He set his teeth and gave the order. “Formations three and five to area sixteen—"
"Sir!” yelled Venner, interrupting. Birrel swung on him furiously. To interrupt a commanding officer's orders during an action was so monstrous an offense, as to be incredible.
Venner did not seem to care. He pointed at the screen and babbled, “They're coming out—the UW—look at them!"
Laney had suddenly burst out of the shelter of the Belt. Those flying flecks, tight-bunched on the radar screen, were the UW's little fleet. Disregarding all defensive evasion tactics, it was careening at highest planetary speeds toward the left end of the Orionid formation.
The Orionid flecks shifted swiftly to form front and meet this reckless flank punch. But two of the flecks winked out as missiles hit them and through that gap in their formation Laney flung the UW fleet.
It was a suicidal attack that could not possibly persist for long against the superior Orionid weight. But it kept on going, the UW tight formation like a sword that was being thrust right into the bigger fleet. The Orionids started to bunch around that sword, to destroy it within the next few minutes by a concentrated missile fire that could not possibly be jammed.
But Birrel had instantly realized the one reason why Laney had made his desperate sortie. It was up to the Fifth to do the rest.
"Cone out!” he ordered into the mike that carried his voice to every ship in the Fifth.
The columns of the Fifth seemed to explode, on the radar screen. They flew apart, the individual ships racing toward the bunched-up enemy and, at the same time, shifting into a new formation. The cone—a gigantic candle-snuffer speeding toward the Orionid mass.
The Orionid commander had not time enough to disengage with Laney and fan out defensively. The Fifth's cone was almost upon him. The Orionid ships recoiled from the threat, toward the edge of the Belt. The UW cruisers, hanging on like dogs to a bear, went with them.
The Fifth was committed, and Birrel ran out of the radar room to the bridge. The Starsong heeled over, its generators screaming now and its fabric shuddering, and Birrel pitched and stumbled into the bridge where the screens were now alive with light.
Garstang's face flashed, wild and sweaty. “We're crowding them into the Belt. They can't disengage in time—by God, look at those Earthmen!"
They were in such comparatively close contact now that the view-screens, drawing upon short-range radar to build their visual images, showed the whole scene.
The fight had barged into the fringes of the Belt. Drift was all around them, from particles of sand that tapped and banged and clattered against the Starsong's hull, to massive boulders that came at them like juggernauts of stone. The automatic proximity-warnings kept up a schizophrenic screeching in the calc-room, and their imperative orders to the control-relays constantly contravened the human helmsman. All around them the ships of the Fifth were similarly floundering, were awing, and then pressing forward again in a staggering, crazy battle. The Orionids, drawing back as they frantically sought to re-form, were even more deeply entangled in the drift and could not reform.
Witch-fires of unholy brilliance began to flare here and there through the tangle, great bloomings of nuclear flame that paled the stars and then winked out. Birrel, appalled, thought at first that both sides must be losing ships at an incredible rate. Then he glimpsed a fifty-ton boulder, that came whirling down on the Starsong, suddenly explode in a white fury that blanked out all the screens. It had been hit by a missile, and that Orionid missile had undoubtedly been intended for their ship.
"Those aren't ships that are getting hit—most of the hits are on the drift,” muttered Garstang. “How the devil can you fight in a mess like this?"
"Laney and his boys are doing it,” Birrel said. “Keep pressing them."
Starships—the majestic giants of the far galaxy intended to operate in the endless parsecs of deep space—were out of their element in the Belt. That went for the Fifth Lyra as well as their enemy. The smaller, old-fashioned UW ships had an advantage here in maneuvering, and they were taking it to the full.
They couldn't stay in here, Birrel thought. They'd all smash up, something had to give, to break—The Orionids did.
There was no change in the wild confusion on the visual view-screens, but Venner yelled suddenly from the radar room. Birrel ran back there.
"Pulling up zenithward,” babbled Venner. “Look, they—"
Birrel saw for himself. Ceasing their futile efforts to reform in the drift, the flecks that were Orionid ships were individually bolting up out of the Belt.
"Follow them, before they can regroup,” Birrel ordered. “Zenith, all ships."
The Orionids were already regrouping, he saw an instant later. But they were doing it while going at accelerating speed away from the Belt and the whole system of Sol.
The Fifth Lyra and the UW ships came fast up out of the drift after them. Falling into a ragged formation of short parallel columns, they moved zenith and west until they were high above the curious, big, ringed planet—Birrel could not remember its name, at the moment—when a message came from Laney. It gave Birrel a sharp pleasure to hear the old admiral's voice.
"Are they really pulling out?"
I think so,” Birrel answered, looking at the radar screen. The Orionid ships were, he estimated, building up a long-jump acceleration program. “Yes. Their surprise strike failed, and they got hurt. We'd better start pursuit."
Laney demurred to that. “Not without authorization from the Chairman. I'll set up a three-way visual circuit. Hold on."
Birrel chafed at the delay. He wanted to start the pursuit-acceleration at once, the chance would not be there for long. But he had lost three light cruisers and one heavy one, as well as half a dozen scouts, and, without the UW ships, he would not be able to bring sufficient fire-power to bear on the Orionids when he did catch up to them.
"Politicians,” he muttered. “Why do they always have to meddle in a fight?"
When he faced both Laney and Charteris on a split screen a few minutes later, his forebodings were justified. Charteris, looking as though he had had as bad a time waiting as they had had fighting, spoke firmly.
"No pursuit. Keep watch out there until it's certain that they're on their way back to Orion."
"And we just let them go?"
Charteris nodded. “We do. This thing isn't generally known yet, though there are rumors. I shall announce that an unidentified force of ships, apparently from some totally unknown power beyond the civilized galaxy, attempted to attack Earth and were repelled by the UW fleet and the Fifth Lyra."
"For God's sake!” cried Birrel. “You're giving Solleremos an out—deliberately!"
"Yes,” said Charteris.
"But why?"
"We've had to fight a battle,” said the chairman. “Thanks to your help, we won it. But we don't want to have to fight a war."
CHAPTER 20
For forty-eight hours, while they kept watching beyond the system of Sol, Birrel raged. During that time messages came in to New York from one Sector capital after another, pledging aid and assistance in case the unknown attackers should return.
"Unknown,” said Birrel furiously. “Every capital in the galaxy knows where they came from. And listen to this—this one tops everything"
It was the message—a bit belated—that Solleremos had sent to the United Worlds. Orion was shocked by the mysterious attack on Earth. Orion would use every resource to attempt to learn the origin of the attackers. The Governor of Orion solemnly promised his aid against them, if they came back...
Birrel broke off and said a profane word.
"I don't know,” said Garstang hesitatingly. “Maybe it was better at that to give Solleremos this way to cover up. Without it, this thing would go on and on."
Birrel turned on him angrily. “So you think Charteris was right to snatch the battle away from us just when we'd won it?"
Garstang shrugged. Then he quit being diplomatic and sa
id doggedly, “We haven't had a war since the old days before space-travel. We don't want one, even if we have to let Solleremos off easy to prevent it. Do we?"
Birrel started a hot answer, but stopped. He realized, hard as it was to admit it to himself, that what Garstang said was simple truth.
"Oh, hell,” he said, turning away, “everyone knows my job better than I do."
Even though Charteris and Garstang might be right, even though the old demon of war, that had been kept caged for many generations, should not be let loose, what was Ferdias going to say to this? The Fifth had carried out Ferdias’ mission, had prevented Solleremos’ grab at Earth. But he could have weakened the power of Orion to do further mischief if he had been able to maul those two squadrons more, and he had not done so. He worried about it.
He was still worried when they finally returned to Earth, leaving a strong guard of UW scouts out on watch. But when the Fifth followed Laney's fleet in, and touched down at New York spaceport, Birrel got a surprise.
It was twilight and the ships of the Fifth loomed up like scarred, battle-weary giants in the dusk. Birrel, walking along the side of the Starsong with Garstang, saw the scars in the side of the great hull. They were not from enemy action—a ship hit by a missile was just annihilated—but from the drift. Every pebble in the Belt seemed to have left its mark, one compartment had been holed twice and only its automatic bulkheads had saved the ship. But the Stardream, next in line, was worse hit than that. A sizable chunk of stone had got through its proximity-radar defenses and had smashed in some of the armor near its stern like tin.
Four major ships gone, with all their crews, and six scouts, and a lot of damage to repair. Birrel felt a reaction of weariness and distaste. He heard a distant uproar of voices over in the part of the spaceport where the even more battered ships of the UW had landed, but it was not until he and Garstang had passed the Stardream that they could see what caused the growing noise.
Men—hundreds of men in the black UW uniform—were running toward the ships of the Fifth. They were utterly without discipline or organization, they were nothing but a yelling mob, and Birrel, tired as he was, felt shock as he contrasted them with his own disciplined crews marching out of their ships. What were they doing, what was the matter with their officers to let them behave like this?
He stared. The UW men were heading, all along the mighty line of the Fifth, toward his own debarking crews. The Earthmen reached the Lyrans. They hit them with their fists. They grabbed them and wrestled them to the ground. They pounded their backs, shook their hands, yelled at them, their voices wild, their faces shining in the twilight.
"What the devil—"
"They're just saving hello,” said Garstang. His voice was mild, but he was grinning. “We fought a battle together, and we won it. Remember?"
Birrel saw that the discipline of the Fifth was crumbling. His crews were breaking ranks under the assault of the rejoicing Earthmen. They were yelling back, striking hands, pounding the backs of the Earthmen in their turn.
"This,” said Birrel, “is a fine way for trained men to act."
There was no conviction at all in his voice.
A quartet of officers in black came toward him and he recognized Laney. The admiral's face was stony, but there was a fire in his eyes that he could not conceal.
He shook Birrel's hand and said stiffly, “My congratulations, Commander. Very well handled. Very."
Birrel said politely, “Well, I must admit that that suicide charge you put on made it a little bit easier for us.
They looked at each other poker-faced for a few moments and then they both began to laugh, and shook hands again.
Venner pushed his way into the group and spoke to Garstang. And in a moment Garstang, suddenly on his best military behavior, came up to Birrel.
"Sir,” he said, “Starsong requires your presence aboard."
Birrel's nerves made a high-jump and then froze. Garstang's face was perfectly impassive, and so was Venner's, but there was only one reason why Starsong would suddenly require him back aboard now. The long awaited message from Ferdias must be coming through.
He turned back to Laney. “Excuse me, sir?"
Laney waved him away. “We all have many things to attend to.” He glanced out over the yelling, cheering mob of men in black and blue uniforms and then he said absently, before turning away, “Do you suppose we should tell the men to stand at ease?"
Birrel went back to the ship with Garstang and Venner.
There were two messages. One was in open code, and addressed to the whole Fifth Lyra. Well done, it said. Lyra Sector and I, personally, are proud. Ferdias.
The second one was in closed code, for Birrel alone.
He took it to his quarters and looked at it stonily for a time before he started to decipher it. He was still worrying about the non-pursuit of Solleremos’ squadrons, and the open message to the Fifth did nothing to reassure him. Naturally, Ferdias would congratulate all hands. There was nothing else he could, or would, do. But the private message to the Commander might not be so friendly. It might even conceivably be something like, You are hereby replaced in command by ... At this end, Birrel felt that he had had no choice but to go along with the orders of the UW Council. But from where Ferdias sat, it might look different.
Birrel sighed and began his decoding.
The first sentences relieved his worries. Who says you're not a diplomat? Good work, Jay.
But the next sentence started his worries all over again, but in a different way.
Take a rest at Orville till further instructions.
Why should Ferdias want him to go back to Orville?
Wasn't this over now? Hadn't the battle been fought and won? What was there left for him to do now, but take part in the commemoration flyover and go home?
Why bother with Orville?
A vacation, perhaps. Reward for a job well done. Go and relax in the country, look over your ancestral fields, forget all about ships and stars.
Maybe.
Maybe it was only because the other things were so fresh in his mind, so strongly connected with the place at Orville that the mere mention of it made him uneasy—Karsh and Tauncer, secret meetings, intrigue and treachery and sudden death.
But that was ridiculous. Karsh was dead, Tauncer was in whatever place the UW people maintained for such as he, and the threat of Orion was thoroughly disposed of as far as Earth was concerned. What was between Orion and Lyra was another matter and had nothing to do with Orville. It was foolish to suppose that Ferdias was suggesting another assignation with some agent there. Birrel shook his head. He was just tired, imagining things. Ferdias was pleased with the way he had handled things and was giving him a leave, and that was all there was to it.
That was fine, only why should Ferdias care where he spent his leave?
Take a rest at Orville. Coming from Ferdias, a suggestion like that was an order.
A cold foreboding settled upon Birrel. There was something wrong here, something hidden. But what?
For no reason at all, there came into his mind the memory of Tauncer, lying rigid with the vera-probe playing on him, saying mechanically in answer to Mallinson's question, “—if he doesn't, Ferdias will grab Earth first."
Birrel told himself he was a fool. Just because Ferdias had further instructions for him did not mean that he had any plans like that. Ferdias had told him that he didn't want Earth.
Ferdias had told him ... Yes. But wouldn't he have told him that even if his plans were quite different? Just as he had let him go into that cluster without telling him the real score until later?
Hell, thought Beryl. I'm building all this up because I'm tired and jumpy. I need sleep.
He was not to get it for a while. Mallinson came. There was a brief and slightly awkward silence, and then Mallinson said stiffly, “The Chairman is waiting for you."
He paused, looking over Birrel's head, his mouth set as though he tasted something bitter.
/> "I would be glad,” he said, “if you would accept my personal apology for past suspicions."
Birrel shrugged. “None is needed."
And on the way back to New York with Mallinson he thought, Why should you of Earth trust Lyra more than Orion, or Leo, or any of the others? Why should you, even now? You don't know what Ferdias may have up his sleeve. I don't know, yet.
New York was blazing. The big crowds that had gathered for the commemoration had something else to commemorate tonight, the victory over the ‘unknown invaders’ that everyone knew had been from Orion. The streets were wild and even Mallinson's official car had trouble getting through.
"The town will belong to the fleet personnel tonight,” Mallinson said. “Your men as well as ours, Commander."
Birrel said gloomily that be hoped people would not get all of his crews drunk.
Mallinson smiled, for the first time. “I can practically guarantee that they will."
They went into the UW tower by a back entrance. Charteris was waiting in a little office. He did not look calm or stony now. He looked, all at the same time, older and careworn and excited and eager.
"Well,” he said. “The Council will want to tender you our formal thanks later, Commander. Right now I wanted to say...” He stopped and looked blank and then said, “I'm not sure just what I did want to say. Maybe just the same thing. Thanks, that is."
Almost shyly, he stuck out his hand.
Then he said, “Sit down, Commander. I can well imagine you're tired. Fortunately, there'll be time enough before the commemoration to give you a rest, and to repair the damage you've suffered."
He went on, when Birrel had sat down, “I had a message today from the governor of Lyra."
Birrel's nerves went hard and tense. “Yes?"
"A very warming message,” Charteris said. He paused. “I'm considered a bit of a dreamer, you know. But I still cherish the idea that someday the Sectors will return to us. Perhaps this is the beginning of new and better things. Who knows?"
Birrel's tension relaxed not at all. He was thinking that this might indeed be the beginning of new things, but that Charteris might not like the new things very much.
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