I walked into the wardroom, drew a cup of near-coffee, and sat down. The screen showed a beach with booming surf. The sound track picked up the crash and hiss of the breakers. Considering the red plague that now covered the scene, I thought it was a poor choice. I dialed for a high view of rolling farmland.
Mannion sat at a table across the room with Kirschenbaum. They were hunched over their cups, not talking. I wondered where they stood. Mannion, Communications Officer, was neurotic, but an old Armed Force man. Discipline meant a lot to him. Kirschenbaum, Power Chief, was a joker, with cold eyes, and smarter than he seemed. The question was whether he was smart enough to idealize the stupidity of retreat now.
Kramer walked in, not wasting any time. He saw me and came over. He stopped a few feet from the table, and said loudly, "Captain, I'd like to know your plans, now that the possibility of continuing is out."
I sipped my near-coffee and looked at the rolling farmland. I didn't answer him. If I could get him mad, I could take him at his game.
Kramer turned red. He didn't like being ignored. The two at the other table were watching.
"Captain," Kramer said loudly. "As Medical Officer I have to know what measures you're taking to protect the health of the men."
This was a little better. He was on the defensive now; explaining why he had a right to question his Commander. I wanted him a little hotter though.
I looked up at him. "Kramer," I said in a clear, not too loud voice, "you're on watch. I don't want to find you hanging around the wardroom making light chit-chat until you're properly relieved from duty." I went back to my near-coffee and the farmland. A river was in view now, and beyond it distant mountains.
Kramer was furious. "Joyce has relieved me, Captain," he said, controlling his voice with an effort. "I felt I'd better take this matter up with you as soon as possible, since it affects the health of every man aboard." He was trying to keep cool, in command of himself.
"I haven't authorized any changes in the duty roster, Major," I said mildly. "Report to your post." I was riding the habit of discipline now, as far as it would carry me. I hoped that disobedience to a direct order, solidly based on regulations, was a little too big a jump for Kramer at the moment. Tomorrow it might be different. But it was essential that I break up the scene he was staging.
He wilted. "I'll see you at 1700 in the chart room, Kramer," I said as he turned away. Mannion and Kirschenbaum looked at each other, then finished their near-coffee hurriedly and left. I hoped their version of the incident would help deflate Kramer's standing among the malcontents.
I left the wardroom and took the lift up to the bridge and checked with Clay and his survey team.
"I think I've spotted a slight perturbation in Delta 3, Captain," Clay said. "I'm not sure, we're still pretty far out."
"All right, Clay," I said. "Stay with it."
Clay was one of my more dependable men, dedicated to his work. Unfortunately, he was no man of action. He would have little influence in a show-down.
* * * * *
I was at the Schmidt when I heard the lift open. I turned; Kramer, Fine, Taylor, and a half a dozen enlisted crew chiefs crowded out, bunched together. They were all wearing needlers. At least they'd learned that much, I thought.
Kramer moved forward. "We feel that the question of the men's welfare has to be dealt with right away, Captain," he said smoothly.
I looked at him coldly, glanced at the rest of his crew. I said nothing.
"What we're faced with is pretty grim, even if we turn back now. I can't be responsible for the results if there's any delay," Kramer said. He spoke in an arrogant tone. I looked them over, let the silence build.
"You're in charge of this menagerie?" I said, looking at Kramer. "If so, you've got thirty seconds to send them back to their kennels. We'll go into the matter of unauthorized personnel on the bridge later. As for you, Major, you can consider yourself under arrest in quarters. Now Move."
Kramer was ready to stare me down, but Fine gave me a break by tugging at his sleeve. Kramer shook him loose, snarling. At that the crew chiefs faded back into the lift. Fine and Taylor hesitated, then joined them. Kramer started to shout after them, then got hold of himself. The lift moved down.
Kramer thought about going for his needler. I looked at him through narrowed eyes. He decided to rely on his mouth, as usual. He licked his lips. "All right, I'm under arrest," he said. "But as Medical Officer of this vessel it's my duty to remind you that you can't live without a certain minimum of fresh organic food. We've got to start back now." He was pale, but determined. He couldn't bear the thought of getting bald and toothless from dietary deficiency. The girls would never give him another look.
"We're going on, Kramer," I said. "As long as we have a man aboard still able to move. Teeth or no teeth."
"Deficiency disease is no joke, Captain," Kramer said. "You can get all the symptoms of leprosy, cancer and syphilis just by skipping a few necessary elements in your diet. And we're missing most of them."
"Giving me your opinions is one thing, Kramer," I said. "Mutiny is another."
Clay stood beside the main screen, wide-eyed. I couldn't send Kramer down under his guard. "Let's go, Kramer," I said. "I'm locking you up myself."
We rode down in the lift. The men who had been with Kramer stood awkwardly, silent as we stepped out into the passage. I spotted two chronic trouble-makers among them. I thought I might as well call them now as later. "Williams and Nagle," I said, "this officer is under arrest. Escort him to his quarters and lock him in." As they stepped forward hesitantly, Kramer said, "Keep your filthy hooks off me." He started down the passage.
* * * * *
If I could get Kramer put away before anybody else started trouble, I might be able to bluff it through. I followed him and his two sheepish guards down past the power section, and the mess. I hoped there would be no crowd there to see their hero Kramer under guard.
I was out of luck. Apparently word had gone out of Kramer's arrest, and the corridor was clogged with men. They stood unmoving as we approached. Kramer stopped.
"Clear this passage, you men," I said.
Slowly they began to move back, giving ground reluctantly.
Suddenly Kramer shouted. "That's right, you whiners and complainers, clear the way so the Captain can take me back to the missile deck and shoot me. You just want to talk about home; you haven't got the guts to do anything about it."
The moving mass halted, milled. Someone shouted, "Who's he think he is, anyway."
Kramer whirled toward me. "He thinks he's the man who's going to let you all rot alive, to save his record."
"Williams, Nagle," I said loudly, "clear this passage."
* * * * *
Williams started half-heartedly to shove at the men nearest him. A fist flashed out and snapped his head back. That was a mistake; Williams pulled his needler, and fired a ricochet down the passage.
"'Bout twelve a you yellow-bellies git outa my way," he yelled. "I'm comin' through."
Nagle moved close to Williams, and shouted something to him. The noise drowned it. Kramer swung back to me, frantic to regain his sway over the mob.
"Once I'm out of the way, there'll be a general purge," he roared. The hubbub faded, as men turned to hear him.
"You're all marked men. He's gone mad. He won't let one of you live." Kramer had their eyes now. "Take him now," he shouted, and seized my arm to begin the action.
He'd rushed it a little. I hit him across the face with the back of my hand. No one jumped to his assistance. I drew my 2mm. "If you ever lay a hand on your Commanding Officer again, I'll burn you where you stand, Kramer."
Then a voice came from behind me. "You're not killing anybody without a trial, Captain." Joyce stood there with two of the crew chiefs, needler in hand. Fine and Taylor were not in sight.
I pushed Kramer out of my way and walked up to Joyce.
"Hand me that weapon, Junior, butt first," I said. I looked him in the ey
e with all the glare I had. He stepped back a pace.
"Why don't you jump him," he called to the crowd.
The wall annunciator hummed and spoke.
"Captain Greylorn, please report to the bridge. Unidentified body on main scope."
Every man stopped in his tracks, listening. The annunciator continued. "Looks like it's decelerating, Captain."
I holstered my pistol, pushed past Joyce, and trotted for the lift. The mob behind me broke up, talking, as men under long habit ran for action stations.
Clay was operating calmly under pressure. He sat at the main screen, and studied the blip, making tiny crayon marks.
"She's too far out for a reliable scanner track, Captain," he said, "but I'm pretty sure she's braking."
If that were true, this might be the break we'd been living for. Only manned or controlled bodies decelerated in deep space.
"How did you spot it, Clay?" I asked. Picking up a tiny mass like this was a delicate job, even when you knew its coordinates.
"Just happened to catch my eye, Captain," he said. "I always make a general check every watch of the whole forward quadrant. I noticed a blip where I didn't remember seeing one before."
"You have quite an eye, Clay," I said. "How about getting this object in the beam."
"We're trying now, Captain," he said. "That's a mighty small field, though."
Joyce called from the radar board, "I think I'm getting an echo at 15,000, sir. It's pretty weak."
Miller, quiet and meticulous, delicately tuned the beam control. "Give me your fix, Joyce," he said. "I can't find it."
Joyce called out his figures, in seconds of arc to three places.
"You're right on it, Joyce," Miller called a minute later. "I got it. Now pray it don't get away when I boost it."
Clay stepped over behind Miller. "Take it a few mags at a time," he said calmly.
I watched Miller's screen. A tiny point near the center of the screen swelled to a spec, and jumped nearly off the screen to the left. Miller centered it again, and switched to a higher power. This time it jumped less, and resolved into two tiny dots.
* * * * *
Step by step the magnification was increased as ring after ring of the lens antenna was thrown into play. Each time the centering operation was more delicate. The image grew until it filled a quarter of the screen. We stared at it in fascination.
It showed up in stark silhouette, in the electronic "light" of the radar scope. Two perfect discs, joined by a fine filament. As we watched, their relative positions slowly shifted, one moving across, half occluding the other.
As the image drifted, Miller worked with infinite care at his console to hold it on center, in sharp focus.
"Wish you'd give me an orbit on this thing, Joyce," he said, "so I could lock onto it."
"It ain't got no orbit, man," Joyce said. "I'm trackin' it, but I don't understand it. That rock is on a closing curve with us, and slowin' down fast."
"What's the velocity, Joyce?" I asked.
"Averagin' about 1,000 relative, Captain, but slowin' fast."
"All right, we'll hold our course," I said.
I keyed for a general announcement.
"This is the Captain," I said. "General Quarters. Man action stations and prepare for possible contact within one hour."
"Missile Section. Arm No. 1 Battery and stand by."
Then I added, "We don't know what we've got here, but it's not a natural body. Could be anything from a torpedo on up."
I went back to the Beam screen. The image was clear, but without detail. The two discs slowly drew apart, then closed again.
"I'd guess that movement is due to rotation of two spheres around a common center," Clay said.
"I agree with you," I said. "Try to get me a reading on the mass of the object."
I wondered whether Kramer had been locked up as I had ordered, but at this moment it seemed unimportant. If this was, as I hoped, a contact with our colony, all our troubles were over.
The object (I hesitated to call it a ship) approached steadily, still decelerating. Now Clay picked it up on the televideo, as it paralleled our course forty-five hundred miles out.
"Captain, it's my guess the body will match speeds with us at about 200 miles, at his present rate of deceleration," Clay said.
"Hold everything you've got on him, and watch closely for anything that might be a missile," I said.
* * * * *
Clay worked steadily over his chart table. Finally he turned to me. "Captain, I get a figure of over a hundred million tons mass; and calibrating the scope images gives us a length of nearly two miles."
I let that sink in. I had a strong and very empty feeling that this ship, if ship it were, was not an envoy from any human colony.
The annunciator hummed and spoke. "Captain, I'm getting a very short wave transmission from a point out on the starboard bow. Does that sound like your torpedo?" It was Mannion.
"That's it, Mannion," I said. "Can you make anything of it?"
"No, sir," he answered. "I'm taping it, so I can go to work on it."
Mannion was our language and code man. I hoped he was good.
"What does it sound like," I asked. "Tune me in."
After a moment a high hum came from the speaker. Through it I could hear harsh chopping consonants, a whining intonation. I doubted that Mannion would be able to make anything of that gargle.
Our Bogie closed steadily. At four hundred twenty-five miles he reversed relative directions, and began matching our speed, moving closer to our course. There was no doubt he planned to parallel us.
I made a brief announcement to all hands describing the status of the action. Clay worked over his televideo, trying to clear the image. I watched as the blob on the screen swelled and flickered. Suddenly it flashed into clear stark definition. Against a background of sparkling black, the twin spheres gleamed faintly in reflected starlight.
There were no visible surface features; the iodine-colored forms and their connecting shaft had an ancient and alien look.
We held our course steadily, watching the stranger maneuver. Even at this distance it looked huge.
"Captain," Clay said, "I've been making a few rough calculations. The two spheres are about 800 yards in diameter, and at the rate the structure is rotating it's pulling about six gravities."
That settled the question of human origin of the ship. No human crew would choose to work under six gee's.
Now, paralleling us at just over two hundred miles, the giant ship spun along, at rest relative to us. It was visible now through the direct observation panel, without magnification.
* * * * *
I left Clay in charge on the bridge, and I went down to the Com Section.
Joyce sat at his board, reading instruments and keying controls. So he was back on the job. Mannion sat, head bent, monitoring his recorder. The room was filled with the keening staccato of the alien transmission.
"Getting anything on video?" I asked. Joyce shook his head. "Nothing, Captain. I've checked the whole spectrum, and this is all I get. It's coming in on about a dozen different frequencies; no FM."
"Any progress, Mannion?" I said.
He took off his headset. "It's the same thing, repeated over and over, just a short phrase. I'd have better luck if they'd vary it a little."
"Try sending," I said.
Joyce tuned the clatter down to a faint clicking, and switched his transmitter on. "You're on, Captain," he said.
"This is Captain Greylorn, UNACV Galahad; kindly identify yourself." I repeated this slowly, half a dozen times. It occurred to me that this was the first known time in history a human being had addressed a non-human intelligence. The last was a guess, but I couldn't interpret our guest's purposeful maneuverings as other than intelligent.
I checked with the bridge; no change. Suddenly the clatter stopped, leaving only the carrier hum.
"Can't you tune that whine out, Joyce?" I asked.
"No, sir,
" he replied. "That's a very noisy transmission. Sounds like maybe their equipment is on the blink."
We listened to the hum, waiting. Then the clatter began again.
"This is different," Mannion said. "It's longer."
I went back to the bridge, and waited for the next move from the stranger, or for word from Mannion. Every half hour I transmitted a call identifying us, followed by a sample of our language. I gave them English, Russian, and Standard Interlingua. I didn't know why, but somehow I had a faint hope they might understand some of it.
I stayed on the bridge when the watch changed. I had some food sent up, and slept a few hours on the OD's bunk.
Fine replaced Kramer on his watch when it rolled around. Apparently Kramer was out of circulation. At this point I did not feel inclined to pursue the point.
We had been at General Quarters for twenty-one hours when the wall annunciator hummed.
"Captain, this is Mannion. I've busted it...."
"I'll be right there," I said, and left at a run.
Mannion was writing as I entered ComSection. He stopped his recorder and offered me a sheet. "This is what I've got so far, Captain," he said.
I read: INVADER; THE MANCJI PRESENCE OPENS COMMUNICATIONS.
"That's a highly inflected version of early Interlingua, Captain," Mannion said. "After I taped it, I compensated it to take out the rise-and-fall tone, and then filtered out the static. There were a few sound substitutions to figure out, but I finally caught on. It still doesn't make much sense, but that's what it says."
"I wonder what we're invading," I said. "And what is the 'Mancji Presence'?"
"They just repeat that over and over," Mannion said. "They don't answer our call."
"Try translating into old Interlingua, adding their sound changes, and then feeding their own rise-and-fall routine to it," I said. "Maybe that will get a response."
I waited while Mannion worked out the message, then taped it on top of their whining tone pattern. "Put plenty of horse-power behind it," I said. "If their receivers are as shaky as their transmitter, they might not be hearing us."
We sent for five minutes, then tuned them back in and waited. There was a long silence from their side, then they came back with a long spluttering sing-song.
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