“No, it is just one of the possibilities I must consider. No military commander enjoys political pressure being used on him, Harvey, but they all have to yield to it. I’ve yielded. You aren’t going back to Earth; you are going to Venus.” He stood up. “But let me warn you; if you are a ringer who has been planted on me, all the dragons on Venus won’t save your skin.” He turned to a ship’s phone, punched its keys, and waited; presently he said, “Tell him his friend is here and that I’ve taken care of the matter.” He turned back to Don. “Take it.”
Shortly Don heard a warm Cockney voice, “Don, my dear boy, are you there?”
“Yes, Sir Isaac.”
The dragon shrilled relief. “When I inquired about you, I found some preposterous intention of shipping you back to that dreadful place we just quitted. I told them that a mistake had been made. I’m afraid I had to be quite firm about it. Shucks!”
“It’s all fixed up now, Sir Isaac. Thanks.”
“Not at all; I am still in your debt. Come to visit me when it is possible. You will, won’t you?”
“Oh, sure!”
“Thank you and cheerio! Shucks.”
Don turned away from the phone to find the task force commander studying him quizzically. “Do you know who your friend is?”
“Who he is?” Don whistled the Venerian name, then added, “He calls himself ‘Sir Isaac Newton.’”
“That’s all you know?”
“I guess so.”
“Mmm—” He paused, then went on, “You might as well know what influenced me. ‘Sir Isaac,’ as you call him, traces his ancestry directly back to the Original Egg, placed in the mud of Venus on the day of Creation. So that’s why I’m stuck with you. Orderly!”
Don let himself be led away without saying a word. Few if any Earthlings have been converted to the dominant religion of Venus; it is not a proselyting faith. But none laugh at it; all take it seriously. A terrestrial on Venus may not believe in the Divine Egg and all that that implies; he finds it more profitable—and much safer—to speak of it with respect.
Sir Isaac a Child of the Egg! Don felt the sheepish awe that is likely to strike even the most hard-boiled democrat when he first comes in contact with established royalty. Why, he had been talking to him, just as if he were any old dragon—say one that sold vegetables in the city market.
Shortly he began to think of it in more practical ways. If anyone could wangle a way for him to get to Mars, Sir Isaac was probably just the bird who could do it. He turned it over in his mind—he’d get home yet!
But Don did not get to see his Venerian friend at once. He was herded into the Nautilus along with Venus-bound passengers from the Glory Road and a handful of technicians from Circum-Terra whose loyalties lay with Venus rather than with Earth. By the time he discovered that Sir Isaac had been transshipped to the Valkyrie it was too late to do anything about it.
The flag of the task force commander, High Commodore Higgins, was shifted from Circum-Terra back to the Nautilus, and Higgins moved at once to carry out the rest of the coup. The storming of Circum-Terra had been managed almost without bloodshed; it had depended on timing and surprise. Now the rest of the operation must be completed before any dislocation in ship schedules would be noticed on Earth.
The Nautilus and the Valkyrie had already been prepared for their long jumps; the Spring Tide’s crew was removed to be sent to Earth and a crew supplied from the task force; she herself was fueled and provisioned for deep space. Although designed for the short jump to Luna, she was quite capable of making the trip to Venus. Space travel is not a matter of distance but of gravity potential levels; the jump from Circum-Terra to Venus required less expenditure of energy than did the terrible business of fighting up though Earth’s field from New Chicago to Circum-Terra.
The Spring Tide shoved off in a leisurely, economical parabola; she would make the trip to Venus in free fall all the way. The Valkyrie blasted away to shape a fast, almost flat, hyperboloid orbit; she would arrive as soon or sooner than the Nautilus. The Nautilus was last to leave, for High Commodore Higgins had one more thing to do before destroying the station—a television broadcast on a globe-wide network.
All global broadcasts originated in, or were relayed through, the communications center of Circum-Terra. Since the Nautilus had touched in at Circum-Terra, a cosmic Trojan horse, the regular broadcasts had been allowed to continue uninterrupted. The commodore’s G-6 staff officer (propaganda and nerve warfare) picked as the time for the commodore’s announcement to Earth of the coup the time ordinarily given over to “Steve Brodie Says:” the most widely heard global news commentator. Mr. Brodie immediately followed the immensely popular “Kallikak Family” serial drama, an added advantage audience-wise.
The Glory Road had been allowed at last to blast off for Earth with her load of refugees but with her radios wrecked. The Nautilus lay off in space, a hundred miles outside, hanging in a parking orbit, waiting. Inside the space station, now utterly devoid of life, the television center continued its functions unattended. The commodore’s speech had already been canned; its tape was threaded into the programmer and it would start as soon as the throb show was over.
Don watched it from a recreation lounge of the liner along with a hundred-odd other civilians. All eyes were on a big television tank set in the end of the compartment. A monitoring beam, jury-rigged for the purpose, brought the cast from Circum-Terra to the Nautilus and the radio watch in the ship was passing it on throughout the ship so that the passengers and crew might see and hear it.
As the day’s serial episode closed, Celeste Kallikak had been arrested for suspected husband murder, Buddy Kallikak was still in the hospital and not expected to live, Father Kallikak was still missing, and Maw Kallikak was herself suspected of cheating on ration stamps—but she was facing it all bravely, serene in her knowledge that only the good die young. After the usual commercial plug (“The Only Soap with Guaranteed Vitamin Content for greater Vitacity!!”) the tank faded into Steve Brodie’s trademark, a rocket trail condensing into his features while a voice boomed, “Steve Brodie, with tomorrow’s news TODAY!”
It cut suddenly, the tank went empty and a voice said, “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special news flash.” The tank filled again, this time with the features of Commodore Higgins.
His face lacked the synthetic smile obligatory for all who speak in public telecast; his manner and voice were grim. “I am High Commodore Higgins, commanding Task Force Emancipation of the High Guard, Venus Republic. The High Guard has seized Earth’s satellite station Circum-Terra. We now have all of Earth’s cities utterly at our mercy.”
He paused to let it sink in. Don thought it over and did not like the thought. Everybody knew that Circum-Terra carried enough A-bomb rockets to smear any force or combination of forces that could be raised to oppose the Federation. The exact number of rocket bombs carried was a military secret, variously estimated between two hundred and a thousand. A rumor had spread through the civilians in the Nautilus that the High Guard had found seven hundred and thirty-two bombs ready to go, with component parts for many more, plus enough deuterium and tritium to make up about a dozen Hell bombs.
Whether the rumor was true or not, Circum-Terra certainly held enough bombs to turn the Terran Federation into a radioactive abattoir. No doubt with so much under ground many inhabitants of cities would survive, but any city, once bombed, would have to be abandoned; the military effect would be the same. And many would die. How many? Forty millions? Fifty millions? Don did not know.
The commodore went on, “Mercifully we stay our hand. Earth’s cities will not be bombed. The free citizens of Venus Republic have no wish to slaughter their cousins still on Terra. Our only purpose is to establish our own independence, to manage our own affairs, to throw off the crushing yoke of absentee ownership and of taxation without representation, which has bled us poor.
“In so doing, in so taking our stand as free men, we call on all oppresse
d and impoverished nations everywhere to follow our lead, accept our help. Look up into the sky! Swimming there above you is the very station from which I now address you. The fat and stupid rulers of the Federation have made of Circum-Terra an overseer’s whip. The threat of this military base in the sky has protected their empire from the just wrath of their victims for more than five score years.
“We now crush it.
“In a matter of minutes this scandal in the clean skies, this pistol pointed at the heads of men everywhere on your planet, will cease to exist. Step out of doors, watch the sky. Watch a new sun blaze briefly and know that its light is the light of Liberty inviting all Earth to free itself.
“Subject peoples of Earth, we free men of the free Republic of Venus salute you with that sign!”
The commodore continued to sit and gaze steadily into the eyes of each of his colossal audience while the heart-lifting beat of Morning Star of Hope followed his words. Don did not recognize the anthem of the new nation; he could not help but feel its surging promise.
Suddenly the tank went dead and at the same instant there was a flash of light so intense that it leaked through the shuttered ports and tormented the optic nerve. Don was still shaking his head from it when over the ship’s announcing system came the call: “Safe to unshutter!”
A petty officer stationed at the compartment’s view port was already cranking the metal shield out of the way; Don crowded in and looked.
A second sun blazed white and swelled visibly as he watched. What on Earth would have been—so many terrible times had been—a climbing mushroom cloud was here in open space a perfect geometrical sphere, growing unbelievably. It swelled still larger, dropping from limelight white to silvery violet, became blotched with purple, red and flame. And still it grew, until it blanked out Earth beyond it.
At the time it was transformed into a radioactive cosmic cloud Circum-Terra had been passing over, or opposite, the North Atlantic; the swollen incandescent cloud was visible to most of the habitable portions of the globe, a burning symbol in the sky.
VII
Detour
IMMEDIATELY after the destruction of Circum-Terra the ship’s warning signal howled and loudspeakers bellowed, ordering all hands to acceleration stations. The Nautilus blasted away, shaping her orbit for the weary trip to Venus. When she was up to speed and spin had been placed on her to permit sure footing the control room secured from blast stations. Don unstrapped and hurried to the radio room. Twice he had to argue to get past sentries.
He found the door open; everyone inside seemed busy and paid him no attention. He hesitated, then stepped inside. A long hand reached out and grabbed him by the scruff. “Hey! Where the deuce do you think you’re going?”
Don answered humbly, “I just want to send a message.”
“You do, eh? What do you think of that, Charlie?” His captor appealed to a soldier who was bending over a rig.
The second soldier pushed one earphone up. “Looks like a saba-toor. Probably an A-bomb in each pocket.”
An officer wandered out of an inner room. “What goes on here?”
“Sneaked in, sir. Says he wants to send a message.”
The officer looked Don up and down. “Sorry. No can do. Radio silence. No traffic outgoing.”
“But,” Don answered desperately, “I’ve just got to.” Quickly he explained his predicament. “I’ve got to let them know where I am, sir.”
The officer shook his head. “We couldn’t raise Mars even if we were not in radio silence.”
“No, sir, but you could beam Luna, for relay to Mars.”
“Yes, I suppose we could—but we won’t. See here, young fellow, I’m sorry about your troubles but there is no possibility, simply none at all, that the commanding officer will permit silence to he broken for any reason, even one much more important than yours. The safety of the ship comes first.”
Don thought about it. “I suppose so,” he agreed forlornly.
“However, I wouldn’t worry too much. Your parents will find out where you are.”
“Huh? I don’t see how. They think I’m headed for Mars.”
“No, they don’t—or won’t shortly. There is no secret now about what has happened; the whole system knows it. They can find out that you got as far as Circum-Terra; they can find out that the Glory Road did not fetch you back. By elimination, you must be on your way to Venus. I imagine that they are querying Interplanet about you right now.”
The officer turned away and said, “Wilkins, paint a sign for the door saying, ‘Radio Silence—No Messages Accepted.’ We don’t want every civilian in the ship barging in here trying to send greetings to Aunt Hattie.”
Don bunked in a third-class compartment with three dozen men and a few boys. Some passengers who had paid for better accommodations complained. Don himself had had first-class passage booked—for the Valkyrie and Mars—but he was glad that he had not been silly enough to object when he saw the disgruntled returning with their tails between their legs. First-class accommodations, up forward, were occupied by the High Guard.
His couch was comfortable enough and a space voyage, dull under any circumstances, is less dull in the noise and gossip of a bunkroom than it is in the quiet of a first-class stateroom. During the first week out the senior surgeon announced that any who wished could avail themselves of cold-sleep. Within a day or two the bunkroom was half deserted, the missing passengers having been drugged and chilled and stowed in sleep tanks aft, there to dream away the long weeks ahead.
Don did not take cold-sleep. He listened to a bunkroom discussion, full of half facts, as to whether or not cold-sleep counted against a man’s lifetime. “Look at it this way,” one passenger pontificated. “You’ve got so long to live—right? It’s built into your genes; barring accidents, you live just that long. But when they put you in the freezer, your body slows down. Your clock stops, so to speak. That time doesn’t count against you. If you had eighty years coming to you, now you’ve got eighty years plus three months, or whatever. So I’m taking it.”
“You couldn’t be wronger,” he was answered. “More wrong, I mean. What you’ve done is chop three months right out of your life. Not for me!”
“You’re crazy. I’m taking it.”
“Suit yourself. And another thing—” The passenger who opposed it leaned forward and spoke confidentially, so that only the entire bunkroom could hear. “They say that the boys with the bars up front question you while you are going under. You know why? Because the Commodore thinks that spies slipped aboard at Circum-Terra.”
Don did not care which one was right. He was too much alive to relish deliberately “dying” for a time simply to save the boredom of a long trip. But the last comment startled him. Spies? Was it possible that the I.B.I. had agents right under the noses of the High Guard? Yet the I.B.I. was supposed to be able to slip in anywhere. He looked around at his fellow passengers, wondering which one might be traveling under a false identity.
He put it out of his mind—at least the I.B.I. was no longer interested in him.
Had Don not known that he was in the Nautilus headed for Venus he might well have imagined himself in the Valkyrie headed for Mars. The ships were of the same class and one piece of empty space looks like another. The Sun grew daily a little larger rather than smaller—but one does not look directly at the Sun, not even from Mars. The ship’s routine followed the same Greenwich day kept by any liner in space; breakfast came sharp on the bell; the ship’s position was announced each “noon”; the lights were dimmed at “night.”
Even the presence of soldiers in the ship was not conspicuous. They kept to their own quarters forward and civilians were not allowed there except on business. The ship was forty-two days out before Don again had any reason to go forward—to get a cut finger dressed in sick bay. On his way aft he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned.
He recognized Sergeant McMasters. The sergeant was wearing the star of a master-at-arms, a ship’s polic
eman. “What are you doing,” he demanded, “skulking around here?”
Don held up his damaged digit. “I wasn’t skulking; I was getting this attended to.”
McMasters looked at it. “Mashed your finger, eh? Well, you’re in the wrong passageway. This leads to the bomb room, not to passengers’ quarters. Say, I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
“Sure.”
“I remember. You’re the lad who thought he was going to Mars.”
“I’m still going to Mars.”
“So? You seem to favor the long way around—by about a hundred million miles. Speaking of the long way around, you haven’t explained why I find you headed toward the bomb room.”
Don felt himself getting red. “I don’t know where the bomb room is. If I’m in the wrong passage, show me the right one.”
“Come with me.” The sergeant led him down two decks where the spin of the ship made them slightly heavier and conducted Don into an office. “Sit down. The duty officer will be along.”
Don remained standing. “I don’t want to see the duty officer. I want to go back to my bunkroom.”
“Sit down, I said. I remember your case. Maybe you were just turned around but could be you took the wrong turn on purpose.”
Don swallowed his annoyance and sat. “No offense,” said McMasters. “How about a slug of solvent?” He went to a coffee warmer and poured two cups.
Don hesitated, then accepted one. It was the Venerian bean, black and bitter and very strong. Don found himself beginning to like McMasters. The sergeant sipped his, grimaced, then said, “You must be born lucky. You ought to be a corpse by now.”
“Huh?”
“You were scheduled to go back in the Glory Road, weren’t you? Well?”
“I don’t track you.”
“Didn’t the news filter aft? The Glory didn’t make it.”
“Huh? Crashed?”
“Hardly! The Federation groundhogs got jumpy and blasted her out of the sky. Couldn’t raise her and figured she was booby-trapped, I guess. Anyhow they blasted her.”
Between Planets Page 8