In Our Hands the Stars

by Harry Harrison

  “All passengers aboard, Captain.”

  “Fine. Prepare for take-off in ten minutes.”

  Arnie was in the engine room for take-off, and in all truth he found very little to do. The crewmen were respectful enough, but they knew their jobs well. The Daleth drive had been automated to the point where the computer monitored it, and human attention was almost redundant. And the same was true of the fusion generator. When Arnie was hungry he had some food sent in, although he knew that he had been invited to the first night banquet. That he would avoid, with good reason, since he loathed this kind of affair. He was only too glad to help out and to take Ove’s place, when his friend was ill, but he did not really enjoy it. The laboratory at Månebasen interested him far more, the new line of research he had started, and the classes he held in Daleth theory for the technicians.

  And then there were the passengers. He had the list, and it did not take too much honesty to admit that this was the real reason he stayed sealed in the operating section. He had found no friends or associates among the scientists, they were all second-rate people for the most part. Not second rate, that wasn’t fair, but juniors—assistants to the important people. As though the universities of the world were not trusting their top minds to this unorthodox endeavor. Well, it did not matter. The young men could take observations as well as the old, and the raw facts and figures they returned with would have the others clamoring for a place on the next mission. Making a start, that was what counted.

  As to the others, the politicians, he knew nothing about them. There were very few names he had ever heard before. But then, he was not the most careful of political observers. Probably all second consuls and that sort of thing, trying the water temperature this first trip so their betters could take a plunge later on.

  But he knew one politician. He must face the fact—this was why he was staying away from the passenger section. But what good was it doing? General Avri Gev was aboard and he would have to meet him sooner or later. Arnie looked at his watch. Why not now? They would all be full of good food and drink. Perhaps he would catch Avri in a good mood. Knowing that this was impossible even as he thought it. But the entire voyage to Mars would take less than two days—and he was not going to spend all of the time skulking down here.

  After checking with the technicians—no, everything was fine now, they would call him if there were any problems—he went to his cabin for his jacket, and then to the airtight doorway that led to the passenger section.

  “Fine flight, sir,” the master-at-arms said, saluting. He was an old soldier, a sergeant, obviously transferred from the Army with all his stripes and decorations. He looked at his television screen that showed the empty corridor beyond, then pressed the button that opened the door. There were airtight doors throughout the Holger Danske, but this was the only one that could not be opened from either side. Arnie nodded and went through, and found General Gev waiting for him around the first bend.

  “I was hoping you would come out,” Gev said. “If not I would put a call in for you.”

  “Good evening, Avri.”

  “Would you come to my cabin? I have some Scotch whisky I want you to try.”

  “I’m not much of a drinker …”

  “Come anyway. Mr. Sakana gave it to me.”

  Arnie stared at him, trying to read something from those impassive, tanned features. They had been talking in English. There was no one named Mr. Sakana. It was a Hebrew word meaning “danger.”

  “Well—if you insist.”

  Gev led the way, showing Arnie in then locking the door behind him.

  “What is wrong?” Arnie asked.

  “In a moment. Hospitality first. Sit down, please, take that chair.”

  Like all of the cabins, this one was luxurious. The port, with the metal cover now automatically swung back after passing through the Van Allen belt, opened onto the stars of space. A hand-made Rya rug was on the floor. The walls were paneled with teak and decorated with Sikker Hansen prints. The furniture was Scandinavian modern.

  “And color television in every cabin,” Gev said, pointing to the large screen where cannon fired silently in a battle scene from the new film From Atlanta to the Sea. He took a bottle from the bar.

  “It is practical,” Arnie said. “As well as furnishing entertainment from taped programs. It is part of the telephone system as well. Did you get me here to talk about interior decorating?”

  “Not really. Here, try this. Glen Grant, pure malt, unblended, twelve years old. I developed a taste for it while I served with the British. There is something wrong aboard this ship. Lehayim.”

  “What do you mean?” Arnie held his drink, puzzled.

  “Just taste it. A thousand percent better than that filthy slivovitz you used to serve. I mean just that. Wrong. There are at least two men among the Eastern delegation whom I recognized. They are thugs, known agents, criminals.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Of course. Have you forgotten that I am charged with internal security? I read all the Interpol reports.”

  “What could they be doing here?” Abstracted, he took too big a drink and started coughing.

  “Sip it. Like mother’s milk. I don’t know what they are doing here, but I can readily guess. They are after the Daleth drive.”

  “That is impossible!”

  “Is it?” Gev managed to look cynically amused and depressed at the same time. “Might I ask you what kind of security precautions have been taken?” Arnie was silent, and Gev laughed.

  “So don’t tell me. I don’t blame you for being suspicious. But I do not make a very good army of one, and the only other Israeli aboard is that round-shouldered shlub of a biologist. A genius he is supposed to be, a fighting man he is not.”

  “You were not this friendly the last time we talked.”

  “With good reason, as you well know. But times have changed and Israel is making the best of what she has. We don’t have your Daleth drive-though at least it has a good Hebrew name—but the Danes are being far more accommodating than we ever expected. They admit that a lot of the Daleth theory was developed in Israel, therefore are giving us first priority in scientific and commercial exploitation. We are even going to have our own base on the Moon. Right now there is nothing to really complain about. We still want the Daleth drive, but at the moment we don’t intend to shoot anyone for it. I want to talk to Captain Hansen.”

  Arnie chewed his lip, concentrating, then finished the rest of the whisky without even realizing it. “Stay here,” he finally said. “I will tell him what you have seen. He will call you.”

  “Don’t be too long, Arnie,” Gev said quietly. He was very serious.

  * * *

  Nils had made a short speech at the banquet, then retreated to the bridge pleading the charge of duty. He was sitting with one leg over the arm of his chair, looking at the stars. He spun about when Arnie told him what Gev had said.

  “Impossible!”

  “Perhaps. But I believe him.”

  “Could it be a trick of his own? To get to the bridge?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it. He is a man of honor-and I believe him.”

  “I hope that you are right-and that he is wrong. But I can’t just ignore his charges. I’ll get him up, but the master-at-arms will be standing behind him all the time.” He turned to the phone.

  General Gev came at once. The sergeant walked two paces behind him with his drawn automatic pistol in his hand. He held it at his waist, where it could not be grabbed, and he looked ready to use it.

  “Could I see your passenger list?” Gev asked, then went through it carefully.

  “This one and this one,” he said, underscoring their names. “They have different aliases in the files, but they are the same men. One is wanted for sabotage, the other is suspected in a bombing plot. Very nasty types.”

  “It is hard to believe,” Nils said. “They are the accredited representatives of these countries….”

 
“Who do exactly whatever Mother Russia asks them to. Please don’t be naive, Captain Hansen. A satellite means just that. Bought and paid for and ready to dance when someone else whistles the tune.”

  The telephone burred at Nils’s elbow and he switched it on automatically.

  A man’s frightened face appeared on the screen, bright blood running down his face.

  “Help!” he screamed.

  Then there was a loud noise and the screen went blank.

  23

  “What compartment was that?” Nils shouted, reaching for the dial on the phone. “Did anyone recognize that man?”

  Gev reached out and stopped him as he was about to dial: the sergeant raised his gun and centered it on Gev’s back.

  “Wait,” Gev said. “Think. There is trouble, you know that much. That is enough for the moment. Alert your defenses first—if you have any. Then find out what area is threatened. I saw airtight doors throughout the ship. Can they be closed from here?”

  “Yes …”

  “Then close them. Slow down whatever is happening.”

  Nils hesitated an instant. “It’s a good idea, sir,” the sergeant said. Nils nodded.

  “Close all interior bulkhead doorways,” he ordered. The instrumentation officer threw back a protective plastic cover and flipped a row of switches.

  “Those doors can be opened on the spot,” the sergeant said.

  “The local controls can be overridden in an emergency,” the instrumentation officer said.

  “This is an emergency,” Nils told him. “Do it.”

  Gev went to the wall by the door, out of their way. The sergeant lowered his gun.

  “I did not mean to interfere with your command, Captain,” Gev said. “It is just that I have a certain experience in these things.”

  “I’m glad that you’re here,” Nils told him. “We may have to use that experience.” He dialed the engine room, and the call was answered at once by one of the technicians.

  “A malfunction, sir. Exit doors are closed and can’t be budged …”

  “This is an emergency. There is trouble aboard, we don’t know quite what yet. Stay away from the doors, no one gets in there—and let me know if you have any trouble.”

  “I think I recognized that man,” the radio operator said hesitantly. “A cook, or something to do with the kitchen.”

  “Good enough.” Nils dialed the kitchen but the call was not completed. “That’s where they are. But what the hell can they want with the kitchen?”

  “Weapons, perhaps,” Gev said. “Knives, cleavers, there will be plenty of them. Or perhaps something else … Could I see a plan of the ship?”

  Nils turned to Arnie. “Tell me quickly,” he said. “Is this man on our side?”

  Arnie nodded slowly. “I think he is now.”

  “All right. Sergeant, back to your post. Neergaard, get me the deck plans.”

  They unrolled them on the table and Gev stabbed down with his finger. “Here, what does køkken mean?”

  “Kitchen.”

  “It makes sense. Look. It can be reached from the dining room, unlike any other part of the working section of this ship. Also—it shares an interior wall with the engine room. Which I assume is this one here.”

  Nils nodded.

  “Then they won’t try the doors. They’ll cut their way in. Is there any way you can reach the engine room quickly? To reinforce the people there in case …”

  The phone rang and the engineering officer came on the screen. “A torch of some kind, Captain, burning a hole through the wall. What should we do?”

  “What did he say?” Gev asked, catching the man’s worried tone but not understanding the Danish. Arnie quickly explained. Gev touched Nils’s arm. “Tell them to get a bench or a table against the wall at this spot, pile anything heavy against it. Make entrance as difficult as possible.”

  Nils was looking haggard after issuing the orders. “They can’t possibly stop them from breaking in.”

  “Reinforcements?”

  There was no humor in Nils’s smile. “We have one gun aboard, the one worn by the sergeant.”

  “If possible get him to the engine room. Unless you can counterattack through the kitchen. Strike hard, it is the only way.”

  “You would know,” Nils said. “Get the sergeant in here. I’ll have to ask him to volunteer. It’s almost suicide.”

  The sergeant nodded when they told him what was happening.

  “I’ll be happy to undertake this, Captain. It could work if they are not heavily armed. I have another clip of bullets, but I won’t take them. I doubt if there will be much chance to reload. I’ll make these count. I can go in through that door from the aft storeroom. If it opens quietly enough I could surprise them.”

  He carefully laid his cap aside and turned to General Gev, tapping the row of decorations on his chest. Instead of Danish he talked English now, with a thick Cockney accent.

  “I saw you looking at this, General. You’re right, I was in Palestine, in the British Army, fighting the Hun. But when they started on your refugee ships afterwards, keeping them out, I went lost. Deserted. Back to Denmark. That wasn’t my kind of thing.”

  “I believe you, Sergeant. Thank you for telling me.”

  The doors were unlocked in sequence so he could go through.

  “He should be there by now,” Nils said. “Call the engine room.”

  The technician was excited. “Captain—it sounded like shots! We could hear them through the wall, an awful lot of them. And the cutting has stopped.”

  “Good,” Gev said when he was told what had happened. “They may not have been stopped but they have been slowed down.”

  “The sergeant has not come back,” Nils said.

  “He did not expect to.” There was no expression at all on General Gev’s face: emotion in battle was a luxury he could not afford. “Now a second counterattack must be launched. More men, volunteers if possible. Arm them with anything. We have a moment’s respite and advantage must be taken of it. I will lead them if you will permit me….”

  “The phone, Captain,” the radio operator said. “It is one of the American delegation.”

  “I can’t be bothered now.”

  “He says he knows about the attack and he wants to help.” Nils picked up the phone, and the image of a man with thick-rimmed glasses, his face set in lines of gloom, looked out at him.

  “I understand the Reds are attacking you, Captain Hansen. I can offer you some help. We are on the way to the bridge now.”

  “Who are you? How do you know this?”

  “My name is Baxter. I’m a security officer. I was sent on this voyage just in case something like this happened. I have some armed men with me, we’re on our way now.”

  Nils did not need to see General Gev shake his head no to make up his mind.

  “Did you say armed men? No arms were permitted aboard this ship.”

  “Armed for your defense, Captain. And you will need us now.”

  “I do not. Stay where you are. Someone will come to collect your weapons.”

  “We’re leaving for the bridge now. Our country has stepped in before in a war; don’t forget that. And NATO—”

  “Damn NATO and damn you! If you make one move towards this bridge you are no different from those others.”

  “There have been quislings before, Captain Hansen,” Baxter said, sternly. “Your government will appreciate what we are doing even if you don’t.” He broke the connection.

  Gev was already running toward the exit to the passenger section of the ship. “It’s locked,” he shouted back. “Is there any way we can reinforce this door?”

  The others, led by Nils, were close behind him. They were just in time to stare, aghast, at the television monitor. A group of men, five, ten, came into sight around the bend in the corridor outside, racing toward the door. Baxter was in front and behind him ran one of the Formosa delegates, some South Americans, a Vietnamese. One of them raised
a broken-off chair leg and swung at the camera. It went blank.

  “This is going to be difficult,” Gev said calmly, looking at the door. “We are going to have to fight on two fronts—and we are not even equipped for combat on one.”

  “Captain,” the radio operator called from the bridge. “Engine room reports that the cutting has started again.” There was a deep boom of an explosion, ear-hurting loud in the confined corridor, and the door bulged toward them, twisted, and a great cloud of smoke boiled in. They were stunned, knocked down. Then the door shivered and moved further inward, and a man holding a makeshift gun began to squeeze through.

  Gev sprang, hands out. Grabbing the man’s wrist, twisting it so the gun pointed to the ceiling. It fired once, an almost soundless splat to their numbed ears. Then Gev chopped down with the edge of his free hand, breaking the man’s neck. He fumbled an instant with the unusual mechanism of the gun, then poked it through the opening over the dead man’s back and fired until it was empty.

  This only delayed the attackers a moment. Then the door was pushed wider and two men climbed in, treading on the corpse. Nils hit one in the face with his fist, knocking him back through the opening with its force.

  But they were outnumbered—and outgunned. Yet they gave a very good accounting of themselves. General Gev did not drop until he was hit with at least three bullets. They did not shoot Nils, but men hung from him, holding down his arms, while another clubbed him into submission. Arnie knew nothing about fighting, though he tried with very little success. Dead and wounded were left behind when they were dragged back to the bridge. The radio operator, the only crewman remaining there, was talking on the radio.

  “Shut up!” Baxter shouted at him, raising his gun. “Who are you talking to?”

  The operator, white-faced, clutched the microphone. “It is our Moon base. They have relayed the call to Copenhagen. I told them what was happening here. The others have broken into the engine room, taken it.”