by Keith Laumer
Above I could see the end of the duct faintly in the light coming up through the open chamber door from the utility room. I remembered the location of the disposal slot on the Bridge now; it had been installed in the small apartment containing a bunk and a tiny galley for the use of the Duty Officer during long watches on the Bridge.
I reached the top of the duct and pushed against the slot cover. It swung out easily. I could see the end of the chart table, and beyond, the dead radar screen. I reached through and heaved myself partly out. I nearly fainted at the stab from my ribs as my weight went on my chest. My head sang. The light from below suddenly went out. I heard a muffled clank; then a hum began, echoing up the duct.
“She’s closed and started cyclin’ the air out, Cap’n,” Thomas said calmly. “We got about half a minute.”
I clamped my teeth together and heaved again. Below me Thomas waited quietly. He couldn’t help me now. I got my hands flat against the bulkhead and thrust. The air was whistling around my face. Papers began to swirl off the chart table. I twisted my body frantically, kicking loose from the grip of the slot, fighting the sucking pull of air. I fell to the floor inside the room, the slot cover slamming behind me. I staggered to my feet. I pried at the cover, but I couldn’t open it against the vacuum. Then it budged, and Thomas’ hand came through. The metal edge cut into it, blood started, but the cover was held open half an inch. I reached the chart table, almost falling over my leaden feet, seized a short permal T-square, and levered the cover up. Once started, it went up easily. Thomas face appeared, drawn and pale, eyes closed against the dust being whirled into his face. He got his arms through, heaved himself a little higher. I seized his arm and pulled. He scrambled through.
I knocked the T-square out of the way and the cover snapped down. Then I slid to the floor, not exactly out, but needing a break pretty bad. Thomas brought bedding from the OD bunk and made me comfortable on the floor.
“Thomas,” I said, “when I think of what the security inspectors who approved the plans for this arrangement are going to say when I call this little back door to their attention, it almost makes it worth the trouble.”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said. He sprawled on the deck and looked around the Bridge, staring at the unfamiliar screens, indicator dials, controls.
* * * *
From where I lay, I could see the direct vision screen. I wasn’t sure, but I thought the small bright object in the center of it might be our target. Thomas looked at the dead radar screen, then said, “Cap’n, that there radarscope out of action?”
“It sure is, Thomas,” I said. “Our unknown friends blew the works before they left us.” I was surprised that he recognized a radarscope.
“Mind if I take a look at it, Cap’n?” he said.
“Go ahead,” I replied. I tried to explain the situation to Thomas. The elapsed time since we had started our pursuit was two hours and ten minutes; I wanted to close to no more than a twenty mile gap before launching my missiles; and I had better alert my interceptor missiles in case the Mancji hit first.
Thomas had the cover off the radar panel and was probing around. He pulled a blackened card out of the interior of the panel.
“Looks like they overloaded the fuse,” Thomas said. “Got any spares, Cap’n?”
“Right beside you in the cabinet,” I said. “How do you know your way around a radar set, Thomas?”
Thomas grinned. “I useta be a radar technician third before I got inta waste disposal,” he said. “I had to change specialities to sign on for this cruise.”
I had an idea there’d be an opening for Thomas a little higher up when this was over.
I asked him to take a look at the televideo, too. I was beginning to realize that Thomas was not really simple; he was merely uncomplicated.
“Tubes blowed here, Cap’n,” he reported. “Like as if you was to set her up to high mag right near a sun; she was overloaded. I can fix her easy if we got the spares.”
I didn’t take time to try to figure that one out. I could feel the dizziness coming on again.
“Thomas,” I called, “let me know when we’re at twenty miles from target.” I wanted to tell him more, but I could feel consciousness draining away. “Then …” I managed, “first aid kit… shot.…”
I could still hear Thomas. I was flying away, whirling, but I could hear his voice. “Cap’n, I could fire your missiles now, if you was to want me to,” he was saying. I struggled to speak. “No. Wait.” I hoped he heard me.
* * * *
I floated a long time in a strange state between coma and consciousness. The stuff Kramer had given me was potent. It kept my mind fairly clear even when my senses were out of action. I thought about the situation aboard my ship.
I wondered what Kramer and his men were planning now, how they felt about having let me slip through their fingers. The only thing they could try now was blasting their way into the Bridge. They’d never make it. The designers of these ships were not unaware of the hazards of space life; the Bridge was an unassailable fortress. They couldn’t possibly get to it.
I guessed that Kramer was having a pretty rough time of it now. He had convinced the men that we were rushing headlong to sure destruction at the hands of the all-powerful Mancji, and that their Captain was a fool. Now he was trapped with them in the panic he had helped to create. I thought that in all probability they had torn him apart.
I wavered in and out of consciousness. It was just as well; I needed the rest. Then I heard Thomas calling me. “We’re closin’ now, Cap’n,” he said. “Wake up, Cap’n, only twenty-three miles now.”
“Okay,” I said. My body had been preparing itself for this, now it was ready again. I felt the needle in my arm. That helped, too.
“Hand me the intercom, Thomas,” I said. He placed the mike in my hand. I keyed for a general announcement.
“This is the Captain,” I said. I tried to keep my voice as steady as possible. “We are now at a distance of twenty-one miles from the enemy. Stand by for missile launching and possible evasive action. Damage control crews on the alert.” I paused for breath.
“Now we’re going to take out the Mancji ship, men,” I said. “All two miles of it.”
I dropped the mike and groped for the firing key. Thomas handed it to me.
“Cap’n,” he said, bending over me. “I notice you got the selector set for your chemical warheads. You wouldn’t want me to set up pluto heads for ya, would ya, Cap’n?”
“No, thanks, Thomas,” I said. “Chemical is what I want. Stand by to observe.” I pressed the firing key.
Thomas was at the radarscope. “Missiles away, Cap’n. Trackin’ O.K. Looks like they’ll take out the left half a that dumbbell.”
I found the mike again. “Missiles homing on target,” I said. “Strike in thirty-five seconds. You’ll be interested to know we’re employing chemical warheads. So far there is no sign of offense or defense from the enemy.” I figured the news would shock a few mutineers. David wasn’t even using his slingshot on Goliath. He was going after him bare-handed. I wanted to scare some kind of response out of them. I needed a few clues as to what was going on below.
I got it. Joyce’s voice came from the wall annunciator. “Captain, this is Lt. Joyce reporting.” He sounded scared all the way through, and desperate. “Sir, the mutiny has been successfully suppressed by the loyal members of the crew. Major Kramer is under arrest. We’re prepared to go on with the search for the Omega Colony. But Sir …” he paused, gulping. “We ask you to change course now before launching any effective attack. We still have a chance. Maybe they won’t bother with us when those firecrackers go off …”
* * * *
I watched the direct vision screen. Zero second closed in. And on the screen the face of the left hand disk of the Mancji ship was lit momentarily by a brilliant spark of yellow, then another. A discolorat
ion showed dimly against the dark metallic surface. It spread, and a faint vapor formed over it. Now tiny specs could be seen moving away from the ship. The disk elongated, with infinite leisure, widening.
“What’s happenin’? Cap’n?” Thomas asked. He was staring at the scope in fascination. “They launchin’ scouts, or what?”
“Take a look here, Thomas,” I said. “The ship is breaking up.”
The disk was an impossibly long ellipse now, surrounded by a vast array of smaller bodies, fragments and contents of the ship. Now the stricken globe moved completely free of its companion. It rotated, presenting a crescent toward us, then wheeled farther as it receded from its twin, showing its elongation. The sphere had split wide open. Now the shattered half itself separated into two halves, and these in turn crumbled, strewing debris in a widening spiral.
“My God, Cap’n,” Thomas said in awe. “That’s the greatest display I ever seen. And all it took to set her off was 200 kilos a PBL. Now that’s somethin’.”
I keyed the mike again. “This is the Captain,” I said. “I want ten four-man patrols ready to go out in fifteen minutes. The enemy ship has been put out of action and is now in a derelict condition. I want only one thing from her; one live prisoner. All Section chiefs report to me on the Bridge on the triple.”
“Thomas,” I said, “go down in the lift and open up for the Chiefs. Here’s the release key for the combination; you know how to operate it?”
“Sure, Cap’n; but are you sure you want to let them boys in here after the way they jumped you an’ all?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but he beat me to it. “Fergit I asked ya that, Cap’n, pleasir. You ain’t been wrong yet.”
“It’s O.K., Thomas,” I said. “There won’t be any more trouble.”
EPILOGUE
On the eve of the twentieth anniversary of Reunion Day, a throng of well-heeled celebrants filled the dining room and overflowed onto the terraces of the Star Tower Dining Room, from whose 5,700 foot height above the beaches, the Florida Keys, a hundred miles to the south, were visible on clear days.
The Era reporter stood beside the vast glass entry way surveying the crowd, searching for celebrities from whom he might elicit bits of color to spice the day’s transmission.
At the far side of the room, surrounded by chattering admirers, stood the Ambassador from the New Terran Federation; a portly, graying, jolly ex-Naval officer. A minor actress passed at close range, looking the other way. A cabinet member stood at the bar talking earnestly to a ball player, ignoring a group of hopeful reporters and fans.
The Era stringer, an experienced hand, passed over the hard pressed VIP’s near the center of the room and started a face-by-face check of the less gregarious diners seated at obscure tables along the sides of the room.
He was in luck; the straight-backed gray-haired figure in the dark civilian suit, sitting alone at a tiny table in an alcove, caught his eye. He moved closer, straining for a clear glimpse through the crowd. Then he was sure. He had the biggest possible catch of the day in his sights; Admiral of Fleets Frederick Greylorn.
The reporter hesitated; he was well aware of the Admiral’s reputation for near-absolute silence on the subject of his already legendary cruise, the fabulous voyage of the Galahad. He couldn’t just barge in on the Admiral and demand answers, as was usual with publicity-hungry politicians and show people. He could score the biggest story of the century today; but he had to hit him right.
You couldn’t hope to snow a man like the Admiral; he wasn’t somebody you could push around. You could sense the solid iron of him from here.
Nobody else had noticed the solitary diner. The Era man drifted closer, moving unhurriedly, thinking furiously. It was no good trying some tricky approach; his best bet was the straight-from-the-shoulder bit. No point in hesitating. He stopped beside the table.
The Admiral was looking out across the Gulf. He turned and glanced up at the reporter.
The news man looked him squarely in the eye. “I’m a reporter, Admiral,” he said. “Will you talk to me?”
The Admiral nodded to the seat across from him. “Sit down,” he said. He glanced around the room.
The reporter caught the look. “I’ll keep it light, sir,” he said. “I don’t want company either.” That was being frank.
* * * *
“You want the answers to some questions, don’t you?” the Admiral said.
“Why, yes, sir,” the reporter said. He started to inconspicuously key his pocket recorder, but caught himself. “May I record your remarks, Admiral?” he said. Frankness all the way.
“Go ahead,” said the Admiral.
“Now, Admiral,” the reporter began, “the Terran public has of course …”
“Never mind the patter, son,” the Admiral said mildly. “I know what the questions are. I’ve read all the memoirs of the crew. They’ve been coming out at the rate of about two a year for some time now. I had my own reasons for not wanting to add anything to my official statement.”
The Admiral poured wine into his glass. “Excuse me,” he said. “Will you join me?” He signalled the waiter.
“Another wine glass, please,” he said. He looked at the golden wine in the glass, held it up to the light. “You know, the Florida wines are as good as any in the world,” he said. “That’s not to say the California and Ohio wines aren’t good. But this Flora Pinellas is a genuine original, not an imitation Rhine; and it compares favorably with the best of the old vintages, particularly the ’87.”
The glass arrived and the waiter poured. The reporter had the wit to remain silent.
* * * *
“The first question is usually, how did I know I could take the Mancji ship. After all, it was big, vast. It loomed over us like a mountain. The Mancji themselves weighed almost two tons each; they liked six gee gravity. They blasted our communication off the air, just for practice. They talked big, too. We were invaders in their territory. They were amused by us. So where did I get the notion that our attack would be anything more than a joke to them? That’s the big question.” The Admiral shook his head.
“The answer is quite simple. In the first place, they were pulling six gees by using a primitive dumbbell configuration. The only reason for that type of layout, as students of early space vessel design can tell you, is to simplify setting up a gee field effect using centrifugal force. So they obviously had no gravity field generators.
“Then their transmission was crude. All they had was simple old-fashioned short-range radio, and even that was noisy and erratic. And their reception was as bad. We had to use a kilowatt before they could pick it up at 200 miles. We didn’t know then it was all organically generated; that they had no equipment.”
The Admiral sipped his wine, frowning at the recollection. “I was pretty sure they were bluffing when I changed course and started after them. I had to hold our acceleration down to two and a half gees because I had to be able to move around the ship. And at that acceleration we gained on them. They couldn’t beat us. And it wasn’t because they couldn’t take high gees; they liked six for comfort, you remember. No, they just didn’t have the power.”
* * * *
The Admiral looked out the window.
“Add to that the fact that they apparently couldn’t generate ordinary electric current. I admit that none of this was conclusive, but after all, if I was wrong we were sunk anyway. When Thomas told me the nature of the damage to our radar and communications systems, that was another hint. Their big display of Mancji power was just a blast of radiation right across the communication spectrum; it burned tubes and blew fuses; nothing else. We were back in operation an hour after our attack.
“The evidence was there to see, but there’s something about giant size that gets people rattled. Size alone doesn’t mean a thing. It’s rather like the bluff the Soviets ran on the rest of the
world for a couple of decades back in the war era, just because they sprawled across half the globe. They were a giant, though it was mostly frozen desert. When the showdown came they didn’t have it. They were a pushover.
“All right, the next question is why did I choose H. E. instead of going in with everything I had? That’s easy, too. What I wanted was information, not revenge. I still had the heavy stuff in reserve and ready to go if I needed it, but first I had to try to take them alive. Vaporizing them wouldn’t have helped our position. And I was lucky; it worked.
“The, ah, confusion below evaporated as soon as the Section chiefs got a look at the screens and realized that we had actually knocked out the Mancji. We matched speeds with the wreckage and the patrols went out to look for a piece of ship with a survivor in it. If we’d had no luck we would have tackled the other half of the ship, which was still intact and moving off fast. But we got quite a shock when we found the nature of the wreckage.” The Admiral grinned.
“Of course today everybody knows all about the Mancji hive intelligence, and their evolutionary history. But we were pretty startled to find that the only wreckage consisted of the Mancji themselves, each two-ton slug in his own hard chitin shell. Of course, a lot of the cells were ruptured by the explosions, but most of them had simply disassociated from the hive mass as it broke up. So there was no ship; just a cluster of cells like a giant bee hive, and mixed up among the slugs, the damnedest collection of loot you can imagine. The odds and ends they’d stolen and tucked away in the hive during a couple hundred years of camp-following.
“The patrols brought a couple of cells alongside, and Mannion went out to try to establish contact. Sure enough, he got a very faint transmission, on the same bands as before. The cells were talking to each other in their own language. They ignored Mannion even though his transmission must have blanketed everything within several hundred miles. We eventually brought one of them into the cargo lock and started trying different wave-lengths on it. Then Kramer had the idea of planting a couple of electrodes and shooting a little juice to it. Of course, it loved the DC, but as soon as we tried AC, it gave up. So we had a long talk with it and found out everything we needed to know.