionway floor beyond the airlock. Turk and Andy
kneeled beside him. He was lying face down. Andy touched his shoulder. Charlie
groaned and blinked his eyes and tried to sit up. His lips were moving, Andy
realized, but he couldn't hear the words through his helmet. All thumbs, he
unscrewed the lugs and yanked the plastic globe over his head.
".
. . thought it was Moody," Charlie was saying.
Gingerly he touched the back of his head. He repeated, "I heard someone
coming up behind me. I thought it was Moody. I started to turn. I .
. . whoever it was slugged me from behind."
"Stay
with him," Andy told Turk, and sprinted down the companionway toward the
"Goddard's" brig.
Even
before he reached it, he could hear Tech 1/c Moody bellowing.
Moody
was in the cell where Ballinger had been locked up. When he saw Andy he
shouted, "We had it all figured out. I watched the cell, and Sands was at
the airlock. Then Ballinger said he was sick; so I went over to him. Hurry up
and get me out of here, will you?"
"I can't," Andy
said. "I don't have the key."
Moody
went on, "Somebody—I don't know who —took me from behind. The next thing I
knew, I was locked in. Ballinger's gone."
The
only one who could have taken him from behind, Andy knew, was Harry Gault.
Now Ballinger and Harry
Gault were on the loose.
Andy
ran back to the airlock, where Charlie, with Turk's help, had climbed
unsteadily to his feet.
"Ballinger?" Turk asked. "Gault?"
"It has to be."
"You
want me to get on the radio and sound the alarm?"
Andy was about to nod, but didn't.
"Before the Brain gave us permission to land," he said, "Captain
Strayer took the blame for the Earth fleet's being
armed to the teeth. He didn't want the Brain to know the entire fleet except
for the 'Nobel' had been assembled under Reed Ballinger to attack Canopus
again. Whatever else happened, he wanted Earth to present a united front."
"So?"
Turk said. "This is different. If Ballinger and Gault are on the loose,
there's only one place they'd go. To the Brain. If
they give the Brain any trouble while Captain Strayer's scientists are
presenting Earth's case, what do you think will happen?"
"We'd
be kicked out of space for good," Charlie predicted.
"That's
just it," Andy insisted. "They've got to be stopped, but it has to be
done quietly. Captain Strayer didn't tell the Brain Reed Ballinger was aboard
the fleet, did he? We've got to back up Strayer's story."
As
he spoke, Andy was screwing on his helmet. The rest of what he said came to
Turk through his helmet intercom. "Does Charlie have a gun?"
"Whoever hit him . . ."
"That was Gault."
". . . took it."
"Get
yourself some weapons," Andy said. "Then
find Frank and Captain Strayer. They're probably aboard the 'Nobel.' I'm going
after Ballinger."
"Alone? Are you crazy?
He'll be desperate."
"That's
just it. Whatever he has up his sleeve, I've got to delay him." Andy
entered the airlock. "I'm going back to the Brain. I'll wait for you
there."
Before Turk could protest again, Andy was
gone.
CkttptCT ]*7 Home Is the Spaceman
running all the way, and with an assist from the light gravity, Andy reached the
vault of the Star Brain in fifteen minutes. He had met no one en route.
Two
Capellans in space suits were lounging at the entrance to the vault.
"Did you see a couple
of Earthmen come this way?"
"Your
scientists are in the scanner room even now, Earthman."
"Not scientists. Just two men. Sightseers maybe?"
"Two
Earthmen, one tall and the other short, came not ten minutes ago."
"Where
are they?" One tall and one short . . . that could be
Reed Ballinger and Harry Gault.
"They
were sightseers, as you said, Earthman. They asked the way to the power
plant."
Andy
said, "My name's Marlow. In a while some Earthmen are going to come
looking for me. Will you tell them that's where I went? The
power plant?"
"Is something
troubling you, Earthman?"
"No. It's
nothing."
The
Capellans, on casual sentry duty, were armed. Andy had to check an impulse to
ask them for help.
211
But, now that he knew they'd made straight
for the power plant, Andy didn't have to guess what Bal-linger's and Gault's
purpose was. If they damaged the power plant, they would put the whole complex
mechanism of the Brain out of commission. They were bent on destruction; they
had to be. For revenge against their fellow Earthmen who had thwarted them by
landing on Canopus planet to present Earth's case? Or to present the
destruction of the Brain as an accomplished fact in an attempt to rally the
Ballinger crews behind them again?
Andy
rushed down the brightly lit corridors to the vault that housed the power
plant.
The shadow of a man loomed
in the last corridor.
Andy
flattened himself against the wall. He looked in the power plant.
Reed
Ballinger had just straightened up. In his right hand was an empty briefcase.
On the floor at his feet was a squat black box.
A
bomb?
Andy
told himself it had to be. In a way, it was ironic. Hundreds of Monitors and
the great guardian fleet made up of ships from all the worlds protected the
Star Brain from attack. But if you pierced those defenses by subterfuge—and
Ballinger had by the simple fact of being a prisoner—the Brain was vulnerable.
Its guardians never dreamed an enemy could land on Canopus planet.
Waiting in the shadows against the wall, Andy
knew all he needed was one lucky break. If Ballinger, on the way out, didn't
see him, he could go in and remove the bomb. He'd have time. It had to be set
for delayed detonation, for Ballinger himself needed a
chance to escape.
Andy
felt his muscles growing tense. Reed Ballinger was stepping through the
doorway. Another few moments and. . . .
Something
hard prodded Andy's back. He jerked rigid.
"Don't turn around, boy. Just step
inside there." Ballinger looked at him. But it wasn't Ballinger who had
spoken. The voice was Harry Gault's.
"All right, Turk," Frank Marlow
said. "Calm down. Calm down, and let's hear it again."
"Ballinger, sir!" Turk blurted. "He escaped off the 'Goddard.' He's on his way to
the Brain with Harry Gault. Andy didn't want to sound a general alarm because
Captain Strayer ... he said ... he went after Ballinger and Gault
himself."
Frank
was heading for the airlock of the "Nobel." He called over his
shoulder, "Captain Strayer's on dining deck eating. Get him. I'm on my
way."
"Sir!" Turk called after him. "You'd better go armed."
Frank
turned around in his tracks and ran toward the small weapons room of the
"Nobel."
"You betrayed us once, Cadet,"
Harry Gault accused Andy in the Star Brain's power plant. "In White Sands
I offered you a job with Captain Ballinger, but that wasn't enough for you. You
had to. . . ."
Reed
Ballinger cut him off impatiently. "Twenty minutes, Harry," he said.
"She's set to blow in twenty minutes." If anything, Captain Ballinger
understated the simple words which could, if the statement became fact, bring
so much grief to the Galaxy. But there was a remoteness
in his voice and expression, too, as if, now that he had committed himself, he
wanted to stand apart from his act and watch the results only as an interested
observer.
Maybe,
Andy thought, that could explain what was wrong with
Captain Ballinger. He was a born leader of men; he had proved that. But somehow
he couldn't make a complete commitment. He was the lone man on a mountain peak,
watching the tiny insects—unworthy of him, he believed—crawl
far, far below.
Harry
Gault gestured at Andy with his atomic pistol. "What do we do with him?"
"All
chaos will break loose when the bomb goes off," Reed Ballinger said.
"We can't take him back to the ship. He'd only give us trouble."
"We can't let him
go," Harry Gault said.
Ballinger
gazed for a long moment at Andy and nodded. "I'm going up. You do what you
want with him, then follow me."
Ballinger started to leave.
"Captain
Ballinger!" Andy called. "Don't do it. It isn't too late. You can
still take the bomb out with you. Don't do it. You've got the fate of Earth in
your hands. I've watched the Project Nobel scientists presenting their case to
the Brain. I've watched the reaction of the Capellans. They're curious and
interested. Don't do it, Captain. I think there's a good chance the Edict will
be dropped. I think there's a good chance Earth will be allowed in space again.
That's what you want, isn't it?"
Reed Ballinger smiled a handsome smile.
"Is it? Is that what I want? Earth with the right to return to space,
while I'm returned to Earth in disgrace? Earthbound for life, if not worse? Tried and imprisoned
perhaps? Do you really think that's what I want?"
"Would you put your own future above
Earth's? Would you just. . . ."
"I
showed them the way. I built and assembled the fleet and got recruits for it.
It was my fleet, Cadet, to do this my way. They turned me down. They betrayed
me. Does that answer your question?"
Reed Ballinger stalked out
of the power plant.
For
several seconds Gault looked at Andy. Finally he said, "I guess I don't
have to shoot you, Cadet."
"It
still isn't too late," Andy said desperately. "Do you think Earth
will ever forgive Reed Ballinger for what's about to happen? Do you think the
rest of the Galaxy will ever forgive Earth? You can do it if Ballinger won't,
Gault. You can walk right out of here with the bomb."
"I don't have to shoot you because I can
just leave you in here with the bomb."
Gault
backed toward the doorway, holding Andy at bay with the atomic pistol. He
stepped out into the corridor and shut the heavy door with a resounding thud.
Andy heard the lock fall
into place.
He
ran to the door and tried it. It was metal. It wouldn't budge. Though there was
a lock on the inside, it didn't operate the outside lock.
What
had Ballinger said? She's set to go off in twenty minutes. That was five
minutes ago. Andy still had fifteen minutes left, fifteen
minutes to open and disassemble the bomb.
He
examined it. He lifted it. The bomb only weighed a few pounds. Andy couldn't
hear any ticking. The bomb case was solid plastic, seamless.
After
five minutes Andy knew he couldn't open it without tools.
"An
Earthman named Marlow said you would find him in the power plant," the
Capellan told Frank.
"When?"
"A
while ago."
"Was he alone?"
"He
asked about two other Earthmen who went there."
Frank
and Turk started running, with Captain Srrayer and Charlie Sands close behind.
. . . three minutes to go.
Andy
thought of Earth, of the pale green mist that covered the branches in a
temperate zone forest in early spring, of the deep green of a summer meadow, of
the sound a brook made rushing over the smooth stones of its bed. He thought of
the starry skies of space, of all the vast reaches from Earth to Ophiu-chus and
beyond, still unexplored, of the double profession of spaceman and
archaeologist that Turk had predicted for him.
Two minutes to go. . . .
When
Gault and Ballinger, coming out, met Frank, Captain Strayer, Turk, and Charlie
in the corridor, Harry Gault fired first.
The
blast from his atomic pistol seared past Frank's head, and Frank returned the
fire. Gault screamed; his arm went limp. He dropped the pistol and fell back
against Reed Ballinger.
Frank,
Captain Strayer and the two Cadets quickly surrounded them. Frank said levelly,
"Drop your weapon, Ballinger. I don't have to tell you I'd shoot you if I
had to."
Ballinger
did as he was told, but he was smiling. "You're too late," he said.
"It would take you at least five minutes to get down there, and I'm very
much afraid you don't have five minutes. In seconds the bomb will go off."
Captain Strayer and Frank stared at each
other blankly. Several seconds passed, and then below them they heard a booming
explosion. "Andy!" Frank cried in despair.
When there was exactly one minute to go, Andy
said out loud, "We should have told the Star Brain. Captain Strayer was
wrong. We should have admitted what the fleet's purpose was. Then maybe the
Brain could have prepared. . . ."
Andy
stopped short. An echoing mechanical voice from an unseen speaker said,
"What was the purpose of the fleet, Earthman?"
"Who is it?" Andy
shouted. "Who's talking?"
"Foolish Earthman. Do you think I wouldn't have a scanner in my own power plant? But how I
can judge you men of Earth if you don't tell the truth, if you try to deceive
me . . . ?"
How
much time? Thirty seconds? "It's too late," Andy said. "There's
a bomb in here. About to go off. Reed Ballinger set
it. He was aboard the fleet. He commanded it in the beginning. But the Project
Nobel people, under Captain Strayer, won control, and except for one henchman
Captain Ballinger didn't have a man left on his side. That's the truth."
A
brief silence as the seconds ticked on. Then, "I believe you, man of
Earth. Now stand back against the wall."
Andy did as he was ordered. He heard a
grinding sound overhead. A slit appeared in the ceiling and widened. A large
cone-shaped shield of metal dropped toward the floor over Reed Ballinger's
bomb.
The
instant the shield was in place, the bomb exploded. The shield shook. The
noise was tremendous.
But no damage had been
done.
Andy stood there
dumbfounded.
"Self-repair,"
said the Star Brain. "A physical extension of feedback,
Earthman. But my scanner waits for words. If you hadn't spoken when you
did. . . ."
Andy
felt weak all over. "What are you going to do about the Edict?" he
demanded boldly.
The
machine said only, "Data insufficient at this time."
Moments
later Andy heard banging on the door, and Frank's voice sobbing his name over
and over.
"It's
all right," Andy said tremulously. "I think I've made a friend. Just
unlock the door."
It was two days later. Earthmen and Capellans
were crowded into the high-domed answer chamber of the Star Brain. The Project
Nobel scientists had presented Earth's case. Reed Ballinger and Harry Gault
were under heavy guard aboard the "God-dard." Whatever happened, they
would be taken back to Earth for trial.
"What
is it waiting for?" a Capellan said impatiently.
Captain Strayer was pacing back and forth.
Turk and Andy stood side by side, Frank close to them.
"Data
now sufficient," boomed the Star Brain suddenly.
More silence, then:
"Yours
is a fascinating story, men of Earth. But I gather it is not unique. I gather
that if each of the many worlds that built me came here with its story I would
learn similar histories of achievement and failure, of good and evil. Is that
correct?"
Andy
heard the Capellans gasp. It was the first time the Star Brain ever had asked a
question.
"That's correct,"
Captain Strayer said prompdy.
"I
also gather," said the Star Brain, "that you tried to deceive me. A
second time I was close to bombing . . . and by the same man of Earth. Is this
what you consider a guarantee of your good intentions?"
Another question from the Star Brain. The Capellans were astonished. Captain
Strayer glanced at Andy, who had told him what had happened in the power plant.
Stepping forward, Captain Strayer said:
"We
never guaranteed our good intentions. You said it yourself: among humans there
is achievement and failure, good and evil. We do what we can. We are not
machines. We have emotions."
There was a long silence. The Capellans
looked at each other anxiously. Then the Star Brain said:
"Earth's motive in
presenting Earth's history was to be granted another chance in space. The
question now is whether or not I will remove the Edict that has outlawed
Earthmen from space." Andy held his breath.
"The
answer is that I will. Earth is free to join the Confederacy as an active
member again."
A
great shout went up, loud in Andy's helmet intercom. The listening Capellans
contributed to it as much as the Earthmen.
"Under
one condition," said the Star Brain. "And that is this: every member
of the Confederacy must prepare a history as Earth has done. I need more data.
Repeat: I need more data. For what happened here proves that you creatures of
protoplasm, my builders, from whatever world and in whatever shape, are no
machines. You emote. Whether for good or for bad, only the future will tell.
Repeat: I need more data.
"But
creatures of Earth and creatures of Capella, I can see a time when the sentient
beings of the Galaxy, not their mechanical creations, must fully determine
their own future. The sooner you all present your data, the sooner this time
will come.
"I
can see a future in which the Brain you have built will be nothing but a
clearing house for the mutual exchange of knowledge. I can see a Galactic civilization
living in harmony from Ophiuchus to the Magellanic Clouds. I can see. . .
."
"When?" shouted a
Capellan.
"Data
insufficient," answered the Star Brain.
About the Author
milton lesser is the author of many science fiction
novels, among them The
Star Seekers, Earthbound, and Stadium
Beyond the Stars. His
stories have appeared in leading magazines. He has written for television,
edited anthologies, and is an experienced consultant on science fiction
articles.
A New Yorker by birth and a graduate of the
College of William and Mary in Virginia, he has traveled in twenty-odd
countries on three continents, skiing in Canada, mountain climbing in
Switzerland and exploring fjords in
Norway—all because planet-hopping is still a few years off.