by E. C. Tubb
Madness?
The babblings of a deranged mind?
Dumarest reached forward and touched the old man's throat. The skin was flaccid, clammy beneath his touch, the pulse slow, turgid in its barely discoverable beat. The eyes were closed and spittle ran from the corner of the mouth tracing a glistening smear over the chin. Pushed too hard he had withdrawn into a catatonic safety.
"Is he dead, Earl?"
"No. In shock. I made him think of something he preferred to forget." Rising, Dumarest looked at the woman. "That chant-have you heard it before? Does it mean anything to you?"
"No." Vera frowned, thinking. "It sounded like a childish numbers game of some kind. I haven't heard it myself. Maybe if-"
She broke off as her face turned red. Her hair, her clothes, the entire interior of the Archives were dyed with a flood of scarlet light as the alarms tore the air with their demanding clangor.
CHAPTER FIVE
Medwin met Dumarest in the corridor, halting, snapping a salute. "An attack, Commander! Your orders?"
He was keen, eager for action, face glowing with a new vibrancy. His uniform, modified to Dumarest's suggestion, was neat, looking less like a fancy dress than an outfit intended for serious use. The helmet, crested, perforated over the ears, supported a transparent visor, now raised. The belt at his waist supported a yard-long club.
"Commander?"
Dumarest said, "At ease, Captain. Has the attack been verified?"
"As an attack, no," admitted the young man. "But objects have been spotted approaching Zabul."
Which meant Volodya had acted with unnecessary precipitation and Dumarest wondered as to his motive. Althea would have reported the resurrecting of the old custodian- had Volodya been afraid of what he might reveal? The man himself was beyond further questioning and would shortly be back in his casket there, most likely, to dream until he died.
Medwin, impatient, said, "What are your orders, Commander?"
"Place the entire Corps on full combat-alert. Have the trained units stand by for external operation. Once you have made your dispositions let me know. I shall be in Command."
These were orders Medwin wanted to hear. "Do you expect a fight, Commander?"
"I'd prefer to avoid one."
"But-"
"A soldier's job is to fight, is that it?" Dumarest saw the other's nod of agreement. "People get killed in battle," he reminded. "It could be you or me or a mutual friend. A good officer remembers that. The correct way to conduct a fight is to win it with the minimum amount of casualties and damage. Your men expect you to take good care of them and so do I."
"But, sir, what if we can't avoid a fight and can't avoid getting hurt?"
"Then you go in to win and to hell with the cost. Understand?"
"Yes, sir!"
Dumarest returned Medwin's snapped salute and watched him move at a run down the passage before making his way to Command. The flashing red glare and strident noise of the alarm had ended, leaving the passages and halls filled with men and women scurrying like ants blindly racing through a disturbed nest. A false impression; Urich Volodya had imposed a strict discipline of survival, backed by his guards. Two of them, stationed outside the chamber, stared at Dumarest but made no attempt to bar his entrance. Inside, the place hummed with controlled activity.
Technicians sat at their consoles scattered on the large expanse of the floor; observers, environmental monitors, armigers, assessors, predictors. Their faces were touched by the illumination from their instruments, the telltales and registers and dials. Other light came from the huge screens flanking the walls and depicting the universe outside. A glitter of countless stars interspersed and overlaid with sheets and curtains of luminescence, the ebon blotches of clouds of interstellar dust, the fuzz of distant nebulae.
"Earl!" Althea came toward him, face pale against the copper sheen of her hair. She caught his arm as he stepped to where Volodya stood at the main console. "They're coming, Earl. Just as you said they would."
"How many?"
"Seven." Volodya spoke without turning to look at Dumarest. "All heading on a direct collision course with Zabul."
"Seven?"
"Approaching from two different directions."
"Are you sure as to the number?" Dumarest snarled his impatience as Volodya nodded. "Look at me, damn you! Has there been contact?"
"As yet only visual." Volodya touched a control on the bank before him and, on a screen, a familiar object appeared in blurred magnification. "This is approaching from the west and north." The image shrank a little to reveal three other shapes trailing the first. "A group of four. The others are coming from the east and south." The screen flickered, steadying to illustrate the other vessels. They were near-twins of the others.
Ships at which Dumarest stared before he said, "None are under drive. When did you spot them?"
"Just before I sounded the alarm."
Then the ships had dropped from plus-C velocity and could be identified for what they were. Their numbers alone would have jarred Volodya and made him sound the Red Alert. But seven?
Dumarest looked closer at the images on the screen. None of the vessels approaching from the south were wrapped in the blue shimmer of the Erhaft field, which meant they were coasting on gained momentum. At his order Volodya put the other group on a second screen.
"Not one of them is under drive," said Dumarest. "And no contact as yet?"
"No."
"Try again. Use wide-dispersal and include the code used to contact your regular suppliers. Demand a response and don't be polite."
"Right, Commander." A technician didn't wait for Volodya to relay the order. He added, "Captain Medwin reports the Corps is in position."
"Thanks. Can you patch me into a communication circuit?"
"It's done, Commander. Just relay through me."
An unexpected ally and Dumarest wondered if he had others in Command. An armiger gave him a part of the answer, lifting a hand in salute from where he sat at his console. The salute was repeated by an environmental engineer.
To Volodya Dumarest said, "A divided command is the surest recipe for failure. You rule Zabul, but I suggest you allow me to conduct this present operation."
"And if I refuse?" Volodya saw the answer in Dumarest's eyes. "You'd put it to the test, right?"
"It needn't come to that."
"But you'd threaten Zabul if I refuse. What gives you the conviction you can handle this better than I can?"
"You play good chess," said Dumarest. "But you're hopeless at poker. You just can't recognize a bluff."
"I don't understand."
"Look at those ships. Put them on the screens, matched images, full magnification." He waited as Volodya obeyed. Gave the man time to study what he saw. "Well?"
"Ships," said Volodya. "Armed, by the look of them. They could destroy Zabul."
"Decoys," snapped Dumarest. "Use your eyes, man! The lead vessel is real enough but those following are drogues. Inflated bladders bearing metallic paint and equipped with a small guidance device inside. They look real enough and will register on your scanners but they're only balloons."
"Then why use them?"
"Bluff. They can frighten and each one will take an expensive torpedo to destroy. It's a mercenary's trick." Lifting his voice he said, "Any response as yet to our demand for contact?"
"None, Commander."
"Sound battle-alert. All unessential Terridae to take to their caskets. All combat personnel to be suited against exposure to the void. Total closure of all seals."
"At once, Commander!" The environmental engineer busied himself with his console.
"Communications?"
"Commander!"
"Send a final demand for contact. Warn that unless they respond immediately we open fire. Armiger! Aim missiles at both lead ships with contact and remote-controlled warheads. Aim others at the decoys. Have them loaded with thermite flares. Fire them on order." Dumarest waited, counting seconds.
"Any response as yet?"
"Just static, Commander."
"Fire at the decoys. Loose!"
"God, man, no! You'll-" Volodya broke off, conscious that he was too late. Conscious too of what could happen should Dumarest be wrong and the ships, untouched by the flares if real, should fire back. Dumarest calmed his fears. "They won't fire back."
"How can you be sure?"
"Just take my word for it."
A bald explanation but all he intended to give. The ships must have been sent by the Cyclan and the last thing the organization wanted was for him to be killed. Later, after they had won his secret, they would dispose of him but, until that time, he was too valuable to be risked. "Three seconds," said the armiger. "Two. One-now!" A flood of burning white radiance flowered in the void, dimming the light of the stars with the fury of a miniature man-made nova. The searing, expanding cloud touched the following vessels and destroyed them, while leaving the leading ships unharmed.
"Repeat the warning," snapped Dumarest. "And remind them the next torpedoes are for real."
Again a time of waiting and then, "They're gone!" The communication engineer yelled from his seat as he stared at the screens. "By, God, they've run!"
Vanishing into space as, wrapped in the blue cocoon of their Erhaft fields, the two vessels disappeared from sight.
Dumarest looked at where they had been, frowning, assessing their actions. To appear from two different directions at the same time accompanied by facsimile ships designed to frighten and intimidate. To ignore all attempts at contact and so, by silence, to enhance the terror of their menacing approach. Then, when their bluff had been called, simply to vanish and leave the guardians of Zabul staring wonderingly at where they had been. Why?
Volodya had no doubts. "They've left," he said. "They came and tried to frighten us and when they found we had teeth decided to quit. A bluff, Earl, as you said."
A confidence Dumarest didn't share. To the technicians at the monitors he said, "Alter your scan. I want a thorough check of the surface." Then, as the screens changed to show the bizarre exterior of the artificial world and the tiny, antlike figures moving over it he said, "Not a bluff, Volodya, but a diversion. Now they're trying to break in."
The suit was tight, the flow of air a reassuring whisper in his ears, the surface of Zabul a firm solidity beneath hands and knees. Rising, he would be a clear target against the background of stars if anyone was watching from the shadows. To spring upward would be to break free of the gravity zone embracing Zabul. Drifting in space, even with guidance devices, he would be an even more helpless target.
All this he had tried to drive home to the members of the Corps before leaving the air-lock.
Some would remember, others, those trained for normal surface maintenance, would have no trouble, the rest, if they lived, would be lucky.
"In position, Commander." Medwin's voice vibrated from the speakers. "All units ready to go."
Their scrambled communication would be nothing more than a blur of static to outsiders. Dumarest checked his suit monitors, seeing air, temperature, humidity and ion level in the green. A precaution he'd tried to emphasize-too many new to suits had died for lack of automatic checking. Time became distorted when in an unaccustomed environment and changes in temperature and ion levels could alter normal perspective.
"Stand by." Then, to the scanning technicians, Dumarest said, "Any change in observed positions?"
"None." The voice sounded worried. "But they've started using thermal paste."
"Seal area in immediate vicinity. Inform if enemy changes positions." Then, to the Corps, "Right, we move in. Keep low and shoot first." And for God's sake hit the right targets, but he didn't mention that. The white flashes they wore would serve to identify them to each other if they took the time to look. "Ready? Go-and good luck!"
Dumarest felt the outer skin of Zabul scrape over his chest and thighs as, like a crab, he eased himself over the surface. The scanners had discovered the enemy busy at the foot of one of the towering pinnacles which dotted the curved and convoluted surface of Zabul. This surface had grown over the years as extensions had been made to the original plan, compartments added to the bulk of gutted vessels, space gained by rotund bulkheads. Now, illuminated by starlight, the fabrication resembled an ovoid, bristling with spines and blotched with warts. A dangerous world formed of declivities and slopes and enigmatic patches of shadow.
Something moved in one as Dumarest crawled near, a figure which paused, to rise and lift an arm. Dumarest rolled as heat followed the ruby guide beam of the laser.
"Hold it, you fool! What is your name?"
"What? I'm Varne. Kell Varne."
"Lower your gun! Do it!" Dumarest let anger sharpen his tone. "Now return to your entry port. See the officer in charge and place yourself under arrest. You're relieved of duty."
"But, sir, I-"
"No arguments! A man who will shoot a comrade isn't to be trusted with a gun. Now move before I burn you where you stand!"
An object lesson-the others would have heard and would now be more careful. The last he would give; the next man who threatened him would die no matter what uniform he wore. If he had allies in Command then Volodya could have friends in the Corps.
Dumarest moved on, reaching a narrow ridge, sliding over it to fall into a shallow declivity, reaching a level space where he paused to search the area ahead.
Starlight shimmered from reflective surfaces, revealing scars and rough patches, the spire of a scanning monitor, the tip of a distant tower. The horizon was near, too close for comfort, and the light made things deceptive. Was that a normal mound or the crouching figure of a man? Did that shadow come from a protuberance or from a watching guard?
And there would have to be guards-the brain which had planned the raid would not have neglected normal precautions. Men to work burning a hole through the surface, to reach the interior and then to use paralyzing gas to stun the inhabitants. Others to stand watch against surprise attack should the deception have failed, although that clever ruse had frozen the attention of Volodya and those in Command on the approaching vessels. Held it hard enough and long enough for a landing to be made on the surface of Zabul itself. But how had it been done?
A ship would have registered and been noticed despite the distraction. Sacs? The inflatable membranes would each have held no more than three men at a squeeze-only one if he was carrying equipment. Too many would have been needed and maneuverability would have been a problem. What then? Another facsimile?
Dumarest frowned as he stared ahead, then, to the scanning technicians, said, "Mark my position. Ahead and to my right, too low for good vision, lies something long and ovoid. Is it a natural part of Zabul?"
A moment while, high on a spire, the scanner of a relay moved to study the area.
"No, Commander."
"Size?" Dumarest nodded as it was given. Not an exact facsimile but something like one. A tough balloon fitted with compressed air to give motion and direction, filled with men and equipment and released far from Zabul on a flight path which would bring it to a point within easy reach. Nonmetallic, unmarked, a blur against the stars, it would have moved too slowly to trigger the alarms. The approaching vessels had made sure it would land without trouble.
But the diversion itself had warned Dumarest of the possibility.
He crawled sideways, reaching shadow and making his way onward. From the speakers he heard a sudden rasp of breath, a shout, a liquid gurgling followed by Medwin's voice.
"Kunel's dead! The bastards got him! Men! Let's get the swine!"
"Hold it!" Dumarest rapped the command. "This is no time for anger. Captain Medwin! Report!" He stressed the title.
"Sorry, Commander." The speakers carried the sound of ragged breathing. "I guess seeing him die got to me."
"Report, Captain!"
"We saw movement over to our right. That would be to your left. Kunel must have got impatient and I saw him rise and lope forward.
He was a surface worker and knew how to do it. Then there was a flash from ahead and I saw him rear and go spinning upwards. Heard him too. Commander?"
"Stay low and keep calm. Kunel's dead, but that's war. He grew careless and paid the price. A flash, you say?"
"Yes." Medwin was steadier now. "Just a point of light."
"A gun of some kind." Dumarest talked more to calm young nerves than to give information. "A bullet projector. They're hard to aim in conditions like this. Kunel was unlucky."
In more ways than one. The gun could have fired nothing more dangerous than an anesthetic dart but he had been caught off balance and sent to spin helplessly in space. Unconscious, with a perforated suit, the end was inevitable. Even if the puncture had been sealed with protective paste carried within the suit fabric he would still die of asphyxiation long before he could be rescued.
A matter Dumarest thought best not to mention. Instead he said, "Spread out and surround the enemy. Contain their field of operations. Hold your fire. If you shoot they'll fire back and we want no more casualties."
"As you say, Commander." Medwin was relieved at not having to make life-or-death decisions. "How are you going to handle the situation?"
"I'm going in," said Dumarest. "I'm giving them a chance to surrender."
Fire glowed as he moved forward over the curved area before him, a line of seething incandescence which died even as he watched to be reborn a little to one side. The thermal paste the technician had mentioned against which suited figures moved in blurred silhouettes. Dumarest counted six; too few for the capacity of the pod, and he guessed others must be busy elsewhere if not on guard.
Busy, but doing what?
He rolled so as to look upward at the slender spire tipped with the scanning eye and saw a figure climbing up toward it. A figure invisible to normal vision blocked as it was by the edge of the helmet. Once the eye had been blocked or destroyed the monitoring technicians would be partially blinded. If other eyes were taken out the invaders would have Zabul at their mercy.
A plan beaten by speed alone. Dumarest and the Corps he had set into position had acted too fast for the invaders to complete the operation.