Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he rose to his feet and walked over to the wash basin. He drew off a glass of water, and was standing with the two yellow sleeping pills in his left hand, when there was a light tap on the door.
"Come in," he spoke reflexively, without thinking.
She entered the room quietly, closing the door behind her and leaning against it as she stood looking at him. "Hallo, Piet," she said, her ice-blue eyes glinting. "Sleeping pills? You won't be needing them, now."
"Trudi! What the hell do you want?" He put the pills and glass down on the washbasin, conscious of the curious prudery of the action as his hands moved awkwardly to cover his nakedness.
She moved towards him, her moist lips smiling. "What did I ever want?"
"With me? After what's happened?"
"Of course, with you—we suit each other, remember?" she said, tense, a tigress in heat Her hand trembled as she unzipped her tunic.
"But me . . . my seed ... the Johannsen's. . . ." He could feel the coolness of the washbasin against his bare buttocks.
"Christ! What's the matter with you? You used to like it as much and as often as me. I don't want to breed with you, for God's sake!"
"No Trudi—Leave me alone!"
"Leave me alone!" she mimicked him, contemptuously. "You're not still thinking about that little monkey woman, are you? You'll never see her again. Come to think of it, you won't get a lot of opportunities where you're going, will you? They don't cater much for sexual athletes in Earthside jails, as far as I hear... better make the most of what you can get now, eh?"
"No—I don't want you—how many times?" He grabbed a towel from the rail by the basin, and draped it about his waist
She stood, one hand paused on the zip of her trousers, and laugjhed with a sudden harshness. "Oh, no! It's just occurred to me. Maybe you're not still pining for your little yellow whore at all—maybe you just can't do it any more—is that it?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You mean you don't know? You're so mixed up with your bloody microscopes and cultures you haven't heard? No, perhaps he didn't think it would be a good idea to tell you...."
He moved forward, propelled by his anger, his hands grasping at the firm flesh of her shoulders. "What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded, shaking her.
"Well, it's obvious, isn't it? People like you—and all the rest of those with this thing in their genetic structure. They can't be allowed to breed. . . . ever, can they? What do you think this examination program of Maseba's is for, anyway? Those—the ones who are found defective genetically, they aren't just going to get a shot of anti-Johannsen's serum; they'll have to be permanently sterilized, because there's no way of changing them back."
It made sense ... of course, it was the only way Maseba could tackle the problem. There could be no more monster births ... that much was obvious. Memory flooded back into his mind, combining with his tiredness, and her hate-filled contemptuous voice . . .
"Maseba's been there already with his scalpel, hasn't he?" she said, spitting the words in his face, her blue eyes flaring with contempt. "Is that it? Did I come too late for the party? You bloody eunuch!"
The word pierced through the confusion of his mind, a burning torch thrust into the straw of his frustration, and erupted into a flaming rage that demanded physical release. She was a strong, fit woman, with a big, athletic body, but before such fury she was helpless.
When at last he was able to think clearly again, his rage burned out, she was lying, her body crumpled in an awkward, doll-like position, beneath die washbasin, the ice-blue eyes still open, staring up at him.
Bending down beside her, he begged her forgiveness.
'Trudi, I don't know____"His hand behind her head...
felt the pulpy softness of a smashed skull, and he stopped, knowing beyond doubt that she was dead, the raging ache of her loins ceased forever.
Rinsing the blood from his hands, he began to dress quickly. His doubts, his uncertainties were gone now. Her death had resolved the situation—pointed at him the only possible way in which he could go. Certainly, whatever happened now he could never return to Vee Twelve. As a murderer, he was a certain candidate for complete psyche erasure and reconditioning. There was no appeal. And even though the fact of being Piet Huygens was, had been, agony, anything was preferable to the idea that Piet Huygens, as Piet Huygens, should cease to exist
Pausing only to take the keys of Trudi's ground car from the pocket of her tunic, he hurried out of the building. He knew where he was going, and there was no alternative. The ground car purred into life, and he steered it out onto the highway.
"Mia, love, Tm coming back, Mia . . ." he murmured as the car gathered speed.
"Point four-five light," said Lindstrom's voice at his elbow. "In ten seconds we shall be at the point where the Centaurus missile was destroyed."
Ten seconds, nine, five . . . Bruce felt them slip away from him, draining away like drops of his life-blood. His hands moving over the console keys, he demanded information, but on the screens above the CID nothing showed. Tuned to their farthest limits the ship sensors could still not detect the presence of the aliens. And yet they must be there, somewhere...
The words of Kavanin's poem rattled crazily in his head: But they are there somewhere... . They have to be. By all the laws of probability...
Soon they must be within effective range—the destruction of the missile demanded that it should be so. But that effective range—was Kilroy effective range so much farther than that of Venturer? Could they remain oiit there, beyond reach of the Earth ship's sensors, and still destroy her?
Three seconds... two... one...
"My God! Look at that!" Lindstrom's voice was a strangled gasp, her arm pointed to the heart of the CID display.
There, way over to the left-hand side of the tank, close by the blue-green ball of Kepler III, was something like a great, luminous jellyfish. It hung there, its brilliance pulsing up and down the spectrum, its size indeterminate.
Bruce fingered the keys swiftly, punching his instructions into the computer, and a moment later an enlarged view of the thing appeared in an auxiliary screen above the CID. It appeared to be an amorphous mass, brilliant in its luminosity, a flickering mirage that strained the capacity of the human optical faculties.
"Phasing in," Lindstrom said. "They must be using some kind of warp drive. Probably takes them some time to stabilize when they surface into 'true' space."
Cool, efficient, for all her woman's weaknesses, thought Bruce. Faced by the situation every Corpsman had dreaded since the beginning, she could still remain analytical. Warp drive—talked of in theory, but never yet realized; based on the idea that in another, sub-spatial dimension, some kind of Mobius principle might exist, under which the shortest distance between two points was no longer a straight line, but a mere step in a new, as yet inconceivable 'direction.' A now-you-see-it-now-you-don't kind of conjuring trick, it was the only explanation that could account for the fact of the Kilroy ship being at one moment twenty million kilometers from Kepler III, and at the next, hovering in orbit a mere thousand kilometers above the planet
And twenty million kilometers away from Venturer Twelve, in the opposite direction—with the distance increasing at a speed of point four-seven light.
"Grav field detectors indicate a mass in excess of two million tons," said Lindstrom.
Bruce made no reply. He was fully occupied feeding his instructions into the battle computer. Even as the ship went into the screaming arc of a turn, overloading the compensating grav circuits to maximum, he experienced a feeling of impotence in the knowledge that coming to grips with such an enemy might well be an impossibility. With such a drive, long before Venturer, moving at her maximum speed, could come within range, the alien could once again "submerge" into sub-space and be several million miles away.
In the auxiliary screen the image of the Kilroy ship was stabilized now, a vast, black ellip
tical shape, ringed by a corona of purple, close in on the night side of Kepler III.
And on the planet itself, rapidly growing, like the replication of some monstrous disease, spots of incandescence.
"They're attacking Kepler III!" Lindstrom said, superfluously.
Bruce had already seen, and understood what was happening. He had been decoyed out into deep space, and now the very planet he was supposed to be protecting was at the mercy of the enemy.
"Contact Hoffman," he shouted to Maranne. "Tell her to get all personnel aboard the scout ship immediately, and get to hell out of there!" If it isn't already too late, his mind added, as the moving sores of incandescence spread over the surface of the planet
George Maseba was at the wheel of the leading ground car, with Caiola in the seat beside him. Behind, in convoy, was the rest of the medic team—except for Piet Huygens. Bruce would gripe about that, especially when he heard that he had lost Hoffman as well. Poor, over-sexed bitch! Maseba blamed himself partly, for not having insisted on giving her compulsory hormone-balancing therapy. The idea had occurred to him in the past, but there had always been something more important to demand his attention, and now . . . now it was too late.
"God! Look at that!" exclaimed Caiola, pointing over to the east, where a false, leprous dawn was breaking as columns of roiling fire leaped upwards.
"Emergency Sky Bolt! Emergency Sky Bolt! All Corps personnel report to Rokoa field immediately for scramble liftoff! Emergency Sky Bolt! Emergency Sky Bolt! All . . ." P.O. Patel's voice still rattled small in the communicator propped above the dashboard of the car, awaiting no reply, just going on and on repeating the message, because to such a message there was no reply in words; it demanded nothing less than physical presence, in the shortest possible time.
The code words "Sky Bolt" meant only one thing in Corps language. Kepler III was under attack from space. And if that was the case, then the only means of escape was the one tiny scout ship, commanded now by P.O. Patel—a cockleshell, capable of holding a mere thirty people. And the other million? Maseba glanced away at the hellish, climbing fires, and tried not to think of them.
Charles Magnus stood by the doorway of the heli-bus, clipboard in his hand, checking as the members of his staff filed aboard, glancing occasionally across the roofs of Central City towards the east His first reaction on being awakened by the insistent yammering of the personal communicator had been that this was yet another piece of absurd Corps melodrama, but sight of the flaming destruction which was advancing slowly on the city had quickly dissipated any doubts.
The elevator arrived at the rooftop, and discharged its cargo. Two flustered female clerks, dabbing ineffectually at their makeup, loaded down with bags and souvenirs, stumbled aboard the helibus.
"Farquhar . . . Morales . . ." Magnus ticked off the two names. "Has anyone seen Mr. Ichiwara?"
"He went to his office, sir. Something about essential files," supplied one of the men.
Ichiwara. A planet was being destroyed, and Ichiwara could only think of his precious files. Where would Earth, and Explorations Division in particular, be without such men? thought Magnus, a smile tugging at the corners of his thin hps.
He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes since the
first alarm. Not bad timing. But how long would P.O. Patel delay his liftoff? Patel—why Patel? Surely that man-eating dragon Hoffman was in command of the scout ship?
An elderly secretary, hair still in rollers, looking like a disgruntled, stout porcupine, hurried aboard.
"Browning . . ." Magnus made another tick. Now only Ichiwara remained.
From the north, a sound like thunder rumbled; instantaneously, the burgeoning glow of a new fire. The city was now hemmed in on two sides.
Bruce, what the devil was the man doing? United Earth's finest ship at his command, the ship he had talked about with such pride, and yet Kepler III appeared to be totally at the mercy of the aliens. Was he perhaps outnumbered? It seemed hardly likely that he was outclassed. Although he regarded Bruce as an eminently stupid man in some ways, Magnus had the greatest respect for his ability as a commander.
The elevator doors opened again, disgorging Joseph Ichiwara, hung like a Christmas tree with briefcases and files. Smiling apologetically, he scurried with his ' curious pigeon-toed walk across to the helibus.
As soon as he was aboard, Magnus turned to the Kepler pilot. "All right. You can take off now."
The idling engines burst into urgent life and the helibus lifted from the roof, swinging out over the streets of the city. Although it still wanted an hour to dawn, those streets were thronged with curious, frightened people, wakened by the "thunderstorm" and mercifully still unaware of the true nature of their peril.
'I'm afraid I wasn't able to bring the Agricultural and Fisheries Reports," said Ichiwara, at his elbow. "The head of the department must have taken the key away last night"
"For this one omission you shall be duly forgiven, my dear Joseph," said Magnus, consolingly. "I somehow doubt that any of our statistics will have a great deal of validity for much longer."
The helibus sped over the threatened city towards Rokoa Field.
Maseba's convoy entered the suburb of Shimara. Lights were on in the houses, bewildered people standing in the streets, looking towards the glow in the eastern sky. Near the town square, a man threw himself towards Maseba's car, hands outstretched in vain supplication. Maseba drove doggedly on, aware of the thud of the body against the coachwork. This was no time to hesitate.
They were on the straight tarmacadam road now, leading to Rokoa Field.
"Have your needier ready, just in case," he said to Caiola.
"Ready, sir," said the orderly, as they approached the white-painted metal gates of the field.
Two guards, their weapons at the trail, stood looking towards the east, and with them, a small knot of civilians. Maseba sounded his horn, as he rolled to a stop.
He leaned out of the car window. "Surgeon Lieutenant Maseba—on official business. Open up!" he shouted.
The guards turned and hurried across at the double. One of them, little more than a boy, looked in at Maseba. "What's happening, sir?"
"Electrical storm—nothing to worry about," Maseba said curtly. "Open up those gates!"
The guard hesitated.
"Move, man! Move!" shouted Maseba, in creditable imitation of Bruce.
The guards ran towards the gate.
"Sir—that woman!" said Caiola, one hand on Mase ba's arm, the other pointing towards the knot of bewildered civilians.
Maseba looked, and saw a small woman, in shapeless Keplerian coveralls, walking uncertainly towards the convoy.
"Crewwoman Mizuno!" he snapped instantly. "Get her, Caiola!"
A moment later, the gate opened, and the convoy began to roll across the field towards the waiting scout ship, with Mia Mizuno bundled in the front seat of the leading car, between Maseba and Caiola.
"Piet... Where is Piet?" she asked.
Over to the left of the field, Maseba saw a long, gray helibus descending.
Venturer Twelve had completed her arc now, and was heading in towards Kepler III. But the turn had taken too long. What had been a blue-green, fertile planet was now a bright new sun, burning with fearful intensity.
"My God!" whispered Lindstrom at his elbow.
"Your God doesn't live around this part of the galaxy," Bruce said, his eyes on the CID, where the Kilroy ship still showed, hovering over the stricken planet like some great black vampire bat. But he was praying himself, just the same, that the alien would remain where it was for just a few seconds more; so that it would be within range of Vee Twelve's weapons as she swung past Kepler III in a space-eating parabola at point six five light.
Up on one of the auxiliary screens, white figures a foot high ticked off the seconds to contact time.
Fifteen . . . fourteen. . . . The vampire bat remained steady, gloating on its handiwork.
Bruce sat back in his comm
and chair. There was nothing he could do now. The outcome was in the hands of the battle computer; no human being was capable of the millisecond calculations needed to conduct such an attack.
He called to Maranne. "Anything from the scout ship?"
"No, sir. But they may be in the planet's shadow."
Nine . . . eight . . . seven. . . . The alien was still there, hovering above the ravening fires.
"If they managed to get away . . ." said Bruce, grimly; George Maseba, Magnus, their staffs....
Five... four... three....
The image of the alien ship began to flicker, pulsing in and out at rapidly increasing speed. It was no longer black, but acquiring luminosity as its color gradually climbed up the spectrum towards flaring white. At the same time, it appeared to increase in size.
And then, abruptly, it was gone
For the space of two heartbeats there was a great silence aboard Venturer Twelve, then Bruce spoke: "We call them Kilroys. It's like a joke—the worst bloody joke I ever heard." The crew of Venturer Twelve had never heard before such emotion in their chiefs voice.
On the auxiliary screen the words NO CONTACT appeared, mocking, derisive.
The enemy had gone, carrying his secrets with him . . . once again. Bruce rose from the command chair, stretching cramped limbs.
"Scout ship calling in now," shouted Maranne.
Bruce turned to Lindstrom. "Handle it, will you?" He walked out of Battle Control, tasting the bitter ashes of defeat.
Venturer Twelve was on her way back home, but there was little joy in that thought for Tom Bruce, because the enemy had gone, and he had been cheated of the long-awaited confrontation yet again. There was no way of probing the unhuman motivation of such an opponent; no way of telling whether he had been afraid to join battle with the might of Venturer Twelve, or whether, his task of destroying Kepler III completed, he had decided contemptuously that the Earth ship was not worthy of his attention.
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