"Yes, sir," she said. He hurried out of Operations Control, aware of her watching, curious eyes.
Chapter Eighteen
Here, we work close together or perish On new lands a lifetime from home; All other men's skills we must cherish, All other men's hearts are our own.
Thunder of Stars: IVAN KAVANIN
The tangle-haired, filthy, scarecrow figure that had once been known as Angus MacGuinness squatted in the shaded hollow concentrating all that remained of his eroded intelligence on the task before him. Naked, his body covered with festering sores and wracked by fever, he murmured obscenities like some mysterious incantation as he twirled the pointed piece of hard wood in the socket for what seemed like the millionth time.
MacGuinness had found out the hard way that even on a paradise planet life can be tough and brutish without the material benefits of civilization. The nights that once seemed so invigorating with their wine-like sea breezes were now cold, damp eternities of blackness filled with shivering fear; the days, with a pitiless sun that burned into his skin and scratched mercilessly at his streaming, red-rimmed eyes, were little better. Then there were the insects, which fed happily on exposed flesh no longer protected by clothing or repellent ointments, some of them depositing their eggs beneath the surface of the skin to create yet more festering sores on the already rotting hide. For food there had been berries and wild fruits—an error of choice had almost killed him on the second day, when he had lain for almost twenty-four hours writhing and retching while all the demons of hell seemed to be tearing at the inside of his gut— and, when he needed variety, he forced himself to overcome his instinctive nausea and eat a species of fat white grub that had a sweet/salty taste.
Combined with his will to live, he felt that this diet might well serve to sustain him until some form of rescue appeared, if only he could have some kind of warmth. That simplest-seeming, most taken-for-granted aspect of human comfort, a fire, loomed enormous and desirable in his mind, filling his every waking thought. All his learning and intelligence were suddenly valueless in the face of this basic problem, and he found added frustration in the knowledge that savages since time began had been capable of creating this miracle which had eluded him for three whole days.
Taking the stick once more between his bony, cold-stiffened palms, he twirled it in a grim frenzy of determination. The tiniest wisp of grey smoke rose and dissipated quickly into the cool air. He twirled the stick again, a cracked giggle of triumph dribbling from his lips.
More smoke this time, faltering at first, then pouring upwards in a nostril-clogging, eye-irritating stream as he bent down and cupped the tuft of dried grass between his two hands, breathing on it gently, fearfully. ..
The flicker of flame grew stronger. He piled on another handful of grass with his right hand, scarcely heeding the fact that the skin of his left was burning. . . Then a few dry twigs, carefully, gently. . . and there it was, at last, a real fire.
He straightened up with a whoop of triumph, waving his fist in the direction of the setting sun. He was sure now that he would survive another night—that he would have some warmth—and tomorrow rescue must surely come.
He hardly noticed the first oily drops of rain—the skin of his body was becoming hardened to pain and to other stimuli in consequence. But soon the drops became a torrent.
Conscious of the danger to his newly kindled fire, he bent over it, trying to shield it from the deluge. The smell of burning hair mingled with the smoke for a few brief seconds, and then the fire sizzled and died under the impact of the water pouring over his back and shoulders.
With a howl of sheer despair Angus MacGuinness slumped over the damp, dead ashes of his fire. As the delirium closed in on his mind his last sane thought was the recognition that, in addition to the rest of his troubles, it was quite possible that the rain would be radioactive....
Lindstrom's face was tired but alert, and Bruce was pleased to see that her eyes had lost their haunted look. Even a sensitive mind such as hers could become habituated to horror with the help of time and concentration on the task at hand.
"It seems that our first estimate about the unlikelihood of survivors was correct," she said. "There's no doubt now that the entire population of the Tantaron continent has been destroyed. My copters and a/g lift men have completed their search pattern without detecting the slightest sign of life."
Bruce nodded. "A typically thorough Kilroy extermination job."
"Well yes, but..."
"But what?" Bruce was immediately alert.
"I think it's a bit early in our experience of them to talk about a typical Kilroy attack, don't you?"
"What are you getting at?" Bruce demanded impatiently.
"Well, it was your remark about their having some new weapon they wanted to test that started me off," Helen said, frowning. "You remember that ray of theirs that burned Kepler III to slag?"
'I'm not likely to forget it."
"As an extermination instrument, wouldn't you say that was about as efficient as you can get?" "So?"
"It's just that our survey down here makes it pretty clear that the destruction was caused by either a very powerful multiple-warhead missile or a number of individual missiles," said Helen. "Now it seems to me that this constitutes a retrograde step in weaponry rather than an advance. I mean, why bother with old-fashioned nuclear bombs when you can stand off from a planet maybe ten million miles and do what they did to Kepler III?"
"Maybe they wanted to be more selective this time," suggested Bruce.
"Leaving the islands untouched, you mean? Could be," admitted Lindstrom. "My boys are on their way. down there now; maybe they'll find some clue. . .
Even so, I can't help feeling there's something strange about their using missiles—and not particularly efficient ones at that, it seems. One of the copters working along the western coastline reported what seems to be an unexploded bomb about five kilometers out in the ocean."
Bruce shot bolt upright in his seat "For God's sake, woman! Do you realize what you're saying? For the first time ever we have a chance of getting our hands on a piece of Kilroy weaponry."
"A perfectly ordinary nuclear bomb—"
"That's not the point," said Bruce angrily. "This is a Kilroy-manufactured bomb. Examination of it is sure to tell our experts at least something about their technology."
"Maybe. . . But it's standing about twenty fathoms deep, according to the report."
"I don't care if it's a hundred fathoms. I want that missile, so get working on it!" barked Bruce.
Lindstrom winced visibly. "Yes, sir. Any other instructions?"
"Yes. Tell your people searching the islands to look out for a man named MacGuinness. Robert Prince tells me that he is down there doing a fishery survey for Niebohr."
"Prince? When did you talk to him?"
"He arrived in the Orphelin system a couple of hours ago, commanding an Excelsior freighter."
"Well I'll be damned!" exclaimed Lindstrom. "Small universe, isn't it? You two must have a lot to talk about, one way or another."
"Very funny!" snapped Bruce. "You just keep that kind of smart-ass talk to yourself and get on with the job of fishing for that missile—understood?"
"Loud and clear, sir," Lindstrom s face faded from the screen, but it seemed to Bruce that her curious grin lingered like that of Alice's Cheshire Cat
Lieutenant (M) Leela De Witt's brown face was grave as she looked down at the pathetic, naked wreck of a human being that lay unconscious on the stretcher.
"Will he live?" asked Helen Lindstrom.
"I'm not about to commit myself on a question like that at this stage," De Witt said. "At first glance I'd say he's suffering from exposure, some kind of unidentified fever, burns, and a whole heap of minor infections and abrasions. When we really get down to it, there may be a number of other items that need attention."
Lindstrom nodded. "He's sure taken some punishment, even I can see that. I wonder if he's that biolo
gist Bruce mentioned?"
"Whoever he is, I doubt if his own mother would know him right now," De Witt said. "How soon can we get him back up to Vee Twelve
"You can't treat him here?"
She shrugged. "I can give him a few shots and some plasma, but if I'm to do a really good job I need to have him in the sick bay."
"It's urgent?"
"One way or another, this poor guy's had about as much as he can take," said De Witt. "No single one of the things he has wrong with him is likely to kill him immediately—but the combination..."
Helen Lindstrom gnawed at her bottom lip. 'Tom Bruce will probably have the hide off me for leaving
the planet's surface before they've fished that missile
»
up.
"If he does, tell him I overrode you," Do Witt said.
"Apart from any consideration of a humanitarian nature, this poor sod looks like he's the only survivor out of the entire planetary population. I'd say that makes him a pretty important guy, wouldn't you?"
Lindstrom smiled briefly. "You just got yourself a deal, Leela. That missile can wait until I've done the return trip."
Tom Bruce and Helen Lindstrom stood outside the intensive care unit looking through the transparent wall as Surgeon Commander George Maseba and Leela de Witt worked over the scarecrow body of Angus MacGuinness.
"If he makes it, he'll be about the luckiest guy in the universe," said Helen.
Tom Bruce nodded. "Pity he isn't going to be able to tell us anything much about the attack. How are your people coming along with that unexploded missile, by the way?"
"They're working on it," Helen said. "But they're having to be pretty careful. It seems that the casing is cracked and the leakage of radioactivity is way up."
'That's hardly surprising under the circumstances," Bruce said. He wheeled to face a breathless petty officer who had just sprinted up behind them. "Yes?"
"Sir, Lieutenant Maranne reports that Excelsior Corporation freighter Medusa has broken orbit and is heading out of the Orphelin system at maximum acceleration."
"The hell she is!" exclaimed Bruce. He began to hurry in the direction of the Operations Room via the main lift.
"What's your pal Prince playing at now?" asked Helen, who was close beside him.
"Damned if I know!" Bruce said angrily. "I told him to match orbits with us as soon as he'd picked up those geologists from Orphelin Four, and it's not like Prince to disobey a direct order."
"He's not Corps any more, remember?"
"Maybe so, but he realizes that somebody has to be in charge in a situation of this kind," said Bruce as they entered Operations.
Lieutenant Maranne looked up as they approached. "I thought you'd want to know immediately, sir," she said.
"You're damned right I do," said Bruce. "Get Medusa right away!"
"I've been trying for the last three minutes, sir," explained Maranne. "They just don't answer."
"Dammitl" exclaimed Bruce angrily. "Ex-Corpsman or not, I'll see that Prince doesn't get even a flycar license after this."
"There may be some logical explanation," suggested Lindstrom.
"If there is, it had better be a good one," said Bruce.."Direct disobedience of orders in an emergency situation of this nature—I could throw the book at him and then some."
"Lieutenant Lee calling from Orphelin Three for you, ma'am," Maranne said to Helen, interrupting Brace's tirade.
"Put him on this monitor," Helen said.
The dark-haired, earnest face of young Lee Hoon Hock appeared on the screen. He seemed to be having some trouble finding his words, and there was a great deal more of the whites of his eyes showing than usual.
"Yes, Lee—what is it? Have you managed to get the missile up?" asked Helen.
Lee swallowed. "Yes, ma'am. I. . .I think you'd better come down here right away."
"Why? What is it, Lee? Something gone wrong?" asked Lindstrom.
"Ma'am, I just don't know how to explain. . ." Lee said unhappily.
Chapter Nineteen
History can only be described as "bunk" when the history makers of today refuse to see their own image in the blunders of the history makers of the past.
The Wit and Wisdom of Henry Fong (p. 573)
Henry Fong was standing by the window. He turned as Elkan Niebohr entered the room, and the visitor found himself shocked by the President's appearance. The small body seemed to have shrunk, so that the normally neat, plain high-necked jacket appeared baggy and shapeless. Moving closer, he became aware that the deceptively smooth, youthful-appearing face seemed suddenly aged and haggard.
"Mr. President, I came immediately when I received your call," he said, taking the small bony hand in his own large paw.
Fong nodded. "Please sit down," he said, lowering himself tiredly into an armchair. He waited until Niebohr had done the same before continuing. "I re
ceived a preliminary report from Commander Bruce just over an hour ago."
Niebohr started forward in his seat.
"I'm afraid the news is grave," said the President, his parchment-yellow face solemn. "The entire Orphelin Three colony has been destroyed and the continent of Tantaron is a charred, radioactive ruin that will remain incapable of supporting life for many years."
In the thirty-second silence, Niebohr stared woodenly.
"There are no survivors?" he asked.
"None at all. The destruction is complete and utter."
"Five million people—God!" Elkan Niebohr slumped forward in his chair, burying his face in his hands.
"I know that it must be a terrible blow for you to bear, Elkan," said the President's gentle, high-pitched voice. "Your personal involvement with the Orphelin Three colony is well known."
Niebohr straightened up and looked directly into the President's dark, sympathetic eyes. "Every one of those people was like my own flesh and blood," he said. "They named their cities, their children after me. . . And now it's all gone. Orphelin was more than a business operation to me; its success, the lives of all those happy, healthy people—the whole thing had come to have a very special meaning."
"I understand only too well, Elkan," said the President. "But we must learn to accept such misfortune as part of the Supreme Being's inscrutable plan."
Niebohr's hawk features hardened. "I'm afraid I don't have that consolation. If this Supreme Being of yours really exists, then that implies that he is also the creator of these fiends, these Kilroy creatures who prey upon our colonies and destroy our innocent people." Niebohr seemed deeply shaken.
"As he is also the creator of the savage beast and the infinitely small virus—both of which live through the destruction of others," Fong said blandly. "It is not given to us to understand such mysteries."
"Surely that's not all you have to offer?" Niebohr stared at this tiny, aging man with a growing contempt. At times like this it seemed to him that Henry Fong was more suited to the secluded life of a Buddhist monk than to the task of guiding the destiny of mankind's hundred and fifty inhabited worlds. To greet a situation like this with mouthings about the workings of the Supreme Being was to abdicate from responsibility.
"My dear Elkan—whatever we do or say, nothing can alter the grim reality of the destruction of the Orphelin Three colony."
"Minos. . .Kepler. . .Orphelin," Niebohr intoned the list bitterly. "And next? Another of the colonies—or Earth itself? How much longer must we go on waiting to be destroyed like a flock of sheep?"
"I am aware of the gravity of the situation," said Fong. "We have discussed it on other occasions."
"But still nothing is done!" said Niebohr, his voice deep with anger. "Time after time the Corps appears on the scene too late to do anything but survey the damage."
"As you know, we are hoping that the Warp Drive may change that situation," said Fong.
I'm beginning to doubt that," Niebohr said. "Even with such a drive, the Corps will be able to do little more than sit around and wait for news o
f the next strike. The time lag may be shortened—but the chances are that they will still be too late to take any effective action. It seems to me that it is long past time that the people of United Earth were made aware of the true facts of the situation. They must be told about the destruction of Orphelin Three in the fullest detail—and they must be made fully aware of the manner in which their protection is being neglected. They have a right to the facts, and I shall make it my business to tell them."
"My dear Elkan, I can fully understand the reasons for your indignation," Fong said gently. "But I'm afraid I cannot allow you to follow such an ill-considered and alarmist course of action."
"But that is deliberate suppression," objected Niebohr. "The people have a right to know these things."
"While I admire your democratic principles, I'm afraid I have no intention of changing my decision in this matter," Fong said. "If I am proved wrong in the long run, then history will be my judge—but for the time being I must do what I consider the best thing."
"In that case, I suppose there is nothing more to be said," growled Niebohr. He began to rise to his feet
"Just a moment, Elkan," Fong said quietly. "There is one other small matter."
Niebohr settled back warily in his seat, his eyes watching Fong alertly. "Yes?"
'Tour son-in-law, Robert Prince—what was the purpose of his visit to the Orphelin system?"
"He paused there on his way to Balomain to drop off a party of geologists and engineers on Orphelin Four," said Niebohr. "We are in the process of investigating both planets in the hope that one of them will provide a suitable base for the activities of Koninburger."
"Yes, I see," Fong said, nodding. "I had guessed that the journey was connected with something of that nature. However, it seems that on hearing the emergency warning about Orphelin Three he immediately turned back from his projected journey and appeared in the Orphelin system shortly after the arrival of Venturer Twelve."
"Considering the fact that he is commanding a standard-type freighter, I would think it a rather damning judgment on Corps efficiency that he was able to do so," Niebohr said.
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