The Sky is Filled With Ships

by Richard C. Meredith

  But you’ve got your own blood, Henri. You’ve got Cassandra and Erda and some others. You’ve got the blood of innocents on your hands, too, and how do we get it off? How do we ever sleep again at night?

  Oh, God, Henri, he cried to himself, what have we done to mankind?

  The Shilo’s captain had crossed the large compartment and tapped a button that alerted the communications officer and said: “Prepare a capsule. For Earth. There’s a message coming through.” Then he inserted the admiral’s notes into a device that transmitted a copy of them to the communications officer. That done the captain looked back at the 3-V tank, and he, like the Grand Admiral, sighed sadly.

  *

  Below decks the communications officer saw to it that a message capsule was readied at once and the admiral’s handwritten notes placed inside it. Then the capsule was kicked outside the ship, where it fired a powerful plasma jet and began accelerating into the grayness of Non-space, toward a spot where a world called Earth lay in a coexistent universe.

  The capsule sped faster and faster, accelerating at a rate that would have reduced human flesh and bone to little more than jelly smeared thinly on the rear bulkheads, and at that ever increasing speed rushed toward the locality of Earth.

  A few hours after leaving the Shilo, the message capsule reached a complex of structures roughly coexistent with the orbit of Saturn. By then it had slowed its speed, and it finally came to a dead stop within a few kilometers of the Non-space station, emitting an alerting signal. In response to the signal the station swept out a tractor beam, locked in on the capsule, and transferred it to a Jump Unit hanging freely in Non-space, energized and at potential. The capsule passed through the unit’s field and squirted through flawed space into the continuum of stars.

  A crew of men, working under the bright stars of the galaxy, out where Sol was a shrunken, wan disk, opened the capsule, removed its contents and fed them into a scanning device. The Grand Admiral’s notes were translated into electronic pulses and relayed to Earth, then nearly ten and a half astronomical units away. Something near one hour and twenty-nine minutes had passed before the signal reached Luna from where it was relayed to the Chief Signal Officer of the Federation in the city of Geneva. Once received the message was decoded, then immediately relayed to the office of the Chairman.

  Eight hours and fourteen minutes after the Grand Admiral scrawled his message on the notepad, an almost exact duplicate of those notes came out of a machine built into the desk of Jonal Herrera, Chairman of the Federation.

  The most powerful human being in the galaxy sat looking at the half dozen sheets of paper, the thin, wavy lines that spoke of the destruction of the mightiest armada in human history—and that man came as close to weeping as he ever had in his adult life.

  Chapter XV

  Janas was too stunned to speak at first. He had never seriously considered that the Pinkers might arrest him, though now he fully realized that he was, in fact, involved in a “criminal” conspiracy. And, too, he realized how blundering and inept had been those leading the conspiracy; how amateurish and obvious had been the actions of himself, of Jarl Emmett and the others. Franken had known, even when Janas went to see him on that first day back on Earth, that there was a movement afoot to call back his orders to the STC star fleets—a movement that was willing, if reluctant, to take steps beyond mere talking. He had only been waiting until they had committed themselves, until the “committee” the night before had tentatively and tremulously discussed the use of force, had spoken against the august office of the Chairman of the Terran Federation. A spy in their midst, while not able to electronically record the conversation, could still testify against them, evidence damning enough for a Federation court of law to convict Robert Janas and Jarl Emmett, along with the others, of criminal conspiracy. Then Altho had acted, with the Chairman’s blessing. Janas cursed himself for a fool and stood helpless, unarmed before the Pinkers.

  “I’ll come,” he said at last, wondering how good were his chances of escape, and wondering too what he would do were he able to escape, where he would go on this world that was no longer his own.

  “This way, sir,” the senior of the Pinkers said politely, gesturing for Janas to go down the hall toward the elevator.

  Quietly he obeyed, though keeping alert for an opening that might give him the opportunity to act.

  It happened quickly, Janas’ escape from the two young Pinkers who were too easygoing, too careless. They did not dream of violence here in officer country of the STC Hostel.

  One moment the hallway before and behind was quiet, empty; the next a dark, curly-headed young man seemed to appear out of nowhere, a stunner in his hand.

  “Hit it, Janas!” he yelled as the stunner buzzed.

  Janas recognized the newcomer as Paul D’Lugan, and acted. Leaping backward with his arms outspread, Janas knocked both Pinkers off balance. One stumbled against the wall, his hand grabbing for the stunner on his hip, but he was too slow—the beam of paralysing energy from D’Lugan’s weapon reached his body, passed through the flesh of his abdomen, found the nerve complex of his spine, and the astonished Pinker collapsed.

  As D’Lugan brought down one, Janas jerked the second guard off his feet and threw him savagely against the wall. Jumping forward, his right elbow leading his body, Janas slammed into the Pinker, sinking his elbow in the younger man’s soft throat. The security officer released a strangled groan, flailed his arms in an attempt to throw the starship captain away. Moving back just enough to give himself room to swing, Janas threw his right fist into the Pinker’s stomach, his left into his descending chin.

  The man who had come to arrest Janas gurgled painfully and fell limp to the carpeted hallway.

  “Hurry,” D’Lugan cried, shoving the stunner into his belt and grabbing the nearer of the unconscious security officers, “let’s get them into your suite.”

  In a few moments, both breathing hard, Janas and D’Lugan had the two limp forms inside the suite, tied in strips of bed sheet, and unceremoniously stuffed into a closet.

  “They ought to be out for a while,” D’Lugan said.

  “What are you doing here?” Janas asked when his voice came back to him.

  “I’ll give you a full report later,” D’Lugan replied. “We don’t have time for it now. Jarl’s still free and holding Operations. Have you got any ‘civies’?”

  “Yes,” Janas answered.

  “Earth-style?” D’Lugan asked, jerking a thumb toward his own garish costume.

  “No,” Janas told him, forcing a smile.

  “I’ve got some for you.” D’Lugan ducked out of the suite for a moment, and then returned with a package. “They’re your size,” he said, offering the package to Janas.

  Inside he found a bright red and white striped shirt with loose sleeves, lace collar and cuffs, harlequin pants of gold and purple with a startlingly white, grotesquely padded codpiece, red boots and a peaked felt cap of the same purple as the pants. He looked for a moment at the wild clothing, then looked at D’Lugan’s, which was no better, and decided that on Earth the quiet sobriety of his STC uniform was probably more conspicuous in a crowd than what D’Lugan was offering him.

  “Don’t be squeamish, Captain,” D’Lugan said, a smile breaking across his face. “It makes me sick, too, but that’s what the well-dressed man wears on this crazy planet. When in Rome, and all that crap.”

  Janas returned the smile, suddenly finding that he liked D’Lugan—not so much for his startling rescue but because he had a degree of taste that Earth seemed to have forgotten. D’Lugan was a starman like himself, a ship’s officer, and perhaps—no, probably, from what Jarl Emmett had said—he had ample reason for hating Altho Franken and what he had come to represent.

  Without answering, Janas stripped and then dressed in the gaudy clothing. Delaying D’Lugan for a moment, he took tissue copies of the two reports from his attaché case and stuffed them inside his shirt. He turned to go into the bedroom.<
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  “Hurry up,” D’Lugan snapped. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Just a minute,” Janas answered. Opening one of his suitcases, he took out a dark, heavy metal object, the traditional sidearm of STC captains. It was a twentieth century, old-style weapon, a militant and obviously deadly .45 caliber automatic pistol, a weapon to which Janas owed his life several times over. He slipped the pistol inside his shirt, hoping that its bulk would not be too obvious within the loose folds, grabbed a handful of shells from a box in the suitcase, dropped them into a pocket, and then left with D’Lugan.

  “Where are we going?” he asked as the door slid closed behind them.

  “To pay a social call,” D’Lugan said. “Just stay with me and try not to look too obvious.”

  Without speaking again the younger man led Janas to the nearest grav-elevator. They rode down several floors, got off, took stairs down two or three flights, boarded another elevator and rode to the building’s basement levels. Getting out again, D’Lugan led a meandering course through several floors of the subsurface levels, upstairs to the ground floor, across the hostel’s lobby, where stood half a dozen Pinkers who only glanced casually in their direction, and then outside the building.

  D’Lugan spoke only once, and then to say: “We’re going there.” He was pointing toward the beautifully imposing Graham Franken building where Altho Franken had his offices.

  Janas felt annoyance at D’Lugan’s commanding attitude but admitted to himself that the younger man knew what the plan was, and he didn’t. Later he would have an opportunity to learn just what was happening and why.

  Without incident they entered the Graham Franken building, crossed the huge main lobby, rode escalators and elevators until they at last arrived at the upper levels and the offices of the STC hierarchy, to the huge reception room where Janas had come two days before seeking audience with Altho.

  Unhesitatingly the younger man crossed to one of the receptionists, the very girl with whom Janas had spoken before. The girl looked up. A startled expression went across her face, and the single word “Paul” involuntarily broke from her lips.

  “The show is on,” D’Lugan said softly.

  Something that might have been fear went across the girl’s face, then it was gone. She glanced around nervously, looked at Janas with recognition, then back to D’Lugan.

  “May I help you, sir?” she asked, her voice nearly normal now, and loud enough for others to hear.

  D’Lugan glanced at Janas and winked heavily.

  “We are Citizens Hendricks and Malheim,” D’Lugan said. “We have an appointment with Citizen Altho Franken.”

  The girl’s head nodded almost imperceptibly and there was understanding within her green eyes. She punched a button on the desk before her, or at least gave a convincing imitation of doing so.

  “Citizen Franken will see you in a few moments,” she said after having seemed to listen to a reply from someone. “Please have a seat and I’ll call you.”

  As they crossed to the luxurious waiting room chairs, D’Lugan whispered four words that seemed sufficient explanation: “Maura is with us.”

  He did not speak again.

  Janas fumbled in the awkward pockets of his new outfit and discovered that he had forgotten to bring cigarettes with him in the rush to leave his suite. D’Lugan seemed to recognize the predicament, drew a pack from his own pocket, and offered one to Janas. The starship captain accepted gratefully.

  As he puffed the cigarette to life and scanned the large waiting room, Janas felt terribly open, obvious and conspicuous, though he realized that this was probably the last place that the Pinkers would think to look for them, and it did not seem likely that any of the receptionists, other than Maura, would recognize him. Here he and D’Lugan were fairly safe—for a short while at least—and it was obvious that D’Lugan did not plan for them to stay long in the open. Maura was involved and it appeared that D’Lugan expected her to actually get them into Altho Franken s office.

  Well, Janas asked himself, isn’t that the logical thing to do? We have no choice now if we expect to accomplish anything, no choice other than direct action. And Altho Franken’s office seems like the best place to take that action.

  He felt the heavy bulk of the .45 inside his shirt and that comforted him some, though it did not relieve the uneasy sensation of being watched. He was sure that the short hair on the back of his neck was standing on end, but doubted that anyone would notice that.

  Janas had almost finished the cigarette when the receptionist called for them. In a voice just slightly louder than normal she said: “Citizens Hendricks and Malheim, Citizen Franken will see you now. Please follow me.”

  Careful not to act too quickly, Janas rose to his feet with D’Lugan. The two of them followed the girl across the reception room and into the long corridor that led toward Franken’s private suite of offices.

  Once sufficiently distant from the reception room the girl stopped and turned a questioning look toward D’Lugan.

  “Yes,” he answered her, “we’re going to Altho’s office.” He turned to Janas. “Captain Robert Janas, Maura Biela.”

  “We’ve met,” Janas said.

  “I wasn’t sure the other day,” Maura said. “I thought you were the same man Paul had spoken of.”

  “We don’t have time for small talk,” D’Lugan said, pulling his stunner from the hidden pocket inside his shirt. “Take this.” He placed the weapon in Janas’ hand.

  “What do you want me to do?” Janas asked.

  “Wait here,” D’Lugan replied. “Give us about a minute, then follow. I’ll distract Anchor. You come up and stun him before he has a chance to do anything. Okay?”

  Janas nodded.

  D’Lugan patted the girl’s shoulder and then gave her a gentle shove. They went off down the corridor and Janas stood silently counting off the seconds to himself.

  When the minute had passed, he glanced around, saw no one in either direction, and followed.

  Rounding the last corner, Janas heard D’Lugan’s voice talking loudly.

  “Look, citizen,” he was saying. “Citizen Franken is expecting me. Don’t fool around any longer.”

  “Sir,” Anchor protested, “I have not been so informed. He is busy now. I cannot…”

  “There has been some kind of mistake, Citizen Anchor,” Maura said. “I have authorization from…”

  Janas listened no longer. He stepped forward, swinging up the stunner and aiming toward Anchor’s face. The dark young secretary looked up in astonishment, leaped forward to push a button on his desk. The stunner in Janas’ hand buzzed angrily and Anchor’s movements disintegrated into an ungraceful collapse across the desk. D’Lugan grabbed his limp form and threw it to the floor.

  “Give it to me,” D’Lugan said, gesturing toward the stunner. Janas threw it to him and snatched the .45 from inside his shirt. A savagely pleasant feeling of having at last begun to act filled him as he stepped beside D’Lugan before the large double doors that led into Franken’s office.

  “Open it,” D’Lugan said across his shoulder to Maura who now stood behind the desk, reaching for the button that gave access to the official suite.

  There was almost total silence as the doors slid apart, revealing the inside of the room and Altho Franken, sitting at his desk, peering intently at a large map spread out before him. Standing beside the desk, his back to the doors, was a Pinker officer, a grizzled old warrior with a needle pistol on his hip and bright piping on his uniform.

  For an instant Franken was silent, studying something the officer indicated on the map, then suddenly he seemed to realize that the doors were no longer closed.

  “What is it, Milt?” he asked as he looked up. When he saw the two armed men in the doorway his face went white.

  The Pinker officer, long years of training and experience apparently moving him without his conscious thought, spun, his big right hand dropping to the needier on his hip.

 
“Bob,” Franken gasped, then broke from his shock and reached for something under his desk.

  Needle pistol clearing holster the Pinker leaped aside, swinging his hand up to aim even as he moved. Tracking him like a radar-controlled energy cannon, Janas’ .45 blasted, its flash unexpectedly bright, its noise echoing from the room’s walls.

  The spinning metal slug reached the Pinker just as he depressed the firing stud of his needler, tearing into the colorful decorations that adorned the left breast of his uniform blouse, knocking him backward, a gurgling gasp from his open mouth, a shocked expression on his face. The needier feebly sputtered once, then fell from his dying hand. The security officer continued to stagger backward, his mouth working soundlessly. Then he fell back across the carpet and lay quietly.

  D’Lugan’s stunner had buzzed and Altho Franken slumped forward across his desk, one limp hand knocking over a tall glass. The amber liquid spilled across the map and dripped off onto the lush carpeting.

  Chapter XVI

  The iron will and strength of personality that had put him where he was came to the rescue of the Chairman of the Terran Federation. He had never been the sort of man to cry over spilt milk—or blood. What was done was done, and the most any man could do was make the best of an unpleasant situation, salvage whatever he could.

  Chairman Herrera slowly, carefully reread the notes sent to him by the commander of the defeated fleet. Juliene had always really expected to be beaten, he said to himself, but he was the best I had. Once again he read them, then tapped a button on his desk and informed an aide to have copies sent to the Speaker of the Parliament, the Chief of the General Staff, the Commandant of the Lunar Garrison, and to the President of the Solar Trading Company.

  Herrera sat quietly for a moment thinking about that last one, Al Franken, wondering just how dependable he was. Oh, certainly, Franken had given his word, but was he any more true to his word than—well, than Herrera himself would be? And what about that man—Janas, his name was—could Franken really handle him and his followers? Herrera wondered if it had been wise to allow Franken to control the matter. Maybe he should have had Janas picked up by Federal men. But then, he thought, his spy in Janas’ group, actually a double agent that Franken thought to be in his pay exclusively, had advised that it would cause far less trouble with the touchy STC if they were allowed to handle it themselves, and Herrera wanted as little trouble from the STC right now as he could manage. His agent, this spy who was in the very midst of the conspiracy, had sworn that Franken would not send a countermanding order, no matter what pressure Janas put on him—a needle beam would see to that if need be.