Birrel studied the vista on the big radar-screen. The cinder-cemetery to the left was fuzzy from minute particles of drift, so fuzzy that ships could indeed hide from long-range radar in there. The other region, that of the filamentaries, was an absolutely blind area on the screen, its terrific radio-emissions blanking out long-range radar completely.
"I think,” said Garstang, frowning down at the screen, “that they'd be hiding in the drift, not the filamentaries. Those would foul up their own communications pretty badly."
"Not if they held a tight enough formation,” said Birrel. “But it's no good guessing. I've got to send in scouts."
He called Grenard, the leader of the scout division. Those swift midgets were far out in front of and on either side of the big cruisers and transports.
Grenard, a comparatively young man, was as reckless and restless as a good scout-commander had to be.
"Fine,” he said instantly. “I'll go into the filamentaries and send Nearing into the drift. If they're in there, we'll find them."
"Just a minute,” Birrel said hastily. “You may find them but you won't be able to call all the way back here through that stuff. String out scouts at regular intervals with at least one on each side close enough to pick up and relay from you and Nearing."
Grenard understood at once. “You think they may knock us off if we do spot them?"
"It's possible,” Birrel answered curtly.
'Well, this begins to sound interesting,” said Grenard cheerfully. “We'll set it up that way."
Birrel looked at Garstang. “Were we ever like that? Hellbent for trouble and excitement, and never mind the risks?"
Garstang said mildly, “I expect we were."
The Fifth moved onward. Its way lay down a parsec-long avenue of clear space between the filamentaries and the drift. The squadron changed formation as it went, the mighty cruisers closing in around the transports. Far ahead, darting at speeds no cruiser could reach so swiftly, the tiny scouts flung right and left toward the two radar-blind regions.
The visual screens in the radar-room came on. By means of pick-up and relay chains, what was seen by the scouts of Grenard and Nearing came through.
"Nothing yet,” said Grenard's voice. “It's quite a mess, as you can see for yourself. I'm going into search-pattern. Hold on."
The screen showed little but a twisted blur of light. At moments it would take form as a vista of long, glowing filaments in the darkness. Long ago a star had exploded with inconceivable violence and sent these threads of gas flying out through the universe. They were still flying, though compared to the scout's ultraspeed they seemed to stand still. And the utterly tenuous, cool hydrogen they passed through was generating radio-emissions that kept the picture a nightmare blur despite the relays that picked it up and amplified it and passed it on.
Grenard's little ship was quartering this howling radio storm like a restless hound. He had so far found nothing. Then Nearing's voice came from the other screen and Birrel turned his attention to that.
"Not a thing but drift so far,” drawled Nearing. “Molecular, most of it."
Nearing's screen showed nothing but dark space and distant stars. Transmission was better but there just wasn't anything to see, the tiny particles of the drift and the dark, cindery, dead suns being practically invisible. But Nearing's powerful short-range radar was probing, as he, too, went into search-pattern.
The Fifth moved on, down the strait between the filaments and the drift. In every cruiser, the men were at battle-stations. In the transports, they wouldn't even know there was any danger. Birrel wondered what Lyllin was doing, what she was thinking, right now, right this moment.
"Nothing yet,” said Grenard's voice.
"You know,” said Garstang, “both these regions are well inside Lyra space. Would Orionids really risk coming into them in force?"
"I told you,” said Birrel. “The pace is stepping up. I think they would."
Nearing's voice drawled, “Nothing."
And they went on. The filamentaries marched past on one side and the dark drift on the other, and the big ships of the Fifth never slackened, but there was still a long way to go before they would reach wide-open space again.
Before they had traversed more than half the distance, Grenard suddenly yelped like an excited terrier.
"Got them! They're here, all right. Two squadrons in tight formation. Moving on intercept course."
Steel bands seemed to tighten across Birrel's chest, but he kept his face composed. He picked up the mike and asked, “How far are you from them?"
Grenard told him, and added, “Too far for a visual, but there's no doubt at all on the radar."
"Hang on to them,” said Birrel. “Keep watching them."
Garstang, suddenly stiff and tense, said softly, “Intercept, eh? They're going to hit us."
"Are they?"
Garstang stared. “Why else would they be headed to intercept us? Shall I order action-formation and transports back?"
Birrel said, “No."
"Then what?"
"We go on,” said Birrel. “We just go on."
Garstang looked stricken and started to say something and then instead said, “Yes, sir."
"It's a bluff,” said Birrel. “It has to be a bluff. They don't quite dare to risk open war by hitting us. But they're trying to scare us back, prevent us from going to Earth."
Garstang shrugged. “You seem pretty sure."
Birrel said, “Look, if Grenard could radar-range them, they could range Grenard. If they were really going to hit us, they'd knock out Grenard first thing. Instead, they let him ride along, watching them. They want him to report to us, to scare us back."
"It sounds logical,” said Garstang. “But if you're wrong..."
"If I'm wrong, we're in big trouble,” Birrel said. “Ferdias told me to take this risk and I'm taking it."
The Fifth moved on, no ship slackening speed or changing its place in formation. At ten-minute intervals, Grenard continued to report on the two Orionid squadrons, and his report was always, “Intercept course.” Each time Birrel waited for it to be different, but it was the same.
The short hairs on the back of his neck began to bristle. The Fifth and the two mightiest squadrons of Solleremos were racing toward each other and intercept-point was less than an hour away. It began to seem as though both he and Ferdias could be wrong. It had not seemed possible that Orion would really hit them and turn the secret intriguing struggle between the Sectors into open war, for war was unthinkable and had been so for centuries. But if they were wrong, if Solleremos’ ambitions had overleaped his judgment—
There was still time to send the transports back, to fall back and cover them. But he knew well enough what would happen, if he did that and went back to Vega. He had to go on because to Ferdias he was expendable in a calculated risk, just as Grenard and Nearing were to him.
"Intercept course,” repeated Grenard's voice.
The next ten minutes were several eternities long. When Grenard finally spoke again, he said the same thing.
Garstang looked stonily at the radar-screens and said nothing. He thinks I'm wrong, thought Birrel. And it looks as though I am, and Ferdias has miscalled it this time.
Thirty-three minutes to go and if they don't change course now it is not a bluff and we are going to be for it. Thirty-two. Thirty-one. Speak up, Grenard, why don't you report, are you all asleep on that scout? Speak—
"Intercept course—” said Grenard, and Birrel felt his middle tighten and then he jumped as Grenard continued, “-now abandoned. New course of Orionid squadrons seventy-four degrees westward, five degrees zenith. Shall I follow?"
"No, don't follow,” said Birrel. “But range their course as long as you can."
He turned to Garstang. Garstang said, “Well.” And then he let out a long breath.
Birrel waited until soon Grenard reported that the Orionids had just passed out of his limited radar-range, still on the new course
.
"Pull back to position,” Birrel ordered, and added, “Good work."
"They've sheered off,” he said to Garstang. “Ferdias was right, they're not yet quite up to attacking a Lyran squadron in Lyra space."
The Fifth went on and presently they were moving out of the strait into wide-open space. Ahead, there stretched a region with a few stars and fewer E-type worlds, and that distant region belonged to none of the Sectors but was the small area still ruled by the once all-governing United Worlds.
Garstang looked at the screen that showed the spaces behind them.
"We got by them coming in,” he said. “But they're still there. How will it be when we go back?"
Birrel said nothing. He had thought of that and he did not like the thought for he had a premonition that they had been allowed to go on to Earth because they were going into a trap.
CHAPTER 7
Far ahead, looking rather lonely in the midst of a great emptiness, shone a small yellow star. Birrel studied it. How should he feel about it now that they had reached it? Like a child seeing its father for the first time, or like a man returning to an ancient hearth? He could feet nothing of that. This was only another star.
He said, “Begin the deceleration schedule."
By the time the Fifth was cruising at normal approach velocity, the yellow sun was close enough so that they could study its planets. They were a barren lot mostly, only the third one was E-type. Venner said that and then he looked up startled from his instrument, as though he had only just remembered where the name “E-type” had originated. Messages now started crackling in, first formal greetings, then approval of landing-patterns. The Fifth smoothly shifted formation and went into the pattern.
Garstang touched Birrel's arm and pointed, to where far off a little gray-green planet with a stony satellite rushed to meet them.
"Earth."
The squadron sped toward it, the cruisers and supply ships and transports, the men and women and children, strangers from the far reaches of the galaxy. And yet not quite strangers either, for the names that had come from this world were still among them, and the traditions, and in many of them the blood.
A quiet had settled on the bridge. Birrel supposed it was the same with the whole squadron, everybody staring and thinking his or her own thoughts. He wondered what Lyllin was thinking, and wished that she were here with him instead of back there in one of the transports.
Earth came closer. He could see clouds, and the white splash of a polar cap. Closer still, and there were seas, and the outlines of continents. Colors began to show more clearly, and the land became ridged with mountain chains. Great lakes took form, and dark green areas of forest, and winding rivers. A nice world. A pretty world. Birrel eyed it sourly. Its other name was trouble.
"Why did Ferdias have to pick us for this job?"
Unconsciously he had spoken aloud, or loud enough for Garstang to hear. “It's only for a visit,” said Garstang. “Just a celebration. What's wrong with that?” His tone was mild, without mockery.
But Birrel looked at him sharply. He knew that Garstang and Brescnik and all his other officers and men must have been talking and wondering. Wondering why the Fifth had been pulled out of its needful place and sent so far for this rather meaningless celebration.
They came down past the shoreline of a blue-green ocean, past a big, odd-looking city that sprawled over islands and peninsulas and up an inland river valley, and then beneath them was a large spaceport. The squadron roared in to its appointed landing, bristling on its best behavior, every ship set down with masterly precision, and there was a great crowd assembled there to meet it. Flags whipped in the wind. A band blared out, playing not modem instruments, but old-style ones, a brassy music with a solemn throb of drums beneath it that was immensely stirring.
The men of the Fifth debarked and formed in order, every boot polished and every coverall immaculate, solid lines of blue and silver glittering in the soft blaze of this golden sun. Birrel felt the heat of it on his face. His heels struck solidly on the tarmac, and the wind touched him, balmily, laden with smells that were strange to him. And he thought, “This is Earth.” He looked around at it.
He could see only the spaceport, and despite its size that was old and worn and poor. The tarmac was cracked and blackened, the rows of ancient shops and hangars all weathered. Opposite the Fifth were drawn up two dozen cruisers with the old insignia of the UW fleet on their bows, and with their crews standing at attention in front of them. Those old, small ships—why, they were Class Fourteens, obsolete for years! He supposed they were all that the UW had.
Two men walked toward him. One was a middle-aged civilian, the other an arrow-straight, elderly man in a black coverall that also bore the UW insignia. He stiffly returned Birrel's salute.
"Nice landing, Commander,” he said. “I'm First Admiral Laney, and I welcome your squadron back."
Incredulously, Birrel realized that the old admiral was keeping up the pretense that the squadron from Lyra was still a part of the UW fleet.
It was so preposterous that it was funny. Not for a century had the UW fleet had any real authority in the outer galaxy. Its staff never sent any orders out to the squadrons of the five Sectors, and more than the UW council dared send orders to the five governors. Yet this old Earth officer was trying hard, in front of the crowd, to act as though he were really Birrel's superior officer. Then, seeing the faintly desperate look in Laney's eyes, Birrel softened. After all, what difference did it make—it was only a pretense and he felt sorry for the old chap trying to play this part.
He saluted again and said, “Fifth Lyra Squadron, Birrel commanding, reporting, sir!"
A look of grateful relief crossed Laney's face. He said uncertainly, “At ease, Commander. Let me present you to Mr. John Charteris, chairman of the council of the United Worlds."
Charteris was a gray, quiet, faintly anxious-looking man. He shook hands warmly, but his eyes were reserved, measuring. He began a little speech directed at the telecameras nearby. “We welcome back one of the gallant squadrons of the galactic fleet to take part in our commemoration of..."
When the speeches and handshaking and bandplaying were over, Birrel gave an order, and his men broke ranks.
Brescnik came up to him and asked, “Shall we debark our people now?"
The old admiral told Birrel, “Quarters are all ready for them near the port."
Charteris added, “But you and your wife, Commander, must be my guests.” And as another man joined them, “This is my secretary, Ross Mallinson."
Mallinson was a tall and elegant young man of a type that Birrel did not like, the smooth diplomat type who always made him feel uncouth. Despite his smiling manner, Birrel got the feeling that he was tough and unfriendly.
Charteris had a car and driver waiting, and they drove back between the lines of lofty, looming ships. The women and children and babies of the men of the Fifth started coming out of the transports, and Earth officers began deftly shuttling them into cars to take them to their quarters. From beyond a fence, the big crowd of Earth folk spectators watched interestedly. And of a sudden, for the first time his men's families seemed a little outlandish to Birrel. The women and children were of so many star-peoples, so many shades of skin, so many different ways of speech and dress. He thought he detected a supercilious amusement in Mallinson's conventional smile, and he resented it.
At the transport he excused himself and went in to Lyllin's cabin. He stopped short when he saw her. He had never seen her like this. She wore an Earthstyle dress of impeccable lines, was perfect in a smart, sophisticated way. She still did not look like an Earthwoman, not with that skin and eyes and hair. But she looked stunning, and he said so.
"I'm glad I look civilized enough for your people,” Lyllin said sweetly.
"My people?” Birrel drew back stiffly. “So you're still brooding on that foolishness? That's fine. I'm not in a tough enough spot here, my wife has to get super-sensitive and
make it tougher."
Lyllin's expression changed. “What kind of spot?” He was silent. She looked at him steadily, her eyes searching his face. “It's something dangerous, isn't it?"
"I'd have told you about it if it were something I could tell you,” he said. “You know that. Will you forget it? And forget about these people being my people!"
He went out with her and Lyllin went through the introductions, cool and proud. He saw admiration in Mallinson's eyes, but that did not make Birrel like the tall, young diplomat any better. Then he stepped aside from the group as Brescnik came up for orders.
"Two-day leaves for one-third of the personnel, in rotation,” Birrel said. “I want duty kept up."
Brescnik looked surprised, “If you say so. But there'll be some grumbling."
"Let them grumble. Check out any necessary refitting right away. Port facilities here can take care of that."
Brescnik grunted. “I've seen better facilities on fifth grade planets. Plenty old! But we'll make out."
Charteris’ car swept them along a broad highway toward the east, the chairman explaining to Birrel that in this congested region cars were favored over flitters. While Mallinson chatted brightly with Lyllin, Charteris kept up a pleasant and wholly perfunctory conversation that gave Birrel little chance to look closely at the passing landscape.
In these flying glimpses, Earth did not look too strange or different. It was a green world, but lots of E-type worlds were that, and many of them had blue skies and fleecy, white clouds like this one. The sun, setting now behind them, seemed changing its light from soft gold to reddish and the long rays struck across tracts of conventional plastic-and-metal houses such as one might see on any modern world. Then as they went on farther, Birrel sat up straight and stared ahead. In the blaze of sunset light there rose the most surprising city he had ever seen.
Battle for the Stars: The Space Opera Classic Page 5