Dawn streaked the sky by the time he reached Broughton Spacefield. He left his car with an attendant and went to the main administration building, where a grim-faced group of Corwin officials waited for him.
This is it. Ewing thought. If I don’t make it, Corwin is finished.
A world’s destiny rode on the wild scheme of one man. It was a burden he did not relish carrying.
He greeted Davidson and the others a little stiffly; the tension was beginning to grip him now. Davidson handed him a portfolio.
“This is the flight chart of the Klodni armada,” the Premier explained. “We had the big computer extrapolate it. They’ll be overhead in nine hours and fifty minutes.”
Ewing shook his head. “You’re wrong. They won’t be overhead at all. I’m going to meet them at least a light-year from here, maybe further out if I can manage it. They won’t get any closer.”
He scanned the charts. Graphs of the Klodni force had been inked in.
“The computer says there are seven hundred seventy-five ships in the fleet,” Davidson said.
Ewing pointed to the formation. “It’s a pure wedge, isn’t it? A single flagship, followed by two ships, followed by a file of four, followed by eight. And right on out to here. That’s very interesting.”
“It’s a standard Klodni fighting formation,” said gravel-voiced Dr. Harmess of the Department of Military Science. “The flagship always leads and none of the others dares to break formation without order. Complete totalitarian discipline.”
Ewing smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He checked his watch. Approximately ten hours from now, Klodni guns would be thundering down on a virtually defenseless Corwin. A fleet of seven hundred seventy-five dreadnoughts was an unstoppable armada. Corwin had perhaps a dozen ships, and not all of them in fighting trim despite vigorous last-minute work. No planet in the civilized galaxy could stand the burden of supporting a military force of nearly eight hundred first-line ships.
“All right,” he said after a moment’s silence. “I’m ready to leave.”
They led him across the damp, rain-soaked field to the well-guarded special hangar where Project X had been installed. Security guards smiled obligingly and stood to one side when they recognized Ewing and the Premier. Field attendants swung open the doors of the hangar, revealing the ship.
It was a thin black spear, hardly bigger than the vessel that had taken him to Earth and back. Inside, though, there was no complex equipment for suspending animation. In its place, there now rested a tubular helical coil, whose tip projected micromillimeters from the skin of the ship. At the base of the coil was a complex control panel.
Ewing nodded in approval. The field attendants wheeled the ship out; gantry cranes tilted it to blasting angle and carried it to the blast-field.
A black ship against the blackness of space. The Klodni would never notice it, Ewing thought. He sensed the joy of battle springing up in him.
“I’ll leave immediately,” he said.
The actual blast-off was to be handled automatically. Ewing clambored aboard, settled himself in the cradle area, and let the spinnerettes weave him an unshatterable cradle of spidery foamweb. He switched on the vision-plate and saw the little group waiting tensely at the edge of the clear part of the field.
He did not envy them. Of necessity, he would have to maintain total radio silence until after the encounter. For half a day or more, they would wait, not knowing whether death would come to their world or not. It would be an uncomfortable day for them.
With an almost impulsive gesture Ewing tripped the blasting lever, and lay back as the ship raced upward. For the second time in his life he was leaving Corwin’s soil.
The ship arced upward in a wide hyperbolic orbit, while Ewing shuddered in his cradle and waited. Seconds later, the jets cut out. The rest of the journey would be carried out on warp-drive. That was less strenuous, at least.
The pre-plotted course carried him far from Corwin during the first two hours. A quick triangulation showed that he was almost one and a half light-years from the home world—a safe enough distance, he thought. He ceased forward thrust and put the ship in a closed million-mile orbit perpendicular to the expected line of attack of the Klodni. He waited.
Three hours slipped by before the first quiver of green appeared on his ship’s mass-detector. The line wavered uncertainly. Ewing resolved the fine focus and waited.
The line broadened. And broadened. And broadened again.
The Klodni wedge was drawing near.
Ewing felt utterly calm, now that the waiting was over. Moving smoothly and unhurriedly, he proceeded to activate the time-transfer equipment. He yanked down on the main lever, and the control panel came to life; the snout of the helical core advanced nearly an inch from the skin of the ship, enough to insure a clear trajectory.
Working with one eye on the mass-detector and one on the transfer device’s control panel, Ewing computed the necessary strength of the field. The Klodni formation opened out geometrically: one ship leading, followed by two, with four in the third rank, eight in the fourth, sixteen in the fifth. Two massive ranks of about two hundred fifty ships each served as rearguard for the wedge, providing a double finishing-thrust for any attack. It was the width of these last two files that mattered most.
No doubt they were traveling in a three-dimensional array, but Ewing took no chances, and assumed that all two hundred and fifty were moving in a single parallel bar. He computed the maximum width of such a formation. He added twenty percent at each side. If only a dozen Klodni ships slipped through. Corwin still would face a siege of havoc.
Compiling his data, he fed it to the transfer machine and established the necessary coordinates. He punched out the activator signals. He studied the mass-detector; the Klodni fleet was less than an hour away, now.
He nodded in satisfaction as the last of his computations checked and canceled out. Here goes, he thought.
He tripped the actuator.
There was no apparent effect, no response except for a phase-shift on one of the meters aboard the ship. But Ewing knew there had been an effect. A gulf had opened in the heavens, an invisible gulf that radiated outward from his ship and sprawled across space.
A gulf he could control as a fisherman might, a net—a net wide enough to hold seven hundred seventy-five alien vessels of war.
Ewing waited.
His tiny ship swung in its rigid orbit, round and round, carrying the deadly nothingness round with it. The Klodni fleet drew near. Ewing scratched out further computations. At no time, he thought, would he be closer to a Klodni ship than forty-light minutes. They would never pick him up at such a distance.
A minnow huddled in the dark, waiting to trap the whales.
The green line on the mass-detector broadened and became intense. Ewing shifted out of his locked orbit, placing the vessel on manual response. He readied his trap as the Klodni flagship moved serenely on through the void.
Now! he thought.
He cast his net.
The Klodni flagship moved on—and vanished! From Ewing’s vantage point it seemed as if the great vessel had simply been blotted out; the green wedge on the scope of his mass-detector was blunt-snouted now that the flagship was gone.
But to the ships behind it, nothing seemed amiss. Without breaking formation they followed on, and Ewing waited. The second rank vanished through the gulf, and the third, and the fourth.
Eighteen ships gone. Thirty-two. Sixty-four.
He held his breath as the hundred-twenty-eight-ship rank entered the cul-de-sac. Now for the test. He stared at the mass-detector intently as the two biggest Klodni formations moved toward him. Two hundred fifty ships each, the hammers of the Klodni forces—
Gone.
The mass-detector was utterly blank. There was not a Klodni ship anywhere within detectable range. Ewing felt limp with relief. He disconnected the transfer mechanism, clamping down knife-switches with frenzied zeal. The gul
f was sealed, now. There was no possible way back for the trapped Klodni ships.
He could break radio silence now. He sent a brief, laconic message: “Kiodni fleet destroyed. Am returning to home base.”
One man had wiped out an armada. He chuckled in relief of the crushing tension.
He wondered briefly how the puzzled Klodni would react when they found themselves in the midst of a trackless void, without stars, without planets. No doubt they would proceed on across space in search of some place to land, until their provisions became exhausted, their fuel disappeared, and death finally claimed them. Eventually, even their ships would crumble and disappear.
According to the best scientific theory, the stars of the galaxy were between five and six billion years old. The range of the Earther time-projector was nearly infinite.
Ewing had hurled the Klodni fleet five billion years into the past. He shuddered at the thought, and turned his tiny ship homeward, to Corwin.
Chapter Eighteen
The return voyage seemed to take days. Ewing lay awake in the protecting cradle, staring through the open vision-plate at the blurred splendor of the heavens as the ship shot through notspace at super-light velocities. At these speeds, the stars appeared as blotchy pastel things; the constellations did not exist.
Curiously, he felt no sense of triumph. He had saved Corwin, true—and in that sense, he had achieved the goal in whose name he had set out on his journey across space to Earth. But he felt as if his work were incomplete.
He thought, not of Corwin now, but of Earth. Two years had gone by on the mother world since his departure; certainly, time enough for the Sirians to make their move. Firnik, no doubt, was high in command of the Sirian Governor-General instead of holding a mere vice-consul’s job. Byra Clork was probably a noblewoman of the new aristocracy.
And Myreck and the others—well, perhaps they had survived, hidden three microseconds out of phase. But more likely they had been caught and put to death, like the potential dangers they were.
Dangers. There were no true dangers to the Sirians. Earth was self-weakened; it had no capacity to resist tyranny.
Guiltily, Ewing told himself that there was nothing he could have done. Earth’s doom was foreordained, self-inflicted. He had saved his own world; there was no helping Earth.
There was a way, something in his mind said reproachfully. There still is a way.
Leave Corwin. Cross space once again, return to Earth, lead the hapless little Earthers in a struggle for freedom. All they needed was a man with the bold vigor of the outworld colonies. Leadership was what they lacked. They outnumbered the Sirians a thousand to one. In any kind of determined rising, they could win their freedom easily. But they needed a focal point; they needed a leader.
You could be that leader, something within him insisted. Go back to Earth.
Savagely, he forced the idea to die. His place was on Corwin, where he was a hero, where his wife and child awaited him. Earth had to work out its own pitiful destiny.
He tried to relax. The ship plummeted onward through the night, toward Corwin.
It seemed that the whole populace turned out to welcome him. He could see them from above, as he maneuvered the ship through the last of its series of inward spirals and let it come gently to rest on the ferroconcrete landing surface of Broughton Spacefield.
He let the decontaminating squad do its work, while he watched the massed crowd assembled beyond the barriers. Finally, when the ship and the area around it were both safely cool, he stepped out.
The roar was deafening.
There were thousands of them. In the front he saw Laira and Blade, and the Premier, and the Council. University people. Newsmen. People, people, people. Ewing’s first impulse was to shrink back into the lonely comfort of his ship. Instead, he compelled himself to walk forward toward the crowd. He wished they would stop shouting; he held up a hand, hoping to get silence, but the gesture was interpreted as a greeting and called forth an even noisier demonstration.
Somehow, he reached Laira and got his arms around her. He smiled; she said something, but her voice was crushed by the uproar. He read her lips instead. She was saying, “I was counting the seconds till you got back, darling.”
He kissed her. He hugged Blade to him. He smiled to Davidson and to all of them, and wondered quietly why he had been born with the particular conglomeration of personality traits that had brought him to this destiny, on this world, on this day.
He was a hero. He had ended a threat that had destroyed six worlds.
Corwin was safe.
He was swept inside, carried off to the World Building, smuggled into Premier Davidson’s private chambers. There, while officers of the peace kept the curiosity seekers away, Ewing dictated for the air-waves a full account of what he had done, while smiling friends looked on.
There were parades outside. He could hear the noise where he sat, seventy-one floors above the street level. It was hardly surprising; a world that had lived under sentence of death for five years found itself miraculously reprieved. It was small wonder the emotional top was blowing off.
Sometime toward evening, they let him go home. He had not slept for more than thirty hours, and it was beginning to show.
A cavalcade of official cars Convoyed him out of the capital city and toward the surburban area where he lived. They told him a guard would be placed round his house, to assure him continued privacy. He thanked them all, and wished them good night, and entered his house. The door shut behind him, shutting out the noise, the celebration, the acclaim. He was just Baird Ewing of Corwin again, in his own home. He felt very tired. He felt hollow within, as if he were a villain rather than a hero. And it showed.
Laira said, “That trip didn’t change you, did it?”
He blinked at her. “What do you mean?”
“I thought that the cloud would lift from you. That you were worried about the invasion and everything. But I guess I was wrong. We’re safe, now—and something’s still eating you.”
He tried to laugh it off. “Laira, you’re overtired. You’ve been worrying too much yourself. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
She shook her head. “No, Baird. I’m serious. I know you too well; I see something in your eyes. Trouble, of some kind.” She put her hands round his wrists and stared up into his eyes. “Baird, something happened to you on Earth that you haven’t told me about. I’m your wife. I ought to know about it, if there’s anything—”
“There’s nothing! Nothing.” He looked away. “Let’s go to sleep, Laira. I’m exhausted.”
But he lay in bed turning restlessly, and despite his exhaustion sleep did not come.
How can I go back to Earth? he asked himself bitterly. My loyalties lie here. Earth will have to take care of itself—and if it can’t, more’s the pity.
It was a hollow rationalization, and he knew it. He lay awake half the night, brooding, twisting, drowning in his own agonized perspiration.
He thought:
Three men died so I could return to Corwin safely. Two of them were deliberate, voluntary suicides. I owe them a debt. I owe Earth a debt, for making possible Corwin’s salvation.
Three men died for me. Do I have any right to be selfish?
Then he thought:
When Laira married me, she thought she was getting Citizen Baird Ewing, period. She wasn’t marrying any hero, any world saver. She didn’t ask the Council to pick me for its trip to Earth. But she went through two years of widowhood because they did pick me.
How could I tell her I was leaving, going to Earth for good? Leaving her without a husband, and Blade without a father? It simply isn’t fair to them. I can’t do it.
And then he thought:
There must be a compromise. A way I can serve the memory of the dead Baird Ewings and be fair to my family as well. There has to be some kind of compromise.
There was. The answer came to him shortly before morning, crystal sharp, bearing with it no doubts, no further an
xiety. He saw what his path must be. With the answer came a welling tide of peace, and he drifted into sound sleep, confident he had found the right way at last.
Premier Davidson, on behalf of the grateful people of the world of Corwin, called on him the next morning. Davidson told him he might pick anything, anything at all as his reward.
Ewing chuckled. “I’ve got everything I want already,” he said. “Fame, fortune, family—what else is there in life?”
Shrugging, the rotund little Premier said, “But surely there must be some fitting—”
“There is,” Ewing said. “Suppose you grant me the freedom of poking around with those notebooks I brought back with me from Earth. All right?”
“Certainly, if that’s what you want. But can that be all that—”
“There’s just one other thing I want. No, two. The first one may be tough. I want to be left alone. I want to get out of the limelight and stay there. No medals, no public receptions, no more parades. I did the job the Council sent me to do, and now I want to return to private life.
“As for the second thing—well, I won’t mention it yet. Let’s just put it this way: when the time comes, I’m going to want a favor from the Government. It’ll be an expensive favor, but not terribly so. I’ll let you know what it is I want, when and if I want it.”
Slowly, the notoriety ebbed away, and Ewing returned to private life as he had wished. His life would never be the same again, but there was no help for that. The Council voted him a pension of 10,000 stellors a year, transferable to his heirs in perpetuity, and he was so stunned by their magnanimity that he had no choice but to accept.
A month passed. The tenseness seemed to have left him. He discovered that his son was turning into a miniature replica of his father, tall, taciturn, with the same inner traits of courage, dependability, conscience. It was a startling thing to watch the boy unfolding, becoming a personality.
It was too bad, Ewing thought, as he wrestled with his son or touched his wife’s arm, that he would have to be leaving them soon. He would regret parting with them. But at least they would be spared any grief.
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