"We're on course for the solar system, aren't we? Why not rest now?" Connor suggested.
Persoons' lips drew back from his strong, yellowed teeth. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, priest? For me to get out of the way and let you take over."
"I was merely ..." Connor began to protest.
"Sondergaard!" called Persoons. "Get this sniveling Bible puncher off my bridge and take him back to the women and children, where he belongs."
"Yes, Hendrik." The tall Swede took bold of the priest's arm and began to lead him toward the door.
"And Sondergaard!" bellowed Persoons.
The two stopped and turned. The Eurasian was standing now, arms akimbo, his face filled with a new, fanatical light as the drug capsules poured their stimulation into his system.
"If he gives you any trouble, shoot him!" Persoons ordered. "I will have discipline and a complete obedience!"
Outside in the corridor, Connor turned to Sondergaard. "How long has he been like this?"
"It's been getting worse, ever since the takeover," said the big Swede.
"He's quite mad—you understand that?"
Sondergaard shifted uneasily. "Maybe . . . but we're completely dependent on him. He's the only person who can handle the ship."
"There are still Lacombe and his officers," Connor pointed out
"For God's sake!" Sondergaard put his fingers to his mouth. "If he hears you making suggestions like that, he'll shoot us both!"
Secretary Fong raised one slender brown hand. "All right, Commander Bruce. Spare me the technicalities. Just tell me this: assuming that we are dealing with a hostile, alien ship, how long have we to prepare ourselves?"
Brace's hard face remained steady in the desk vidphone screen. "If the UFO maintains present course and speed, it will reach Earth's orbit within, say, twenty-four hours."
Henry Fong glanced at the wall clock. Twenty-four hours to the most important meeting in the history of mankind, and President Oharo was on Moon, already under sedation. Well, Henry, you always wanted responsibility.
"I suppose you're quite certain that this couldn't be some kind of false alarm?" he said. "What I mean is, who have you got out there on Perimeter Station Fifteen?"
"The station is manned by three carefully selected units of Space Corps personnel, in the final phase of their officer training."
"Of course, Commander, of course," Fong said. "And how soon can we expect positive identification of this ship?"
"Within an hour, at the latest"
"And if that identification is hostile?"
"Then I shall notify a Red Alert."
"After first informing me, as the President's representative."
"That is the procedure, sir." Bruce's face was impassive.
"A Red Alert entails the grounding of all ships, disruption of trade and transport. It could be expensive for you, Commander, should it prove a false alarm."
"Even more expensive for all of us, if it isn't," Bruce said calmly.
By God, Carter's right, thought Fong. This is a cool one; prepared to make his own decisions, and to stick to them.
"Quite so, Commander," he said. "Keep me informed. Is there anything else?"
"One thing, sir. If this is a Kilroy ship, I want presidential permission to go out there and meet it."
"But surely there are already patrol ships in that sector?"
"System Patrol has six ships, sir," Bruce said. "Four of those are in space at the moment, and only one is any nearer to the sector concerned than Earth itself— and then only a matter of a few thousand miles."
"Even so, Commander, it seems to me that your job is at headquarters."
"Command ship carries the heaviest armament of all, and she's ready," Bruce said. "In this situation, she is the obvious choice."
"We'll talk again when you've received positive identification from Station Fifteen," Fong said firmly.
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, and Commander—"
"Sir?"
"I appreciate your motives for wanting to be first out there. But even if this is a Kilroy ship, we can't be absolutely certain that their intentions are hostile until contact has been established."
"I doubt if they're on a pleasure trip, sir," Bruce said. His face faded from the screen.
In other words, screw you, sir, thought Henry Fong. He smiled quietly to himself. Bruce was not afraid to voice his opinion, he had confidence in his own judgment. It was a comfort to have such men around at a time like this.
He leaned across and switched on the internal vid. "Vargas! Get me Admiral Hoffner on moon, will you? Top secret and scramble!"
*8*
Things ain't bad here,
Don't get me wrong.
But you could have died on Earth
And saved the fare.
(COLONISTS' LAMENT : O Krlh. 2135)
ELKAN NIEBOHR, President of the Excelsior Colonization Corporation, had the reputation of being an honest man. Although well aware that such labels could be of dubious value, after certain investigations of his own Henry Fong had come to the conclusion that, in this instance at least, the majority opinion was relatively correct; that is, provided one did not dig back too far into the man's past. There had been times, back in his earlier, struggling days, when Niebohr had been known to cut a few corners here and there, to bend the law a little to his own advantage. Fong found these past failings not the least disturbing. What Elkan Niebohr had done in the past he would not do again; now a man of tremendous wealth and power, he had no need of such methods. Therefore, in the only meaningful sense as far as Fong was concerned, Elkan Niebohr was an honest man. Q.E.D.
"Hallo there, Henry! Nice to see you!" Like everything else about him, Elkan Niebohr's smile was big. He was massive, with a large, hooked nose, and almost bald.
"Elkan!" Henry Fong's smile was, for him, comparatively uninhibited. He admired professionalism in any field. "How are Jane and the kids?"
"Kids!" boomed Niebohr. "Don't spoil my digestion this early in the day, Henry, please."
"What can I do for you, Henry?"
"There's been something of a panic on at Patrols," Fong said. "One of the Perimeter Stations spotted a UFO headed into the system and raised a purple alert"
Niebohr's big form stiffened. "Aliens?"
"That was the big question, of course," Fong said.
"Was?"
"Yes. It turns out that the ship is a Goddess-class freighter. We haven't been able to make radio contact with her yet, but data so far indicates that she's one of your colonization ships, the Athena, and she's in trouble."
"Athena—she's supposed to be on her way to Hegenis Three," Niebohr said. "Gregory Lacombe in command; he's one of our best men."
"Yes, we have all details of crew and passengers," Fong said. "On the face of it, they're just a mixed bag of colonists bound for a virgin planet As we haven't yet been able to make direct contact, I was wondering if there was anything helpful you might be able to tell me at this stage?"
Niebohr's dark eyes were guarded. "You mentioned trouble; what kind of trouble?"
"Well, obviously things aren't quite as they should be, otherwise she would have answered the identification calls from Perimeter Station Fifteen," Fong said. "Also, there's something about her drive being out of phase. I'm not a technical man myself, but I understand that can be serious."
"You're darned right it can be serious," Niebohr said. "But I don't understand how it could happen with a man like Lacombe in charge. What action has been taken so far?"
"The System Patrol Commander is on his way now."
"To do what?"
"I take it that the first priority will be to make some kind of contact," Fong said.
Elk an Niebohr's monolithic face was as inscrutable as Henry Fong's bland, oriental features. They eyed each other, through the medium of their vidphone screens, like two powerful, well-matched beasts, each waiting for some move from the other.
"But you have a theory, don't you,
Henry?" Niebohr said, at length.
It was Fong's turn to shrug. "There are several possibilities, of course. But there is one in particular that seems to fit the facts, as we know them so far . . . especially since you have confirmed my data on Captain Lacombe. Even if he did encounter some kind of engine trouble, he would hardly be likely to turn back from his scheduled course, and he would most certainly not ignore a request for identification from a Perimeter Station. This being so, I can only assume that Captain Lacombe is no longer in command of the Athena."
Niebohr nodded. "Have the CSC been notified of the situation?"
"So far, there is no reason to suggest that this is any of their affair," Fong said smoothly. "But, of course, when the return of Athena becomes a matter of public knowledge, then the committee will no doubt feel it necessary to make some inquiries. I'm sure that you have nothing to conceal, Elkan, but there are certain radical elements on the committee who would like nothing better than an opportunity to discredit an organization as big and respected as the Excelsior Corporation. I hope I don't need to be more explicit?"
"No, Henry, indeed you don't." Elkan Niebohr allowed himself the relaxation of a smile. "Thank you for calling. I'll start the ball rolling right away and let you know immediately if anything unusual turns up."
"And I, in turn, will keep you in the picture with regard to the patrol operation," said Fong. "Good-bye Elkan." He switched off the vidphone, reflecting that it was a real pleasure to deal with a man like Elkan Niebohr, whose motives he understood.
"Hear what he's saying!" Lesage squealed. "The ship's going to blow up!"
Persoons' anger returned. "That isn't what I said at all, you stupid cloddie! Now listen! The engine compartment is sealed off from the rest of the ship, as any idiot knows, so even if it blows to hell and gone, the passenger and crew sections should remain intact. But there could be a certain amount of radiation hazard. That's why I suggest you move our people."
"Will do, Hendrik," Kolukwe said. "But if the engines blow out, how do we get back to Earth?"
"We put out a call to the Patrol, and they send out a couple of scouts with magnetic grapples to guide us in," Persoons said. "Ifs been done dozens of times with crippled ships."
"Then why not cut out both engines right now and make a call, without taking any further risks?" Kolukwe asked.
"Because I'm in charge here!" Persoons gritted. "I’ve brought the Athena this far, and I’m going to take her the rest of the way, if it's humanly possible."
Kolukwe faced the broad, implacable features of the Eurasian. It was clear to him, at least, that anybody who disputed Persoons' right to control the ship would have to be prepared to fight to the death; and for Kolukwe there had already been too much blood.
"Sure you are, Hendrik. We'll do as you say." He turned to the silent Lesage. "Come on!" They walked out of the compartment.
Alone on the bridge, Persoons moved back to the control console. Stupid cloddies! They knew nothing, and it was impossible to share his burden with them, to explain to them that there was at least a fifty-fifty chance that before the engines blew, the vibration of their opposing force could breach the hull of the ship— or to explain that despite the fact that the engine compartment was sealed off from the rest of the ship, there was always the chance that the force of the explosion might be channelled inward rather than out into space.
There must be a way . . . there had to be. To have come so far, to have sacrificed so much, and then to fail was unthinkable. His hands began to creep over the controls, making tiny, hopeful adjustments.
PO Dockridge swung into System Patrols Main Control, looking like a terrier rooting for rabbits in undergrowth. He wore a blue zipsuit and his cap was on the back of his head. He was complaining as he came through the door.
"This had better be urgent. A man of my age has to watch his beauty sleep. There was I, dreaming of my wild colonial gel, when. . ." He fetched up against Weiss, who was staring at the transparent globe of the macro-simulator. "Is the boss up?"
"Uh-uh," Weiss said, pointing to a blinking red dot that was nearing the orbit of Moon and would soon be passing out of range of the simulator. "Number Two is with him."
"What's the bug?" Dockridge asked.
"Goddess-type freighter coming in on sector RQ365, reported by Station Fifteen," Weiss said. "No communications contact with her so far, and it looks as though her drive is out of phase."
"Nasty!" Dockridge said. "And Brace is going out to meet her?"
"That's the general idea."
"Anyone else?"
"Ships Two and Three are on stand-by—but he's going to see what he can do alone, first." Weiss grunted as the red dot readied the edge of the simulator and winked out. "We'll have to follow him through planetary relay now." He turned to where Linda Barutz was hunched over a control panel "You getting anything from Moon?"
Barutz jabbed a finger at the blurred screen to the right of the panel. "If you call that anything," she said disgustedly.
Dockridge frowned. "Damned solar storms! Wouldn't you know we'd get an emergency?" He slid a hand over her shoulder, momentarily possessive.
A loudspeaker on Weiss's console broke into life, relaying the voice of Leading Crewwoman Sharon, who was monitoring messages from Perimeter Station Fifteen.
"Station Fifteen reports estimated speed of freighter as .302 Light, and increasing; .302 Light and increasing."
Dockridge exhaled explosively. "Did I say emergency? You had a course analysis on that thing yet, Weiss?"
"Perimeter and planetary stations are working on it now."
"Blind O'bloody Reilly, they'd better be," Dockridge said. "At those speeds, it may be later than we all think!"
*9*
We'll find a planet all of our own,
With no one there to annoy us.
No long-range receiver or radiophone,
No alien bugs to destroy us.
We'll live us a life of love and ease,
Devoted to high-level beauty,
Till some silly crug with his mind
full of cheese
Turns up and starts talking of duty.
(SPACE CORPS DITTY)
Seated beside Tom Bruce in the control cabin of the command scout, Helen Lindstrom gasped as the estimated speed came through her headphones. She turned to her companion. "Did you hear that?"
"I heard," he said flatly, studying the dials and scopes in front of him. He moved his hand farther back on the throttle control, and Lindstrom felt the surging pressure of high G as the command scout leaped forward, barrelling faster and faster into the spangled blackness.
"I've been thinking," Lindstrom said. "We can't be absolutely sure, until we've made radio contact, that this thing really is an Earth-based ship. What I mean is, if the Kilroys were to send one in, they'd do their best to make it look like one of ours, wouldn't they?"
Bruce flashed her a brief, wolfish grin. "Welcome to the club," he said. He pressed a red clip, and a flap fell, revealing the firing buttons of the six missiles that were the command scout's heaviest armament.
"I think we're getting near enough for me to try direct radio contact," she said.
"Go ahead," Bruce said. "We could use some light conversation."
"The trouble with you, Joe, is ..." Persoons stopped talking as he sensed an abrupt leap in the amount of vibration coursing through the hull of the ship. Swinging his chair round he saw that the dials that registered the thrust generated by the Grenbachs had suddenly gone crazy. His hands flew to the controls and then stayed rigid and impotent with ignorance. The screaming vibration continued to climb in pitch.
A screen on the communications panel lit up, revealing the wide-eyed face of Bose, one of the colonists who were now in Cargo Hold One.
"Persoons! Kolukwe! What's happening? Down here it feels as if the ship is going to fall apart any second."
"Keep those damned cloddies out of my hair!" Persoons snarled over his shoulder.
"W
hat do I tell them?" Kolukwe asked. Two more screens were now live on the communications panel, one showing a male face, the other female, and both were begging for explanations.
There was no reply from Persoons. Head bent over the control console, he was oblivious to everything but the subject of his concentration. Kolukwe used the communications panel camera/mike, composing his features carefully. At all costs he must preserve an outward impression of calm. The faces on the screens were near panic, and he could hear the sound of angry voices as others, out of range of the cameras, shouted to their spokesmen.
"Friends, there's no need to be alarmed," Joe Kolukwe said. "We're on course for Earth, and everything's under control."
"Persoons, where is Persoons?" demanded the dark face of Bose. "We want to hear what he has to say about that."
"Persoons is busy," Kolukwe said. "You'll just have to take my word, for the time being."
"What about the vibration? It's like living inside a circular saw," protested a pale, haggard-faced woman, speaking from Hold Number Three. "The children are frightened, and nothing we say seems to calm them."
"The vibration will pass," Kolukwe said. "Persoons is working on it."
He went on, pacifying them, trying to instil in them a confidence that he did not feel himself: promising them a safe end to their journey and a quick release from the screaming tension generated by the vibration of the drives. Eventually he was successful; the screens flickered off one by one, and he was once more alone on the bridge with Persoons.
He turned and saw to his astonishment that the Eurasian had swung his chair round, turning his back on the flashing red lights and madly climbing needles of the control panel, and sat watching him.
A Thunder Of Stars Page 5