Escape Velocity

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Young Hume, where you go is entirely your own affair.”

  “Nice theory,” Dar approved. “Unfortunately, once you're on a freighter, it's kind of hard to persuade it to change its destination.”

  “Come to that,” Sam chimed in, “there aren't any ships of any kind scheduled to lift off for a month. How're you getting us out of here?”

  Croft sighed. “Haskerville is the only town of any size on the planet; we've something near ninety percent of the population here. Accordingly, I'm de facto planetary governor, as well as mayor. So I've authority over all I.D.E. equipment here; and part of that inventory is a small fleet of outmoded I.D.E. scout ships. I've arranged for Mr. Tambourin to buy one, as government surplus.”

  “To buy a spacer?” Dar's eyes fairly bulged. “All by himself?”

  “Government surplus is ridiculously inexpensive,” Croft noted.

  “Even so—a spacer! How much money does this guy have?”

  “Not much, after this little purchase.” Sam smiled up at the mayor. “Can we hitch a ride, Mr. Croft?”

  “Hey, hold on!” Dar caught her arm. “What do you mean, hitch a ride? We can't trust this man!”

  Sam turned back, frowning up at him. “Why not?”

  “Why not?” Dar spluttered. “I mean . . . look! We're on the run! He's the law!”

  “That's right, he's the law. So if he says to let us go, they'll let us go.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  “Look,” Sam said, with forced patience, “I'm a good judge of character. Have you ever known me to be wrong about who I could trust, and who I couldn't?”

  Dar started to answer, then hesitated.

  “Including you,” Sam reminded.

  Dar sighed and capitulated. “All right. You win.” He looked toward Croft. “When does the next bus leave?”

  With a load like Croft in it, Dar wouldn't've thought the armchair could support any more. But it had lift to spare; they glided through the deserted streets of Haskerville perched on the arms like a couple of children come to recite their Christmas lists to Santa.

  After a little while, Dar said, “It occurs to me that what you've got here is a planetful of grifters and marks, about evenly divided.”

  Croft nodded agreeably. “An oversimplification, but accurate within its limits.”

  “In fact, you could almost say it's got the potential for becoming a balanced society.”

  “The potential, perhaps,” Croft agreed.

  “How do you manage to keep the House of Houses from totally destroying the citizens?”

  Croft smiled, amused. “Come now, young man! You give me too much credit. Even a criminal realizes that he must take care of his geese if he wants them to grow more feathers for plucking.”

  “Not from what I've read,” Dar said slowly. “Historically, even the organized criminals haven't cared who they hurt or killed, as long as they made a profit on it.”

  “Ah, but that is when they have an unlimited supply of geese!”

  “Somehow, I don't think the House of Houses has quite that much foresight.”

  Croft nodded, amused. “I may have arranged for the odd idea to reach the House through circuitous routes. Then, too, even with a severely limited police force, there are ways of making certain activities unprofitable.”

  Dar nodded, bemused. “So you've got two societies that pretty much balance each other—and it's got the potential for becoming a single, cohesive society. That would take a lot of guidance and maneuvering—but it is possible.”

  Croft nodded. “Of course. Anything is possible—even that; with an exterior challenge and thrown back on their own resources, both halves of the population might forgo their own forms of decadence.”

  “A challenge such as being cut off from the rest of the human-inhabited universe?”

  Croft nodded, a slight smile on his thin lips. “You evince a definite talent, young fellow. Given time and practice, you might prove as capable of deduction as I am.”

  The spaceport was guarded by a split-log fence, like an old-time Western fort. But the gate opened at Croft's approach, and they floated through, to stare at a square mile of plastrete, pock-marked with blast-pits. The two-story personnel and passenger building seemed like a miniscule bump on the fence. The only other break in the bald field was a silvery manta-ray shape tilted upward toward the stars, as though it strained to be free of the planet—an FTL scout, streamlined and planed for atmospheric capability. No ferry this time, but a ship that could go from surface to surface, though without the speed of the great liners. It was beautiful, but it seemed pathetically small and frail against the immense stretch of plastrete.

  The hatch was open, and a silhouette appeared against its rectangle of yellow light as they drifted up. “As good as your word! You found 'em!” Whitey jumped down to pump Croft's arm.

  “You doubted me, Whitey?”

  “Not for a second! Trouble was, it was turning into hours.”

  A black robe blocked the hatch, and light gleamed off a bald pate. “Welcome, wanderers!” Father Marco waved. “Come on in and tell us about your travels! We should have time; we're going seventy-five light-years!”

  But Dar's eyes snapped to the figure beside the priest. Even as a silhouette, she looked wonderful.

  “Good to see you again, Father.” Sam hopped down off Croft's chair and strode toward the hatch. “But, why're you coming along? It's our misfortune, and none of your own.”

  “Someone has to look after your souls,” the friar joked. At least, Dar hoped he was joking. “Nice of you to care. Father—but why should you?” He jumped up into the ship, carefully brushing against Lona in the process.

  “Because,” said the priest, “I'm a brother of the Order of St. Vidicon, and you two present a case that an engineer can't resist.”

  Dar didn't follow the logic, but it didn't matter; Lona was giving him the long stare. He couldn't tell whether it was admiring or accusing, but he didn't really care—so long as he had her attention.

  “Well, that's it!” Whitey hopped aboard and sealed the hatch behind him. “Always helps to have friends in the right places.”

  “Sure does,” Dar agreed, “and I'm awfully glad we've got you. But why? This isn't your quarrel, Whitey.”

  “It is now.” Whitey flopped down into the nearest acceleration couch and stretched his webbing across. “Things were getting dull, but you two promise to make them interesting again.”

  “But you're heading for the frontier, and we have to get to Terra!”

  “So do we—now.” Whitey grinned. “As long as you promise to shake the old place up a bit. Besides, I have to see my publisher—I've suddenly run low on funds.”

  Dar swallowed, feeling guilty, but Whitey looked around and bawled, “Who's going to pilot this tub?”

  “Who else?” Lona jumped into the pilot's couch with relish. “I'd fly a mountain to get back to some good old-fashioned decadence!” She hit a few keys, and the spacer roared to life.

  “I'll take communications.” Sam slipped into the couch beside Lona and keyed the talker. “What's the name of this tub?”

  “I christen it Ray of Hope,” Whitey declared.

  “Ray of Hope to Control,” Sam called, “outward-bound toward Sol.”

  “Uh . . . come in, Ray of Hope.” Control was, to say the least, startled.

  “Permission to lift off.”

  “Permission to . . . ? Uh—be right with you, Ray of Hope.” Dar could hear a squawk in the background before Control killed its mike. “Looks like we took them by surprise,” he said to Whitey.

  “Not surprising enough.” Whitey frowned. “Who's gotten to them?”

  “Three guesses—which is two more than you need.” Sam keyed her mike again. “Ray of Hope to Falstaff Control. What's the delay?”

  “Uh . . . Ray of Hope,” Control stammered, “it seems you forgot to file a ballistic plan.”

  “Ballistic plan?” Whitey bawled. “What doe
s he think this is—a hop to the next planet?”

  “Ray of Hope to Control,” Sam said grimly. “I thought ballistic plans went out when FTL came in.”

  “Well—we have to make sure you don't interfere with any incoming traffic.”

  “Incoming traffic! What incoming traffic? The sky's as clear as a verdict!”

  Whitey chuckled. “As owner of this ship, pilot, I order you to lift off.”

  “Yes, Grandpa,” Lona murmured, entirely too demurely. Then there wasn't much talking, because they were plastered back in their couches for a few minutes as the Ray streaked up through the atmosphere.

  Then the pressure eased off, and “down” gradually stopped being the back of the ship and became the deck, as ship's gravity took over from acceleration.

  “Coasting at nine-tenths maximum.” Lona spun her chair around and loosened her webbing. “I'd advise you stay in your couches, though; should only be about twenty minutes till we're far enough out to isomorph into H-space.”

  “We barely made it,” Sam said with a sour smile. “Remember that squawk in the background? That was Destinus.”

  “Destinus?” Father Marco sat up, frowning. “Canis Destinus?”

  “Why, yes, now that you mention it.” Sam turned to Father Marco. “You know him?”

  “More than that; we're related.” The priest seemed suddenly saddened. “He's my father's half-brother's son.”

  Dar frowned. “Wait a minute—that makes him . . .”

  “Half a cousin of the brother.” Whitey turned to the friar. “The two of you were on the same planet, and he didn't bother to say hello?”

  Father Marco nodded. “And it would seem that he probably knew I was here. But then, under the circumstances, I suppose he wouldn't've wanted to be associated with me.”

  “Doesn't sound like the overly sentimental sort.”

  “To say the least,” Father Marco replied grimly. “In fact, I haven't heard from him since I went into seminary; he was very upset with my choice of order. Thought I was horribly radical, that sort of thing.” He turned to Sam. “He's been causing you trouble for a while?”

  “Hunting us down,” Sam confirmed. “He seems to be working for the LORDS.”

  Father Marco sighed and shook his head. “Poor Destinus! We knew he was keeping bad company, being in the government and all—but I didn't know it was this bad . . . well!” He slapped his knees and sat up straight. “Looks as though I made the right decision, coming along with you.”

  “How so?” Dar frowned. “Finding out about your half-cousin makes that much of a difference?”

  Father Marco nodded. “Family obligation. It's up to me to try to counter the damage Destinus's trying to do to you.”

  “Well, don't be too hard on the boy.” Dar frowned up at Sam. “I mean, it's not as if he were doing it on his own. He's just acting for his bosses. They're the ones who're going in for telepath-hunting.”

  “Oh, I wouldn't be too sure of that.” Sam's lip curled slightly. “Do you think hardheaded politicians would really believe in telepaths? I mean, believe in 'em enough to mount a major hunt?”

  “Why else would they bring in their own ‘police'?”

  “Because,” Sam grinned, “it makes an excellent excuse to immobilize you and me, before we can get Bhelabher's resignation to BOA.”

  “Could a governorship of a boondocks planet be all that important?”

  “To the governor's righthand man it could. Besides, even if the LORDS are planning to cut off all the outlying planets, that doesn't mean they like the idea of governors who're ready to get along without them very nicely, thank you.”

  “A point,” Dar admitted. “That is a little deflating to the collective Terran ego. Which makes me think Myles Croft can't be all that popular with BOA, either.”

  “He always was an independent cuss, My was.” Whitey grinned, leaning back with his hands locked behind his head. “Myself, I think it's just fine, seeing the outer worlds getting ready for Terra to ax 'em”

  “Ready? Eager, almost.” Lona was watching her data board. “About to isomorph, gentlefolk—tighten your webbing.” She frowned, and peered closer at her detectors. “Strange—that blip's gotta be another ship lifting off from Falstaff.”

  “Strange indeed.” Dar frowned, too. “There weren't supposed to be any arrivals or departures for a month.”

  “You don't think . . . ?” Sam began, but then the isomorpher kicked in, and reality turned very fuzzy for a while.

  9

  Out near the asteroid belt, on the Jupiter side, the solar system's tapestry of gravity begins to thin out just enough for a ship to emerge from H-space. It's not the safest thing to do, of course; there is a respectable chance of Jupiter's gravity fouling the isomorpher enough to make the ship twist into that other realm where ships that nearly made it back out go to. Still, probability favors success; so, if you're in a hurry, you might try it.

  Dar and Sam were in a hurry, so Lona tried it.

  Deceleration slammed Dar against his webbing. It was killing pressure, but it slowly eased off—very slowly; it took the ship's internal field a while to win over momentum. When he could sit back and talk again, he did. “I—I take it we made it?”

  “We're in one piece.” Lona sounded offended as she scanned her damage readout. “Not even a split seam.”

  “Didn't mean to question your ability,” Dar said quickly. “It's just—well, it was a little risky.”

  Lona snorted.

  “Not for my niece.” Whitey leaned forward and tapped the autobar for Rhysling. “The only kind of machine Lona doesn't understand is a hammer—it doesn't have any moving parts, let alone circuits. Anyone join me?”

  Red light exploded off the walls and ceiling. Lona's hands flew over her board. “That was a cannon bolt! Chug that drink and hold on!”

  Something groaned, winding up to a scream as ship's gravity fought to keep up with velocity changes. But it was a losing battle; Lona was putting the little ship through so many rolls and dives, a four-dimensional computer couldn't've kept up with her.

  Which, of course, was exactly the idea.

  But their pursuer's battle comp was good; ruby flashes kept flickering off the walls, now brighter, now dimmer, now brighter again.

  “How about the traditional shot across the bows?” Dar called.

  “They're not big on tradition,” Lona snapped, sweat beading her brow.

  “I never did have much use for iconoclasts,” Father Marco grumbled.

  “It's a Patrol cruiser!” Sam stared at the rear viewscreen in horror. “The Solar Patrol—the ones who rescue stranded spacemen from starship wrecks!”

  “And shoot down smugglers,” Whitey added grimly. “But they never shoot without warning!”

  “You've been watching too many Patrol-epic holos, Grandpa,” Lona grated. “These are the real ones!”

  “Are they?” Sam keyed the transmitter. “Let's find out! Ray of Hope calling Patrol cruiser! Come in, Patrol cruiser!”

  An energy-bolt lanced past them as Lona rolled the ship to starboard.

  “Come in, Patrol cruiser! Why're you shooting at us? We haven't broken any laws! And we're not carrying contraband!” Sam let up on the key and listened, but there wasn't even a whisper of static.

  “Maybe it's broken,” Dar said quickly, “not picking up their answer!”

  “Dreamer,” Lona growled.

  “I'll try anything.” Sam spun the sweep-knob, and a voice rattled out of the tiny speaker “. . . at the top of the roster. It's on his new holocube, ‘Roll Me to Rigel!’ ”

  “Commercial channel,” Sam grated.

  A new voice interrupted the announcer in mid-word. “Ganagram News Update—brought to you by Chao-Yu's Chandlers, with the latest in used burro-boat fittings!”

  “Must be the Ganymede 3DT station,” Whitey said, nodding. “They broadcast for the asteroid miners, mostly.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Who else uses
burro-boats?”

  “We interrupt this program to bring you a special hot flash,” the radio went on. “We've just been notified that a small pirate ship with a notorious telepath aboard has just entered the Solar System. Citizens are advised not to worry, though—the mind reader's being chased by a Solar Patrol cruiser. They should be calling any minute to tell us he's been captured and locked up.”

  “They're talking about us,” Dar choked.

  “Correction,” Lona snapped. “They're talking about you.”

  “They did say, ‘he,’ ” Whitey admitted.

  “Also, that they're going to capture us—which sounds like a fine idea, right now.” Sam keyed the transmitter again. “Ray of Hope to Solar Patrol cruiser! We surrender! We give up! We throw down our arms!”

  Red light blazed through the cabin, and the whole hull chimed like a singing bell.

  “That was really close!” Lona rolled the ship over so fast that Dar's stomach lost track of his abdomen. “They've got a weird idea of capturing!”

  “I think,” Whitey mused, “that they're out to avoid the expense of a trial.”

  “So, what do we do?” Dar demanded. “We can't keep running forever. So far, the only reason we're still alive is their lousy marksmanship, and Lona's fantastic piloting.”

  “Flattery will get you an early grave,” Lona snapped. “I need ideas, not compliments!”

  “Well, how's this?” Dar frowned. “We came in between Jupiter and Mars, heading sunward. What's our speed?”

  “We're back up to point nine seven light-speed.”

  Father Marco's eyes lost focus. “Let's see, that means . . . it's been about five minutes for us, so for the people on Earth . . .”

  “It's been a few weeks,” Lona finished for him, “and if we don't do something soon, we're going to get punctured by a small swarm of teeny-tiny asteroids, and flattened when we run into a few big ones!”

  “Asteroids!” Sam sat up straight, her eyes locking on Dar's. “We did it once . . .”

  “And I'll bet the Solar Patrol aren't much smarter than pirates!” Dar turned to Lona. “Can you match velocity with an asteroid?”