He jammed his finger down on a white, diamond shaped stud, and his breath clogged in his throat.
The screen followed the tender’s course faithfully. The gauges chuckled and hummed.
And then the blackness was torn open with a coruscating, soundless flash, and the tender was in an instant nothing but a white cloud of rapidly dissipating atoms!
No! . . . No! . . . No!
There was no sound from behind him, but he knew that the huge chamber was quickly and silently emptying.
He did not turn from the screen. It was black again, now, relieved only by the tiny sparks that were the stars.
He did not know how long he stood there or how long he watched. Minutes—or even hours, perhaps. He knew only that there was an uncontrollable thing of rage and disbelief and helpless frustration seething bitterly inside him that would not abate, and with it was a crazy jumble of thoughts that made no sense at all.
He heard a man behind him then. It was B-Haaq.
“A pity you’ve learned your lesson so late,” he heard the Majtech say, “Mine slave!”
III
JON KANE’S compact quarters seemed more restricted than ever; the curved bulkheads closed in upon him, and he was an animal in a trap. Waiting, he thought, for the slaughter. He knew it would be that. He would not have a chance when his trial resumed. There would be no way of tricking B-Haaq into admitting the thing he’d done, and no matter how the charge were uttered, it would be the charge of a prisoner, and would fall on less than unsympathetic ears. And of course with the spacetender so many blasted atoms adrift in Infinity, there could be no proof.
Why did B-Haaq hate him so? This was more than an officer simply doing his duty as he saw it—this was singular, personal hatred! But why?
He glanced for the tenth time in thirty minutes at his wristime; the sleeping-period was half over, and he knew he would probably be awake for the remaining half. And the remaining half was so slow in going. If only there were something he could do. If he could only build another unit and install it himself! If—
Fully clothed, he sat up in his bunk. Hesitated only a moment, then crossed the small cubicle to its single narrow hatch. The simple time-lock that secured it was all that held him prisoner—a traditional matter of form, since any skillful mastertech could, with a length of slender wire, applied in the right places . . .
The plan took shape in his mind in the few moments it took him to render the sensitive mechanism useless; it had been rigged for alarm, but the alarm never sounded. In a moment he was on the catwalk.
He strode swiftly and silently, the fine length of wire still in one hand. He almost passed the seldom used hatch when he came to it, so cleanly was it hinged into its bulkhead. But he knew what was beyond it, and the knowledge seemed to hasten his skillful fingers. Within moments, the hatch opened soundlessly, and he was inside the chamber. The Flagship’s armory.
Were it not for the Iabortech articifers, the neatly stacked weapons would have been rusted, useless things long since. “For use ONLY on alien, unknown and possibly hostile planets” the ITA regulations read. It was a rule that applied throughout the entire fleet, and as far as he knew, had been all but forgotten. For within the scope of the ITA’s interest there no longer were any “alien, unknown and possibly hostile planets,” and on the rest, arms had been unnecessary to the ITA for centuries. For it had a far more powerful weapon than any it could devise of metal. It had merely to refuse its services for awhile.
A smile spread slowly across Jon’s face as he began a selective examination of the weapons. Maybe he’d even find a longbow! Lord, here was even a device that propelled small projectiles by means of explosive cartridges! These things had been unnecessary for centuries!
But slowly, the smile changed to a worried frown. First one weapon and then another he discarded, and then another.
But he must find one! And then he could make B-Haaq admit what he’d done.
It was a muffled, metallic sound but it registered on his consciousness and he whirled. Even as he came erect the lights glared suddenly at full strength; whoever had so silently stepped in behind him had lost no time in finding the bulkhead transformer stud.
It was the sleep period duty officer, and a hastily snatched hand gun was levelled at him.
And even in the sudden brilliance of the lights, he recognized her. Lenantech Deanne Starn, the Gentech’s niece, herself!
“Get your hands up, Cadet!”
“Why? The thing you’ve got in your hand hasn’t held a charge since Flanna grew teeveeyes.” He grinned. Even in the white glare, she wasn’t hard to look at. There were a number of stories that had circulated their way through the cadet quarters, but then. Most rumors had it that B-Haaq himself was the lucky man, and there were few others that held differently. Those of the ship’s women who didn’t have the slender figure, the crisp cut pale blonde hair or the wide blue eyes and fine features and quick, alert mind that so typified the family of Starn were never too badly off, for that reason. For to the men aboard, she was B-Haaq’s, and that was the end of it!
She seemed not to have heard what he said.
“You’re Cadtech Kane, aren’t you? Do you think this additional charge of attempted unlawful procurement of arms is going to help your case to any extent?”
“I did think so, yes.”
“You’re as good as in the mines now. And I don’t follow your logic. Don’t move a muscle!”
“You might as well throw that thing away, Lenantech, it’s no good. I’m still looking for one that is, myself. And if you’re going to report me, I’m certainly not going to try to stop you. That’d just get me in even deeper, wouldn’t it?”
Her features were white, motionless. Only her wrist moved; she deflected the muzzle of her weapon but a fraction of an inch and squeezed the trigger.
The gun clicked emptily, and that was all it did.
“You—”
“I nothing. Just told you. Look, Lenantech, people have shot at me with longbows, hauled me almost naked through the deserts of Prokyfive, beat me with lashes, and sabotaged me. Now I’ve had enough.”
“You’re not making any sense to me, Master Kane. You have just one minute to get out of here, or—”
“You mean you wouldn’t report me if I did?”
She flushed. “I didn’t say that. But since you’re already as good as—”
“That’s just it. But if I can find what I’m after here, I just might be able to change that a little. That spacetender of mine didn’t fall apart out there because it wouldn’t work! Not by a damn sight it didn’t!”
“Be careful what you say, Master Kane!”
“Truth’s the truth, isn’t it? Even if I can’t prove a certain Majtech wanted to see me flop and get thrown out of here badly enough to ruin my experiment? Maybe I asked too many questions; or answered too many the wrong way. Your guess is as good as mine. But instead of logical explanations or fair evaluations, I got a court-martial instead. Maybe you can tell me, Lenantech—why replace an entire distributor head assembly on a farm tractor when replacement of the rotor may be all that’s necessary?
Why a new spark plug when all that is required is the resetting of its points? Why stick to a logarithm with a base of 10 when other bases could often make an entire mathematical operation far more simple? And if a man can build you a better drive unit, why smash it for him and discredit him?”
“I think the court took ample cognizance of those questions, Master Kane.” She had lowered the weapon, and had even come a step closer to him. And for a moment, he thought that he had seen a flash of interest in her eyes.
“I know what the court did. But you can think as well as anybody else, can’t you? What are your answers, ma’am?”
“This is hardly the place for a history lecture. Master Kane. But the ITA was formed of those few technicians who managed to escape the wrath of the war weary civilizations who turned upon them and upon men called scientists, whatever they
were, as those to blame for system-wide destruction and wholesale death. You have been taught that. Many of their methods and much of their knowledge was lost. You have been taught that also. But it was those methods and that knowledge which saved them from destruction once, and made the ITA possible. What was not lost is sacred knowledge, Master Kane, and for only a few to know, and for those few to guard militantly lest one jot more of it become lost!”
“You’re right. I’ve been taught all that. But you still haven’t answered my questions! Suppose I told you I could do a Project AA in less than an hour’s time, and guarantee it good for five hundred years. What would you say to that?”
He saw her eyes widen. “That is sheer nonsense and you know it, cadet! A double-A takes six solid months except in event of emergency, and is good for fifty years at maximum! Why, even the geniuses of those ancient war years who were forced to conceive and devise the Project could not have done better—”
Jon grinned again. “Some day maybe I’ll show you, Lenantech! Me and the planets and you! But you better get going and report me before you get yourself in a jam—”
“Yes, indeed she had!”
THE girl blanched, and Jon felt sick. It was B-Haaq. It was always B-Haaq. Standing now in the hatchway, black eyes blazing.
Suddenly Jon felt something snap inside him; suddenly the delicate mechanisms of his brain which had kept reason and desire on a tautly balanced plane of stability failed him, and frustrated rage was in his throat again, and the blinding white of the exploding spacetender swam again before his eyes. He felt his right arm sweeping up over his head, felt the weight of something at its end, and then felt the arm go down, relieved suddenly of the weight.
The heavy hand gun flew straight at B-Haaq, and glanced from his head.
The man slumped, fell almost soundlessly. And for a full second, it seemed to Jon that time had stopped. The girl was motionless, the look of disbelief frozen on her features, and there was a numbing paralysis gripping his own body.
Then he was in motion, and it was an automatic thing, his arms and legs moving swiftly as though fully independent of his brain. Within seconds he had pulled the unconscious B-Haaq into a far corner of the armory and covered him with his own cloak of office. He pulled a double rack of neurorifles in front of the shapeless heap, and then before she could pull away from him he had the girl by one arm and was propelling her toward the hatchway.
“Kane, what do you think—”
“No time to talk, ma’am. These lights have been on too long—somebody’s going to notice the energy consumption in General Control any minute now. Besides which, B-Haaq saw you with me, and heard me telling you to get going and report me. So if I didn’t kill him—”
“You’re crazy! He wouldn’t—”
Jon tightened his grip, looked straight into her eyes. “You know he would, ma’am. If only because he hated me so much, and he found you with me. We’ve got to get going.”
“You let me go!” With a quick wrench, she twisted free of him. “You’re forgetting, aren’t you, that no matter where in the ship you go it will be only a matter of time before you’re found? And if they can give you anything worse than the mines—”
“All right then, stay if you want to! Go ahead and gamble that our friend’s either dead or has a forgiving nature hidden away somewhere—the only thing I’m sure about is that he didn’t blow up all the ship’s space-tenders.”
“You’ll be overhauled in no time!”
“Ten minutes’ work and I can triple the speed of any one of those buckets. You coming, or not?”
He turned from her, ducked swiftly through the hatchway and chose a port-side ramp that would carry him up to the Maintenance deck. There would be at least one tender berthed there in good working condition.
He flattened himself against the ramp wall as he neared its end; listened. Nothing. Maintenance was just sitting around as usual, and during the sleep period, there’d be only a skeleton crew.
In the semi-darkness, he reached up, felt his fingers brush along the curved, smooth ceiling of the gently inclined passage. There; an emergency pressure duct, designed to open automatically in the event of malfunction of the ship’s atmospheric regulators. Emergency pressure could be built up through the ducts in the event of any sudden fall of more than eight ounces per square inch; and would be instantly released should it mount more than three pounds above. All he had to do was jam this single duct to the “excess” position and hold his breath.
It was like picking a lock with his bare fingers, and they felt like fat sausages. And then he had it.
There was a sudden scream of escaping air about him, and he plunged forward.
Somewhere an alarm clanged, and he knew that within moments the skeleton maintenance crew would be suited and pouring in on the ramp with everything it had, from Geiger counters to baling wire. Already, even above the near deafening alarms, he could hear the pounding of their feet.
He dashed for it.
Reached the berth, and there was a tender snuggled into it, ready and waiting.
He had the small craft’s outer lock opened within seconds.
“KANE!”
He whirled, even as the inner lock was sliding open. It was Deanne Starn. And she was running toward him.
The inner lock was open, and Jon pushed her through it, and then had himself strapped before the miniature control console almost before the blinker winked to signal that the outer and inner lock ports were sealed.
He waited a nerve wracking twenty seconds before the Flagship’s flank yawned open, and then jammed the firing studs down with his accelerators full open.
The tender leaped from its berth like a wounded thing, and for a moment Space spun sickeningly, and Jon’s eyes blurred from the unprecedented take-off acceleration. Might as well break all the rules in the book.
Then the stabilizers were taking over, and things began to straighten out. He flipped the craft’s automatics in, unbuckled his straps and got weightlessly underway toward the tender’s aft-section.
“Kane, where are you going? Where are we going?”
“I’m going to diddle with this tub until that big barge back there can’t pick us up for Spacedust. And we’re going to a little backwater planetoid that the ITA only gets to once every thirty years or so. They used to call it Titan.”
A satellite of one of the Sol planets, isn’t it?”
“You’re coming up with a lot of smart answers all of a sudden.”
“Can you—can you find it? All by yourself?”
“My father was born right next door. I can find it.”
IV
EARTH trembled.
She shook like a palsied animal, and great fissures rent her thick hide as tidal waves lashed like gigantic hammers at the coastlines of her continents and mercilessly overran a host of the jewel-like islets that studded her vast oceans.
Her artificial satellites had long since come crashing down, and her natural moon teetered threateningly in its age-old course. Great, jagged chunks broke loose as the barren mass of rock circled perilously close to de Roche’s Limit.
Some of the lower, sturdier buildings in the cities which dotted her wide continents were yet intact, and in the largest, the capital city itself, a number of the broad, deep-laid mails and thoroughfares were still at least partially passable.
But Senator Martin Stine, Conservative Socialist representing the state of Penn-York, had trouble keeping his temper in check nonetheless. It was temper aroused as much from the anxiety of deep rooted fear as from the irritation of trying to guide his pneumocar through the debris-littered avenue leading to the capitol, and the thought jittered again through his mind that he should have taken one of the overheads even though some of them were sagging dangerously in places.
But he hadn’t taken one, and there was less than a quarter-mile to go. If he hadn’t been adding so indiscriminately of late to his normally 195-pound, six-foot two-inch frame he could’ve parked the
damn car and run the rest of the way. Only a block or so yet.
And at this session, the fur was going to fly for sure if the planet hung together long enough for it to even get underway. He’d warned them the last time about the Tinkers. Deaf. Everybody.
His heavy face was red when he at length arrived in front of the capitol mainramp. He didn’t wait for a robotparker to come and take over, but simply stopped his vehicle in its tracks and abandoned it where it stood. And despite the extra pounds he’d recently put on, he moved with an almost feline grace up the broad, inclining ramp, the anger steadily mounting in him.
He entered the vast chamber and took his seat, just as the muted roar of private, nervous conversation was broken by the tri-diannouncer.
“Gentlemen, the President-General of the United Earth Republics!”
Silence. Then the crashing noise of a thousand men getting to their feet. A small, gray-looking man with a prematurely bald head crossed the front of the great chamber flanked by his Secretaries of State and Defense, then mounted the podium alone.
And the emergency session of the Senior Congress of the United Earth Republics was begun.
SENATOR MARTIN STINE was the tenth man to be recognized.
He rose quickly and plucked the jeep-mike from its recessed spot in his desktop.
“So far,” he began, omitting even to begin his remarks with the traditional salutation to the President and the group as a whole, “I have heard ten recommendations for procedure in the present crisis, and each one has been about as jelly-kneed as the one before it! There’s one solution to this thing and only one. If we don’t want this planet to be scattered to the four corners of Space within the next 72 hours we must get Project AA underway and damn quick! I’ve been informed that there is a Tinker ship within thirty hours’ flight of this system. If we act now, and call them in as we should’ve, on an ESR, five years ago, we still might be able to get out of this one with whole skins. Some of us, anyway. Gentlemen, the casualty lists as of an hour ago weren’t very encouraging.”
Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 43