Tongues of the Moon

by Philip José Farmer

  "So," he said, "we have taken one more step towards the defeat of our enemies. Now, give me a report of your trip to Earth. Make it brief, however. I know that you came back with the bomb."

  Broward told his story, the false and true details spilling out easily. Scone kept his pale blue eyes fixed on Broward's face as if he were trying to read behind the flesh. Then, when Broward ended with the account of his ship's landing at the port of Clavius, Scone seemed to relax a trifle. He leaned back and said, "It couldn't have gone better."

  By which Broward knew that Scone was pleased not only with the retrieval of the bomb but the solution of the problem of the "Jew." At that moment, Broward hated Scone as never before. He even thought of killing him, but he did not act on the thought. If he did so, he would be as much a monster as Scone. Moreover, he himself would undoubtedly be executed a few minutes later. No, he wanted to live, to enjoy life with Ingrid, and to ensure the survival

  of mankind—although he was doubtful that mankind was really worth saving.

  He did derive a bitter satisfaction from the knowledge that Moshe was safe and that Scone, although he would never know it, was cheated.

  "We have the bomb," said Scone. "How do we use it?" He was speaking out loud to himself, for he would never have asked Broward for advice. "This mission to deliver the bomb must not fail. It is our greatest, I might almost say, our only chance to defeat the Axe."

  He glared at Broward. "You realize that I cannot go on this expedition. I cannot trust these people. Some of them might try to take over while I'm gone."

  "I know," murmured Broward.

  "I need somebody who has proven himself."

  "Me?"

  "You will have to admit that, logically, you are the candidate."

  Broward nodded his head and thought, If I complete the mission but should die while doing it, then Scone, once again, will have killed two birds with one stone. And I will be the means of the murder that I hate, the instrument of the murder that I hate.

  "Like it or not," continued Scone, "I have to spare one ship. That will be the one that already has the bomb attached to it. Hmm. I made a mistake. I should have ordered you, once you had the bomb, to proceed to Mars with it. Then, it would all be over. No, it wasn't a mistake. I had to know for sure that you did get it."

  "I am not a professional navigator," said Broward.

  "That does not matter. You know enough to get there. In this day of automatic devices, a man does not have to be highly skilled to pilot a spaceship. If he knows enough to feed the proper data into the computer... we will program most of the flight. I can't spare more than one man."

  "So much depends on the success of this," said Broward. "You can't afford to take a chance. We can't afford..."

  "One man, one ship," replied Scone firmly. "Two men won't help. It wouldn't help if I sent my entire fleet out with you. In fact, the fewer in space, the less chance of detection."

  "Sir," Broward said, "I request permission to take along my wife!"

  "Your... wife? I didn't know you were married?"

  "Ingrid Nashdoi and I were married shortly before you showed up, sir."

  "Who gave you permission? I specifically..." Scone's voice trailed off, but Broward knew what he meant to say.

  "I did," said Broward. "It's legal."

  "Why should you want to take her along? It's a very dangerous mission."

  "If either of us were to die, the other wouldn't want to live. If we have to die, then let it be together." Broward hoped that Ingrid would agree with him; he was sure that she would.

  "That is the way we feel, sir."

  "Broward, you know that the life of every woman is precious. The future of the race depends upon her. If I sanctioned this stupid senseless move, I would be betraying my trust, the survival of mankind."

  "Very noble sentiments, sir. Those of a true leader, who is devoted to his species."

  "None of your sarcasm. What I have done, I have done to ensure peace in the future and a life worth living. No, Broward, your request is not granted. No! Would you like to sit down? You look faint."

  "I'll stand. How do we proceed, sir?"

  "You must be tired. Go rest. I want you to be in as fine a shape as possible, since you have an extremely grueling task ahead. We will set up the flight and make the ship ready. You will be awakened."

  Broward saluted and turned to leave, but Scone said, "Oh, yes. You must not be disturbed. I'll station a guard so you won't be bothered by visitors."

  "I understand," said Broward. Furious, but helpless, he walked away. When he had gone through the conference room, instead of obeying his orders, he went to the biolab to look for Ingrid. She should be taking care of the "freezing" of the Russian and Chinese prisoners. He found her at the controls of a large console, making some adjustments needed for the preliminary "treatment" of those about to be frozen. These were out of sight in another room, but he was familiar enough with SA procedure to know that they had been put to sleep with an anaesthetic gas.

  He bent over her as if he were asking her a question about her work and said softly, "Keep on working, Ingrid. And don't look surprised or alarmed. I've been ordered to deliver the bomb to Mars. I'm not supposed to see you; I'm supposed to be resting."

  Ingrid continued to watch the indicator lights and meters on the panel. She said, "Mars! Why didn't you ask Scone if I could go with you? You know..."

  "I knew, and I did ask. He refused."

  "Can't you say no? Tell him you will not go?"

  "You know better than that. He'd either have me shot or else placed in the tanks with the others."

  "Couldn't I stow away?"

  "Not a chance. Scone will make sure of that."

  "Isn't there anything we can do?"

  "We can hope. First, the Axe must be destroyed. Afterwards, who knows what will happen? I've seen things take too unexepeted a turn to think that Scone will always have his way."

  "I want to go with you to your room at least."

  "That you will, if I have anything to do with it Get somebody to take your place. I'll wait for you outside."

  He left and stood outside the entrance for a minute. Ingrid came then, saying, "I told Miller that my orders were to be with you during the little time left before you took off."

  "Now to find the guard before he reports to Scone. I'll brazen it out with him. He can't be so hard-hearted he'd refuse to let you stay with me."

  So it was. The guard was so relieved that he had not lost Broward that he was very receptive. His orders had been to conduct Broward to a certain room and then stand at the door, to let no one in after Broward had entered. However, the order had said nothing about anyone who might enter at the same time he did or who went in before him. Thus, Broward paused a second to give Ingrid precedence and followed. The guard closed the port, and they were alone.

  Four hours later, the port opened. The guard said, "The Colonel wants to see you in the briefing room."

  Broward kissed Ingrid. "It's good-bye now. Or, as the Axe says, hasta la vista. Give me another kiss."

  "Hasta la vista, sweetheart. I'll do what you said while you're gone."

  He looked back once at the branching of the corridor and waved. She smiled and waved back, but he was sure that, as soon as he was out of sight, she would run weeping back into the room. He felt tears forming over his own eyes.

  In the briefing room, Scone and the officers concerned with the business of getting him to Mars were examining the map projected on the wall by a wristwatch-sized box. Scone turned from it and said, "You don't look very rested." Broward saluted and said, "I didn't feel like sleeping."

  "Your briefing will not be so brief. About one and a half hours."

  He seemed jubilant; he was even smiling. Could he be so happy at the possibility of getting rid of his competition with Ingrid? No, it would take something more than the chance of winning a woman to unthaw that glacier of a man. "While you were supposed to be resting," said Scone, "I have been
working. And you'll be pleased to know that, when you take off, there'll be something to divert the Axe, to take their minds off chasing you."

  Broward looked puzzled. Scone grinned exultantly and said, "When the neutron bomb was detonated at Clavius, the ports of the vessels that had landed there were still open after releasing the inspection teams. I took note of that and also of the fact that the landings of the other parts of the fleet at Eratosthenes and Fracastorius were synchronized with those at Clavius. So, the ports of the other ships should also be opened. After we subdued the Chinese, I made arrangements with my men before I left for this place.

  "I have just received a report from them. They have gained entrance to the ships at Clavius. They have familiarized themselves with the controls of the vessels and are ready to move against the ships now in orbit above the Moon. The small ships will carry some men to Eratosthenes and Fracastorius; these will try to enter the craft there."

  "So, we're not going to hide like rats in a hole, waiting for word from you before we dare scuttle out," said Scone. "We're going out to battle the Axe. And you will have a much better chance of getting away undetected during the fight. Even if a ship spots you, it's going to be too busy with our battlebirds to get involved with an insignificant scout."

  He sobered and said, "Unfortunately, an enemy detected the scout that reported to me. It called in three other ships, and they are now cruising around this area. Undoubtedly, they're using magnetometers and will find this bubble.

  But, at the rate they're going, they won't be near here for another two and a half hours. Plenty of time to get you prepared and for the birds to get ready for battle. Every ship we have, except the Zemlya, of course, is in this."

  "And so we go forth," said Broward. "We may return behind our shields, but, if we lose, there will be no one to carry us back on our shields."

  "What?" said Scone. "What did you say? Sometimes Broward..."

  "Never mind. What is the plan?"

  Two hours later, Broward sat at the controls of his ship. It lay in line behind three battlebirds. Behind him the other vessels of the fleet were arranged in order.

  Outside was darkness and the blazing many-colored eyes of the sky, most of them blotted out by the towering bulk of the cruiser in front of him. The floor of the bubble sloped away downwards from its mouth so that the noses of the spaceships on the floor pointed upwards. But the entrance was set halfway up the side of an immense mountain, and, on the ledge outside, a TV camera, hidden inside a pseudo-boulder, transmitted a picture of the three enemy vessels. These were separated by a distance of two kilometers each and were proceeding parallel to each other at a very slow pace towards the bubble.

  "One minute to go," said Scone's voice from a transmitter set in the arm of Broward's chair. "When the buzzer is activated, the Washington, Jefferson, and Roosevelt will proceed as directed.

  "Broward, five seconds after the Roosevelt has launched, you will launch at an initial velocity of 1000 kilometers per hour and will hold down the full-acceleration button until you think you are safe. The second sounding of the buzzer will be your signal to go into action."

  He thought, "Ingrid, will I ever see you again?" and then the first buzz sounded. Suddenly, the three great bulks were gone.

  He counted so slowly that the buzzer came again before he had voiced the "four." At the command of his fingers, which were operating the controls on a small swinging panel at chest-height, the scout rose. He pushed the velocity stick forward to the designated mark. No sensation of the cavern's rock walls sliding by or of the mouth flying at him. Suddenly, he was out above the moon, or, at least, he supposed he was, for he could not see it. Without

  thinking about the move, still slightly bewildered by the change, he depressed the FA button. And, as quickly as he had left the bubble, he was out of the shadow and in the sunlight. In the plates showing him the view from 'behind' and 'below,' the Moon was dwindling fast, shooting away from him. And there was nothing on the radar to indicate that any objects were in pursuit of him.

  He began to activate the various controls needed to initiate the program for sending him Marsward. The equipment in the ship was already determining its approximate location by radar and by light: the relative positions and angles of the Moon, Earth, Sun, and several stars. Though he was not aware of it, except by observation of the panel indicators, the ship had changed course and was on the path that would take it to its destination. Broward remained in the chair. He could not leave it until he turned off the stasis field, and he could not do that, without committing suicide, until he had slowed the scout down to an acceleration he could endure. There was no need for that now; the best policy was to allow the ship to travel at top speed until he had to shut off stasis. If he must perform natural functions such as eating, and excreting, he had the facilities for those in various compartments in the chair. Sleeping was also done there. He wished that he could have been in a larger vessel, for these provided for complete facilities. Some of the higher officers in the big ships even had small cabins enclosed in stasis during the dangerous speeds. The only drawback was that the larger the stasis, the more power was required, and all objects within the field were in free fall. Scoutships, to conserve fuel, restricted stasis to as small an area as possible. He sat in the chair, ate a little when he felt hungry, slept, did some exercising, making sure that during it his body did not come into contact with the field. In the viewplate, polarized to dim the full glory, the sun grew larger. It raved and ravened; tongues of flame shot upwards, blazing globs large as the continent of America were hurled outwards, then fell back, aborted worlds. Fascinated and fearful despite his knowledge that the ship's speed was greater than the escape velocity required, Broward watched the sun for hours. It was so inconceivably huge and violent that he felt an awe approaching that which the primitive sun-worshippers must have experienced. Perhaps, his exceeded theirs, for he was closer to the terribleness of it.

  Then, it began to shrink and to drift towards the right of the viewplate. Then, it was gone. And he knew that he had 78 hours to go.

  Five times during that period he decelerated to the point at which he could shut off stasis. At 1.2 G, he walked around the narrow confines of the cabin and even crawled around into the storage hold to give himself much-needed exercise. He did pushups and kneebends until he was panting and was so tired that he had no trouble falling asleep. He talked to himself and he listened to music and drama and poetry from the pocket player. At times, he felt he would go mad if he did not have a cigarette, but he did not. Endlessness. Loneliness. Insignificance.

  Whatever the Axe reaction, Broward was curving out towards the nightside.

  But he found himself reluctant to replace the scout in the programmed path. This, despite the fact that the longer he waited, the more chance he gave the Martians to locate him and send ships and missiles or both against him. He knew that he must launch the bomb and that the sooner he did it, the better for him and the success of his mission. Yet, he could not bring himself to start.

  A buzzer sounded; a red light began flashing on the instrument panel. Startled, he looked at the various radar-scopes and saw that one had a blip. A piece of cosmic debris? An Axe ship? He pressed a button on the panel, and a piece of paper slid out of a narrow slot. On it was printed the distance, direction relative to the ship, speed, and

  approximate size of the target. It was about four hundred and eighty kilometers away, was proceeding on a path parallel to his, was on the same heading, traveling at 45,000 kilometers per hour, and was about three times the size of his scout.

  His first impulse was to throw his craft into full speed and then towards a ninety-degree angle from the stranger. But his hands remained poised before his. chest. Why was he waiting? He did not know. There was something emanating— if he could use the word in such an unscientific term—from the object. What? There was no defining it except as a call for help. Despite any evidence whatsoever, he felt that someone was crying out for aid.
Although he had never considered himself to be in the least receptive to psychic phenomenon—if such indeed existed—he was now experiencing something akin to it. Whatever it was, it was reaching him through no ordinary channels of communication.

  His third impulse was to continue with the first The long isolation and strain had unnerved him, might even be causing hallucinations. If he succumbed, he would not only die, but, eventually, Ingrid and all his comrades would. No. He would pay no attention to the voiceless shout

  He reached down. Instead of pushing on the velocity stick, he pressed two controls. These activated the frequency-finders for the radio and laser receivers. Several seconds passed while he watched the scopes for evidence that the object had changed course, was increasing speed, or had released a second unknown object against him. None of these occurred, and then the radio receiver, having located and locked onto a certain continuing frequency, burst into life. A voice was speaking in Spanish, a man's voice. It had been some time since Broward had spoken Spanish. At first, he did not understand. But the man was obviously repeating the same phrases over and over. Within a minute, Broward understood him. He was calling for help. He was Lieutenant Pablo Quiroga, and he was in the communications section of what was left of the cruiser Juan Manuel de Rosas. The de Rosas, with two destroyers, had detected and then pursued the remnants of the fleeing South African fleet. (Though Quiroga did not say so, his words implied that Howards, the Argentinean dictator, had done to his allies what Scone had done to the Russians and Chinese. Except that in this case there was no doubt about Howards' treachery.)

  The South Africans had turned around to fight or, perhaps, the Argentineans had intercepted them. Whatever had happened, the result of the battle had been the annihilation of the South African ships. But at a heavy cost. Both destroyers had been shattered by missiles. The de Rosas had finished off the African dreadnought but had been sliced through in several places by lasers. Quiroga had survived in the sealed-off section. He did not know if there were others also living in similar sections. But he was calling Mars or any ships that might be in the neighborhood. He could not last long. He was out of food and water, and the air would give out in another three hours or less.