Staley obviously had more in mind. Blaine realized they were trying to get his attention. "Yes, Mr. Staley?"
"This is Midshipman Gavin Potter, sir," Staley said. "He's told me something I think you ought to hear."
"All right, go ahead." Any diversion from high gravity was welcome.
"There was a church in our street, sir. In a farm town on New Scotland." Potter's voice was soft and low, and he spoke carefully so that he blotted out all but a ghostly remnant of the brogue that made Sinclair's speech so distinctive.
"A church," Blaine said encouragingly. "Not an orthodox church, I take it—"
"No, sir. A Church of Him. There aren't many members. A friend and I snuck inside once, for a joke."
"Did you get caught?"
"I know I'm telling this badly, sir. The thing is— There was a big blowup of an old holo of Murcheson's Eye against the Coal Sack. The Face of God, just like on postcards. Only, only it was different in this picture. The Eye was very much brighter than now, and it was blue-green, not red. With a red dot at one edge."
"It could have been a portrait," Blaine suggested. He took out his pocket computer and scrawled "Church of Him" across its face, then punched for information. The box linked with the ship's library, and information began to roll across its face. "It says the Church of Him believes that the Coal Sack, with that one red eye showing, really is the Face of God. Couldn't they have retouched it to make the eye more impressive?" Rod continued to sound interested; time enough to say something about wasting his time when the middies were through. If they were wasting time . . .
"But-" said Potter.
"Sir—" said Staley, leaning too far forward in his chair.
"One at a time. Mr. Staley?"
"I didn't just ask Potter, sir. I checked with Commander Sinclair. He says his grandfather told him the Mote was once brighter than Murcheson's Eye, and bright green. And the way Gavin's describing that holo—well, sir, stars don't radiate all one color. So—"
"All the more reason to think the holo was retouched. But it is funny, with that intruder coming straight out of the Mote. . ."
"Light," Potter said firmly.
"Light sail!" Rod shouted in sudden realization. "Good thinking." The whole bridge crew turned to look at the Captain. "Renner! Did you say the intruder is moving faster than it ought to be?"
"Yes, sir," Renner answered from his station across the bridge. "If it was launched from a habitable world circling the Mote."
"Could it have used a battery of laser cannon?"
"Sure, why not?" Renner wheeled over. "In fact, you could launch with a small battery, then add more cannon as the vehicle got farther and farther away. You get a terrific advantage that way. If one of the cannon breaks down you've got it right there in your system to repair it."
"Like leaving your motor home," Potter cried, "and you still able to use it."
"Well, there are efficiency problems. Depending on how tight the beam can be held," Renner answered. "Pity you couldn't use it for braking, too. Have you any reason to believe—"
Rod left them telling the Sailing Master about the variations in the Mote. For himself, he didn't particularly care. His problem was, what would the intruder do now?
It was twenty hours to rendezvous when Renner came to Blaine's post and asked to use the Captain's screens. The man apparently could not talk without a view screen connected to a computer. He would be mute with only his voice.
"Captain, look," he said, and threw a plot of the local stellar region on the screen. "The intruder came from here. Whoever launched it fired a laser cannon, or a set of laser cannon—probably a whole mess of them on asteroids, with mirrors to focus them—for about forty-five years, so the intruder would have a beam to travel on. The beam and the intruder both came straight in from the Mote."
"But there'd be records," Blaine said. "Somebody would have seen that the Mote was putting out coherent light."
Renner shrugged. "How good are New Scotland's records?"
"Let's just see." It took only moments to learn that astronomical data from New Scotland were suspect, and no such records were carried in MacArthur's library because of that. "Oh, well. Let's assume you're right."
"But that's the point: it's not right, Captain," Renner protested. "You see, it is possible to turn in interstellar space. What they should have done—"
The new path left the Mote at a slight angle to the first. "Again they coast most of the way. At this point"—where the intruder would have been well past New Cal—"we charge the ship up to ten million volts. The background magnetic field of the Galaxy gives the ship a half turn, and it's coming toward the New Caledonia system from behind. Meanwhile, whoever is operating the beam has turned it off for a hundred and fifty years. Now he turns it on again. The probe uses the beam for braking."
"You sure that magnetic effect would work?"
"It's high school physics! And the interstellar magnetic fields have been well mapped, Captain."
"Well, then, why didn't they use it?"
"I don't know" Renner cried in frustration. "Maybe they just didn't think of it. Maybe they were afraid the lasers wouldn't last. Maybe they didn't trust whoever they left behind to run them. Captain, we just don't know enough about them."
"I know that, Renner. Why get in such a sweat about it? If our luck holds, we'll just damn well ask them."
A slow, reluctant smile broke across Renner's face. "But that's cheating."
"Oh, go get some sleep."
Rod woke to the sound of the speakers: "GRAVITY SHIFT IN TEN MINUTES. STAND BY FOR CHANGE TO ONE STANDARD GRAVITY IN TEN MINUTES."
Blaine smiled—one gravity!—and felt the smile tighten. One hour to match velocities with the intruder. He activated his watch screens, to see a blaze of light fore and aft. MacArthur was sandwiched between two suns. Now Cal was as large as Sol seen from Venus, but brighter; Cal was a hotter star. The intruder was a smaller disc, but brighter still. The sail was concave.
It was effort merely to use the intercom. "Sinclair."
"Engineering, aye aye, Captain."
Rod was pleased to see that Sinclair was in a hydraulic bed. "How's the Field holding, Sandy?"
"Verra well, Captain. Temperature steady."
"Thank you." Rod was pleased. The Langston Field absorbed energy; that was its basic function. It absorbed even the kinetic energy of exploding gas or radiation particles, with an efficiency proportional to the cube of the incoming velocities. In battle, the hellish fury of hydrogen torpedoes, and the concentrated photon energies of lasers, would strike the Field and be dispersed, absorbed, contained. As the energy levels increased, the Field would begin to glow, its absolute black becoming red, orange, yellow, climbing up the spectrum toward the violet.
That was the basic problem of the Langston Field. The energy had to be radiated away; if the Field overloaded, it would release all the stored energy in a blinding white flash, radiating inward as well as outward. It took ship's power to prevent that—and that power was added to the Field's stored energies as well. When the Field grew too hot, ships died. Quickly.
Normally a warship could get hellishly near a sun without being in mortal danger, her Field never growing hotter than the temperature of the star plus the amounts added to maintain control of the Field. Now, with a sun before and another behind, the Field could radiate only to the sides—and that had to be controlled or MacArthur would experience lateral accelerations. The sides were getting narrower and the suns bigger and the Field hotter. A tinge of red showed on Rod's screens. It wasn't an impending disaster, but it had to be watched.
Normal gravity returned. Rod moved quickly to the bridge and nodded to the watch midshipman. "General quarters. Battle stations."
Alarms hooted through the ship.
For 124 hours the intruder had shown no awareness of MacArthur's approach. It showed none now; and it drew steadily closer.
The light sail was a vast expanse of uniform white across the aft scree
ns, until Renner found a small black dot. He played with it until he had a large black dot, sharp edged, whose radar shadow showed it four thousand kilometers closer to MacArthur than the sail behind it.
"That's our target, sir," Renner announced. "They probably put everything in one pod, everything that wasn't part of the sail. One weight at the end of the shrouds to hold the sail steady."
"Right. Get us alongside it, Mr. Renner. Mr. Whitbread! My compliments to the Yeoman of Signals, and I want to send messages in clear. As many bands as he can cover, low power."
"Yes, sir. Recording."
"Hello, light-sail vessel. This is Imperial Ship MacArthur. Give our recognition signals. Welcome to New Caledonia and the Empire of Man. We wish to come alongside. Please acknowledge. Send that in Anglic, Russian, French, Chinese, and anything else you can think of. If they're human there's no telling where they're from."
Fifteen minutes to match. Ship's gravity changed, changed again as Renner began to match velocities and positions with the intruder's cargo pod instead of the sail.
Rod took a moment to answer Sally's call. "Make it fast, Sally. If you please. We're under battle conditions."
"Yes, Rod, I know. May I come to the bridge?"
"Afraid not. All seats occupied."
"I'm not surprised. Rod, I just wanted to remind you of something. Don't expect them to be simple."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Just because they don't use Alderson Drive, you'll expect them to be primitive. Don't. And even if they were primitive, primitive doesn't mean simple. Their techniques and ways of thought may be very complex."
"I'll keep it in mind. Anything else? OK, hang on, Sally. Whitbread, when you've got no other duties, let Miss Fowler know what's going on." He closed the intercom from his mind and looked at the stern screen even as Staley shouted.
The intruder's light sail was rippling. Reflected light ran across it in great, ponderous, wavy lines. Rod blinked but it didn't help; it is very difficult to see the shape of a distorted mirror. "That could be our signal," Rod said. "They're using the mirror to flash—"
The glare became blinding, and all the screens on that side went dead.
The forward scanners were operative and recording. They showed a wide white disc, the star New Caledonia, very close, and approaching very fast, 6 percent of the velocity of light; and they showed it with most of the light filtered away.
For a moment they also showed several odd black silhouettes against that white background. Nobody noticed, in that terrible moment when MacArthur was burned blind; and in the next moment the images were gone.
Kevin Renner spoke into the stunned silence: "They didn't have to shout," he complained.
"Thank you, Mr. Renner," Rod said icily. "Have you other, perhaps more concrete suggestions?"
MacArthur was moving in erratic jolts, but the light sail followed her perfectly. "Yes, sir," Renner said. “We'd do well to leave focus of that mirror."
"Damage control, Captain," Cargill reported from his station aft. “We're getting a lot of energy into the Field. Too much and damned fast, with none of it going anywhere. If it were concentrated it would burn holes in us, but the way it washes across, we can hold maybe ten minutes."
"Captain, I'll steer around behind the sail," Renner said. "At least we've got sunside scanners, and I can remember where the pod was—"
"Never mind that. Take us through the sail," Rod ordered.
"But we don't know—"
"That was an order, Mr. Renner. And you're in a Navy ship."
"Aye aye, sir."
The Field was brick red and growing brighter; but red wasn't dangerous. Not for a while.
As Renner worked the ship, Rod said casually, "You may be assuming the aliens are using unreasonably strong materials. Are you?"
"It's a possibility, sir." MacArthur jolted; she was committed now. Renner seemed to be bracing himself for a shock.
"But the stronger the materials are, Mr. Renner, the thinner they will spread them, so as to pick up the maximum amount of sunlight for the weight. If they have very strong thread they will weave it thin to get more square kilometers per kilo, right? Even if meteors later get a few square km of sail, well, they still made a profit, didn't they? So they'll make it just strong enough."
"Yes, sir," Renner sang. He was driving at four gees, keeping Cal directly astern; he was grinning like a thief, and he was no longer bracing himself for the crash.
Well, I convinced him, Rod thought; and braced himself for the crash.
The Langston Field was yellow with heat.
Then, suddenly, the sunward scanners showed black except for the green-hot edge of MacArthur's own Field, and a ragged blazing silhouette of white where MacArthur had ripped through the intruder's sail.
"Hell, we never felt it!" Rod laughed. "Mr. Renner. How long before we impact the sun?"
"Forty-five minutes, sir. Unless we do something about it."
"First things first, Mr. Renner. You keep us matched up with the sail, and right here." Rod activated another circuit to reach the Gunnery Officer. "Crawford! Put some light on that sail and see if you can find the shroud connections. I want you to cut the pod off that parachute before they fire on us again!"
"Aye aye, sir." Crawford seemed happy at the prospect.
There were thirty-two shrouds in all: twenty-four around the edge of the circular fabric mirror and a ring of eight nearer the center. Conical distortions in the fabric told where they were. The back of the sail was black; it flashed to vapor under the pinpoint attack of the forward laser batteries.
Then the sail was loose, billowing and rippling as it floated toward MacArthur. Again the ship swept through, as if the light sail were so many square kilometers of tissue paper. . .
And the intruder's pod was falling loose toward an F8 sun.
"Thirty-five minutes to impact," Renner said without being asked.
"Thank you, Mr. Renner. Commander Cargill, take the con. You will take that pod in tow."
And Rod felt a wild internal glee at Renner's astonishment.
Chapter Seven
The Crazy Eddie Probe
"But—" said Renner and pointed at Cal's growing image on the bridge screens. Before he could say anything else MacArthur leaped ahead at six gees, no smooth transition this time. Jolt meters swung wildly as the ship hurtled straight toward the looming sun.
"Captain?" Through the roaring blood in his ears Blaine heard his exec call from the after bridge. "Captain, how much damage can we sustain?"
It was an effort to speak. "Anything that'll get us home," Rod gasped.
"Roger." Cargill’s orders sounded through the intercom. "Mr. Potter! Is hangar deck clear to vacuum? All shuttles stowed?"
"Yes, sir." The question was irrelevant under battle conditions, but Cargill was a careful man.
"Open the hangar doors," Cargill ordered. "Captain, we might lose the hangar deck hatches."
"Rape 'em."
"I'm bringing the pod aboard fast, no time to match velocities. We'll take damage—"
"You have the con, Commander. Carry out your orders." There was a red haze on the bridge. Rod blinked, but it was still there, not in the air but in his retinas. Six gravities was too much for sustained effort. If anyone fainted—well, they'd miss all the excitement.
"Kelley!" Rod barked. "When we turn ship, take the Marines aft and stand by to intercept anything coming out of that pod! And you'd better move fast. Cargill won't hold acceleration."
"Aye aye, sir." Six gravities and Kelley's gravel rasp was the same as ever.
The pod was three thousand kilometers ahead, invisible even to the clearest vision, but growing steadily on the bridge screens, steadily but slowly, much too slowly, even as Cal seemed to grow too fast.
Four minutes at six gravities. Four minutes of agony, then the alarms hooted. There was a moment of blessed relief. Kelley's Marines clattered through the ship, diving in the low, shifting gravity as MacArthur turned end f
or end. There wouldn't be acceleration couches back there where the Marines would cover hangar deck. Webbing straps to suspend the men in corridors, others in the hangar space itself hung like flies in a spiderweb, weapons ready—ready for what?
The alarms sounded, and jolt meters swung again as MacArthur braked toward the pod. Rod turned his screen controls with an effort. There was hangar deck, cold and dark, the fuzzy outline of the inner surface of the ship's defensive field an impossible black. Good, he thought. No significant heat storage. Plenty of capacity to take up the rotational energy of the pod if it had any, slow down the impact to something that MacArthur might be able to handle.
Eight minutes at six gees, the maximum the crew would be able to stand. Then the intruder was no longer ahead as MacArthur turned and fell toward it sidewise. The crushing acceleration ended, then there was low side thrust as Cargill fired the port batteries to slow their headlong rush to the pod.
It was cylindrical, with one rounded end, tumbling through space. As it turned Rod saw that the other end was jagged with a myriad of projections—thirty-two projections? But there should have been shrouds trailing from those knobs, and there was nothing.
It was moving up to MacArthur far too fast, and it was too big to fit in the hangar deck. The thing was massive, too damn massive! And there was nothing to brake with to the sides but the port batteries!
It was here. Hangar deck camera showed the rounded end of the intruder, dull and metallic, pushing through the Langston Field, slowing, the rotation stopping, but still it moved relative to MacArthur. The battle cruiser surged sidewise, terribly, throwing the crew against their harness straps, while the rounded end of the pod grew and grew and— CRUNCH!
Rod shook his head to clear it of the red mist which had formed again. "Get us out of here. Mr. Renner, take the con!"
Jolt meters swung before the acceleration alarms; Renner must have set up the course in advance and slapped the keys the instant he was given control. Blaine peered at the dials through the crimson mist. Good, Renner wasn't trying anything fancy; just blast lateral to MacArthur's course and let the sun whip her around. Were they accelerating in the plane of Cal's planets? Be tricky to rendezvous with Lermontov for hydrogen. If they couldn't bring Mac in on this pass, she'd have dry tanks . . . fuzzily Blaine touched display controls and watched as the main computer showed a course plot. Yes. Renner had set it up properly, and fast work too.
The Mote In God's Eye Page 7