Earth had
everything going for it. Not only was the mother planet top dog in the solar
system—her weak colonies hanging on by the skin of their teeth had to heed her
every whim.
Her spaceships were tops; her armament invincible; and she had just
developed a new method of computerized schooling that seemed certain to develop
an army of superminds to do Earth's bidding.
Yet, if all this was truly so, then how was it that the pesty little
mining ships of the poorest colonial offshoot of all—the barren rocks of the
Asteroid Belt —had beaten Earth's fleet to a frazzle and her homemade
strategists were outthinking the best of the whole High Earth command?
Turn this book over for second complete novel
WALT and LEIGH
RICHMOND
AN ACE BOOK Ace
Publishing Corporation 1120 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10036
phoenix ship
Copyright ©, 1969, by Walt & Leigh
Richmond All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Jack Gaughan.
The
Richmonds have also written:
SHOCK WAVE THE LOST MILLENNIUM
earthrim
Copyright ©, 1969, by Ace Publishing Corp.
Printed in U.S.A.
Lullaby for our Space Children
Parameter, perimeter, and pir-
There's a trace in the
space past the sky that is I There's a me in the lee
of this starred infinity
That
is out to prove the ethic that the universe is free. We're a shout in the snout
of eternities of doubt—
We're a spit in the mitt as we take our aim to hit—in
the eye—
The multitude of factors
that will try to nullify. Our parameters, perimeters, and pi.
Astronomy and chemistry and math—
If you know where to go and your slipstick's not too
slow (don't be slow!) Where electrons meet the
nucleus of mass And protons go along the selfsame path
Where the multiples of decimals that mark the whirling
sphericah
Indicate
there may be trouble coming past-It's a laugh . . . tf you're fast
With astronomy and chemistry and math.
Diameter, circumference, and sphere-Space may
not yet have noticed, but we're here—Space,
we're here!
With
spectrographs dazzle and a certain yen to travel And
the love of work that brings the concepts clear. When the know-how got to
flowing, we made ourselves the
knowing
And
we left behind the Earthbound who don't care for
the rare
Relativities that measure an incomparable treasure when
you
steer
By diameter, circumference, and sphere.
Maneuver is a cone too far to see
Out where motions only relativity— Where inertia is the stronger of the forces, and no longer
Subject
to the biting laws of gravity. Want to brake? That's a fake! But if planetfall you'd make
Turn
your tail—raise your thrust—you're falling free Through
vectors of a factor known as V
With dimension governed by your A times T.
Now E must equal M times C the square
If you really think you're headed anywhere And
you care—to get there.
For a proton or an atom
that exists as just a datum Does not wear—cannot care ...
But the manner of his
travel to a human who can ravel Is decidedly a
different affair. So beware.
For that E will always equal MC square.
His name
was Stanley Thomas Arthur
Reginald Dustin, and the acronym was intentional, "bought" for him by
an uncle at a price. The name had been registered, the price accepted; but when
his mother died and his uncle returned to the Belt his father's disapproval had
registered as well, and he could be known only by his first name, Stan.
"Ruffians
make up the bulk of the planeteers," his father assured him as soon as he
was old enough to ask. "Ruffians and ne'er-do-wells who
can't make it on Earth and have to flee. There is the occasional
adventurer like my brother, but that is the exception," he had added
carefully. "Even so, your Uncle Trevor has behaved beneath the dignity of
the family."
The red hair, the set chin and the gangling
length that he had inherited from his uncle could not be disavowed so easily,
but the heritage was offset by a pug nose and freckles; and with that his
father had to be content
There had been friction between the stern,
unbending father and the easygoing, carelessly alive boy from the beginning.
It was Stan's father's determination that one adventurer in the family was
more than sufficient, that Stan should be schooled to the responsible position
in his own community that his father had created for him. This determination
had nearly obviated the possibility of Stan's entering the school on the
Arctic slopes where he now sat in a learning cubicle answering test questions
on the computer screen before him.
Interminable questions. They made up almost the entire curriculum of the school. Questions, with nothing on which to base his answers.
Questions that leaped from subject to subject; that sometimes centered whole
concepts and assumed not only knowledge from top to bottom of the field
involved, but, Stan decided, intuition within it
Given the lens
configuration in the diagram above, specify the index of refraction required
in lens C, and select from the following list the type and weight percentage of materials required, to formulate such a
lens for operation in an environmental temperature range of 220 to 260 degrees
Kelvin.
Stan glared at the sentence as though it were an enemy, but it refused to go away. Yet, as though his
body had a will of its own, he began estimating angles by eye and sliding the
slipstick—his sole allowed tool of computation —while he shifted decimals in
his head.
With a computer and about six months' time
perhaps, I might be able to come up with some sort of answer, that part of his mind which refused to be disciplined considered. The things they expect you to know on a test
like this, he
thought ruefully.
It
had been a compromise on both his and his father's part. Stan wanted, perhaps
because it was denied him, abjectly and unreasoningly but absolutely, the
training necessary to ship on the interplanetary lines. At least that was his
stated ambition—to go out in the ships that plied the system.
What
he really wanted, the secret desire that gnawed his vitals with a deep,
unreasoning yearning, was to explore the stars. But
before that became possible, the Einstein formulas would have to be rewritten;
and they'd been proved long ago and over and over. That desire was hopeless,
and, he told himself severely, it was a sign of immaturity to continue to
harbor it. The fact that his father did not even suspect its existence was
hardly surprising. Stan hid it from himself whenever possible.
His
father was not only adamantly against anything that smacked of space, but actually
anything that smacked of technical training.
"You shall indeed go to the planets;
explore the entire system," Stan's father had explained carefully,
"but as a tourist, free to explore; free to sample the best of everything
that is offered; free of the slave-labor that marks the life of a"—the
word was distasteful in his mouth—"a planeteer, or a Belter."
The
school here was a compromise, his acceptance into its five-year course a
surprise to both of them. And Stan was not even sure how that compromise had
been reached.
The Mentor who had had him called for
conference during a late afternoon of his final high school year had been a
stranger, and strangely dressed even by the most flamboyant standards. Stan had
entered the conference room cloaked in the normal long gray cloak of privacy
over his own almost-colorful dark blue singlet and matching hose, to be
received by an older man in silken gold tunic and trousers and soft gold kid
slippers. It was his face that kept Stan's attention: it was uncreased, smooth,
almost featureless.
"I
am Katsu Lang," the Mentor greeted him with. "Won't you throw off the
cloak? I expect we will be friends, and no privacy between us."
Startled,
Stan had removed the cloak and folded it carefully over a chair.
He
had been accepted, Dr. Lang told Stan slowly, in a newly organized school set
up under rather special conditions, teaching a "newly developed
engineering course." Designed, the Mentor had said, to best equip a
candidate for a general understanding of the society and possible usefulness in
its further technological development.
"Accepted?" Stan had asked, and
been assured that the criteria had been rigorous; that he had been found acceptable
under the most exacting standards.
He
wasn't at all sure how it was that he had quite suddenly become convinced that
this five-year course was what he wanted; but he had been quite sure that it
was something his father would refuse.
"If you will permit us," the Mentor
had assured him, his strange, nearly poreless face without expression, "I
believe that this part can be handled for you. If you accept this assignment. .
."
Stan
had accepted, and though he was not sure after he'd arrived at the school
itself that it was what he wanted—he was here; he had been at the school for
over four years.
But
it wasn't a school, Stan told himself. It was a series of tests. It was nothing
but tests, actually, with occasional lectures that seemed more designed to
puzzle than inform. The first day's schedule had consisted of nothing but
tests, in this same cubicle, on subjects that ranged from engineering to
sociology to anthropology . . . any and every subject you could think of. At
the end of the tests he had learned that the next day would consist of a
similar series, and that he could study for it or not as he liked.
But
study what? There had been several areas in the first tests that had left him
blank and curious. He started on those in the tiny library cubicle assigned to
him; and he'd found that each tape he'd worked through had led him on to other
tapes; and pure curiosity had kept him going, on and on. ...
He'd
fallen asleep in his small room, expecting to be called for the next day's
assignments, and had not wakened for nearly fourteen hours.
Without
even pausing to find out what meals he'd missed, he'd gone straight to the
classroom cubicle, where the impersonal quiz program had simply begun on his
arrival and continued until he left.
Famished,
puzzled, uncertain, he'd left the cubicle and searched until he'd found an
office. His knock was answered and he'd entered to face again the Mentor in the
golden suit with a gold belt embossed with entwined snakes.
"I.
. . overslept."
"Filing time is
important, too," the Mentor had said soft-
"I ...
I haven't eaten. Dr. Lang, I don't know the schedule, I don't know what to
study. I haven't met my classmates. I. . ." His voice had run down.
"You will find your classmates in the
common room, whenever you care to go there. Your studying seems to have
followed a very well selected pattern. The meal schedule is posted in the
common room."
"But.
. . lectures? Classes?"
"They are
posted."
"On what terms will I be kept or
dropped? I assume that you don't keep all the students. You said that the
course was competitive."
"It
is competitive. We expect to drop at least three-quarters of the students to
lesser courses within the five years."
"You
... I guess you're sort of leaving it
up to each of us how we study and what we do?"
"Isn't that advisable? In selecting for
the best, that is? Those dropped will have fine courses and careers ahead of
them."
There was no use asking questions, Stan
realized. He took a deep breath.
Tour
questions—your tests—cover subjects with which I am completely unfamiliar. How
do you expect me to answer the questions? How can you expect us to pass the
tests?"
"Have you found it
impossible to answer the questions?"
Stan
found himself blank for a minute. Then, with an effort, he forced himself to
recall one of the tests he'd had the day before. It was a mathematical quiz,
and he'd watched himself sitting before the board, the questions arising one
from another, across the screen, as he'd answered them. There were long pauses
before each answer; pauses in which he'd strained every mental muscle he possessed
to . . . remember? Grasp? Analyze? And the answers had come, feebly and
unsurely, but they had come. Correct or incorrect, there had been answers there
when he'd reached deep and strained to . . . remember.
He
felt exhausted, as though he'd been running for miles and was wilting. Standing
there before the smooth-faced Mentor, he tried to frame the question that would
give him the answer to the school itself.
"If
a test selection asks something that you do not know," the Mentor said
softly, "you can always answer that you do not know. That would be quite a
valid answer, would it not?"
Tve come this far, Stan told himself grimly. I wont he licked by the prospect of endless examinations. And I wont be one of
those relegated to merely fine courses and careers.
"You
have had your inoculations?" Again the soft voice carried no inflection
other than the question.
Stan was startled. Inoculations had been part
of the entrance proceedings. He nodded, mutely.
"You
will have them weekly," he was told. "They will .. . help."
And the answers had come. Almost
invariably, if he reached hard enough. The answers seemed to grow out of
the pyramidal structure of the questions—and yet, they didn't. He was calling
on information he had not known he possessed, and it puzzled him; and yet the
catholicity with which he pursued information during the free hours of the day
must be ths source, he told himself.
The hours between exams—and outside the sleep
that seemed to claim him willy-nilly and occupy far more hours than he liked to
waste this way—were in the nature of a race. He never had any idea what the
next day's tests would cover. So he found himself grabbing for information in
those off-hours in so helter-skelter a manner that he was attempting eveiything
and acquiring nothing.
Five
years was a long time, he finally decided. If a subject was dropped today it
would probably be resumed in the forseeable future. And he began following the
subject of each day's tests in that day's studying. It seemed to pay off.
It
was the sleep that he continued to fight After that
first night, it hadn't been a normal sleep, not for a long time. It had been a
feeling of sleep that built an increasing tension within until it would seem
as though he were bursting; and as it seemed inevitable in bis dreams that he
would burst, he'd wake; he'd fall asleep again almost instantly and go through
the increasing tension again horn-after hour; and he'd wake exhausted.
He
found himself increasing his study hours to avoid sleep; found himself fighting
to keep his attention on
the library tapes to the point of exhaustion. But exhausted as he might be, at
the moment he fell asleep the tension would begin to build and build . . .
until one night he didn't wake and there was what he remembered later as an internal
explosion that had continued for some time as a series of minor explosions.
They wafted him forward and back, forward and back, as on a constantly
reversing current, until he drifted peacefully with it, no longer fighting, no
longer tense.
Waking, he'd felt refreshed for the first
time since coming to the school. That night he'd returned to his sleeping room
expectantly and had fallen asleep to the old tensions, but almost immediately
an explosion had occurred—a lesser explosion this time. Then came
the forward and backward motion that was as restful as a rocking chair.
The process had gone on for a week, until
finally the tensions and the explosions had dropped out and the rocking motion
had begun the instant he'd fall asleep. He looked forward to it now: to the
refreshment, greater than any he'd ever known; to the soft currents themselves,
and the satisfied feeling with which he'd wake.
His
life had taken on a similar alternating-current rhythm. The tests were a flow
in one direction: if he relaxed and let his subconscious work, the answers came
easily; whereas if he strained they seemed to be stopped.
Studying
was an alternate flow, a pursuit of knowledge that was a furious, instinctive
demand he found within himself for knowledge that came from his conscious and
pursuing mind. It was a competitive urge that claimed him daily as he left the
testing cubicle and took him direct to the library and its concentrations.
The
race left him little time for the common room, though there were games and
conversation to be had there. On the occasions when he did appear, it seemed to
be full of students, uncloaked and informal as Stan now was, in variations of
the dark singlets and hose that were stylish. He rather assumed that the other
students were taking the same hours he did for studying, and didn't worry about
it What they did was their business, he decided.
Mostly,
though, when he allotted himself time off—and no one in authority seemed in the
slightest interested in setting hours or schedules except for the occasional
lectures, meals, and weekly inoculations—he went topsides. He'd discovered the
entrance to the outside once when he went determinedly exploring the school
plant, originally an oil refinery complex abandoned when the age of oil ended.
There'd been heavy outside wear—quilted boots and trousers; hooded and gloved
tunics—in the small room beyond the door that was marked simply outside; and he'd helped himself and gone out into
the arctic wastes.
That first time he'd not intended to go far,
but the empty spaces beyond the small entrance held an enchantment. The sun was
on the horizon, bright and small, and making a gold path across the white
expanse. He followed the path almost blindly, drinking in the lonely sweeps of
snow; a loneliness that he'd never found before; that created a hunger in his
entrails. The cold air bit into his lungs, and he fastened his hood to cover
his mouth and nose and went on.
Abruptly the sun was gone, and a wind rose
violently to sweep snow into his eyes. He kept on for a bit, but the wind
gusted harder; he turned to find the white expanse on all sides, his tracks
covered, and no sign of the entrance through which he'd come. A near-panic
gripped him, and he stood stock-still for a minute, feeling it wash over him,
feeling his body react to panic, the urge to run pulling at his legs.
Then
he laughed. This, he'd thought, must be what it was like to be in space. And he
looked at the whiteness reflecting back the remaining light and stretching to
infinity in every direction, and felt an urge to
throw out his arms and embrace it.
Turning
then in a complete circle, he had tried to determine the direction from which
he'd come. It was then that he saw the small figure approaching and recognized
it instantly by the golden padded suit, shaped like his own, but glowing in
the reflected light.
Bracing
himself against the gusting wind, Stan went to meet the figure. "Dr.
Lang," he shouted through the wind when they were near, "have I done
wrong to come out?"
The face that he knew to be broad and
expressionless was hidden behind the hood, but as the wind lulled between
gusts, the voice was unmistakable. "I think, Stan, that we shall give you
a special inoculation. No, you have not done wrong. Should it be wrong to come
out into the open?"
A
question for every question, Stan thought. But, "No," he answered.
"This is peace. It should be sought."
After
that, he'd gone out for at least a little while almost daily. He'd never
gotten lost again, and he'd never met the Mentor again. But the trips topsides
had come to mean a relaxation and a cleansing, more effective than a shower.
Stan had missed his home and friends at first
as the strange course went on; but more and more the trips home had come to
seem "like visits to a foreign land, the people to speak an alien tongue.
And then, in one short week, his home became
enemy territory.
He had barely arrived for Christmas vacation
when the news broke on 3-D: ships of the Belt had attacked Earth Fleet; had
attacked and destroyed a few of the mighty vessels that controlled
interplanetary space.
And the Belt forces were
led by Trevor Dustin.
The
shock was felt everywhere. It was impossible. The tiny, weak
population of the Belt taking on the might of Earth?
But as the hours passed and
the 3-D marshaled its onthe-spot coverage from space itself, the shock became
greater.
The
screens showed the huge battleships of Earth, light-colored to reflect back the
impinging rays of the sun; long cylinders more than two hundred feet across,
spinning slowly to give gravity when not under thrust Mighty ships. Their
hulls held six feet of water for radiation shielding over the entire surfaces;
water that served as a major part of the life-support systems for the crews and
the two thousand Space Marines that were the normal complement They were armed
with powerful laser beams for space warfare, with projectile and atomic cannon
for planetary warfare, though the ships themselves would never come nearer to a
planet than a two-hour orbit. Massive monsters, capable of maneuvering at up
to a two-G thrust. . . .
And
darting among and between them like a flight of stubby crossbow arrows, black
so that they were nearly invisible, the tiny ships of the Belt
"The
Belters have dropped their freight doughnuts, and they're using the central
control-cabin/thrust-tube segments of their freighters as fighting ships!"
an excited commentator explained. "They've painted them black so they
can't be seen by eye ... a useless
gesture. They can be seen by ladar."
Breathless,
he went on, explaining to an Earth audience that had never considered the
problems of Belt shipping. "The Belters load their freight into
doughnut-shaped containers, the way freight used to be loaded on Earth into
the trailer end of a trailer-tractor truck. Their control cabins are directly
attached to the ion drive tube that centers any spaceship, and that control
cabin is the only part of the ship that needs shielding, since the freight
travels in vacuum. When the freightnut is loaded, the control-cabin/drive-tube
combination is fitted into its center and the Belter accelerates it into a
Hohmann orbit toward its destination, then lets go.
The freightnut is picked up at the far end of its trip by a similar
ship/drive-tube.
"Those
drive-tube ships are fast,"
he went on. "With no
shielding needed except for the small living section, they're long and fast and
maneuverable. They can get thrusts up to any G's a man can take; and the system
of dropping the freightnuts makes almost every ship in the Belt a fighting
ship."
Then the head of Earth's Space Commission was
brought on to reassure the vast listening audience.
"The Belters," he said solemnly, "are getting too big for their britches. Of course they haven't any fire power at all,
comparatively speaking; and this uprising should be over in a few hours. They
have been listening to the traitorous leaders who have quarreled
with Earth's very light and reasonable control measures from the begiririing.
When this is over, the traitors must be weeded out, and restrictive measures
taken.
"It
may hurt a parent to spank a child,"
he went on in a kindly tone of voice, "especially an insanely brave child. However, it must be done for bis own good. The very act of attacking where there is no
possibility of winning shows the extent of the delusions of grandeur from which
the Belters must be rescued."
Yet
time went on, and the predicted spanking became more and more remote.
The
tiny ships of the Belt were everywhere, black mosquitoes diving onto
light-colored elephants and pulling out again. They didn't even try to match
fire-power with their prey; just dove almost onto the Earth ships, then pulled
into steep climbs that flicked their tails toward the hulls of their enemy and
sprayed them with the full jet streams of their drives.
A
few were swatted, but very few compared to the numbers that were diving again
and again. The mighty laser guns of Earth Fleet had been built to focus sharply
at distances of one hundred miles and better, and were having trouble with
their accuracy in this in-fighting. The Earth gunnery officers did hit their
targets, as demonstrated with fair frequency by minute sparks of light on the
target hulls. But the targeting sparks seemed to be without effect except when
a spark hit the control-cabin end; and even then it was usually followed by
only a tiny puff of steam that was gone almost as soon as it appeared, while
the Belt ship arrowed on instead of exploding.
Not
so with the stings of the myriad Belt mosquitoes. As the tail of the Belter
lighted the hull of its prey with the ghastly blue glow of its jet stream, a great gout of steam would pour forth, and continue to
spout. It did not take many hullings before the giants dissolved from
hydrostatic shock in great soundless blasts of steam and debris on the
viewscreens of Earth.
They
were strange battles to watch, as the two fleets came together time after time:
the ponderous ships of Earth maneuvering majestically, while the tiny Belt
ships dove in and out among them, dancing like fireflies at punishing
accelerations and decelerations, in patterns impossible for the heavily manned,
heavily armored leviathans of Earth.
"Guerrilla
ships," the Belters were called by the astounded commentators. Guerrilla
ships that were showing a technological invincibility that had not been
suspected. Guerrilla ships that were recklessly, impossibly,
remaining on the attack—and winning.
It
was over in three days; three days in which neither Stan nor anyone else left
the 3-D; in which food was something to be gulped between battles; in which
sleep was out of the question.
Stan watched the last and crucial fight. The
Earth fleet had been maneuvered into massing; and the guerrilla ships were
diving through the mass, one after the other, picking off the central ships
while the firepower of the Earth ships was limited for fear of hitting their
own. It was a daring thing to watch as the one-man Belt ships threw themselves,
unhesitatingly, into and through the mass of monsters.
Stan was watching too, when the flagship of
the Belt fleet, Traitor Dustin's ship," the commentators called it, as
tiny as the others, took a hit and spun out, exploding slowly in the fantastic
silence of a space war. But with that ship went the giant of the Earth fleet,
the main battleship, Earuna.
It
was over. Earth Fleet had withdrawn to "regroup and study the
situation," the commentators said, though the euphemism was obvious to
even the most chauvinistic. Earth was defeated, and the Belt independent
And Uncle Trevor dead, Stan added to himself,
while the commentators talked excitedly of the unexpected technological
abilities of the Belt, which were matched (they emphasized) by the technology
of Earth, though that technology had not been thought necessary to the control
of the spaceways. . . .
Stan left the 3-D, but instead of going to
his den to sleep, he took the elevator to the top of the sky-rise, to the
park-area where he could look into the sky and think beyond it
As he left the elevator, a familiar figure,
tall and heavy under its flapping cloak, was approaching it "Hi,
Tom," Stan said, preoccupied.
Traitor
Dustinl" was Tom's only greeting, and Stan found
himself ducking a roundhouse right cross that barely missed his nose, the broad
sweep of Tom's cloak sleeve slapping across his face.
What
happened next was as much a surprise to Stan as it was to Tom. He had been
attacked. The attack had missed only because of his own quick reflexes which,
almost of their own accord, now had Tom engaged in a half-nelson, Stan's left
arm gripping a pressure point at the back of Tom's neck.
"What
shall I break first?" he heard himself asking in a mild voice. The overstimulation that should
have resulted from a flood of adrenalin to the circulatory system in the
standard fight-or-flight response wasn't there. There was none of the
raggedness of heavy breathing that would formerly have accompanied any fight.
The automic responses hadn't been needed or triggered. He hadn't even had his
attention on the fight He was still debating his own fierce pride that the Belt
had won. He should be loyal to Earth —or should he. Somehow there was a feeling
of justification, both in the war and in his own personal battle that he
neither understood nor wanted to question.
The next day he had gone to the tailor's and
had himself fitted for tunics and trousers—of a light gray silken material
that held a gold tinge. Then he'd selected a tunic
belt of gold—plain gold—though he knew that the tailor, his family and friends
would find the clothes, the color, even the fact of the belting, distasteful.
He'd
made his visits home as infrequent as possible after that and now he felt
almost a stranger there; and the feeling was mutual. The pug nose was gone; the
freckles gone.
"You look too much like your former
uncle for comfort," his father had remarked on his last trip home.
"If I were not assured that this school is training you for one of the
higher governmental positions, I would suspect..."
Stan punched the last figures into the board
before him, and to his surprise saw it clear completely. Then the questions
were replaced with a terse summons:
Student S.T.A.R. Dustin. Report to Professor Mallard in Office 201.
Stan jerked out of the daydreams that had
more and more accompanied his tests over the years as he had relaxed to let
the answers come easily.
The almost hypnotic rhythm by which he had
worked for more than four years lay shattered around him, and he felt as though
he were stepping over its shards as he left the cubicle.
II
Professor Mallard stood, cloaked but unhooded, behind his desk
as Stan entered, his piercing eyes seeming to X-ray the student and his pursed
lips seeming to find what he saw unpleasant.
Stan
drew himself up. "Student S.T.A.R. Dustin, reporting as ordered,
sir."
The professor's face relaxed,
and he allowed a small smile to superimpose itself on the disdainful
expression.
"Star
Dustin," he said in a clipped voice. "Perhaps the name is prophetic, General."
Startled,
Stan turned to find a uniformed figure seated casually behind him, beyond the
door by which he had entered.
"So this is the young man." The
general eyed Stan from his carrot thatch to his new gray-gold slippers, then
nodded to himself and rose, a big figure in a
carefully tailored uniform. "This your somewhat
independent but exotically educated guinea pig, eh? WelL have no fear,
Professor. Well tame him. We've tamed the likes of him and better before. After that well see whether he performs to specifications."
He nodded briefly to the professor, ignoring Stan, took cap and gloves from the
table beside his chair, and left without another word.
As the door closed behind the general,
Professor Mallard almost let the precise smile slip, then
replaced it carefully. "You have brought yourself to important notice,
young man," he said.
Stan
felt an internal stillness that held every sense alert, waiting. There was a
sure knowledge of danger beneath the stillness, but it was the lesser of the
two emotions. There was a dislike of the professor so intense as to be nearly
overwhelming. Why
the professor? he
asked himself. Why
not the general? And
he found no answer except the fact.
"I
haven't flunked, have I, Professor?" he heard his voice asking and knew
himself to be asking for time to get his balance, to sort out the emotions that
threatened to flood his system.
"Flunked?"
Mallard considered for a moment, then shook his head
from side to side. "No. Not that. A bit too . . . self-motivated, perhaps.
But as the general said . . ." He decided to leave the sentence hanging.
A
silence lay between the two then. The professor stood immobile, his eyes boring
into those of the student.
He
expects me to speak first, to look away, Stan thought He's determined to force me. Why? His chin lifted and firmed.
At
the gesture, the professor's smile deepened. "Ah, yes," he said with
the casual triumph that comes with winning a personal bet. "A bit too
self-motivated. However . . ." He slowly dropped himself into the desk
chair, tenting his fingers on its surface, each action deliberate. Then he
began to speak, lightly, as though discussing a subject of no possible import.
"You
will be apprenticed as a Marine in the Earth Space Service," he said. His
eyes still did not leave Stan's, and the effect removed any casualness
engendered by his tone. "You will be in that post for perhaps half a year.
When your . . . obvious eagerness is thoroughly under
control, and because you have shown yourself rather exceptionally bright you
will be transferred to more and more responsible positions. By the time that
we are ready to re-subdue the Belt, I expect you to be among the squad leaders
of the effort. By then you should have a souad completely composed of personnel
who have been molecularly trained as you have been, who should prove—"
"The Belt?" Stan heard his voice ask. "The Belt is independent, sir."
The
professor brought himself up crisply. "The Belt is temporarily
independent. It is, you will realize, a condition that Earth cannot
tolerate."
"Sir." Stan paused, marshaling his words. "I should prefer another
assignment. I have loyalties. . . ."
"Ah."
The professor nodded. "Trevor Dustin's memory.
The traitor mythologized into a hero. Trail Duster. And your nickname is Star
Duster? What a mistake your parents made! I should have realized." Then,
fiercely: "You know, of course, that he would be captured and hung if he
were not dead already? That he has been hung in effigy?"
Then
the voice relaxed. "Well, the first inoculations you get before going
to—never mind." He clamped his mouth with a sudden snap, then smiled again. "We can understand your misplaced
loyalties, young man. We can also handle them. You have been accorded a high
honor, and it is not one that you will be allowed to refuse. It is an honor
that has already been accorded you in part, for you were accepted into this
school although your IQ was at first thought to be too low and—"
"Sir. If I may interrupt. I should like to talk the matter over
with Dr. Lang."
The
professor's face showed another of its abrupt changes. "Professor
Lang," he said distastefully, "is no longer with us. He has not been
with us now for almost three years."
Stan felt himself sinking, as though a
support had been removed from beneath him, and the feeling startled him. He'd
barely known Dr. Lang, but he'd trusted him. And Dr. Lang was no longer here?
Somehow Stan had thought of him as . . . well, as standing in the wings, watching
and waiting. It was an odd thing to have thought, he reminded himself. He'd
seen the smooth-faced Mentor perhaps four times, and exchanged very few
sentences with him. Yet the feeling of trust, of familiarity, of . . . Dr. Lang
had represented to him what he thought of as the school. And Dr. Lang had not
been there for most of his schooling.
The professor's voice was continuing, and he
brought his attention back to it. "At any rate, young man, you have very
little choice. The results the school is obtaining must be demonstrated to the
military in no uncertain terms and as immediately as possible. We have
convinced them theoretically that with molecular training we can put the wisdom
of an older man into the resilient body of a young man on a stimulus-response
basis. But theory and demonstration are two separate items. Therefore the
demonstration must take place. Once they are convinced, we will be able to do
this work on a mass production basis.
"You
have no choice, as our top pupil, but to be the demonstration agent—and you
will not fail us." Over the precisely composed face a slight smile was allowed to appear and the voice that continued was more
kindly now. "We have made an investment in you of well over a maga-credit.
That is an obligation that you cannot disregard."
Stan was startled. "A megacredit,
sir?"
"That
is correct. Later, mass production will bring the costs to a reasonable figure,
but experimental work comes high."
"I
. . ." Stan paused. Then: "You keep saying 'molecular training.' May
I ask, sir, just what sort of training I have had? I thought. . ."
"You
thought! You were not supposed to think!" The professor's voice was almost
a snarl, but immediately he brought it back under control and allowed the
slight smile to recompose itself over his severe features, in spite of the
annoyance that threatened his composure.
"The
training you have had did not require thinking;
and the insistence you have placed on independent study has gone far toward
nullifying the results we had every right to expect. However, it has also
enhanced the results, and the nullification can be itself nullified. But you
must not forget—you must not be allowed to
forget—that it is the molecular training that has given you the education and
the abilities of which you find yourself possessed."
"Am I allowed to know," the boy
before him was choosing his words carefully, "just what this molecular
training is— of what it has consisted?"
"You
will be questioned on the subject, and you must know enough to answer those
questions intelligently. Yes." Mallard leaned back in his chair and his voice
took on a lecture-platform
quality.
"You have been trained by molecular
memory transplantation. The inoculations you were given were of memory
molecules, produced originally by minds thoroughly schooled in each of the
disciplines to which you have been subjected." He leaned forward again,
and again tented his hands on the desk before him. This explanation was a
familiar one. He had used it effectively on the military, on prospective
donors. It came easily to his tongue.
"These
memory molecules are extracted from trained and dedicated persons in each
discipline. They are then duplicated in the laboratory and returned to the
original donor; any of the duplicates may be substituted with equal success.
The donor loses nothing but a few
blank days during which a majority of his memory molecules are sorted and
duplicated and then reinstalled. And even should the reinstalling, by some
misfortune, not be complete, the infinite filing system of the body's
biochemical processes can reduplicate and replace throughout the donor's system
from the molecules that have not been extracted in only a matter of
weeks."
Stan
listened in growing amazement to the statements, recalling the memories of the
tests, the search for answers that seemed to be right there but not quite
within reach, and their sudden appearance. He thought he was drawing facts and
abilities from his "subconscious," but...
"But, sir. I understood that memory was an electronic,
not a molecular function. That it was a function
of the brain itself ..
. ?"
"Ah, yes. The electronic brain function as against the biochemical body function of
memory storage." The professor was pleased with himself now. Stan might
not be the student he would have most wished to see succeed, but the work of
the years would be demonstrated, and his efforts CTilminate in the recognition
that he—yes, he deserved. There was pleasure in his voice as
he went on:
"The
research is new. As far as we can tell, the old educational system of study,
which required information to be filtered through the five senses into the
electronic brain system, gave the student conscious control of the knowledge
and abilities he acquired. Whereas our molecular training implants, introduced
directly into the biochemical information-filing system of the body, produce a
stimulus-response basis on which the knowledge is available. And," he
added, the pleasure in his voice becoming more pronounced, "it is the stimulus-response reaction to information-need
for which we are training."
The professor paused, nodding his head
slowly. "You can see that the normal response of an older person to any
situation calling for his knowledge and abilities would be quite different from
that of a young man. What we need is youngsters, primed with knowledge and
trained abilities, who will use those knowledges and abilities the way an old
man would use them: with caution, with due regard for accepted methods of
operation, with due respect for his superiors.
"With
this molecular training system, we will be able to fill the action posts of
government and the military with young men who will dependably react to almost
any situation not only with the most extensive knowledge and abilities that
experts have achieved, but in the manner that would be dictated by those same
elderly, disciplined minds!"
"In
other words," Stan said slowly, "what you are doing here is creating
educated robots?"
Mallard found himself jerked back to the
realities of the moment, and he stared at the boy. "That's a harsh
term," he said finally. "But, yes, in its way. What we are doing is
putting the education and discipline of mature minds into young bodies. You may
find this emotionally upsetting at first thought," he
added kindly, "but consider. You have an education and abilities that
could have been given you in no other way. You have a spread of knowledge that
no one person could have attained in one lifetime; and you have acquired this
while you are still young. If the knowledge and abilities are not exactly under
your control, why—in the military no one is under his own control anyway, so
what loss?"
Stan found his emotions chaotic, fear
predominant; but was not convinced. If he was, in fact, a robot, why must it be
for the military?
Then
anger surged. Their puppet, was he? But he'd studied—for himself and by
himself—and that was not puppetry. There had to be a way to find out whether,
essentially, he was indeed what they supposed him to be. But it would take
time.
"I
. . . I'll need some time to think this whole thing over," he said weakly.
"Of course you will, my boy." The
professor nodded to himself. "You have had a strenuous course, and will
need a bit of relaxation. So you are being given a two weeks' leave to return
home and enjoy yourself. Then you will report back here for a short pre-induction
training, and will be taken to Greateryork for your first assignment. You've
not been drawing against your student's credit balance, so you have in excess
of two thousand credits to spend any way you wish before you report to your new
post. Enjoy yourself. You will be quite busy for a while after you return, so
enjoy your leave."
Accepting the professor's smile and nod as a
dismissal, Stan left the room. Pep talk's over and I'm to swallow the fact that Authority has made me a
guinea pig without my knowledge, he thought, and
I imagine without my father's knowledge either. I'm supposed to swallow it with
pleasure and feel obligated to go right on being a demonstration guinea pig for
the rest of my life.
The
bitterness of the thought surged through him. But, he asked himself honestly, would I change the situation if I
could? Would I forfeit having had the course? And he knew he wouldn't.
The resentment was there; but the knowledge
was there too; knowledge in fields that had each taken a man his entire
lifetime to acquire. The
knowledge is there, he
told himself, and
I got most of it from
Professorburgers. But
he found himself fiercely glad that he'd studied as hard as possible; that
there was knowledge there, too, which he had gotten by himself, for himself.
His
thinking was still caught between resentment and pride by the time he was
aboard the tubecar that would whisk him through the vacuum tunnel system.
Having inserted his credit card and dialed his destination, Stan would be
delivered direct, in this same tubecar, to the tubeport beneath the sky-rise
that was his home in Elko, Nevada, more than two thousand miles away, in under
two hours.
Home. He'd thought of it through his childhood as
open and free, with its sky-rise buildings separated by several acres of trees
and playgrounds and fresh air; with the vistas of distant mountains giving the
feeling that there was some real space in the world, even when you knew the
mountains themselves were thoroughly inhabited.
A nostalgia for the open wastes of snow and ice topsides
at the school shook him, and he drew his cloak of privacy more tightly around
him, though he was alone in a two-seater. He'd always had privacy. It was the
factor given top priority in a crowded civilization. But space—that was another
factor, and a different thing entirely; and he'd found himself drinking it in
in his daily trips up and out into the intense cold and intense aloneness
topsides at the school.
Suddenly
he knew he was not going home; not just yet Five percent of the credits given
him as student aid were spent; but the other credits were untouched yet, and
they'd take him where he wanted to go, keep him for at least a few days—a few
days in which he could watch the tugs that took off for space.
He
looked at the map of the tube-network on the screen of the car before him, saw
by the tiny light that marked his position that he was already in the main
Alcan-Europe Tubeway that carried most of the traffic across the Pole; and
nearing Anchorage.
He
leaned toward the small keyboard beneath the map and pushed the button marked change
of destination. Then
he inserted his credit card into the slot beside the keyboard.
With
a click the keys of the board loosened so that they could be used, and he
punched out carefully: White
Sands. Then, glancing at the
map, he added the coordinates given there.
The
action put the invariable record into the computer for anyone who cared to ask
through Information Retrieval.
But
who would care to ask? He was a student, with two weeks and a fist full of
credits to spend as he pleased.
Ill
Stan ahhived at Termdock, White Sands, and made his way to
a visitor's gallery from which he could watch the vast tarmac on which the
space tugs landed and took off.
For an hour he watched in fascination as the
stubby-winged aerodynamic needles, skirted like old women for their
ground-effect takeoff, ran through their twenty-five mile ground run. The real
activity of the port was invisible to him here, restricted to the mile after
mile of underground warren that subsurfaced the field itself. There would be
mountains of freight being fed up to the waiting tugs through moving belt
loaders. There would be the few passengers and the many workers. There would be
rebuilding and repair, bargaining and sweating: the varieties of activity that
backgrounded trade between Earth and the system.
Above,
Stan had seen two takeoffs and three landings while he watched; and it had left
him unsatisfied.
Why
had he come here, anyhow? he asked himself. To think. To think—and to be near the ships that were
reaching out; to be near the fact of space.
But he felt shuttered from it; felt as
barriered as ... as a robot, he told
himself.
Abruptly
he straightened away from the rail. He had plenty of credits to his card,
didn't he? And seven hundred of those credits would get him freighter-tug
passage, round-trip, to Orbdock. At least there he'd be in space itself, or
nearly. At least there he'd see the real freighters, the ships that went into
the system, not just their servicing tugs.
Stan entered the freight tug with his hood up
so that the excitement boiled in him would be disguised, but all
the pilot saw was another privacy-mad stupe of a suburban Earthie. He
gestured to the acceleration couch beside his own.
"And keep that damned cloak out of my
way," he said, not bothering to hide his casual contempt.
The
boy's flush was not completely hidden by the hood that shrouded his head, but
he only asked timidly, "Don't planeteers wear cloaks?"
The question didn't merit an answer, the
pilot decided, and only replied, "Hmmmph," then busied himself over
the controls.
Stan restrained an impulse to throw back his
hood, contenting himself instead with studying the pilot.
He was perhaps thirty-five, with a mobile
face over a wrinkled
uniform; his every gesture was alert and intent on what he was doing. The
gestures were quick and sure; the hands . . .
Stan's eyes followed the hands to the
controls they were manipulating, and a feeling of familiarity tugged at his
senses. Alert now himself, he leaned forward. That would be the skirt control;
there the dials indicating atmospheric density; that the rate-of-approach
indicator; there . . . His hood fell back and his cloak loosened without his
noticing the fact.
"Belt
in. We're taking off." The pilot didn't even look at his passenger as he
strapped himself into the padded chair.
The
surge of acceleration was less than that of a tube-car, but it thrilled along
Stan's every nerve, and he watched the great tarmac move past, then fly past,
and finally flash past as the tug reached mach speeds; felt the surge as the
needle-ship went through the sonic barrier as though bursting a brick wall with
a karate blow, and flew beyond it, free. He saw the pilot's sure hands flash
first to the vanes which angled them suddenly upward, and then to the skirt
controls which withdrew those ground-effect wrappings into the belly of the
craft.
Earth
fell away, and Stan, who had seen it fall away in this manner a hundred times
in 3-D dramas, exulted in the difference of the
fact from the fantasy; saw, eventually, Earth like a ball to his vision and
himself the still center of the blackness of space. They were an ecstasy of
factors, those differences. A robot, am 1? he
thought. TU
get my own experiences! But
it was a small thought, far at the back of his mind as his senses drank in the
facts of flight.
Orbdock is mile after mile of interlocked
gridwork of air-stiffened tubing, floating in space. The zero-G plastiplex is
centered by a two-thousand-foot plastic doughnut that spins slowly to give
gravity to the offices and restaurants and trading halls, the repair shops and
maintenance and living facilities that are the nucleus of the dock.
Freight and passengers arrive here from Earth
via space tugs which dock at one side of the complex. They tether there to the
longest tubes of the grid, tubes which string out from the grid itself like
loose spaghetti.
The freight is transferred through the tubes
by fan-powered pneumocars directly to the interplanetary ships that berth on
the far side of the complex. Spherical, with ion-drive tubes through their
centers, the ships look like huge balloons with sticks through them; or like
some form of alien insect which hangs, as though disdaining the complex itself,
at the very tips of the tubes through which it is fed its tonnage of food, air,
water, freight and people.
The
passengers are transshipped through the tubes by pneumocar, too, but usually go
first to the spincenter doughnut.
Stan
stepped out of the pneumocar into a shrub- and flower-bordered area that held a
restaurant on one side, an information booth on the other. He made his way into
the restaurant and chose a small table near the wall, his eye caught by its clear
plastic and the aquarium beyond. He knew the water was for shielding from the
strong radiation of the sun out here beyond the atmosphere; that it also
served as a major part of the air and waste recycling system, and that the fish
were part of that system too. He knew that the water was flowing past in
six-foot-deep rivers, its motion creating the spin of
the doughnut he was in, that gave him gravity. But the serenity of the fish, of
the plants stirring in the river's morion, belied the fact.
There could be no viewports as such within this shielding, but huge screens showing the complex beyond
gave the illusion of windows; though the scenes were all still, the arrival and
departure of tugs or ships was almost the only visible activity, and those
might or might not occur while he watched.
He
turned his attention to the people around him. They seemed to be mostly ships*
personnel or dock workers, in uniforms of various styles and kinds—some neat,
others looking used and rumpled. He felt conspicuous. There were cloaks to be
seen, but very few, and those obviously tourists. Earth tourists, Stan
thought, surprised at the distaste that went with the thought; and realizing
with revulsion that the category included himself and
that his cloak was the mark that categorized him.
He
sat for hour after hour and let his senses simply absorb the scene: the light
gravity, the complex, the space beyond and between its network; the smell of
recycled air, the movement, the talk around him, the
soft music—the feel of an orbital station. He felt drugged with the new sensations,
drugged and content to sit, unthinking.
And then, as though a switch had closed, his
mind turned on; his emotions, held in leash since he had left the school, would
no longer be denied.
Over a megacredit the
school has spent on me, and I am obligated for that, he found himself telling himself. Or am I? I didn't bargain for the investment,
though Vm glad Tve got it—extra
knowledge, be it robot or my own.
But shall 1 be a guinea pig for the rest of my life? Let them manufacture me into a
complete robot? A megacredit. Is that what a lifetime
is worth?
And
while he talked to himself, he felt the tug of the ships he had watched all
afternoon. Man
will never reach the stars, he thought. That's
been shown by the equations. But...
But
oh, the free, untrammeled spaces between the planets! Yet, was the Belt a free
man's area? He didn't know; he had no way of knowing. The Belt had won its
independence in a daring and individualized fight; his uncle had fought to win
that independence and died for it. Yet had the freedom he had won survived the
hazards of necessity the Belt itself imposed? Survived the fact that to stay
alive a man must be enclosed in atmospheres built and designed for man? And was
that so very different from being enclosed in a privacy cloak, the only
protection against an environment too crowded to be meant for man?
The 3-D
told of slaves in the Belt, working and sweating because there was no
"outside," no "topsides," to which they could escape. The
3-D told of hardship and privation. But Uncle Trevor—Trail Duster Trevor—he'd
been a proud man and a strong one, with a strong laugh. . ..
Stan remembered the only time he'd seen his
uncle after he was old enough to remember the details. He'd been tall and
strong, swinging the youngster into the air and then onto his shoulders, as
though physical contact were not something to be
avoided. Stan had been scared at the time, but he'd responded after a minute to
the hard hands that lifted him; to the feel of flying through the air; to the
height of his uncle's shoulders; to the exhilaration of roughness and . . .
yes, to the physical contact itself.
You don't make slaves of that sort, he told himself now.
He
remembered the taste of fear as his uncle bent down, and the rough hands took
him up in the delicious freedom of flying. Freedom and fear, he thought now; would freedom always carry the connotations of fear? He supposed it would, for freedom was bought
by a man at a price, and only a stupid man refused to recognize the price as he
demanded the commodity.
"Get
yourself an education, boy," the big man had told him, roughing the red
hair so like his own. "But don't let 'em make you a sissy while they're
giving you an education. Do your own thinking while you get the information
you need, boy. Then come on out to the Belt I'll have a berth for you; but you're going to have to
get yourself there, you know." Then he'd added, half under his breath,
"And you not even old enough yet to properly remember."
The
small boy had remembered; and the twenty-four-year-old remembered now with a
nostalgia that was overwhelming.
Guinea piggery; and for the
military at that. . . .
With
a rejection that was almost bigger than he could contain, Stan flung himself to
his feet.
At the gesture a man at a
nearby table looked up.
"Where's
the hiring hall? Here or on Earth?" Stan asked him abruptly.
The
man, hard-faced, hard-muscled, in rumpled coveralls, looked Stan up and down—the
soft student's hands; the quiet student's face; the crisply cut hair; the
cloak. . . .
"It's
up here. Level five, quadrant three," he said disdainfully. "But a
fat lot of good it will do the likes of you."
Stan nodded his thanks curtly. "You
might be surprised, sir," he said, and was himself surprised at the title
he'd given the surly spacer, though he felt justified in giving it.
The hiring hall turned out to be in a much
lighter G area, a barn of a room filled with figures of every description:
uniformed and coveralled; neat and slovenly; none cloaked. All had what Stan
had come to think of as the spaceman's look, a hard, almost blank expression.
An inner absorption, or just blankness?
High on the walls, constantly shifting lights
listed the names of ships in dock, their destinations and their needs in the
way of personnel. Occasionally a loudspeaker called a name and an office number, and a figure would rise and make its way to
one of the cubicles.
"Where do you sign up?" Stan asked
the nearest figure, a small man with a wizened
face and sharp eyes that surveyed him again disdainfully.
"Application
boxes there," the man told him after the survey, nodding toward a series
of booths against the wall behind him that closely resembled the test cubicle
in which he'd spent so many hours at school.
Inside
it was nearly the same—a seat, a desk, a scanner; except that the seat was of
air-support plastic; the desk a harder plastic; and instead of a keyboard into
which you punched your answers, there was a glass plate on which you wrote, on
which you pressed your fingers for printing; a scanner for retináis.
Name and number. Fingerprints. Retináis. Main area of training. Stan thought a minute, then
entered: Engineering.
Preferred
destination.
Without hesitation Stan wrote: Belt City. That
was all.
There was a pause, then the screen cleared
and a metallic voice came to him through a tiny speaker: "Take a seat in
the hiring hall. You will be called."
He
found a scat near the application booths and waited. From this part of the
spincenter there were no view-screens. He watched the crowd. He slept. He woke
and watched the crowd again. He grew hungry, but he ignored the hunger.
He was asleep again when his own name, coming
from the loudspeaker, woke him. "S.T.A.R. Dustin," the voice was
chanting. "Report to office seventeen."
The office he entered was tiny and bare
except for a desk and two plastic puff chairs. Behind the desk sat a heavy man,
erect even in the sagging softness of the pneu-mochair. His face held a hauteur
that spoke of authority. He was cloaked, but the hood was back. Stan was
relieved. At least his own cloak—he had thought of discarding it but had lacked
the courage—wouldn't be held against him.
Tm Stan Dustin," he
introduced himself.
The
man looked him over carefully. "I gather you want to work your way to the
Belt?"
Stan nodded and remained
silent, standing.
"Sit
down, sit down." The man gestured to the chair by the desk. "I'd have
recognized you even if your identity hadn't been checked quite
thoroughly," he said. "You resemble your late uncle Trevor Dustin
quite remarkably." Stan started but remained silent. T gather your decision to go to the Belt is
irrevocable? Have you notified your parent?"
1 haven't notified
anyone," Stan said, his heart sinking.
"I
rather thought I'd let my father know after I was gone. I hope it won't be
necessaiy to your hiring—"
"Probably
wise from your point of view," the man interrupted. "I assume that
any sane family would discourage you."
"I hope that it's not to discourage you,
sir, from—" The man looked at him quizzically. "It is not my business
to be encouraged or discouraged," he said. "I have the quite dubious
honor of representing your late uncle. Did you think I was a hiring hand?"
Stan nodded, crestfallen.
The
lawyer shook his head in annoyance. "A lack of perception that will not
get you far," he said cruelly. "However, that is not my purview.
Young man, your uncle left instructions that if you decided, quite on your
own, to go to the Belt, and initiated action in that direction, I was to see to
it that you got there. So I've taken passage for you on a Mars freighter that raises within the hour. Naturally, you can't go to the Belt
directly, relations being what they are, but Mars is a free port. At Mars you
will transfer to a Belt freighter. I have the passages
here."
Stan found that he was both pleased and
disappointed. Why disappointed? he asked himself. Was
he trying to prove something?
The lawyer looked at him distastefully, as
though he could read the other's thoughts. "Perhaps you could sign on as a
member of a ship's crew. Probably not.
But most certainly the technicalities of signing on would alert your family and
any others that might be interested in delaying or preventing you. Which is
why," he went on dryly, "I have seen fit to drop everything, charter
a space taxi, and get here, preferably before you kft Orbdock, for the
privilege of seeing you off at the earliest possible moment and before you
involved yourself in some mess from which I must extract you. However I may
feel personally, I am professionally charged with getting you to your destination,
and I should prefer that the charge did not involve us together in legal
technicalities that might associate our names for years."
Stan said stiffly, "I did not mean to
seem ungrateful, sir. I-"
"But
you wanted to run away on your own? Well, it's a fine fat attitude with little that is practical to recommend it.
However," he went on before Stan could interrupt, "I am quite sure
that I am not doing you a favor in assisting you in getting to the Belt.
"You
will have to leave your Earth credit balance as it stands. If you draw it down
to zero, or even draw heavily on it while at Orbdock,
the computers will automatically be alerted and start an investigation, which
will delay you. When you get to the Belt you will find that Belters are an
intolerant breed, not given to lightly accepting gifts, such as yourself, from
Mother Earth. Neither is Earth apt to accept you back lightly, should you fail
in the Belt. You will be very much on your own. Do you still wish to go?"
"I'll take my
chances," said Stan defiantly.
The lawyer harrumped. "Well, traitor's blood is traitor's blood, and you are like your
uncle in looks as well as actions."
Stan
flushed and started to speak angrily, but the lawyer gestured him silent.
"This business is as unpleasant for me as for you. Let us get it over and
done with. There is also a bequest here for a thousand shares in a small Belt
enterprise which your uncle founded. Whether it still exists, I do not know,
but I do not think you should build any hopes on it. Your uncle's death left
the corporation in the hands of two partners who may or may not be surviving
themselves; and it is an enterprise which may or may not have survived. The
shares are yours, for what they may be worth. The corporation is called Astro
Technology."
Having finished his business, the lawyer
abruptly hooded himself and left the room without a farewell.
Stan stood gazing at the passage vouchers and
the shares of stock lying on the small desk. Then he pulled his travel-case
from the greatpocket of his cloak and stuffed the papers inside, zippering it
carfully.
It was as he started to put the case back
into the great-pocket that the realization came.
The Belt, he thought. Tm going to he a
Belter now.
A grin came over his face; his chin lifted;
and with a huge shrug he dropped the cloak from his shoulders, letting it fall
to the floor; stepping over it as he walked out of the office.
IV
Stan reached Orbdock, Mars, still preoccupied with his own
chaotic emotions and the changing vectors of a lifetime of habitual thinking
and reaction. The change had been accelerated and made easier by the fact of
being in space, and by the new sensations and information that his senses were
absorbing; but his real attention had been on finding out just what his own
basic precepts were, or could be; and the experience and the information flowed
by, almost unnoticed to his preoccupations.
Spincenter
at the Mars Orbdock was small compared to Earth's, the doughnut a mere two
hundred feet in diameter, the gravity at the rim only .15 G; but Stan, who'd
been in a tenth G acceleration all the way, was used to
it by now and stepped confidently from the pneumocar when they reached the rim.
It was more barren here than on Earth,
although the walls were clear plastic and showed the same aquarium beyond.
Beyond the usual restaurant he could see what
must be the information center sloping sharply up from him, a big board on its
wall with changing names and numbers on it. He turned in that direction to see a man coming toward him in red skintights with matching red lad slippers;
his waist was belted in gold worked in the pattern of a snake.
The outfit fascinated Stan, and he found his
eyes returning again to the figure as he made his way toward the big board in
the distance. To his surprise, the man was approaching him.
"You Dustin?"
He was larger than Stan, blond, and
apparently of about the same are. Perhaps a little older.
Heavy in the shoulders, slender of waist, and lithe in his
movements as he approached. His face looked puzzled.
"Yes, but how did you
know?"
"Well,
your ship's in, and I've been waiting for you. You're not Mars-clad, but you're
not Earth-clad either. It was a guess. I understand you were from Earth?"
Stan
felt minutely proud of his gold-tinged gray tunic and trousers, which were more
in the nature of the red-suited man's clothing than either Earth or Mars style.
"I'm Dustin," he reaffirmed.
"Stan Dustin."
"I'm
Paulsen. Skipper of the Sassy Lassie. I reckon you're my passenger for Belt City. I've been waiting for you,
ready to scat, for the past three hours. You ready? That all
your duffel?" He nodded at the travelcase Stan was carrying.
"That's all of
it," Stan answered.
"If you have a yen to look over
Marsport, you'll have to catch the next freighter. The Marjorie is due in a couple of days. You want to wait
for her and see the sights?"
Stan grinned. There was an air of defiance in
Paulsen's attitude. Or perhaps intolerance? Whatever
it was, he was obviously prepared to shake Stan at the slightest excuse.
"I'm ready," he
said quietly.
"Okay. I'm tied up
"at Tube 109."
Paulsen turned and strode swiftly to the
pneumocar that Stan had just left. Stan entered in time to see him punch out a
destination on the controls, and the car started accelerating up through the
doughnut, through its spoke to the hub, then angling off on an increasing acceleration
toward the tip of the tube where Paulsen's ship would be anchored, some six
miles away. Deceleration caueht him unexpectedly, and he found himself swaying
forward in his seat.
The pneumocar stopped, and Stan was floating
in null G. Grasping the seat ahead of him he pulled himself behind Paulsen to
the opening of the car which was locked onto the Sassy Lassie's air lock.
He
saw Paulsen pause a second, then push himself through the opening, and as the
skipper moved from before him, he could see two extra figures in the air lock,
each hand-held into place from one of the straps on the cylindrical walls. Stan
pushed himself in, carrying his travelcase, to join them.
The
situation seemed eerie and unreal to senses schooled to gravity; but the two
grim-faced men in the lock with them were veiy real indeed.
"This Dustin?"
one of the two asked Paulsen.
"Yep."
"You
just Rst a passenger. He's wanted on Earth."
Finding
a handhold, Stan held himself immobile, watching Paulsen, v/ho glanced at him
briefly, glanced at his belt, then turned back to the other two.
"Charges
serious?"
Paulsen asked.
"How should I know?
Some school on Earth sent orders."
"School? Dnstin, what's the problem?"
Stan
found himself answering in normal, unhurried tones: "I guess the school I
left doesn't like the idea that I prefer the Belt," he said quietly.
"Still want to
go?"
"Yes."
Paulsen
turned his head again to the other two and his voice was grim. "You
interfering with a Belter in the normal pursuit of his business?" he
asked.
"Dustin's no
Belter."
"He's my
passenger."
Stan
grinned to himself. Then, releasing his travelcase, which continued to float
inconspicuously at his side, he said pleasantly, "I sure wouldn't want to
cause you unnecessary trouble. Skipper. Come on,
boys." And with that he pushed back through the entrance to the pneumocar.
Just inside, ho held himself
out of the way so that the two following him could reach the control panel.
Then, turning his head, he noticed the travelcase still floating in the air
lock.
"Oh. Mv duffel," he said happily,
and pushed himself into the air lock again, angling his motion toward a large
red handle marked emergency pressure release.
His fingers grasped the handle before anyone
could react, and he used it as a lever to set his feet against the side of the
lock and pull against his own leverage.
Abruptly the air spilled from the lock, and
with a thwummp, the tube bulkhead closed. Stan, timing the
lowering of pressure by a feeling of internal expansion, had just released the
handle when Paulsen reached him.
"Get your hands off that dump switch.
You'll have us in vacuum," he said with a snarl.
Stan pushed away to the bulkhead handle,
tested it. It refused to budge.
"But
they're on the other side and the pressure's triple out there."
Paulsen
looked at him in complete disbelief, then a smile
crept over his face. "Well, there's not enough pressure in here for
comfort very long," he said, and began cycling them through into the ship
proper.
The trip to Mars hadn't prepared Stan for the
control cabin of the Sassy
Lassie. It
was clean, but it had a used and battered look. It had been repaired and
re-repaired, and it very definitely had the feel of being lived in. There were
two decks for living quarters beneath this cabin before you got to the
ion-drive tube, Stan realized; but it was normally a one-man ship and the
skipper probably spent most of his time up here.
The
freight doughnut around the ship below was useless to them except in
spacesuits. It was vacuum and unshielded; so that this thirty-five foot tall,
approximately twenty foot wide extension of the rocket tube was the
"ship" as far as people were concerned; and of that space, the hull
shielding left only a cylinder twenty-three feet tall and with an eight foot
radius for living quarters.
Stan
pulled himself over to the acceleration chair beside the pilot's without
waiting to be told, and strapped himself in. Paulsen was already busy releasing
the ship from the docking tube so that it would drift off, "Before we get
boarders," he said lightly.
"Thanks
for the backing, Skipper," Stan said carefully in reply.
Paulsen
answered, "Your air dump used up a lot of air. Since we don't want to stop
for it here, I'm traveling at low pressure, just to be on the safe side of our
emergency supplies."
There
was silence then as Paulsen warmed the motors, nursed small pulsed thrusts to
give them distance, and finally cut in power to the drive to give them the
normal one-tenth G acceleration. Then he pulled the log toward him and began to
write.
Stan let his eyes wander around the control
cabin, and a sense of familiarity tugged at him. His interest was so intense,
though, that it triggered the study habits he'd lived by for so many years,
rather than the quiz habits; and the more he concentrated the more the
familiarity faded, to be replaced by a need to leam, to discover each dial individually,
each effect of the ship's motion as a separate
effect.
With
a start he recognized the symptoms and forced himself to relax, to let his
eyes wander over the dials without any conscious attempt to interpret them, to
let his senses absorb the small cabin and its smells and feels and informations.
This
was a Kinco Sixty freighter, better known as a K-class, its capacity about half that of the
big Earth-Mars freighters. It wasn't a question. It was a fact that he knew.
The circular wall of the tiny control cabin
was a checkerboard of insulation squares, except that most of them were
covered by instruments. These ships didn't spin to give their crews gravity;
thrust was the only gravity they offered. So the river system of hull-shielding
which gave Earth ships their spin-gravity could be replaced by
com-compartmentalized shielding in hull sections. The squares would give
individual access to the many sections of shielding behind.
The
air lock was directly behind Stan and Paulsen as they sat in the acceleration
chair-couches that could be lowered nearly to the horizontal for high-G
thrust. Between the couches and the air lock was the tiny well that gave access
to the decks below; and in a small opening built into the wall above the air
lock bulkhead was the emergency medical kit.
The instruments before them were plainly
visible from both seats, and the controls were double so that either he or
Paulsen could maneuver the ship. Their tenth-G acceleration would continue for
half the trip, and would build them to tremendous velocities on an exponential
curve; then they'd start decelerating for the second half of the trip, to come
into relative morion with the asteroid that was known as Belt City.
Paulsen
con'd, of course, accelerate the doughnut into a Hohmann orbit, then drop it and take them at
higher accelerations and decelerations to their destination; but since he was
shepherding this load and would probably pick it up himself, the chances were
he wouldn't bother. But he could. And that brought up the possibility—the probability—that
the Sassy Lassie had been one of the ships of the Belt
Uprising. Had Paulsen . . .
Excitedly Stan turned to
the skipper, but his thoughts were cut off by a thunderclap which hammered his body. Instantly the explosion was
followed by a high-pitched whining scream that echoed on
each nerve, and the internal feeling of bursting that meant rapidly falling
atmospheric pressure. Instinctively he opened his mouth and yelled, expelling
the pressure from his lungs.
Paulsen's
hps were moving, his fingers reaching out to a control—the control that would cut the
motors, Stan realized, even as he released the straps and pushed his own body
out of the deep seat beneath it, twisting with the push to bring his hands into
line with the small opening in the wall above and behind their seats. His
fingers found the opening and began groping, since his eyes refused to focus.
The scream was fading, then cut off abruptly just as his fingers found the
syrettes they were seeking, grasped two, and reached one toward Paulsen.
The
skipper was almost beside him, a hazy
figure, and Stan groped for his hand, forcing one of the syrettes into it.
Now
Stan brought the remaining syrette to his leg with a slap that forced the needle in and injected
its contents into his system. Pulling the syrette
carefully out, he pinned it to his tunic, his eyes now barely making out the
most gross objects in the cabin swinging lazily about him as he spun slowly in
free fall.
The dioxo solution from the syrette spread a warm glow through him. Stan opened his
mouth wide and expelled the last of the air that was doing its best to strain
out of his lungs. The pressure in his ears let go with a loud pop. The cloudy
look of things before him and the burning sensation in his eyes caused him to
squeeze his eyes tight shut, and as he did so, pain shot through them, tiny
crystals of ice grating across the tender surfaces; and as this was followed
by a sensation of cold, he realized that the boiling tears would freeze in the
vacuum around him and freeze the lids shut.
Something
grasped him, and he struggled momentarily, then realized it was Paulsen and
slacked off. There was a feeling
as though someone was trying to stuff him into a bag, but no sound.
Then he felt drawstrings pull tight at the
shoulders and across his chest, and suddenly there was pressure around his face
again. The bag was then slid quickly down over
Stan's
arms and tied at each joint; then down over the torso with a repeated lacing.
Blinded by the tears, he opened his eyes nevertheless to see clear plastic
standing only inches ahead; and, as he began to breathe again, Paulsen's voice
came to him over a tiny speaker somewhere in the hood.
"That's
right, Dustin. Work your jaws and the swallowing mechanisms. Keep blinking your
eyes."
As Stan became more aware of his
surroundings, he saw that he was in a loosely
fitting plastic bag, tightly belted at each joint.
The tingly sensation in his throat came to
his attention, and he realized that the "air" he was breathing was
not air but carbon dioxide quickly developed from a small plastic pack of acid
and soda. It was a device that could not have been used except for the diox
which would supply his oxygen requirements for the next hour.
The pressures removed, Stan found a handhold and turned himself toward the control panel.
Paulsen was in his seat now, checking the
space around the ship for enemy craft—and the guy wasn't in a spacesuit. Unbelieving, Stan stared. Paulsen had on a hood, but just that, over his regular red pilot's suit. But of course. That pilot's suit was a gas-proof
spacesuit; and the hood that had obviously been unzipped from a pocket at the back of the pilot's suit collar had a similar pressure gas generator packet.
Stan sighed his relief, then
let his attention wander to the deep hole in the checkerboard wall centered
above the control paneL
The hole was a full two-foot square that had blown through to the outside hull and was
now crushed there, a mess of metal and foam plastic insulation, at
the bottom of what seemed to be a square
tunnel into the hull structure. The water shielding from the compartment had
obviously been blown on through into space, followed by the air from the
control cabin; but the hole through which they had blown could not be seen past
the mess of metal and plastic.
Paulsen was through with his check now, and
his face looked puzzled, but he only said, "I'm going to put us under
drive to get gravity, then well see what the damage
is."
The return of even the light tenth-G gravity
was grateful to Stan's senses, and the cabin reoriented quickly a-round him.
"If
we can work fast," Paulsen's voice came to him abruptly over the tiny
intercom, "we can save having to pressurize the bunk area to get you into
a tightsuit. I've got plug-in compartments aboard, of course, so it shouldn't
take more than half an hour to clear up this mess. Do you think you can take
the bag for that long?"
Experimentally,
Stan flexed his arm and found that it responded stiffly. The veins that had
been standing out like cords against the taut skin were beginning to recede.
The rapid breath induced by the one hundred percent carbon dioxide atmosphere
was exchanging nitrogen out of the blood at a rapid rate, and pressure was equalizing
between himself and the suit.
"Seems
okay," he said. "A little stiff and a few cramps, but yeah, I can
work like my life depended on it."
Paulsen
chuckled, then without another word crawled into the tight tunnel.
It
was several minutes, while his squirming legs were the only indication of
motion within, before his voice reached Stan again.
"I think I've got it more or less in one
piece. Pull me out, but slow and easy."
Stan took h~ld of the ankles, braced himself
against the pilot's seat, and started the slow tug, following instructions as
he pulled, unable to tell what was going on.
"Harder. Oops. Hold it. All right, pull.
Damn it, lost it. Push me back an inch. Not more than
an inch."
It
only took about ten minutes, but they seemed long. Finally, shoulders past the
edge now, Paulsen pulled his head out. "You can hook on and get it the
rest of the way," he said. "My muscles are cramping."
Stan
reached his arms, head and shoulders in, and felt around until he got the
positioning of the package of crushed metal and foam plastic, found jagged
handholds, and began to inch the mess out. Then, with a jerk, the wreckage let
go its final hold and dropped him, jagged package in his lap, into the pilot's
seat. He sat there a minute, panting, then looked around.
He was alone in the cabin.
For
a minute he stared in panic around the small room, then
the skipper's voice came to him: "You all right?"
"The wreckage fell and sat me down in
the pilot's chair," Stan said.
"Don't touch
anything," was the only answer.
Stan was suddenly amused. "Don't touch anything," the man
says. I whop back into the pilot's seat, carrying a package that spills onto
anything and everything around, that would have knocked anything fragile in
spite of me, and he says don't touch
anything.
Before he could do much cautious maneuvering
there was a thump as something was levered up from the cabin below; and the
skipper's voice said, "Wait" A minute later Paulsen was at his side,
carefully lifting the wreckage from his lap.
"Stay
right there. Ill be back," he said, taking the
wreckage into the freightnut access lock.
Stan
relaxed, content to be the inept passenger for whom
the skipper must care. Twisting his head he could see the plug-in unit Paulsen
had brought—a ten-foot plastic bag filled with water and what looked like white
noodles.
He turned back to the square tunnel before
him. By craning his neck he could see down the six-foot tunnel to the hull at
its far end, and he easily located the hole by which the water and air had
escaped—a circular hole, about two inches across and bulging smoothly outward.
Paulsen had patching material in his hand
when he returned and, Stan estimated, they had about ten minutes left to do a
patching job. Without pausing, Paulsen wriggled into the tunnel and was busy
for several minutes. When he had wriggled back out, he reached for the plug-in
unit, and with Stan's help fitted it slowly into its niche. When the tip of the
ten-foot bag reached the hull, they applied pressure, squashing it slowly to
fit its compartment. Then, while Stan held the square of inner hull and cabin
insulation in place against the water pressure, Paulsen snapped its bolts into
place, and the section was sound again.
They still had time to spare as the skipper
fed air back into the control cabin, though Stan could feel the slightest
touches of cramp in his muscles.
"Even lighter pressure this time. We sure been getting rid of the air this
trip," Paulsen said over his suit speaker before shucking the hood.
"That hole didn't look like an accidental
rock coming in to me, Skipper," Stan said cautiously, removing his own
emergency suit. "It looked more like an internal explosion."
The
other looked at him queerly. "Yep. It sure wasn't
any accident."
"But
it was so easy to fix up! No real sweat. Why in hell would anyone bother?"
"That's
what I was going to ask you," Paulsen told him tartly. "And since
we're sharing this one together, maybe you'd better let me know at least how
serious it's likely to get."
"But
this is your
ship. Somebody must have
been after you"
"I
thought of that. I thought maybe the Earthies had started sabotaging Belt ships
at Mars. But anybody who set out for a systematic system of sabotage would have
taken time to find out how Belt ships are built. It wouldn't have been a hasty,
ineffective job like this one. Then I thought mavbe you were an Earthie spy,
and somebody in the Belt was after you. But in that case, I'd have been in on
it. So either of those is possibly the reason, but not
probably."
Stan staved silent, and finally Paulsen went
on, "On the face of it, I had a chance. Not much of one, but a chance. But
you didn't.
"You're
an Earthie. You're an Earthie passenger. You wouldn't have been expected to
know about diox. Even if you knew ab^ut it, you wouldn't know where it would be
found. Even if I'd been the one to get it and hand the syrette
to you, you wouldn't know what to do with it without waiting for instructions,
and that would have been too late.
"You're supposed to be dead, Earthie. Which tells me somebody wants you dead real bad. Which also tells me that I'm a sitting duck as long as I'm with
you, and maybe you'd better give with a little info."
As
Stan staved silent, the other shrugged, then started to pull the log toward
him. His hand hesitated on the book itself, and slowly withdrew. Then he leaned
back, clasping his hands behind his head.
"Look," he said conversationally,
"I'm not a prier. And I'm not asking many questions. And who you are and
what you are is not, essentially, my business. But
when a High-G
Earthie—that
means rich—is on my ship—and I risk the Sassy Lassie without
knowing I was going to—by taking you aboard; and you hadn't warned me one
word—and when you ignored my question . . . I'm not a prier," he added
defiantly, "but by God—"
"You
don't have to pry. I'll answer any questions you want to ask. I'm as puzzled as
you are," Stan admitted. Then he asked, "But why shouldn't you pry?
It's your ship, and-"
"I
reckon," Paulsen said slowly, "that's another difference between Earthie
and Belter. On Earth, everything about you is in the computers, and anybody can
find out anything they want to, like what you spent and where you spent it,
and probably if they're interested, why.
"But
in the Belt, the only think anybody else needs to know about you, unless you
want to tell 'em, is what job you're doing—which they can tell by the color of
your suit; or what kind of training you have—which they can tell from your
belt. Those are useful bits of information for you to have other people know.
If you don't want 'em known, you change to a plain suit and a plain belt.
Inside your belt is your credit rating, which automatically changes as you
spend or get credited—but that's private information unless you want to
display it; and though it goes through the computer nobody else can get at your
credit rating in the computer but you.
"So a man's not subject to interrogation
by computer or by anybody else, unless he wants to be. And it's . . . well, you
just don't pry into a man's business. It's his business. If it affects you, you
stay with him or you leave; but you don't pry."
"Well," said Stan. There was a
lifetime of training behind that "well." It was a lifetime habit that
anybody could know anything about you at any time, except for the privacy
cloak and the immediate moment, and it took time to digest the fact of his
obvious freedom from that sort of— yes, prying. Then:
"Would it be prying to ask why you took
on the Mars guys when they wanted to arrest me?"
Paulsen
leaned back his head and laughed, a loud, long, tension-relieving laugh, and
Stan found himself smiling in return.
"You can ask, but I
don't think I rightly know the answer to that one," he said at last.
"I wasn't looking forward to an Earthie passenger, but—well, you got off
the ship without a damned privacy cloak. And then there was the belt. Out here
a gold belt means AT training; and the level of training is indicated by the
workings of the belt. I didn't think your belt meant anything but it . . . well,
it might. Then you walked straight, and you talked straight. You didn't sort of
slink, like most Earthies. And anyhow," he
added defensively, "Marsers and Earthies just aren't allowed to interfere with a Belter. We don't let
'em."
Stan
thought a minute before answering. Then: "I don't know why anyone would be
after me," he said slowly. "I was as surprised as you were—probably
more so—that those guys had a warrant for me from the school. I'm supposed to
be home for a two-week leave; and I'm supposed to report back to the school.
But it's just a school," he added, and knew himself instantly for a liar.
He'd always thought of it as just a school, until the day he'd left. But that
wasn't something you could explain, even if you wanted to.
"I'd
say," Paulsen was speaking in a slow drawl now, "that, if it's the
school, they want you back, dead or alive."
"Yeah," said Stan. "It—well,
it just cant be the school. But it can't be anyone else,
either."
"You
said I could ask anything I liked. Okay. It may be important. Damned well could
be important to you; and it is to me as long as you're aboard. So I ask: What
are you doing out here anyhow?"
"I guess I'm running away from the
school. They were training me, I just found out, for the military. I didn't
like the idea."
"Oh?
So you just up and ran away? You must be really High-G
to afford it."
Stan
grinned. "I only had enough to get to Earth Orb-dock. I was tiying to find
a job on a ship, when a guy came and said he was my Uncle Trevor's lawyer, and that I'd been left some stock—a thousand
shares—in something called Astro Technology. He also left me passage fare out,
so . . ."
At the look on the other's face, his voice
ran down. What could he have said to cause a reaction like that?
V
The silence went on and on; and Stan waited. Finally
Paulsen spoke:
"Your
name's Dustin," he said. It wasn't a question. "And your uncle was
Trevor Dustin." He looked over at Stan in awe. "Do you have any idea
who Trevor Dustin was?"
"He ... he was nicknamed
Trail Blazer Dustin. I've
been told," Stan said, "he was killed in the Belter Upris-
ing------ "
"He
was the biggest hero of the Belter War of Independence," said Paulsen
reprovingly. "He was the guy who—well, he was Mr. Belt. He was the guy who invented ship-guerrilla; who invented ship-freeze.
He had us paint our hulls black to radiate the heat out and freeze the hull
shielding water so we didn't blow open when a laser beam bit into the hull. He
was the one who invented putting soft plastic noodles into the shielding water
to absorb freezing expansion and to take up the hydrostatic shock from those
laser hits.
"He was the one who taught us to sting
the Earthies with our tails, since we didn't have the fire power to hurt them. .. . You're Trail Blazers nephew?"
Stan nodded dumbly, his mind racing.
Paulsen
was continuing slowly. "And you've got Trail Blazer's shares in AT?"
At Stan's nod, he went on: "One of his partners is dead; the other's sort
of in retirement AT's in the hands of—well, they're different now. Powerful and power-hungry. They're taking over an awful lot
of the policy-making out here. AT's different than it used to be but . . . but
look. This belt." He thumbed at the gold belt he
wore. "It means I've been trained by AT; it's the most valuable possession
I own.
"The
school's been going down since the partner that ran it went into retirement,
almost four years ago; but
the belt that says you're AT-trained will give
you top priority on any job they say you've been trained for. It's going
downhill, but it's still better than the best."
He
looked at Stan again. "If you've got a thousand shares of AT stock, I
don't have to ask who's trying to kill you. Nor whether it's
serious, either. I think the AT partner who died—not your uncle; the one
who died shortly afterward—well, the scuttlebutt is that he was murdered to
get him out of the way of the guys who took over at AT. It's been hushed, but
he probably was."
"So what do I do
now?"
"Damned
if I know. But you're fast on your feet and you've got an amazing amount of
knowhow, even if there are some pretty astounding gaps in it that take a guy unexpected.
I think I'm on your side, at least for this part of the action. I haven't liked
the way the school's been going recently—the kind of kid they've been turning
out. Seemed more like zombies than AT-trained experts.
I don't know much about the rest of AT enterprises, except they're rooting for
war with Earth, which doesn't make sense to me. And maybe if you've got enough
Dustin blood in you, you'd be better than what's there
now. I damned well better be on your side, at that, if I want to keep my hide;
'cause somebody sure doesn't want you around. So I reckon we better figure how
to keep you and me both alive until you can do something with those
shares."
"But we're on a ship that they know I'm
on, which puts your ship at hazard. And—"
"First
thing we do is see if there's a beacon on this crate. Then, when we get
de-bugged, if we're bugged, we put the doughnut on a homing course ..."
"Does
that mean a Hohmann orbit? It sounds as though it should."
Paulsen
laughed. "Right. We put it on a Hohmann orbit for
Belt City. Then we turn on its beacon and let it coast on in, while we cut
loose and get there a bit before they expect you. Or you want to change course
for AT's own asteroid? It's about two weeks away."
"I
think Belt City. It might be a good idea to find out—" "Well, at any
rate, we'll land there at an unexpectedly early time. You're probably right.
ATs a small pebble; you'd be conspicuous. At Belt City, with about six million people
around, we can get a little lost. We'll land at a docker I
don't
normally use. And once we're docked, well skip into the tunnels so fast they
won't know where we got to. What do you want to do once you get there?"
"Why ... I was going to look for a job."
Paulsen
looked at him in disbelief, then threw back his head and guffawed. Then,
"With a thousand shares of AT in his clip, the guy wants to go out and
look for a jobl Well, well." More soberly he asked, "Do you realize
that with those shares you could practically buy the Belt? A fair slice of it,
anyhow."
Stan's
thoughts were chaotic as he began to grasp the implications of what the other
had been saying. Finally, "Well, maybe it's . . . What would you do?"
"Actually, I don't
know just what I would
do."
The
two sat silent for a minute. Then Stan said, "Maybe I should
get a job until I find and speak to somebody that my uncle trusted."
"I
know who the retired partner is that ran the school. I think he's even at Belt
City. You oughta be able to trust him, I'd think. Lang. Dr. Katsu Lang."
Belt City had originally been a chunk of
nickel steel approximately twenty-five miles in diameter. In terms of planets,
this was practically microscopic; but in terms of the size of particles in the
Belt, it was relatively large.
At
first it had served as a base for small technological operations, mainly
because of its mass. Later it had served those who were interested in the mass
itself, and the nickel steel had been carved off in chunks and pieces and
carted away; while other chunks and pieces of it had been drilled and bored on
the spot to fashion crude reaction vessels for this or that in the line of
chemistry.
It
was then that Alfibe had taken over; the Alfibe Corporation was using the vacuum
of space to make boron into microscopically thin fibers of tensile strengths
far higher than any of the metallic alloys. Boron fiber was not new; it was
just that space vacuum made it newly inexpensive to manufacture. On Earth,
mass production had brought the costs down from seven hundred credits a pound
to seventy credits a pound. Here the fibers could be made for
seven microcredits a pound—and a pound was a lot of fiber.
The boron fiber was a major trade item with
Earth; but for use in the Belt it was combined with aluminum from asteroids
that were towed in for mining, to create a metal of tensile strengths fourteen
times stronger than steel, pound for pound—and a pound went a lot further.
So
Belt City grew. Port facilities that had been built for the boron fiber trade
were enlarged for Belt trade in Alfibe; were enlarged again as corporations
were formed to build Alfibe ships for the Belt.
Where
port facilities are available, every form of manufacture for trade will move
in. It wasn't long before the surface of the planetoid, as well as its mined
caverns, were crowded.
That
was when the Belt City Corporation was formed, its board of directors made up
of the heads of the corporations that supported and were supported by the
planetoid; its major duty was overseeing the G-swing and the balance of
industry—in this instance, the weight balance
of industry.
The
terms "gravity" and "G's" were commonly used, but the
weight effect was by centrifugal force, and the G-swing necessary to keep that
force evenly applied was constantly being upset by new heavy industry moving
in, by new construction that failed to take into account the balance and
counterbalance necessary to prevent wobbles. The wobbles were not only
upsetting to the manufacture going on, but had proved several times nearly
disastrous to the vast hydroponic farms and the "ranches" where meat
was grown in vats, the necessary core factors to any Belt habitation; and the
swing-weight of the city was shown to be too critical a survival factor to be
left longer at hazard to unplanned activity.
The
first and gigantically expensive but necessary act of the BC Corp. was the
construction of an even flooring over the entire
scalloped-looking built-up portion of the planetoid, a section around the
equator that extended roughly thirty degrees to the north and south. It was
flooring, not ceiling, since centrifugal force applies outward, and the floors
of the existing structures were toward space, the ceilings toward the planetoid
core.
The second and concomitant—and quite as
necessary—act was the contraction of hull-style river systems immediately over
the new floor. The rivers were for inertia] control of rotation with huge tanks
to provide for balance and counterbalance; they also served as the medium for
growth of sea life and plankton as an additional source of food, and as a far
superior method to the simple hydroponics one for recycling air and waste
products.
That
was the start of the planned growth of Belt City; and because of the planning
it was now possible to really grow. New overall floors were needed and
constructed almost immediately, always as a unit, surfaced with built-in
rivers. Transportation systems for freight and people intertwined through the
growing structures in an orderly and efficient manner. The internal ecology was
protected from sabotage by unthinking corporate or individual action.
And
always, as the city grew, the growing hydroponics farms moved outward to the
rim where the plants could take full advantage of the highest accelerative
stress. There were plants that would grow with practically no gravity; there
were others that wouldn't grow without at least three-quarters G; but almost
all grew best where the gravity was most nearly Earth-like. So the G-swing was
set to maintain a full gravity at the rim, leaving the lower areas to their
proportionate heights; and the plants that were the city's sustenance were
given top priority on that best-growth potential section. People-comfort was
never more than a secondary consideration, though the schools were kept on the
rim, which gave the children a full G during part of the day; and enough
credits could buy you space between the farms.
Now Belt City hung in space, a wedge-shaped
wheel around the central nickel-steel core that was itself cav-emed and
structured for man's use. The floors that made its rim extended now more than
twelve miles out from the original surface; and where the original sixty
degrees at the equator had given the first flooring a width of twelve miles
equal to its radius, the outside rim was now nearer twenty-four miles across.
From
the north and south poles of the planetoid, taking advantage of the null-G at
these axes, the long strands of docking and transportation tubes of a
space-dock complex were strung out. The tubes extended a good thirty miles
beyond the non-rotating caps by which they were attached to the rotating
asteroids; and each ship that docked was tethered and serviced by several of
the tubes.
Fan-powered strut-cars
traveled the tubes from ship to planetoid-cap, then dived across to
c»mplimentary tubes in the rotating structure of the planetoid itself.
There
were parts of Belt City that gave the impression of being crowded; and there
were places where people were likely to be only once a year, or perhaps even
less; other places people, went only to work. All of the areas were served with
air and heat and power and freight and transportation by the tubes and their
strut-cars that efficiently serviced the entirety of the inside-out asteroid
that was Belt City.
"The
docking tubes look like a man-of-war's tendrils, with the ships its prey,"
Stan said softly, watching the planetoid enlarge on the Sassy Lassie's viewscreen. "Or like a net for
invaders."
Paulsen
looked at him in surprise. "I reckon they do look a bit like that,"
he said finally in satisfaction. "The docking tubes are the green ones.
The passenger tubes are yellow. The freight tubes are the red ones. And the
orange ones are the smaller tubes in which liquids can be carried without being
loaded into jungle-gyms."
"Jungle
gyms?"
"Boy,
as much as I've been educating you, there are still gaps!" Paulsen smiled
ruefully. "Tubecars you use on Earth, because that's an
induction-repulsion linear motor vacuum system. Pneumocars you have at
Orbdocks, where the tubes are air-filled, and the cars can run on
battery-powered fans. But pneumocars are built for comfort, and they're a
luxury we haven't gotten around to out here. Here we have the air-filled tubes
and the battery-powered fans, but the cars behind the fans are just . . . well,
jungle-gym affairs that you can strap freight into or people can ride sitting
on the bars. They have floors and skirts for use in C fields, but the rest is
just a batch of struts. They're formally called strut-cars."
Expertly
the skipper matched orbits with the asteroid, then
maneuvered slowly until the Lassie hung
at the tips of a ganglion of different colored tubes. He reached over and
flipped a switch marked magnalock, activating powerful magnetic coils at
various spots on the hull, and with a soft thump
each of the green tubes
reached out and sucked onto the coil-area that matched its code-pulse.
"We're
docked," he said succinctly. "Now to air lock us
into the passenger and freight systems."
While
Paulsen worked over the controls, Stan watched on the screen as a great yellow
tube bent slowly and unwillingly, stretched a bit, and then made contact with
the magnetic coil around the air lock, its internal pressures resisting every
motion but being slowly overcome by the magnetic attraction between its head
and the coils. The action was repeated with one of the red tubes, which was
made to seek its own type of pulse-code and fall into place over the access
lock that would have led into the Lassie's missing
freightnut
"Okay,
bud," Paulsen said, unstrapping himself almost as
the red tube thumped into place, "here's where we get lost. You think you
can fly the tubes? Now that you can see how far out we are? Or had we better
take a chance on the strut-cars? We could go freight. . . ."
"I
can fly," said Stan shortly and unstrapped to push his way in the null G
toward the freightlock where they'd already prepared their wings and fins.
He was wearing one of Paulsen's bright red
pilot's suits now. "You better be in spacemen's outfit," Paulsen had
said. "Wear mine until we can get you some of your own." "But
they're pilot-red," Stan had objected, "and I'm not a pilot. How do I
get to be one?" "By flying a ship," said Paulsen. "Here,
fly this one and do me a few navigation problems." It had been as simple
as that. Once he had proved to a competent pilot his ability to fly and navigate
a ship he was entitled to wear pilot-red. His gold belt, though, was his own.
The wing and tail outfits they would wear,
flying the tubes, had been blown up in advance, and Stan had practiced getting
into them, had been instructed carefully in their use. They hung now in the air
lock, ready: two stub-wings, scarcely longer than his arms and shaped somewhat
like a bee's wings, and a seven-foot tail that would run from his waist to
wellbelow his feet.
In the null G he had no trouble slipping his
feet into the foot-grips about halfway down the length of the tail, belting it
to him with the belt that went around his waist, then reaching down and pulling
the wing-straps across his shoulders, slipping his hands into the handholds of
the wings. Gently and experimentally he moved a wing, and found himself
caroming into the air lock side.
"Save it for the
tube," said Paulsen shortly, palming open the air lock bulkhead before
slipping his hand into his own wing-grip.
Before
them the tube stretched out, an eerily glowing red diminishing to a point in
the far distance; infinitely long, infinitely fragile, seen from here. Stan
made an involuntary motion and found himself flying into Paulsen, who swung
out his arms in counteraction and was propelled out of the air lock into a long
glide down the tube. But he kicked his feet up at the knees, and then snapped
them down to come to rest spread-eagled across the three-yard diameter tube,
wings and tail touching the sides.
"Watch
out for those unintended movements," he called back. "Did you see the
stop I made? Do you get the idea?"
"I think so. Every
slightest movement sure counts."
"Yep.
Tail motion is the most important part, though, remember. A gentle up-down
swish of the tail with the arms held rigid will give you plenty of speed. The
arms can propel too, if you're in a real burry. If you want to stop, just flip
yourself over like I did, but don't forget to straighten out, or you'll keep
right on tumbling. I'm going ahead. You come on along."
Widi that, Paulsen pulled his wings down toward his body, flipped them,
straightened them out, and dove off down the tube, tail undulating in a smooth
powerful stroke that had him diniinishing down the tube like a bird in flight.
Poised on the hp of the air lock, Stan tucked
his head down to line it with the direction of flight and slipped his wings
open. His head scraped the tunnel, slid along it. He kicked his tail, found
himself twisting, and brought his wings into play again. He was moving rapidly,
but his head was scraping first one side then the other.
In
automatic reflex, he pulled up his feet The tail
flipped over, flipping him end over end in a wall-to-wall passage down the tunnel. Frantically he pushed his feet
out, pinioning his wings. His head buried itself deeply into the soft wall of
the tube. He threw his arms and legs wide, and found
himself stopped, spread-eagled across the tunnel.
Dizzy,
he looked around. There was the tube, stretching away from him. His wings
looked a bloody red in the eerie light. And Paulsen would be far ahead by now.
Carefully, he pulled in his wings, gave a
light flutter to his tail. He was moving down the tube, but scraping from wall
to wall. Experimentally he balanced his wings, flapped them gently. The motion,
tried gently, centered him more or less in the tunnel, so long as the tail
flapped evenly and slowly. The walls of the tube were moving past at a fair
rate, and he was scraping them very little. He increased the motion of his
tail. His speed increased violently—and his head rammed firmly into a hard surface.
Summoning
every bit of presence of mind he possessed, he flipped his tail, then
straightened it, threw out his wings, and landed spread across the tube—facing
the closed bulkhead of the Sassy Lassie's air
lock.
"Damn,"
he muttered, "ITl never get to Twelfth and Main this way."
Very
cautiously now, Stan fanned himself around one wing, aimed himself down the
tube and flapped his wings gently once. It worked. Slowly and smoothly he took
off down the tunnel. With care he added a tail motion, but the two legs moved
not quite in unison. His speed increased, but the slightly uneven motion added
a vector of steering for which he had to compensate rapidly. He was caroming
from side to side, but he found himself compensating with more and more
efficiency.
His speed was remarkably high, he noted, as
the walls of the tube seemed to wobble past his erratic motion; but he was
tiring. It was hard work. He knew that once he got into a good, stable glide
headed along the center, he could rest; inertia would keep him going. But he
was still awkwardly wing-and-tail tipping the walls when he heard a shout in
the distance.
"Halloo," he answered.
"Junction here. Can you follow me?" The voice was coming
much louder now, and by craning his neck he could see the rapidlv ncaring figure
spread across the tunneL
"Move or I'll run you down!" he
shouted.
"Pull
up your knees, then straighten out," was the
reply, too near.
Stan
pulled his knees up, then straightened them violently, and found his head
thrust firmly into the plastic wall, while his tail scraped to a rest on the opposite wall.
"That's
how vou stop." Paulsen's noncommital voice was only feet away. "You
get started like this."
Paulsen
drew his wings in across his chest, ducked his head and allowed the tail to
give him a slight lack forward, snapped the wings open again and was off down
the tunnel.
Stan
started to try it, found himself confused, stopped. Suddenly he couldn't
remember the first motion.
Abruptly
he let go, relaxed, and let his arms and legs take over. With relief, he let
natural motions replace the forced ones he'd been using; slow motions that
didn't demand strength, only gentle undulations that took him faster and
faster.
In
the near distance he heard a call: "Right turn. Kick only your right leg
when you get here." It was a Y-branch, and his turn was not smooth, but
the compensations were coming naturally now.
Cautiously
he craned his neck and sighted Paulsen not too far ahead. There were tiny
lights further ahead, too, and Stan quit kicking, allowing himself to glide
along at a speed he guessed to be in excess of fifty-five miles an hour.
"Stretch your legs
apart and slow down."
He stretched his legs as far as he could
force them, and was rewarded with a fluttering, vibrating sensation from the
tail fin, and a simultaneous rapid slowing of his forward motion. The
stiffening tube members in the tail had been pulled flat by his action,
allowing the plastic between to wrinkle and flutter in an action that absorbed
energy rapidly.
"Okay. Park. Or
are you going to run me down?" came the call.
Stan
kicked both legs up and back, and once more succeeded in ramming his head into
the soft plastic wall, but this time he was going too fast The tail scraped the
far wall and snapped open again beyond it, leaving him still sailing down the
tunnel, but feet-first, a direction of travel for which the device hadn't been
intended. The flexible wings bent and tried to wrap themselves around his arms,
buffeting him madly first against one wall and then the other. The tail bent
too, and forced his legs into a crouch position; and then—snap—he was headed
down the tunnel head-first again, but with most of his momentum gone. Again he
tried to brake, and this time was successful.
"Fanciest stop I've
seen yet," Paulsen greeted him.
Stan was about to give a short reply when he
looked beyond Paulsen to a large open chamber full of moving tubecars that
looked like they'd been stripped for action. Freight was fastened haphazardly
into the frameworks.
One of the strut-cars—an object sized to fit
neady into the tubes, its three-yard fan covered with a mesh grille, its rear
simply a tubular jungle-gym—was heading straight for their tube. The monster fan
looked lethal for all its grille-mesh protective covering.
"Look
outl" Stan yelled. "That freighter wants in. It's going to try to
chase us back up the tube."
Paulsen turned in a leisurely fashion as the
huge freighter came to a snarling halt about three yards outside the
tube, and hung there buzzing at them like an angry, oversize bee.
"It can't come in
while we're here."
"Oh . . . good. Hey, could we reprogram one of those to take
us where we want to go?"
"Could. But it wouldn't be a good idea. The dispatcher would get hep to us.
Those things have a tracer on them, in case they go wrong and somebody has to
come out to correct them. It's easier to hitch a ride on one that's going our way. You think you can handle an open space
like this? Fly it, I mean?"
"Should be easier than running into the
walls of a tube all the time," Stan answered, "as long as you're sure
one of those outsize bees out there won't try to eat me for a rose."
"You
haven't got enough oil for that kind of bee to worry about." Paulsen dove
gracefully from the tube and Stan followed. They'd barely cleared its mouth
when the big strut-car, with a final angry buzz dove in and accelerated off in
the direction from which they'd come.
The fact of flying this time seemed almost
familiar; and to Stan's surprise he managed it with fair ease. Was this one of
the familiarities of the molecular training? he wondered.
Surely it hadn't been an intentional part—or just possibly it had.
Ahead of him, Paulsen had come to a hovering
stop over one of the dark tunnel mouths that led into the city, identifiable
only by its code name; he now settled gracefully onto the very hp of the tunnel
and divested himself of his wings and tail. As he was deflating them Stan
shucked his own wings and settled himself precariously; there wasn't enough
G-pull to feel safe.
The cavern in which he sat
was dim, lighted only by the reflected red light of the transparent tubes
through which they had come, and by the faint glow of the signal lamps lighting
the various tunnel entrances on all sides of him, up and down.
It's unsettling, he
thought. You
have to become accustomed to thinking in odd directions.
The
strut-car traffic above him and to his side seemed to be sorting itself out in
a haphazard manner, each vehicle searching slowly for the pattern of lights
that would satisfy its own equations, then diving into the tunnel that matched
its code. The freighters were large and awkward in this space, moving very
slowly; and since it would be quite impossible for any one of them to pass
another freighter in a tunnel, one of the code signals must indicate, Stan
decided, whether the tunnel was occupied or not
Following Paulsen's lead, Stan folded his
deflated wings and tail assembly into a small packet that fitted into a pocket,
and fastened it to his belt
"Why don't we just fly
on in?" he asked.
"Ever try flying in a
G-field?"
"Well, no. I guess it can't be done.
Leonardo da Vinci even failed at that, didn't he?"
"Oh, it has been done. On Mars. Even on Earth. But you need bigger wings and a lot
more room to maneuver in. These wings wouldn't hold us up in a tenth of a G.
Right here"—Paulsen patted the floor on which he was sitting and almost
dislodged himself—"we've got less than a thousandth of a G. But it picks
up as you go down—or rather, across. And from here on we get heavier. I think
that's our ride coming now," he added.
Stan
looked up at an angry buzzing overhead to see a freighter hovering there,
waiting for them to get out of its way.
"This part is tricky. We have to stay in
its way until we get in position to jump after it right after it goes by. But
don't grab any struts that might pinch you into the wall. These walls aren't
plastic. Incidentally, this thing has no sensor circuits on its backside."
Carefully Stan worked his way back in the
very light gravity field to just beyond the edge of the tunnel. Paulsen was
doing likewise, holding only one hand in front of the big buzzing freighter to
bar its passage.
"Let it go all the way
in—itll be downward from here— then fall in after it. We'll catch up quick
enough." Paulsen pulled his hand out of the way and with a snort of fans the freighter surged forward and dived into the hole. As
soon as it had cleared the mouth, Paulsen slipped in behind it feet first, and
Stan followed.
Sliding
out over the emptiness was like sliding into a soft pillow. He was moving downward, but
slowly.
It
was pitch dark in the tunnel, and for a minute Stan wished that the Belt City
Corp. had used the translucent plastic tunnels on the surface, at least until
the tubes reached the built-up areas and went inside. Then his eyes began to
adjust, and he could see the faint emergency glow from his buttons—the
spacemen's last protection against utter darkness in enclosed spaces.
He
looked down and could see tiny glows that meant that Paulsen was there ahead of
him in the pitch black; and beyond Paulsen—near or far, he couldn't tell—the
code lights of the freighter. If the freighter had accelerated, as it was quite
capable of doing, it would be far ahead of them. Could they catch up? But it
would be moving at a steady pace, possibly fairly slowly, and they were accelerating.
By the faint illumination from his buttons he
could see the wall of the tube moving gently toward him, and he reached out and
pushed himself away. By the feel, he was moving fairly rapidly now. The next
time, it was his back that was scraping the tunnel wall, and as he pushed away
again, to fall free, he found his speed quite impressive.
"Look out Don't land on me."
Stan
looked quickly down. The glows that were Paulsen were moving beneath the code
lights on the back of the freighter, and those lights were rising beneath his
feet Slowly at first then faster; and the illumination they provided gave him
a true sense of falling for the first time. Then he was down and onto a package
of freight at the back of the strut-car.
"From here on in things get
heavier," Paulsen said. "We're still on the surface, but we're coming
away from the axis into the gravity areas. It's about a half-G at the surface at the equator. Then the car will dive on out to
whatever level it's dialed to. Well change to a car for the area we want when we hit the equator shift-space.
"Find a comfortable
seat on this side," he went on. "The tubes tilt gradually, so the
side of the freighter that drags is the side that has the ground-effect air
support; and that's the side that will be dragged by gravity to the bottom
when the tube flattens out into a cross-G slant. These cars are designed to go
almost anywhere—up, down or across G. They stay in the tubes mostly, but they
can go out of the tubes for unloading, in half-barrel shaped runs."
Just
when the freighter shifted from fighting the force that caused it to cling to
one wall of the long down-tube, to the fight against the centrifugal force that
substituted for gravity here in Belt City, would have been hard for Stan to
say; but now it seemed to be gliding down a less and less steep slope, and
slowing as it came to a shift-space between tunnels. This shift-space was
different, Stan realized. It was dimlv lighted, and there was a definite
gravity. The cars hugged the floor. They criss-crossed their way about the
low-ceilinged cavern, searching out new codes, but always gliding only a few
inches from the floor.
Paulsen
was examining a card attached to a package beside him.
"Do we chnnge
here?" Stan asked.
"Nope. We're in luck. This one is headed for a
shopping area."
The hunting neriod for their
own freighter was brief, and it dived into another tunnel. But this time
they weren't falling. The tunnel felt level, and for a while it continued that
way. Then they were going downhill again—a sensation, Stan realized, rather
than a fact. Actually, they were slanting up-level toward the rim. Now the
walls were lighted, and numbers began to flash past; numbers that were blocked
out both in the binary code that the strut-cars could read, and in common
decimal figures. But it was still code as far as Stan could tell, and he felt
no familiarity with it.
Occasionallv and briefly there would be a
widening of the tunnel as the freighter passed a platform level with its own
floor, each such dock area causing a thwop of
changing air pressure as they passed it.
And then thev began passing an occasional
terminus of a different type; a place in which the car could be halted to shunt
sidewise and pass through a lock. Stan was about to ask the advantage of this
configuration when a surge of deceleration thrust him forcefully against one of
the packages ahead of him, and the freighter came to a halt next to Just such a
system, moved slowly sidewise, and passed nose-first through a lock.
Immediately
beyond the door was a lighted area, with freighter-troughs leading out between
unloading docks. There were two men on one of the docks unloading a freighter,
but most of the docks were empty.
Their
freighter nosed its way into the empty dock next to the one being unloaded. The
men from the crew straightened and one called over, "Hey, there."
"Hi,"
Paulsen answered laconically. "We hopped a ride in. Our freighter was too
loaded and we didn't want to wait for a yellow-belly. This is twelve-thirty-two, forty-seven south fifth, isn't it?"
"Yep. Area one, seventy-five, sixty-third."
Stan felt his stomach wrench. As the man had
straightened to accost them, one had shown himself to be long and willowy,
arms hanging out of proportion to his height; the other to be short and stubby,
out of proportion the opposite way. He kept from averting his eyes.
"Which
way to the walks?" Paulsen was asking.
"Through
that door. Shops."
"Thanks."
They
went through the door into a walkway, mall-centered, shop-lined, its ceiling
perhaps sixty feet above them, and five levels of walkway between their own and
the ceiling. The flowered and shrubbed mall served as the well to the
multileveled walkways of the shopping area; and Stan could see stairs leading
from one level to another at intervals.
His first impression was of color—a riot of
color. There was color in the luminescence that flooded from the far ceiling;
from below the walkway above his own; from every partition between the shop
windows along the walks. There was color in the flowered and shrubbed mall;
color in the display windows of the shops; color in the costumes the people on
the mall were wearing.
There was an air of gaiety to the scatterings
of people around, and the gaiety and color were infectious.
It
was several minutes, as they strolled along the mall, before Stan could sort
out individual impressions; and then it was with an empty feeling at the pit of
his stomach that he realized that under the color, under the gaiety, something
was very wrong. The Mutt and Jeff of the freight dock were not isolated cases,
if the people he was seeing were any sample. The willowy, gangling form was predominant,
the shorter, squat form less in evidence; but almost everyone, male and
female, presented some grotes-querie.
There
were bums and scars to be seen. That you would expect of a pioneer society, he
thought. But the differences in build and structure of the majority from the
norm he was used to ... It was like a
hydroponics farm not properly tended, missing some of the essential elements,
or grown without proper light, or with poor G considerations, Stan decided, and
knew he had the answer.
There
were a few normally formed persons like himself and Paulsen; but they were so
far in the minority that he knew himself to be quite conspicuous.
Paulsen was leading them into a restaurant,
and as they sat down he didn't wait to be asked. His voice was gruff, held a
bitter note of defiance.
"Space
is unforgiving," he said, "and the sins of the parents are visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generations. Sins of
omission, and sins of commission," he added. "And ismorance is no
defense."
He
paused for a minute while his eyes sought through the people at the tables
around them and then returned to Stan, who sat silent.
"As a matter of fact, ignorance
not only isn't a defense, it's the one unforgivable sin out here.
Unforgivable by space, that is. Ignorance kills, and it kills right now. Or it
maims. Ignorance and stupidity.
"You're
seeing the small ignorances and stupidities when you look at the people here at
Belt City. Not enough provision for this; not enough attention to that . . . little errors. The big errors—their results are
death. Even so, this is a protected environment, here at Belt City. A freak can
still stay alive. Outside Belt City, a small error in judgment is sure death.
"You
can't be just an average joe, and survive in the Belt.
You can't let anybody else do your thinking for you, and expect to survive. We
each live our own lives and do our own thinking out here—and we each pay our
own price for our own inabilities. We don't do it because we figure it's a good
way to live, to be independent and stay on your toes; but because if you don't
you don't live.
"And any one of the
joes you see out there—the ones who got metabolically unbalanced and grew
beyond their strengths, or the squat ones who got G-squashed, maybe before
they were bom, or the burned or the deformed—any one of them is still brighter
and more able to take care of himself under any circumstances—any single one
of them is a better man than any molly-coddled puppy dog of an over-protected
Earthie, and don't you forget it. If they weren't brighter and more able,
they'd be already dead; and the death rate's high. Because space hits you where
you hurt if you act ignorant or stupid even for a little while; but it hits to kill if you stay that way. "Space
doesn't forgive," he ended.
Then
he changed—expression, manner and voice—and Stan knew that this subject was
dropped, now and forever, as far as Paulsen was concerned.
Looking around the room in a casual manner, Paulsen said lightly, "There's a telescreen over
there. You go screen Dr. Lang. Ill order us up some rose-hip tea. Then we'll
see what gives from here."
The
screen was normal Earth-style, and Stan had no trouble with the controls. He
kept the screen dark while he dialed computer info for the code for his old
friend. Then, as he was about to dial Dr. Lang's number, the screen before him
suddenly cleared, and he found himself looking at a heavy face with tiny,
porcine features. The small, alert eyes riveted his gaze, and the man spoke
without preamble:
"Mr. Dustin, I am Jonathan Weed of Astro
Technology. Your activities since the Sassy Lassie docked
have been reported to me from no less than five different sources. Your
current position is pinpointed as twelve-thirty-two, forty-seven south fifth;
area one, seventy-five, the restaurant at fifty-eighth.
"Tour
call to Dr. Lang will not be accepted. Since AT is only one of several parties
interested in your current activities, and since you must know that your
interests lie with AT, I suggest that it would be to your advantage to report
to my office immediately, before your life becomes unduly complicated by
others. You are, as I hope I have impressed you, easily monitored in our
society.
"i am at thirteen-oh-two, eighty-one north
sixth, and any of the area directors will bring you to me. Your friend Paulsen
can get you to the area."
Stan started to speak, then
changed his mind. As his mouth closed, the man on the screen rose slowly, so
that the intricately woven gold belt he wore dominated the screen. His hands
went to the belt, and framed it from the sides.
"In
the name of the Belt," he said in a voice of authority, "I command
you to come. Immediately. Unobtrusively
but rapidly."
Abruptly, Stan cut the connection^ rising
from the seat in the same motion. He turned to see Paulsen standing behind him,
evidently having heard the conversation.
Paulsen was smiling gently.
VI
They've spotted us," Stan said furiously. "Let's
jet."
Paulsen nodded, still smiling, and turned
toward the walkway, taking long strides that would appear unhurried but would
cover a lot of territory fast.
Stan fell into step with him and continued
talking: The guy said he was Weed of AT, and that he'd had a tracer on us since
we left the Lassie,
but I doubt that last. They
simply spotted us when I tried to call Lang. Must have his phone monitored.
That Weed character! He was trying to give me some sort of hypnotic command or
other, to get the hell up to his office. What a dullie!"
Paulsen was leading them back to the freight
loading area behind the shopping center through which they had come, apparently
thinking to take the same freightways.
"You going to double back on the same trail?" Stan
asked, worried. "Now they've spotted us, it should be easier to tracer us.
Maybe . . ."
"Doesn't matter. Mr. Weed just said to be unobtrusive. I
don't think any of the others have spotted us yet."
"Any of the
others?"
"He warned you that others were looking
for you too," said Paulsen impatiently. "We're to be unobtrusive
about getting to his office, but I don't think we have to hide exactly. It will
be just as well if AT can
tracer us. Then if anybody
else stops us, they can get to us to help."
Stan
came to an abrupt stop, and Paulsen, of necessity, turned to see what had
occurred. It was then that Stan got a good
look at Paulsen's eyes. They held a strange
blank-ness.
"Where are you taking
me?" Stan asked.
"To Weed's
office, of course. We're to hurry."
Stan
stood stock still, estimating his chances. Without Paulsen he was indeed a stranger in a strange land. But with
Paulsen?
Why
hadn't it occurred to him that the AT school was a molecular memory training school? Katsu Lang had headed each; and each
had turned out—robots. If he had needed any demonstration of what Mallard had
been talking about, he had it now before him.
But
why wasn't he, himself, reacting in the same manner as Paulsen? The command had
been "in the name of the Belt." And it was quite obviously a phrase
that keyed in a hypnotic condition. But there'd be another
command phrase for use on Earth; and that hadn't been used. Okay, he was safe
until somebody started using whatever phrase had been selected to key in his
own robotic responses. He shivered violently, knowing his own vulnerability to
be as great as the one he was witnessing; then, with an effort, he pulled
himself back to the immediate problem.
He and Paulsen were facing each other just
inside the door to the unloading area. From the corner of his eye, Stan could
see the Mutt and Jeff freight loaders straightening, beginning to pay attention
to what must seem a disagreement—a disagreement in which they
would take the part of the Belter against an Earthie.
Idly he let his fingers go to his belt, then glanced down at it. Paulsen's eyes followed his own.
When he was sure that Paulsen was looking directly at his belt, he said softly,
"Wait here." He started to use the command phrase that Porky had
used, but stopped. If he got it wrong, he'd trigger the wrong reaction. Anyhow,
it was not a phrase he could bring himself to utter.
Paulsen was looking confused. "We are to
hurry," he said.
"Wait here. Then well hurry."
Not daring to pause any longer, Stan turned
on his heel and went back through the door onto the walk. Turning a-way from
the direction of the restaurant, he lengthened his stride toward the nearest
byway.
Behind
him he could hear light running footsteps, obviously not far behind, or he
couldn't have distinguished them among the numbers of people about. He was just
yards from a byway, but the runner was not many more yards behind.
Abruptly,
he turned into the byway. No sooner had he made the comer than he flattened his
back against the wall of the shop he had rounded, hands loose and ready.
As
the figure came around the comer at top speed, he reached, reflexed, half
caught her on the withdraw, and ended up supporting
his quarry to keep her from falling.
He
was looking down into a pretty Oriental face, topped with mussed dark
hair, flushed from running, and completely startled so that the mouth was still
open in an "oh." She was wearing a gold belt over tunic and trousers.
In spite of himself, Stan began to smile.
"Every day in every way," he said happily, "the robots get
prettier and prettier."
The
flush that mounted her cheeks this time was not from running. She pulled away
from him in fury, then softened again.
"You're
Star Duster," she said breathlessly, "and you've got to trust me
quick, because I can get you out of here. I'm Sandra Lang. Will you trust
me?"
"Yes," said Stan, surprising
himself. He would rationalize later that he couldn't get out by himself; that
trusting her was the best gamble available. There would be all sorts of
reasons, but when it came right down to it, he trusted her because he trusted
her. It was that simple.
She nodded at him, but remained still,
thinking. "They'll have all the strut-cars monitored, so we can't go by
car," she said hesitantly. "Freight cars, too .. . Oh, I know."
Back
onto the mall she led him, down a ways, across the mall, into a foodstore.
Through the store to the back through a door to the delivery area, looking in
every direction, then breaking into a run to catch a
man stopping over some newly unloaded vegetables on a platform.
"Mr.
Jim." She stopped beside him, panting. "Are you returning anything to
the rim right now?"
The face that turned up to hers was graying,
lined, a
bit grim, but the
expression softened as he looked up. "What sort of trouble you in today,
Sandra? I thought you'd outgrown hide and seek."
"This
one's for real, Mr. Jim," she said solemnly. "This is Star. We both
need to get out to Gramps's, fast and inconspicuous like."
"Those crates over there," he said,
smiling at her fondly. "They're going back out to Rosie's. You get in them
and m dial you
to Katsu, then you tell him to dial them on to her. Hop in. How serious if
you're caught?"
"Plenty." She didn't amplify the statement, but her
tone left no doubt.
"Don't
you get yourself mixed up in politics, Sandra," he told her severely as he
opened two of the biggest crates for them to climb in. "It's not a game for sweet youngsters like you. A pretty face is no protection when
it's power politics that's being played," he went on as he replaced the
covers and checked the lashings to the strut-car, "and they're playing it
rougher every day." Then, "Here you go," he ended, and Stan felt
the strut-car begin to move as he lay curled in the dark in a crate on a
freightcar near a pretty girl who was the granddaughter,
obviously, of the man who had made him a robot. And perhaps Tm a fool, he told himself, but there was something
inside that refused to believe the statement.
Katsu Lang sat at the keyboard of the
symphony master, taking out the tensions that had been building within him in
thunderous, rolling tones of barbaric style, harnessed to an insistent violin
concerto theme. The contrasting elements delighted him, and took his attention
from the chase he knew to be going on, matching the demanding insistence of a
violin rampant, he thought, to the overpowering brutality of
a cadenced bass viol clawing at the understructure of the racing theme. The two
musical forces were harmonized by a patterned form that included within itself
the warring elements—and he found himself quite satisfied with the resultant
dynamic stability.
He
had turned on the recorder, and he knew that the tensions had given him a body of music which, with a few months spent in organization and handling,
could be made into a great work.
Lifting his fingers from the keys, he leaned
back in the maestro's great seat and flipped on the recording of what he had
just played. It washed over him in rolls of movement and countermovement, and
it almost drowned the tiny wrist receiver that told him that Sandra, at least,
was back. And young Star Dustin must be with her, he decided, for if she had
lost him she would not return until she found where he was taken and what could
be done—and that would necessarily have required more time.
Muting
the recorder, he rose to meet his guests, approaching now through the apple
orchard beyond the bays of the music stall. The grass carpeting beneath his
feet felt resilient; the glow of late afternoon filled the air. He wondered
idly if the Earth boy would recognize the programming which kept the light of
the enclosure that was his home tuned to the Earth-light sequence for any time
of day. Or the need for that programming: the changing colors within the
atmosphere modulating a changing of b^dv reactions, preventing the hypnosis
that is a single-light-frequency response.
We
have so much to learn of
artificialized living, he
thought; and,
he added to himself, so much to learn of learning itself.
The
two coming through the orchard made a graceful contrast to the stubby-fingered
grace of the trees themselves, now in full leaf with tiny apples budding.
Paulsen
was not with them. It had been some vears now since he had seen Paulsen—one of
the hopefuls of the program that had turned out to be so flawed. Sandra was
light and graceful beside the tall figure of the now grown young man that was
Star Dustin. The young man's stride was easy, his head high, the hair a deep
flame beneath the trees. He was graceless in contrast to Sandra, but his stride
held a strength that was a grace of its own. How very like Trevor, Lang thought.
He
watched Stan's face as the young man stepped through the bay into the music
stall; watched his slight catch of breath as he noticed that the grass over
which he had been walking continued as carpeting of the stall; watched his
glance as it went to the acoustically designed canopy.
Then
the boy's eyes met his own, and he felt the warmth of pleasure with which the Other responded; and, like a slap in the face, the fear and
fury which shuttered it almost instantly afterward.
He
bowed his head in reaction to the mental blow, then
managed to make the gesture into one of greeting.
"Welcome, Stan Dustin, son of my late
partner and very true friend," he said formally.
"Son?" Stan's voice was startled, and there was hope behind it.
"You are Trevor Dustin's son, Stan. The
other was a fiction
of convenience, and in the Belt such fictions are not necessary."
"Then,
if I am the son of your true friend, why did you let them make me into a robot?" The words seemed torn from Stan, but he looked straight
into the older man's eyes as they poured forth.
"Would
I have made my own granddaughter into a robot? It was an unforeseen flaw in the
program, Stan; and one that was enhanced and emphasized by those who killed the
third partner and forced me out."
Stan's face crumpled from the fierce anger it
had held, and the hope and pleasure slowly returned to it. Holding the younger
man's eyes with his own, Katsu Lang continued softly, "It is my hope that
if you will work with me, as Sandra has, we can find the key to changing the
responses."
The work began next morning, work that was
based on tests in a cubicle like the one in which Stan had spent so many hours
for so many years on Earth; and he threw himself into the tests with a fierce,
exultant hope that was overridden only by the need to eat and sleep.
The tests went on for three days, but in the
afternoon of the third day Katsu Lang came to call him from the cubicle into a
small study, where Sandra served them tea.
The
older man waited until the tea was served and the three were relaxed in deep
pneumochairs. Then he said slowly:
"Stan,
you are not a robot You do not show any of the robotic
reactions."
The sentence hung there between them for a
long minute, while Stan looked at him, trying to stifle the hope that flooded
him, hope that would surely be dashed. . . .
"I do not understand, sir. I was
trained, with the others. I saw Paulsen's reaction...."
"Nor do I understand, Stan. But I have
given you every test of which I can think. I have used every hypnotic command
I know that has been trained into those who attended either the Earth school or
the one in the Belt.
"Then,
in case I had not known the ones to which you might be keyed, I have tested
your reactions to the information patterns to which you were trained
molecularly. And even to these, you respond as you yourself would respond; not
as the donor of the molecular patterns would have responded. You respond as a
young man would respond, armed with vital knowledge from many fields—not as the
person would have responded who had spent a lifetime acquiring the one set of
knowledge, with his reactions necessarily shaped by that knowledge alone, and
with the thought habits of such specialization.
"Further,"
he went on slowly, "your information depth is not limited to what one man
in each field might have acquired in one lifetime; but is infused and colored
with factors that must have been transmitted genetically from generations back,
for it includes accurate and detailed information on factors which have not
been in use for generations."
"What do you mean by
that, sir?"
Lang took his time before answering, sipping
his tea thoughtfully. Finally he said slowly, "For instance, when you flew
the tubes. Your reactions, I gather, were structured in an accurate, detailed,
seat-of-the-pants knowledge of small-plane flying; of flying of a type that
hasn't been done since the very early Twentieth Century. . . ."
Stan broke in excitedly. "You're right,
you know. I could almost feel the flimsy structure of a ... a flying machine around me; and a stick in my hands with
which to guide her; and someone shooting at me. . .."
"So detailed? I had wondered. Yes, I think it is undeniable that you have picked up
genetic recordings along with the molecular memories with which we were
training you."
"Sir . . . Dr. Lang. Why am I not a robot, and what about the
others?"
Again Lang paused and sipped his tea. Then he
leaned back and half-closed his eyes. "The normal method by which a person
acquires information," he said, "is through the five senses.
Information is fed into the brain by electronic signals from each of the five
senses. In the brain that information is assembled by the intelligence,
analyzed, sorted out, and readied for storage—for filing. The intelligence is
the analyzer.
"Reason,"
he went on, "is the function of the intelligence. The information input
is electronic, is analyzed by the intelligence, and is filed in the biochemical
body which acts on it without
further analysis.
"Now,
when you hypnotize someone, you remove the intelligence from the circuit, and
the responses you get are purely logic-circuit responses—backed by an eidetic
'memory,' or complete access to the near infinite information filing system.
"And when we put information into the
body through a molecular memory framing system, we are filing the information
biochemically without putting it through the electronic brain/intelligence
system. It is therefore filed without analysis or patterning.
"The
only way that this information can be properly correlated and patterned by the
intelligence is for it to be brought back to the cerebral circuits for review.
"Now it is possil le," and here excitement crept into Lang*s voice, "that, in insisting on re-studying every subject to which
you were trained by molecular memory patterning, you forced the brain to call
up all relevant information for review, so that the new information you had
acquired could be patterned in with the old information already in the system.
"If that is true, then the 'alternating
current' effect that you spoke of feeling while you slept would be the electromagnetic
recall and refiling mechanism at work."
"If that's true, sir, then we can
retrain Paulsen and the others?" Stan's voice held a hope so great as to
make his voice shake. "We can . . . put the robots under their own
control?"
"Let me think how it would work."
Lang paused for a long minute, then began speaking
again in a distant voice. "It would be necessary for them to seek out, on
their own, information with which they had been inoculated. And then ... we must find a way to inoculate the
sleep-review system.
"I
think that, with your experience in mind, we shall be able to handle the
retraining of the molecularly trained students—once we remove the influence of
the basically hypnotic command-responses that have been driven deeply into
them; and if we can get them where we can work with them for . . . I'd say at
least several months." "That's a pretty big if, sir."
Lang
smiled. "That is an if we shall have to find the means to accomplish," he said softly.
"And perhaps, with your cooperation, we shall not find it
impossible."
VII
Stan walked into Weed's office with his head held deliberately
high, his shoulders squared, as though the trepidation that might be expected
of a younger man faced with the awe-inspiring might of the AT Corporation was
forcing a defiant reaction. He held the pose as Weed slowly rose from his seat
and extended his hand, which Stan ignored.
"Ah," said Weed, "I see that
you are unconvinced, though sensibly coming to see what AT has to offer."
Stan nodded curtly.
"Very sensible of you." The porcine-faced man before him nodded his
head solemnly. "Very sensible, though somewhat
insensitive to retain this obviously recalcitrant attitude. However ..."
Weed
reached into a drawer, pulled out a large signet ring, placed it deliberately
on his finger, and stood twisting it, watching Stan to be sure that the
younger man had fixed his attention upon it. Then, in a voice of command, he
said: "I, the trainer, speak. You obey."
St2n
felt the slight tug at his
senses that recognized the old command, discarded it instantly, and then forced
his eyes to take on a glassy stare, his shoulders to slump slightly, his head
to lose its defiant lift.
"Ah,"
said Weed, and the sound carried a world of satisfaction.
Stan stood immobile, waiting. This was going
to be quite tricky, he realized.
""Now, young man," Weed was
saying, "we will get to the business at hand. I made a mistake earlier in
not using the correct symbolism, but then I had two of you to controL
Hereafter," he went on, "you will respond either to the Earth command
I have just used, or to the phrase, Tn the name of the
Belt, I command you.' Do you understand?"
Stan nodded, slowly.
"Then
tell me," said Weed, "to what you must respond, and what response you
must make?"
"I
must respond either to the ring or to the belt, and I must respond with
complete obedience," Stan said, keeping his voice flat.
The
other looked at him sharply. Oh oh, thought
Stan. I should have said
to the phrases backed by the objects. Have I been caught out? But he maintained his glassy-eyed stare, and
it seemed to satisfy Weed.
"Now, young man," Weed said slowly,
"I must have your shares in Astro Technology."
Stan let his hand move as though toward a
pocket, then hesitate, as though a stronger force was working on him; then move
again to the pocket and hesitate again. Finally, he let his hand rest immobile
halfway between his pocket and its former position by his side.
"Oh?"
Weed puzzled for a moment. "I gather that the shares of stock you possess
hold an attraction nearly as strong as the command under which you respond to
me?" There was silence and he finally added, "Answer."
"Yes, sir. They do."
Weed sank back in his chair and waited a
moment. Finally he said, "Give the shares to me."
Stan
made the gestures of trying to obey again, again let his hand rest immobile in
a halfway gesture and stood silent.
"Why do you not give them to me?"
asked Weed. "I cannot, sir. They were given to me in trust." "Um." Then, "I could have them taken from you
forcibly."
"You
could, sir. That would break my conditioning. Then I could fight you." The
voice was still a monotone, and Stan waited, forcing his eyes to remain
unwavering. This was the crucial point. Would Weed believe that Stan could
produce this much independent reasoning, while still under control? Lang had
thought that he would. Weed was not a fighter; he was a weasler. He would have
to figure this one out, but if he figured it out in terms that were normal to him ...
"I
was told that you were independent. However," Weed said softly, let us
reason together." Stan kept himself from breathing a sigh of relief. The
pig was going to go along with it
"The shares—the trust—are, I gather,
from your uncle?" "Yes, sir."
"And
what would your uncle's wishes in the matter be?"
"I
am not sure, sir. It is a trust. It is a trust to see that his projects at AT
are finished in the way in which he intended them."
"Ah." Weed began to relax now. He'd
been given a bargaining point and bargaining was something in which he felt
secure.
"And
just what were his projects?" Weed asked, almost happily.
"That the Belt become and remain independent sir."
"It
is, and AT is seeing to it that it will remain independent. If that is all,
you may sign over your shares to me."
"That I could not do, sir. I was given them in trust I might be able to
give you proxies."
"Very well. I shall have them drawn up."
"No, sir."
"No?"
"No. The independence of the Belt was
not my uncle's only project. I must carry out his projects." "What,
then, were the others?"
"That AT remain
technologically advanced over Earth." Weed's voice lost some of its
aplomb. "That's being done, son," he said impatiently. "If you
want proof ..." "Your word
is sufficient sir."
"Then
you have my word. That is being done. Anything else?"
"That the colony on Jupiter's moon be
established."
"That is being . . ." Suddenly Weed
paused. This was too easily checked, and the boy had mentioned that the
"trust" under which he'd been placed was sufficient to break his
conditioning if it was forcibly thwarted.
The
name Dustin was one to conjure by in the Belt Weed knew. If he could get this
boy's wholehearted—at least apparently wholehearted—cooperation, half his troubles
with the Belters would be over. The Jupiter colony ship, the Phoenix, was a useless hulk; and perhaps this would be
a method by which he could get the youngster's open cooperation, as well as
getting him out of the way. It would take some cash and time to get the old
hulk actually out into the system with Stan aboard, but the time could be
utilized for propagandizing the Dustin reassocia-tion with AT; and the expense
would not be too great.
A
smile crept over his features. "Your uncle wanted you to see to it
personally that these projects were properly carried out?"
Stan nodded.
"And you recognize that the first two
have been implemented in the proper manner?" Again Stan nodded.
"Then
why don't I assign you as, say, a vice president of AT, to take the Phoenix and carry out the project of the Jupiter
moon?"
Stan kept his voice dead
with effort. "Yes, sir."
"Do you know what the Phoenix is?"
"She's a ramjet scoop ship, sir, that was readied to pirate air from Jupiter and to
ferry personnel to Io to prepare the colony site, sir."
"Very well. We will make you vice president in charge of the Jupiter project, and
commander of the Phoenix.
And for your part, you will
sign over those shares to me."
"No,
sir."
Weed's face fell and his voice showed the
short leash on which his obviously childish temper would be held.
"What now?" he
asked with restrained fury.
"The
Phoenix will have to be rehabilitated. I will have to
have a crew, and they must be trained. Then I can give you the proxies of which
I spoke."
Weed
sat back grimly. But it was a perfect plan; and obviously, except for this
evidently strong loyalty and compulsion, the boy was under control. Well, he
could have an "accident" any time that he went out of control, once
it was publicly established that he was enthusiastically with AT. The expense
would be justified. They would actually save money by buying the loyalty of the
Belters at the price of refurbishing the old hulk. And the boy might even get
the project far enough underway so that it became commercially feasible as a
corporate project, in the long run, after the coming war was over.
"Very
well," he said. "You will announce your loyalty to the AT Corporation
as now set up, and will proclaim it widely and frequently." He watched the
boy closely for reaction, but the glassy stare and the solemn nod were his only
answer. "We will refurbish the Phoenix. It
may take several months, and I shall demand your complete cooperation during
that time."
Stan
nodded again, and again in the flat voice said, "I will pick my crew
immediately, and set up quarters for training them. I will announce my loyalty
to AT as now set up. You will see to it that the Phoenix is properly refurbished, and I will inspect
it occasionally. When we are ready to take off, I will sign proxies for my
shares to cover the time in which I shall be absent."
Weed
nodded to himself. Not a bad bargain at that, he decided. And, that "accident"
could occur....
Tobey Olsen had started work at the Ace
Sector Shipyards of AT the day that the hunk of ungainly nickel-steel asteroid
that was to become the Phoenix
was towed into the yards.
He'd been cable jumper during the
laser-milling of the asteroid, when they put her into a free fall spin and
milled her just as though she were in a lathe. He'd listened to the jokes about
Trail Duster's Folly, and he'd laughed with the crews, but he'd believed in the
hulk, and it had been pure magic to him, seeing the rounded, wad-cutter bullet form take shape.
They couldn't do this on Earth, he had exulted to himself, watching the jutting crags and the
jagged irregularities cut smooth by the knifing of the huge laser beams as the
hulk rolled gently and smoothly in the "jaws" of its inernal lathe,
and the steel-strong, smooth squat form of the hulk that was to be a scoop ship
began to seem strangely akin to his own squat form. Squat but powerful. The
changing G's that his mother had met while she carried him had formed his own
body, smooth, blunt and powerful, as the lasers were forming the shining
irregular chunk of nickel steel before him. The squashing he had undergone had
not squandered the strength inherent in his structure, any more than the lasers
were squandering the strength of the asteroid they milled so delicately. We both came out better for the treatment, he told himself, and to him the Phoenix became the symbol of all that was powerful,
though misshapen by Earth standards, in the Belt.
By
the time the Phoenix
hull was formed and the
milling began that would make nests for 144 K-class ships at her back—the power
structure for the bullet—Tobey had been made foreman of a small crew, doing part of that nulling. The waffle-like structure that
would nest the K-classers was to him the epitome of beauty; a powerful nesting
that would give the Phoenix
a 144-ship boost into high
acceleration. The ships would cut loose just before they hit Jupiter's atmosphere,
would cut around, and would catch her on the far side, nesting in again to take
the scoop ship on to Io.
The
tanks that went into the otherwise solid steel of the nose area, and the plugs
that would open or close those tanks, were the work of other men; but the tanks
were small in diameter and deep in length, and the delicate job of milling the
interconnecting tubing from tank to tank was Tobey's; for by then he was one of
the most skilled of the laser-lathemen of the Belt. During the building of the
long corridors, cabins, common rooms and life support systems that filled the Phoenix backsides, Tobey was crewmaster.
It
was when the Phoenix
was almost finished that
Trail Duster had made him supervisor of the project It
had been a proud day; but it had been less than a week later that he and the
crew had been called off.
"The
Phoenix has got to wait," the red-headed
director of AT had told him. "Earth is interdicting the rest of the system
to Belters; we've got us a war to fight."
Instead, he'd been supervising the reworking
of every K-class that could be called in—the 144 scheduled to power the Phoenix, along with most of the privately owned ships
of the Belt. There'd been little time and great fervor, and he'd worked the
crews until they dropped, given them a bit
of rest, and started them back on the job again.
It
was when he said "ready" that Trevor had said "go," and the
Belter War of Independence had been underway.
Things had changed then, with Trevor Dustin
dead. Things had changed and stayed changed; and the old Phoenix had drifted there in the yards, fifteen miles
from the nearest ship, a sort of stationary anchor point that defined one back
comer of the yard—too big to move and too tied up in corporate policy to use; a vast, monumental junk pile, according to the new powers-that-be at the
Ace Shipyards of Astro Technology.
Now
Tobey stared from the orders in his hand to the man who had brought the orders
to him.
"You're Star Duster," he said
fiercely. "I heard you'd gone all-out for the new AT setup."
"Yep," said Stan.
"I reckoned you'd heard."
"And you're going to
refurbish the Phoenix?
Finish her?"
"Yep,"
said Stan. "I reckoned you might have heard that too."
"Okay." Tobey's voice was far from
friendly. "I'll get a foreman and a crew together. How
fast a job you
planning?" "A couple of months. Maybe three."
Tobey whistled. "WelL" he said
slowly, "she was nigh onto finished when we dropped her. We might could.
Where you going to get the K-classP One hundred forty-four of them?" he
asked, his voice soft, not dangerous, just soft
"Don't reckon well get more than
fourteen," Stan said, and waited.
"Humph," said Tobey, and stayed
silent Then, "You won't boost her very fast with
fourteen," he said cruelly. "Ill get on her,
Mr. Dustin." He turned to the door of his small office, opened it, then flung back over his shoulder, "You sure are trying
on big britches for an Earthie."
"I sure am trying on big britches for
the son of a Belter," Stan said softly.
Tobey stood with his hand on the door for a
long minute, then turned slowly back into the office and closed the door softly
behind him. He came to stand beside the slender, red-haired figure seated in
the chair beside his desk; his powerful hands hanging limp at his sides.
"I haven't given you a fair, have I?" he asked.
"No,"
said Stan. "I didn't really expect you to; but I was hoping." Then he
added, "I guess you're giving me a fair now. WHl you talk a minute?"
Tobey nodded and seated himself at his desk.
"Trail Duster," he said, "was . . . well, he was Mr. Belt. And I
guess I didn't like it when they called you Star Duster."
"That was the propaganda machine at
AT," said Stan. "I gotta let them keep it up, too."
"Gotta?"
"Gotta. If we want. . .
Tobey, let's start out by scotching some of the rumors you've heard. Not the
propaganda. You can scotch that or not as you like. It's a machine product and most buy it, but some don't I don't think you buy
it. But the rumors—that's something else again.
"All
right Rumor number one: The Phoenix is a
rich boy's play toy. That one's true. If I weren't rich, I certainly couldn't
have it Trevor made me rich by giving me his shares in AT. But the Phoenix is going to be used. Not just as a base here, or
for scooting around the Belt having fun, but to go out and do the job she was
intended to do. As soon as you can get her outfitted, well be taking off for
Jupiter; and well be taking a complement of science personnel with us. If you
find that you can go along with an idea like that, I'd be glad to have you
aboard."
"Not
with fourteen K-class for power, you're not going to do the job. Takes a
hundred forty-four-K-class to boost the Phoenix at
three-G, and you'll not be safe around Jupiter with less than a three-G drive.
Fourteen K-class would give you about a point-three-G drive."
"Couldn't
do it with that hunhP Yes, I know we couldn't However, we could run a scoop operation that way if we took our bloody time about it It's
velocity that counts a-round
Jupiter, not necessarily drive thrust. If we wanted to take, say, a hundred and
thirteen to slow her down, and take a chance that our aiming was just right, we
could do a dive with fourteen K-class." He watched
the other narrowly.
Tobey nodded, his
expression still hard. "You could," he said coldly. "That what
you're planning?" Then he went on without waiting for an answer:
"You're right that speed's the important thing. And you figured that time
just like out of an Earthie textbook. But you got to do better'n that There are a few other vectors to add in. Like original velocity,
old Jupe's orbital speed, and whether or not you want to come to a complete stop
relative to whatever you pick out to come to a complete stop relative to."
Stan
grinned to himself while he kept his face stem. The guy was hopping mad now,
but at least he was listening. "And if I planned to do it that way, then
that's how I'd figure," he said. "However, I was only pointing out
that it would be possible, so I made the figures more or less arbitrary. From
the pragmatic point of view I don't think
that's
a possible method, because I'm quite sure that
AT won't play ball. I figure on getting fourteen K-class all right—and that's
all I figure on. But I don't figure on keeping even those fourteen, because I
expect that the powers at AT plan to let those K's boost me into a Hohmann
orbit, and then they plan to yank them back. All of them.
On that schedule, if they figure a true Hohmann orbit, I should get to Jupiter
in about six years and, if I do, I could consider that I was a lucky son of a ... a Belter. One way or another, though, that would serve ATs purpose and get
me out of their hair quite effectively for a bit, wouldn't you think?"
Stan
eyed the other speculatively for a moment. "And now," he continued
coldly, "I have just put my life in your hands."
Tobey's face was slowly losing its hard lines
as he chewed the problem over before answering. Then, slowly, a grin crept out and his eyes began to twinkle. "Yep", he said,
"I guess you have at that—if the story reads the way you're telling it. If
AT is using the Phoenix
to get you out of their
hair, and you're on to it, then if I tell 'em you're on to it. .
Stan
grinned back at the square-set yard supervisor. "Now let's try rumor
number two," he said quietly. "The one that says I'm happy with AT.
That one's true too. I'm happier than hell with AT. I'm not very happy with how
it's being run, or where it's going under present management—but AT isn't
going that way much longer, nor will it be run by
those boobs much longer."
Tobey slid down into his desk chair and
leaned back happily. "Hell," he said, "I could get killed in an
accident just for listening to you. I hear you good, Star. What's the
plan?"
"Well." Stan picked up pencil and
pad. "Obviously the Phoenix has
got to have her own power system, independent of the K-class. And obviously it
will have to be installed without AT knowing she's got it."
Tobey raised one eyebrow. "She's a one
hundred twelve gigaton mass. Star. If you've got a
drive for her, you've got what they know to
be impossible You could install it in front of their
noses and they wouldn't believe it Don't know as I would either," he
added.
"Then take a look and see what you
think." Stan began sketching rapidly. "While you're refitting the Phoenix, could you whomp up a Tesla coil system like this"—he continued to sketch—"that
reacts with the first nuclear resonance level of a lithium hydrogen
reaction?" Swiftly he drew lines on a skeletalized outline of the Phoenix. "We could feed hydrogen in here . . .
and hthium through . . . here. The plasma reaction center will be contained by
an alternating field effect. And we sweep the reaction products out by
supplying the hydrogen under pressure. We should wind up with a tight little
fusion reactor which would put out plenty of power, I'd think. Plenty. Even for a gigaton
mass like the Phoenix."
Tobey
was staring at the sketch. "Ill be damned,"
he said, slowly. "Well, I'll be damned." He looked up at Stan with
respect. "Now why couldn't I have thought of that one? A
Tesla drive." Then his face clouded. "But look, a drive like
that will sure push the Phoenix
around the system. But,
Star, it sure will be lethal to anything
that gets in its wash And the yards—they'll be the
first things in that wash."
Stan
nodded. "That's why we've got to get those K-class aboard. We've got to hold this—well, you're
right; it's a Tesla drive—until we've got distance. Use the K's to boost us
away from the Belt."
"But, look, Star. With that drive, you
ought to be able to pick up your own fuel on the way, if you had
a magnetic pickup system. There's plenty of fuel in the solar wind to be
picked up with a proper focusing mechanism. You could use this drive as a
matchstick, say, to light a little hydrogen fusion candle at some distance
behind your tail, which would be held in place by the focusing coils that
collected the protons. It would make a real
good ram-jet."
Stan frowned, then
his face cleared and brightened. "By damn, you're right. And you could,
make a magnetic lens, set up external field coils like this. . . ." He
sketched rapidly, pulled more paper to him,
sketched some more, Tobey following his outline and sketching in details of
his own. Finally, "That"
he said, "should set
us up a magnetic effect that would trap all the hydrogen a drive could use, and funnel it into a nice little hydrogen reaction sun at about twenty-five miles off the
stern. Right?"
Tobey
went over the sketch again, drawing out the fields with his finger, seeming
awed even at the touch of the sketch. Then, "It works," he said.
"With that nickel-steel hull for a core, I expect we can get plenty of magnetic
field for that system. Why, you could drive anything
with that. Not just the Phoenix.
You could . . . you could
drive a small planet with that, and keep its sun right handy behind it. . .**
Stan
leaned back, staring at Tobey. "A planet," he said softly. "A small planet. With its own sun.
Tobey, that's the answer to the quasars. Some people said they might be planets
with their own drives, going space-hopping. And they were right. Tobey, we're
going to the stars. Not just the system. The stars."
"With
the Phoenix?" Tobey seemed nonplussed.
"Hell, no, not with the Phoenix. There's one little point in the Einstein
equations that makes it pretty damned important to take a good-sized ship load
when you go, you know; and to take along conditions under which a man can lead
a fairly normal life. With a drive designed like this, we could get to Galaxy
Center in twenty-one years. Take a year to build up to light speeds, then we
cross the galaxy in no time. But that's nothing, shipboard time. If you go out
one hundred thousand light-years in a ship and then come back . . . Well,
there's two hundred thousand years of history has happened between you and the
time you left. It's fun to think about. But without enough people along that
speak your language, and without a home base that you can tolerate to stay on,
it might get pretty damned upsetting.
"No, Tobey. This makes it possible, and
we're going to the stars. But not on the Phoenix. We were going to set up Io as a colony—shucks, well set her up as a
good-sized Galactic Scoutship. With what you might call a Tesla Tesseract
drive. Call it a Teslaract drive for short. . ."
Tobey
considered this quietly for a long time. Then his face creased back into a huge
grin. "A Teslaract drive—and a planet for a ship.
Yep. I buy that."
Then
he leaned forward. "Now," he said brusquely, "I reckon that
takes care of the long-range planning. But before we get to Jupiter to get to
Io to build our Scoutship, we need the Phoenix. And
we need to get her ready before AT gets hep or changes its mind. So we can .. ."
It was several hours before the two of them
drew back from pages of sketches, satisfied that the preliminary work for the
immediate project was well underway.
Leaning back in his chair,
Tobey nodded to himself, watched the satisfied expression on Stan's face.
"I'll start getting that crew together tonight," he said.
"Picked crew, Tobey. All of them information-tight. But just in
case there's a spy ..
."
"There won't be any
spies, Star."
Stan
looked at the other, realized he meant it, nodded.
"Okay. But, Tobey, take my word for one thing: no gold belts. Not on your
crew. Don't trust a gold belt unless I give you the word to trust
him. Okay?"
"I know about gold belts, Star. What I
don't know is why you're wearing a gold
belt"
Stan
looked down at it ruefully. "Yeah," he said. "I'm wearing one.
And it's going to be a proud thing to wear one of these days. I
think I've got some answers. But until I'm sure I'm right don't trust a gold belt I guess that's got to include me, too, doesn't it?"
They
both laughed, but Stan thought there was still a hollow sound behind that laugh.
VIII
Time. Time was the factor both at the Ace Yards
and in the rim area at Belt City where Lang and Stan were putting forty of ATs
top gold-belters through a system of study that was more strenuous than any of
them had ever thought he could attempt.
Weed had almost laughed when Stan brought him
the list of the gold-belters that he wanted prioritied to his project; had
spent long hours using the strongest command techniques he could dream up, but
Stan had been adamant, and the theory of the "stronger loyalty of the
trust I hold" overrode the other's objections.
"He's
getting his money's worth in loyalties from the Belters," Stan told Lang
grimly. "The propaganda's working. But I don't
think hell let the gold belts I've picked actually take off with the Phoenix. Not without a fight. I guess that gives us
the timing of whatever move he plans against us."
Retraining the gold-belters
was a touchy question in itself. That they were being questioned in their
off-hours by Weed and his gang, Stan was sure. Therefore they could not be
allowed to know what was being done, nor why; nor could the hypnotic commands
themselves be touched, for those would be specifically tested. They could not
be touched until after they were aboard the Phoenix. Not even in Paulsen.
What
they could do was reclaim the straight educational information the students
had been fed, put it under the students' own control. So the schooling this
time was thorough, but of an opposite form to what they'd had before. The
gold-belters were put through a system of personalized study as intense as it
could be made; and the testing that ended each day demanded of each facts from
the areas in which he'd been studying that day, brought out in questions which
were designed to draw on background facts that had been molecularly
transplanted into their memories during the old schooling. Over and over Lang
insisted, "Give us as much background information as possible with your
answers."
Only
in Sandra could the hypnotic commands be pulled and canceled; but the work with
Sandra was sufficient to make Stan and Lang feel sure they had the techniques
by which it could be done for all the students as soon as it was safe to do so.
Between
trying to resolve the technical details at the school and the technical details
at the yard, Stan felt as though he was putting himself through a course of
study more intense than he'd ever attempted in his own education.
Once
he carefully invited one of the gold-belters that he knew to be questioned by
Weed to go with him to the Phoenix. "I've
got to go over her stem to stem," he told the man. "Want to go
along?"
The
idea had worried Tobey, but it worked out as Stan had hoped. "He's got the
preconceived notion that we're K-class powered. He won't be looking for a
drive. He won't see it."
As it worked out, the man obviously looked at
the obvious, unobtrusively looked for the unobvious, and asked questions that
were intelligent enough, but that could be answered quite truthfully. By the
time they reached the nose, Stan quit worrying and could put his own attention
on an actual inspection for himself.
Time. The three months originally predicted passed,
and the work went on. Two more months passed, and although everybody was at
stretch, both jobs nearing completion, the work was not done. Then in the
middle of the sixth month, Stan got Tobey on a tight beam channel.
"Tobey,"
he said, choosing his words with care, "it's gotta be go. Now. Say, three days."
Tobey
chewed his hp. Then, "Yeah," he said. "I'm getting the signals
too. Okay, it's go. Three days. Make it seventy-two
hours from now."
"Right. And, Tobey, clear your crew from the B for baby crew area as of now.
And seal it off from the A and C areas, but leave the corridors from the locks
and officers' country open."
Tobey
raised one eyebrow quizzically, but all he said was "Right," and
without another word Stan signed off. Then he called Paulsen up to the
monitor's desk from which he was supervising the work going on in forty
cubicles.
"Is the Sassy Lassie fueled?" he asked, knowing that it was.
"Sure, boss,"
said Paulsen.
"Fine. So is my Erika
Three. I'm canceling
classes. Can you lift twenty-two out to Ace Yards?"
"When? Now? Give me a couple of hours to get food
aboard and duffel..."
"No food. No duffel. Right
now. The Phoenix
is just twelve hours from
here."
"Fourteen with a load like that"
"Fourteen
hours from here. Our gold belts have never seen her. Thought we'd just jaunt
over and take a look. You take Dr. Lang and half the class. Ill take Sandra and the other half."
"Just
jaunt over, take a look and jaunt back? Thought you'd wait until we were ready
to move aboard, then spend a couple of weeks aboard
familiarizing."
"Yeah." Stan leaned back in the monitor's seat
relaxed and smiling. "That's what I plan. But a looksee in the meantime ... I don't know. I figure they're getting
a little stale and a little impatient A jaunt out there would break the
monotony. Where you tied up?"
"Tube
one-eleven."
"Okay. Don't even tell them where we're
going. Let it be a surprise. Call them all in here, cancel all classes. I'll
order up enough strut-cars, and we'll take off."
Stan,
with his half of the class, reached the Phoenix first,
sent Sandra to the bridge, the gold-belters along to Common Room B.
Having
seen that his part of the class was safely in the common room, Stan stationed
himself by the nest assigned to the Sassy Lassie. As
soon as that ship was maglocked in, he made his way through the air locks.
"Turn off all circuits
now," he told Paulsen.
Paulsen
started to obey in reflex, then his hand hesitated on
the switch. "Hadn't I better leave her on standby?" he asked.
"Not
this time," said Stan in a voice of authority, and before Paulsen could
object further he'd pulled himself back out of the air lock into the corridor.
When
Katsu Lang and Paulsen, with the first of the gold-belters immediately behind
them, pulled through into the corridor, Stan was waiting.
"Dr.
Lang," he said, "you go on through to the bridge. Sandra's waiting
for you there. Paulsen, you and your men gather in Common Room B. It's right down that corridor," he said, pointing.
Then
he waited again until the last of the gold-belters was into the corridor before
turning and cluing the bulkhead behind them, activating bolts that would seal
it off until someone released them from the bridge. Following the men, now, to
the common room assigned them, he quickly counted to
be sure they were all there, then climbed on a table, gesturing for them to
gather around him.
"We
are leaving," he told them firmly, "almost immediately." There
was an instant clamor, which he silenced with a raised hand. "We will have
two weeks on board to become familiar with how this ship works. By the time we
reach Jupiter orbit, we will either know that we have around us a good sound
ship and a good working crew, or that we should turn back. I have no intention
of turning back," he added. Then, "If we win, we will be opening a
colonly about the size of Earth's moon, and our next step will be the stars. If
we lose—well, that won't mean much to anybody but us.
"I brought you aboard by surprise,"
he said into a quiet that was the first reaction to shock, "because we
have enemies. Those enemies will try to stop us. You are aboard and will stay
aboard. I will talk to you again before we go under thrust."
With
that he jumped down from the table and made his way to the bulkhead toward
officers' country. He had crossed the bulkhead and secured it behind him before
anyone had recovered sufficiently to try to stop him.
Now they were locked in. The best brains of
AT kidnapped right out from under Weed's nose and secured in a nickel-steel
prison in space.
Stan reached the bridge to find Tobey and two
of his crew waiting with Sandra and Katsu Lang.
"Have you got two men who can handle a
K-class?" Stan asked Tobey without preliminary.
"Any one of us can,
Star," Tobey answered.
"Okay.
Put them on the Erika
and the Sassy Lassie. We've got to use them to swing the Phoenix so she's at right angles to the yard. We may
have to take off on own drive power, and I don't want to crisp the docks."
Tobey looked at him quizzically.
"I just got word that our fourteen K-class are on their way," he
said. "I gather ETA about eight hours."
"In that case, let's get the Phoenix swung just as fast as we can. It may take a
few hours to position her right, and I want her swung and the men onboard
before those K's arrive."
"You
really think Weed will make a move to take over the ship instead of letting us
take off?" Lang asked.
Stan
looked at the Mentor in surprise. "Of course.
He's got to. He's not planning to lose his forty top goldiesl He'd do it even
to keep from losing Tobey's crew, but it hasn't occurred to him they're
vulnerable.
"No," Stan went on, "he's got
to make his move now. We took him by surprise, loading the belters aboard, and
he's off balance, but hell move. I expect those fourteen K's are loaded to the
gills with soldiers, and we'll be in the middle of a first-class war in about
eight hours.
"But meantime, Dr. Lang, you and Sandra
can start setting up Common Room A for the de-hypnosis
techniques. You can't start the actual work until after the war, but, assuming
we win, I can free up a few men then to help you. You can get the place ready
now, and you'll have two weeks on the way to Jupiter to do the job."
When
the fourteen K-class ships showed, flying a tight pattern, it was Tobey himself
who talked them into the nests, assigning each one its berth and berthing time,
yak-king informally but with authority to the pilots, screening each one of
them as he gave them instructions, and getting each one into a pattern of
communication as he worked.
As
the third ship magnalocked in, he switched his screen off and spoke to Stan,
who was carefully out of range of the video.
"The pilots are alone in the control
cabins," he said, "but I rather think you're right that there are
other men aboard. Probably fifteen to twenty per ship."
Stan grinned crookedly.
"It's a fair bet there are," he said.
"And,
Star . . . these men are Earthies. There's not a Belter pilot aboard."
"Oh?" Stan
paused. "You sure?"
"Hell no, I'm not sure," Tobey
said. "But I'd lay odds on it."
Stan nodded. Then said,
"If you can spot the command ship, bring it in last."
"I
think I've got it spotted, and it even seems to be maneuvering to be last in.
Okay."
Paulsen switched the screen back on and the
process of talking the ships in continued. As the last ship was berthed there
was a long pause, then Tobey's screen lighted to show the pilot of the final
ship.
"Control officer," the man said
grimly, "the locks aren't opening. What is the problem?"
Tobey raised his head to the screen as though
from concentrated effort. "I don't know," he- said. "I was just
trying to find out. I seem to be having some trouble with the magnalock
system."
"Well, get it fixed
and let us out," the voice said sternly.
Tobey
left the screen on while he busied himself over the control console, biting on
his lips in a gesture of vexation. Then he turned again to the screen.
"Have your pilots shut down all circuits
for a minute," he said. "I'm going to send a power surge through the
magnalock system to see if I can free it, but it might be enough to blow a weak
circuit in a ship, and it'd be better if they were off."
"Who are vnn?" the man on the screen dem^ndM fiercely.
Tobey looked at him in surprise. "Tobev
Olsen." he said finally. "Supervisor of the Ace
Yards. Who are you?"
"Is Dustin
aboard?" the man asked.
Tobey
raised one eyebrow as though considering whether to obiect to the brusque
treatment, then shrugged his shoulders. "I believe Mr. Dustin is with h's
crew a"^ scientific personnel. They are"—his voice held a verv light
sarcasm—"familiarizing themselves with the shin.
If it will make you happier, I can have him called to the bridge."
"No.
No, leave him to his toys. Very well. I'll have my men
come off standby for a minute."
"Fine."
said Tobey. "I'll give it a shot.
If that doesn't work. 111 have to send a man down to open the locks man-uallv."
There was a pause while the pilot on the
screen spoke into an intercom system. Then, "Very well.
Olsen. All ships except this one have shut down, and I'm doing so now."
There was a click and the screen went blank.
Instantly
Tobev threw the switch that would send a surge of one hundred thousand gauss
through each of the magna-locks to which the ships were joined—enough locking
energy to hold the ships against a ten-G thrust; and enough stray magnetism to
prevent the operation of anv radio or electric motor on board. The fourteen K*s
were locked on, silenced, frozen in place, and helpless.
Then
Tobey turned to Stan. "Your birds are secure. Star," he said.
"Sure you don't want to just leave them aboard their ships? For a little,
anyhow, until they learn who's boss?"
"No," said Stan. "Best we
continue the operating procedure and get them the hejl out of our wav."
Talong his seat at his own console, he activated a screen in the corridor
outisde the locks. Tobey's twenty men were standing there, fully armed and at
the ready.
Tobey had already activated his own screen
and was speaking to his men. "Looks like what we've got aboard those ships
is about twenty Earthie soldiers per," he said. "Think you can handle
'em?"
He was greeted with a roar of pleasure.
"Okay," he said. "Start with
Lock Two. And boys," he added, "leave lock one-forty-four until last That one's got the command personnel aboard."
Stan
watched, forcing back the tension that threatened to keep him from a clear
head, as Tobey's crew began hand-manipulating the inner lock. This one they
opened all the way, then five of them disappeared within. The outer lock would
be opened only far enough for one man to squeeze through, according to plan, and ...
He
could hear shouts and mumblings and a long time passed, but finally one man
stumbled out of the lock into the arms of the waiting crew, followed a minute
later by a small arsenal of personal weapons. The man was frisked again in the
corridors, then shoved toward C section by one of
Tobey's men, who held a gun to his back. Watching the man closely, Stan
realized that Tobey had been right: these men were Earthies. He wasn't sure
just what small clues gave the man away, but the Earthie background showed
plainly.
Another followed, and
another. It was a slow process.
When fifteen had come through, one of the
crewmen came out and called toward the screen: "They say that's all of
them."
"Don't believe it," Tobey answered.
"Tell the rest they've got just three minutes to come out, then we're going to sleep-gas their ship and seal it They'll
be there for at least two weeks, if they want to spend that long in
suits."
There
was a pause, and Tobey began timing it At the end of
the three minutes he called again: "Come on out, boys. Then sleep-gas that
one and seal it."
Emptying
the second ship was a similar task, but it seemed to go faster. Tobey's crew
was getting familiar with the operation. There were sixteen out this time
before word came that that was alL
This time Tobey changed his command.
"Take the last man out of that ship, send him
into the other to see that we meant what we said. Then send him back for any
more men that may be in his ship."
The
last man out disarmed and disheveled from a thorough search for small arms,
was brought up, given a low pressure suit and a diox shot and the lock on the
first was unsealed. Five crewmen disappeared into the lock with him. Several
minutes passed, then the Earthie came running from the
lock, holding his arm, followed shortly by the five crewmen. One addressed the
screen while the others sealed the lock.
"They
thought he was one of us," Tobey was told succinctly. "They shot at
him."
"Good."
Tobey's voice was grim. "Now send that man back into his own ship, and let
him tell them the story."
Shortly,
from the second lock, men began appearing again, until the ship had disgorged
twenty. When word came that that was all, Tobey instructed his men to use the
wounded man as a shield, and go in to search the ship. It was
all clear.
It took hours, but the crews came out, until
they reached the final ship.
"Before you tackle that one," Tobey
instructed, lines of strain showing around his grim mouth, "have one of
the men from the first crew write a note. Get it shoved through the lock to the
men in the first ship. See if they want to take advantage of a final offer, or
if they prefer to stay where they are at our convenience, which will be a long
time coming."
This time the remaining five men capitulated,
and the only ship still unsealed was that one nested in 144.
"Now," said Tobey, "bring out
the wounded man from that second ship. He's had first aid? Good. Send him
through, alone, into the command ship, and have him explain the situation. If
they want to capitulate, they can come out the way the others have—one at a time. If not, they stay where they are, and we sleep-gas the ship."
The man went in and the minutes passed. It
seemed to Stan that time stood still. The inner lock on the 144 stood open;
five of Tobey's crew were inside the lock. The outer
lock was, presumably open enough to admit one man.
Finally
the wounded man came out, was searched and sent on to Area C. Stan found
himself holding his breath until a second man came out and the former process
was on again.
The twentieth man out this time was in full
Earth uniform, and Stan caught his breath as the men of Tobey's crew turned him
this way and that, searching him as thoroughly as the others but, Stan noted,
with a care that showed a deference for his insignia.
It was the general, Stan realized. The general that he had met once before, in Professor Mallard's
office in the school on Earth.
"Bring the general to the bridge,"
he heard himself saying.
IX
The general was seated on the far side of the desk from
Stan; Tobey's man, JarL was lounging in the doorway with a stun gun, where he
could keep a close eye on him. Tobey himself was seated against the wall.
If
the general noticed the guard he gave no indication; he merely began to raise
the hand that held a signet ring, to place it ^n the desk where Stan could see
it. Stan let his own eyes follow it. Then, in a voice of authority, the general
spoke: "I, the trainer, speak. You obey."
From
the comer of his eye Stan saw Tobey jerk forward, Jarl draw himself up, but he
gestured to them both.
"Never
mind," he said. "It doesn't work on me." Then, to the general:
"Remember? I'm the robot who refused to robe."
The
general smiled, twisting the ring on his finger. "It always did seem a
little too pat to me, Dustin. Very well. For the
present at least, it seems to be your move." He looked up, the smile
gently twisting his lips.
Stan
found himself admiring the man. A professional to the
fingertips. "What do you mean, 'for the present at least'?" he
asked.
The
general relaxed into his seat, but the motion in no way decreased the basic
military exactness of his bearing. "I could, of course," he said
genially, "stand on my right to give my name, rank and serial number and
to refuse other information. But that seems hardly justified in"—he stared
slowly around him, at Tobey, at the small cabin—"congenial circumstances.
Instead I should prefer simply to tell you that I am authorized to give you
clearance to Jupiter to continue your mission."
Stan nodded to himself. "That's why you
brought two hundred and eighty men to board me—fully aimed?" he asked.
"Oh, we didn't plan to let you take the
go]''-belters along. But I think we might have spared you fourteen pilots to
K-boost you to orbit. Then you and Dr. Lang and the young lady could have remained aboard. Paulsen was to be allowed to
remain as well."
"Thanks," said
Stan. "Kindly of you, I suppose."
"You'd have had the Sassy Lassie. You could possibly have made something of the
trip."
Stan laughed. The general
looked at him thoudhtfnlly.
"I think, however, that under present ciT"rnct',nces
. . .*" He allowed his voice to drop, then continued. "Since things
have taken a different turn from that which we, ah, expected, I have
sufficient authority to allow you to proceed with your gold-belters, and to
keep the K's, once you have put my men"—he paused, and sketched a glance
at Tobey, over his shoulder at the guard—"and Olsen's, down at the
docks."
Stan smiled gently. "General," he
said, "I must admit that you have gained my sincere admiration. It takes
real guts, sir, to sit here in my office, my prisoner, and try to make terms
that will set you safely back in the Belt. Earthies in the Belt," he said
softly. "Earthie soldiers in the Belt You took off from Belt City,"
he added.
The
general looked at him speculatively. "a small garrison," he said nonchalandy.
"Available. So we used them."
"We?"
The
general shrugged. Stan's face grew hard. "Weed," he said at last.
"He took over AT so easily. I should have guessed. A
tool of Earth?" The general's face remained bland, and Stan went
on, "And he is the one who has been beating the drums for war with Earth—a
war that the Belt was scheduled to lose. A fleet war that
would be backed up by a fifth column in the Belt."
He waited, but the general
remained silent.
"A small garrison, you say. Then you'd
have been depending on a certain number of gold-belters in key points of
control . . . hmm. I did
upset your plans by
kidnapping this particular forty, didn't I?"
He stared at the general, who had fixed his
attention on the ceiling.
"Well," said Stan.
"Well." Then he leaned forward and keyed the intercom to the bridge.
When the screen lighted, he said, "Get the Belt News Service on the wire
and ask where Earth Fleet is currently maneuvering." Then he leaned back
and waited. The general's face had gone from red to white and was now coloring
again.
It
was several minutes before the word came through. "Last reports, sir, believed
correct to about twenty-four hours ago: Earth in Gemini Sector and the fleet is
reported maneuvering Beltward of Earth."
Stan
switched off and turned to Tobey. "That puts Earth Fleet a bit over two
weeks from Belt City at top acceleration. We should have at least that long
before Weed is convinced that the general and his forces are irretrievably
gone. He'll think that the general is using the K's to boost us to a Hohmann
orbit as planned before coming back. It won't occur to him that we cduld knock
out a force of two hundred and eighty Earth soldiers, especially when he thinks
our goldies are under hypnotic control of the general, and that you're just
aboard, Tobey.
"So
I'd think we have at least two weeks before Weed can be convinced and can convince
Earth that their schedule is shot to pieces, their cover is blown, and that
they'd better scrap their timetable and attack on a crash priority basis; plus
two weeks to get to the Belt. That gives us, say, twenty-eight days, phis or
minus a few to go to Jupiter, and get back to intercept Earth Fleet."
Suddenly
the general's voice rose to a bellow: "Surely you don't think
this"—his voice choked off and his arm waved around to indicate the
ship—"this ramscoop
hunk could take on Earth
Fleet? What do you think you are, a one-ship Goliath protecting the entire Belt
orbit with a nickel-steel canister that doesn't even mount a cannon?"
Instead of answering, Stan turned to the
guard in the doorway. "Jarl," he said, "quarter the general in
one of the officer's suites under constant guard, one outside the suite, one inside with him. Take even the door to the fresher down.
He is not to be by himself for one rninute. It'll tie up some men," he
added, "but I think it's a good idea."
As
the guard left with the general, Stan turned to the plug-heavy figure in the
chair by the wall. 'Tobey," he said, "well get
going as fast as you can assign your men to jobs. The Phoenix is a ramscoop . . . uh, canister," he
added grimly, "and it's time she started cannoning."
Tobey
nodded, grinning. "It's a picked crew, Star. They can handle."
The banded face of Jupiter was glaring in the
control cabin screen, its fluorescence like a varicolored neon sign, with not
one whit of surface detail visible from whatever might he below the neon glow
of the upper atmosphere.
The
hoot that sounded action stations went out over the intercom, dulled to a
distant murmur in the control cabin.
"Main
drives off. Relative velocity to be monitored continuously.
Inertial guidance ..."
The
ship was now on its own. Without drive, it was falling
like a rock toward the huge planet below, aimed nearly directly for the
equatorial belt and just toward the edge of the disk in a plotted flight that
would take it around the curve to the east The chunk of nickel-steel that was
the Phoenix would penetrate the atmosphere with a
fantastic velocity, until the craft was gradually slowed in the thick friction
of the hydrogen gas.
The G-needle climbed and climbed, and the
droning voice that had been counting the seconds and the relative velocity had
now switched over to reading G's.
Without
moving his attention a hair's breadth from the control panel before him, Stan
ordered, "Close the valves and activate the repulsion field."
"Aye,
sir."
In the nose of the ship the huge tank plug
was snapped into place by a magnetic field; and the gases forced through the
radiator surface of the first compression tank began trickling out as liquids
into the subsidiary tanks.
Then,
almost as suddenly as it had come, the G-force dropped, the control room swung
slowly on its gimbals to take up a new position oriented toward the planet they
had passed. The lightest of tidal forces, less than a tenth of a G, was still
tugging them back; but they were clear of the atmosphere and back in space.
Another
G-force appeared as the drive tubes went into action and the control cabin
swung once again on its gimbals, oriented now stem-drive in the normal manner
of drive acceleration.
Stan smiled grimly. "And now we have a
tight ship with a proved crew and full tanks of compressed liquid gas. We can
go hunting."
X
Stan could only guess at Earth Fleet's course. It was
purely a guess, and like a game of chess, the number of other moves that Earth
Fleet might make formed an astronomical figure. Yet, like chess, those moves
were limited to the area of the board, as long as the goal was Belt City and a
war to destroy the independence of the Belt.
Arid it had to be Belt City, for the Belt
would be won or lost there; and Belt City was where the Earth garrison of
troops would be hidden.
Yet
searching space by guesswork to locate the blinkers that would identify a fleet
in motion was playing tag blindfolded in the dark, Stan knew. The search would
have to be narrowed to a comparatively minute sector for there to be any hope
of success.
When he took the problem to Tobey, the answer
was immediate.
"Hell," said Tobey, "me and
the crew, we know almost every skipper in the Belt . . . and Belt ships are all
over the place. Til send out word we want to know where Earth Fleet is. Well
get it."
"But Tobey! The fleet will be on radio silence and deep
secret maneuvers."
"Won't
make a nevermind," Tobey snorted. "There's no fleet made that can
keep its whereabouts secret if you've got enough eyes watching from enough
places."
But
as the Phoenix sped on its swift flight sunward, the queries
that sped ahead of it brought no satisfactory results. Rumors came back by the
dozen; rumors that placed Earth Fleet all over the system. But
no hard facts. Nothing on which to focus a camera.
Yet as the reports came in, the cameras went
into action; and each sector named was filmed. After the twentieth report,
Stan gave up sitting personally and looking at the blinking pattern of stars.
Blinkers they spotted time after time, but blinkers that were normal Belt
debris, either asteroids or ships, but no fleet.
And
velocity and vectors, the basic factors of space flight, were drawing the
deadline closer for any course change that would intersect—if the fleet was
actually readying to attack Belt City.
Stan
held himself calm on the bridge, but off duty he paced his office. Suppose
Earth Fleet was refusing to react to the factors that dictated immediate action? he
asked himself. No. They had to react now, or sacrifice the buildup of their
garrison in Belt City. They had to react before the Phoenix returned to alert the Belt to the entire plot.
They had to react. And the only sensible reaction was
immediate attack. . . .
Then
came an almost laconic message from a Belt prospector:
"Bogies on my screen. Too far to be more than bogies.
Could be a whish of asteroids out of orbit. But could be your fleet." The message was addressed to
Tobey, who brought it instantly to Stan.
"Reckon that's them,
Star?"
Stan stared at the message.
"Who's your man, Tobey?"
"Prospector. A good one. He
doesn't spook easy. When he says bogies, there are bogies. When he says they
could be our fleet, he means there are enough of them and the characteristics
are there. But he has no info on why they should be there; and they could be
something else. So he's not about to commit himself."
"You think it's
them?"
Tobey
grinned. "I know damned well," he said. "Jim knows asteroids
don't go out of orbit."
Hope surged through Stan as he and Tobey set
up the computer for a view of the prospector's sector. As Tobey manipulated the
computer, Stan manipulated the camera, swung it onto the target area and
matched the stars on the videoscreen as projected by the camera against the
stars on the videoscreen projected by the computer.
Blink, blink. For a few moments they were all
blinking. And then with the fine controls of the
camera, they phased gradually in until the stars bumed steady and clear.
There were many blinkers left after the
background steadied out, and then those began to disappear as the computer
picked off and identified the normal orbits of asteroids, leaving only the
non-standard orbits of ships.
Many
of the ones that were left, Stan could disregard. They were obviously K-class,
identifiable as much by their winking patterns as by their size. But there was
one group left, unidentified; and these he magnified up to the very limits of
the camera's ability, and then again up to the very limits of the ability of
the electron screen to magnify the camera's image. The ghosdy shapes were still
mere pinpoints, but it was a group of at least twenty traveling in unison, and
that, for Stan, was enough information.
For the next two hours, the Phoenix shifted back and forth across a line drawn
from itself to the moving targets. The range was
found, and the velocity; and it was very definite that its velocity would bring
Earth Fleet to Belt City in fourteen days.
"We can just make it," Stan said,
"with maybe two days to spare."
"Now
hear this. Now hear this. All hands secure for high-G. Fifteen minutes."
Stan's eyes roved across the bridge as
Paulsen's voice continued over the all-channel intercom, and his chin set
slowly. He would have preferred to have Paulsen at the control officer's
console. But not yet, he told himself. The hypnosis had been yanked; he was
sure of it, and Lang had reassured him. Yet, not until there is absolute certainty,
he told himself.
The other gold-belters thought themselves
free now of confinement; but he had given orders to Jarl that once they had
secured for high-G the bulkheads were to be secured without their knowledge,
and the action reported to him.
"Area
B secured, sir." It was Jarl's voice on his personal intercom.
"Thank you. Best you secure yourself for
high-G now," he answered. Then to Paulsen, "Turn on screens and speakers
throughout the ship so that every man, prisoner or crew, can watch and hear the
action."
"Yes, sir," said
Paulsen.
The minutes passed slowly, and the Phoenix hung directly in the course of the oncoming
Earth Fleet with an orbital velocity that matched her fairly well to the Belt,
though she was inside it.
Stan
now addressed his first mate: "Mr. Barnes. Are they closing
satisfactorily?"
"Yes, sir. They were all bunched up, but now they're beginning to spread out as
though they plan to pass us in a ring partem."
"Are they still decelerating?"
"No, sir. When they smoothed out into a ring, they began to let 'em drift."
"And we're still nose-on?" "Yes, sir."
"Very well, Mr. Barnes. Operate the external proton beams to bring
us up to ten KV negative charge." That would make
the Phoenix negative in respect to Earth Fleet. Any
metallic vapor discharged would be attracted to the fleet. Turning to the
navigator's console where Tobey sat, relaxed, Stan saw him smiling, a grim
smile with a fierceness tugging at the comers of his mouth, but a smile. Stan
nodded quietly to himself and put his full attention on the screen before him.
"Laser range?"
"Five minutes to laser." The voice
became taut as Earth Fleet seemed to leap toward them.
"Count down to their range of firing,
Mr. Barnes."
"Estimated countdown, sir, is four
minutes; three; two; one. In seconds . . . thirty. Twenty. Ten. Nine,
eight seven six. ..."
The countdown passed zero and went to minus
one, then minus two. . . .
There was a swirling glare that covered the
forward viewscreens, but Barnes held the controls steady and Stan watched the
second hand of the chronometer. Three seconds. Then a slight
jar.
"Damage control, sir. They all bracketed the same center of the
bow and penetrated number one tank. We've lost approximately fifteen hundred
cubic feet of hull from that area, and tank pressure is falling over toward
zero."
On
the screen the cloud of roiling metallic vapor that had been solid nickel-steel
was drifting away from the Phoenix, racing
ahead of them. Then, at first mistily and then more solidly, Earth's fleet
appeared, pulling through the cloud of vapor, but scattering wildly as though
they had attempted to miss its outer edges.
But
there had been no misses. Each ship emerged from the cloud as shiny as a
newborn nickel. The viewscreen showed no damage, only a bright, shiny
mirror-surface which had been plated on the normal dull-white of the Earth
ships by the metal vapor in vacuum.
"Mr.
Bames. Put us on a braking course and maneuver as necessary to match velocities
with the Earth Fleet. Set the course to maintain this distance."
"No
ladar signals, sir." Paulsen's voice was strained as he handled the
console above his couch.
On
the screen, the circle of ships was drifting past them, and then seemed to
rotate as Bames brought the Phoenix around
in a match-course maneuver.
Stan
flipped his microphone onto another channel. "K-class
pilots. Get your ships warmed up. You will be dropped as soon as we
match orbits with Earth Fleet, and you will each guard a section of that fleet.
Take no action unless an attempt is made to remove the mirror plating on those
ships. If such an attempt is made, sting 'em till they blow."
"They don't seem to be operating very
well, Star, those Earthies." Even Tobey's heavy-muscled throat seemed to
be having trouble with the now constant four-G maneuvering thrust.
"Few
ships operate well with all viewscreens, navigation equipment, and aiming
devices out of service," Stan answered in what he had intended to be a dry
tone, but what came out as a croak.
"That was the damnedest suckering move
anybody ever pulled on them, Star." There was a satisfied note in the
croaking voice. "I wouldn't be surprised if it didn't even seal their air
locks."
"How about common old radio, Boss?" Paulsen asked. "Does it bother that,
too?"
"It'll have plated out over the antenna
insulators too, and grounded them to the ships." Stan frowned in concentration.
"They do have a system which uses the whole ship as a half-wave dipole.
They might still be able to get through on that. Mr. Paulsen, see if you can
pick up Earth Fleet on the four-ninety to four-ninety-five kilohertz
band."
Paulsen began twiddling the dials and
snapping over switches, and after a few moments was
rewarded with a thin, scratchy voice. ". . . peat.
S.O.S. Flagship Aurora. We have been hit by a mirror
bomb. Our circuits are . . ." The voice scratched and grew fainter, then
came in more strongly. ". . . screens blank. We
cannot maneuver...."
"Very
well, Mr. Paulsen. Break in on them."
"Phoenix to
Earth Fleet. Phoenix to Earth Fleet." Paulsen's voice had reassumed the crisp
duty-tone of the bridge.
There
was silence elsewhere as Paulsen's voice intoned the call, a little louder,
than necessary, Stan realized, for the benefit of the intercom. Listen good, you guys aft, he
thought. Listen
real good, all of
you.
Abruptly
the speaker on Paulsen's console came to life. It was a weak life, and the
voice was scratchy. "Commodore Rimes to Phoenix. We read you." Stan pulled a microphone to him, nodded to Pauslen to
switch the call over. Then said, "Commodore Rimes, this
is Star Dustin, Belt Commander. You are now blinded, and therefore I
must warn you: you and your ships are safe only as long as you make no attempt
whatsoever to send men onto the surface of any ship. Any ship on which figures
appear will be blasted out of space. Otherwise, you will not be harmed."
"Commander
Dustin, I hear you. We will give you our answer shortly." The voice was
stronger now.
Stan grinned to himself. "Commodore
Rimes," he said, "while you are considering your answer, you might
consider the fact that it is within my power to hit you with a megaroentgen second blast from my drive tubes
that would kill everything on board and sterilize your entire fleet. I do not
plan to do so."
There was a pause before the answer came
back: "Commander Dustin, I have no choice but to take you at your word
when you say that you will not sterilize
this fleet." "There would be no point to senseless slaughter,
sir." "Then I accept your terms. We will send no men to the surface
until further notice. However, Earth cannot be too long patient with piratical
actions. I hope, Commander Dustin, that you will come to the Aurora immediately to discuss the situation."
"Commander Rimes," Stan said
grimly, "Earth Fleet was on its way to take over the Belt when we
intercepted. The Belt has no quarrel with Earth. It is Earth that is quarreling
with the Belt. We will discuss the matter at our convenience, and will at that
time ferry you over here. In the meantime you will be safe only as long as you keep your men inboard."
After
he had switched off, Stan leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand wearily
over his eyes. Then he turned to Tobey. "Your K-pilots are not to harm any
ship unless and until a man comes to the surface to repair damage. We don't
want anybody taking out their desires for personal retribution."
Tobey nodded,
his eyes on Stan.
"And, Tobey. Belt City will have to take care of Weed and whatever Earthie garrison
he has stashed there. Can you alert them?"
"We'll take care of the cleanup Job,
Star," said Tobey quietly. "With Earth Fleet out of the way, there
won't be too much of a problem in that They'll be
knocked out as soon as the boys on Belt City find out they're there. But, Star ... I don't guarantee there won't be what
you call personal retribution in that operation."
The
general, Commander Rimes, Stan and Tobey sat around the small desk in Stan's
office. Paulsen, Sandra and Dr. Lang sat silent against the walls.
The
general, Stan noted, had lost none of his mihtary bearing, and Stan found
himself irrelevantly pleased with the fact. There's a dignify
about professional military men, he told himself hopefully, and perhaps some common sense. I'd hate to be dealing with Weed or
Mallard, he
thought
Then
he turned to Commander Rimes and silently retracted the idea. Rimes was quite a different breed of cat, even though
probably a professional. His bearing was arrogant rather than military; and he
was rarrying it to the point of insolence. Frustration, Stan decided; and guilt
Both show.
"You understand what has happened,
gentlemen?" he asked, opening the conference.
It
was the general who answered. "No," he said. "Not really. We
know that you have knocked out a small army and then Earth Fleet I am not
trained as a physicist Mr. Dustin; but I expect that the military will do well
in the future to put physicists into prominent posts. It has been
—well,
technological thinking, I suppose, by which the Belters have caught us by
surprise each tune."
Stan
smiled and shook his head. "You don't need physicists, General. You need
individualists. Mallard and Weed were trying to give you robots; and that was
the worst sabotage anyone could have perpetrated upon you. It takes a man who
has had to fight and win against his own hostile environment to be able to
fight and win against the far less serious opposition of an army or a space
fleet."
Commander Rimes spoke up brusquely.
"Whatever we may need, Commander Dustin, you may be sure we will put our
attention to it. Our question is, simply, what do you hope to accomplish now?
With us?".
Stan
looked him over carefully. "I hope," he said, "to accomplish
bloodless cease-fire and surrender terms in which Earth admits the Belt's
sovereignty and withdraws all future claim to control
of the solar system."
The
commander snorted. "You have, sir, in a rather simple technological
maneuver, blinded Earth Fleet and now hold it helpless. You fooled me, Dustin.
You won't fool us twice, of course. You have also, I gather, captured and now
hold a small force of Earth soldiers, captured no doubt by some other
unexpected system. But Earth herself is neither stupid nor helpless; nor do I
think you can dictate surrender terms to her."
Stan
raised one eyebrow, looking at the commander quizzically. "Earth is not
helpless? Well, no. Earth is just scared," he said quietly. As the
commander started an angry rejoinder, he continued, "Earth has been
afraid of space since the first Sputnik back in the mid-Twentieth Century.
Earth's establishment has used every weapon at its command, from the top
secret label to murder and sabotage, to keep man out of
space . . . because Earth
is afraid of spacemen. And rightly so.
"But, gentlemen, we are spacemen. And Earth may fear us
all she likes; she can no longer control us. The Belt will accept Mother Earth
as an equal, but Belters will be no man's servants. Neither, as free men, do we
wish to force Earth to her knees, although we are quite capable of doing
so."
"Force Earth to her knees? Why, you pipsqueak commander of a one-ship
armada, Earth does and must control the solar system. She—"
From
trie comer of his eye Stan saw Paulsen stiffen, saw Tobey half rise from his
seat
Quicker
than either of the other two, he leaned forward and his voice overrode the
commander's, his eyes fiercely boring into the—yes, frightened eyes, he
realized—before him.
"You
don't control any animal but a tame one, mister," he said, and his voice
held the grimness of space. "And take this as a dictum: the men of the
Belt are not tame-not to you, not to anybody. You don't tame space with tame
men, mister.
"The
Belt," he added slowly, "the Belt will not now, nor ever again, accept as much as a single gesture of domination from the
tame men of Earth. And we have the means to back up our refusal."
Commander
Rimes opened his mouth to answer angrily, but the general silenced him with a
gesture, and it was the general who spoke quietly to Stan. "You have the
means?"
Stan turned with relief to the professional
calm of the other. Slowly he nodded. "We have the means," he said;
and then he added bleakly, "It is a brutal means. We will not use it
unless we are forced to do so. But neither will we let the weaklings of Earth
use our ethical sense to enslave us. If Earth forces the question, we will not
hesitate to be brutal."
Stan paused a minute, noting that the
commander was holding himself in check only by obvious effort, then turned back to the general. "You've seen the Phoenix dive through atmosphere? On
Jupiter, where the escape velocity is much higher than that of Earth?"
The general nodded, and Stan went on.
"If this ship was taken to about five thousand feet and orbited Earth,
only once, at say the forty-five degree parallel, do you know what would
happen?"
The
general answered slowly: "There would be a rather major disaster from
shock wave, I assume; and the forty-five degree parallel would, of course, take
you across the major population and governmental areas...."
"Yes," said Stan. "Shock wave. But not just major shock wave damage,
General, at the speeds at which this ship travels. Say a shock wave
sufficiently deadly to kill anyone within five hundred miles on either side of
the ground path zero. We wouldn't be breaking any nuclear test ban treaties.
There would be no nucleonics involved whatsoever, other than the nucleonics of
our drive. But the effect would be much the same.
"Where
that shock wave touches ground, over a wide band, well . . . How much of Earth
do you think would withstand a blast of upward of a million degrees of temperature?
At that temperature, the very rocks would melt And the
ground zero path beneath that shock wave would be as sterilized as any desert
you now have.
"I
doubt very much that Earth is prepared to pay for attempted domination of the
solar system by such a disaster."
The general's face had gone quite white.
The glowing veils of neon light with which
Jupiter hides her face from the rest of the solar system danced and shimmered
before them as Stan and Sandra stood outside on the nose surface of the huge
wad-cutter bullet that was the Phoenix, staring
up at the still distant but approaching planet
"I knew it would be worth coming out to
see it but oh, Star, I didn't realize how truly beautiful it could be!"
Sandra's voice, even over the speaker in his suit throbbed with a joy that
brought a catch to Stan's throat. Then she added, "It seems a shame to
dive into that Are you sure we won't spoil the beauty?"
"Not much." He looked down at her
trim figure in the P-suit tights that outlined every curve and detail.
"Well just look like a big streak of hghtning—and be gone about as
quick."
Her voice was hesitant Then, "But, Stan.
Why should we bother? Why have we come back? We've won. You're in control at
AT. The Belt is free. Earth is whipped."
"What
do you mean, 'won,' liebchen?"
Stan slipped his arm around
the slender figure, holding her lithe suppleness close, though the bubble
helmets kept their heads apart, and the heavy cloth of the P-suits made a wall
between them.
"Why .. ." She looked up at him, her
face showing through the bubble, doubtful. "We nave won, haven't we?"
He
laughed, looking down into the bubble of her helmet, separating the blazing
reflections from Jupiter on its surface from the stubbornness of her face
beneath the clear plastic.
"In words made famous long ago, we have
just begun to fight, you know," he said happily, a deep pleasure suffusing
him. "Sandra, Sandra—can't you see that we haven't won? Not yet? There will
be tensions between Earth and the Belt for as long as there are
only the two terminals—two groups of men with different ideas. The only answer
is for us to go to the stars, so that there are lots of groups with lots of
ideas; then those ideas and groups will be so spread out that it's impractical,
ever again, to get man bottled up into one little system where his only way to
let off steam is to clobber his nearest neighbor."
"The stars, Stan? I thought that was just . . . just the stuff of dreams. Just talk. Can
the Phoenix ... F"
"No. Not the Phoenix. Not to the stars. But see that spark of light
over there? That's one of Jupiter's moons. That's Io. And Io falls just within
the mass limits necessary to make a planetary starship. Itll take a few years
to stock that ship, to get a colony going, to set up the necessary radiation
belts and atmosphere, to build the small 'sun' that will be the focus of the
magnetic vortex that will power and light our ship. It will take a few years to
build her right But we can do it. The equations are
all there. They've been there since the mid-Twentieth Century. And it's time
somebody put those equations to work.
"Sandra,"
he said softly over the speaker into her helmet gazing up into the glory that
is Jupiter, "Sandra, we can't stay planetbound or Beltbound, or
systembound. We're going out to where we'll be a quasar on Earth's telescopes.
We're going out to join the other quasars that Earth has spotted in her
telescopes.
"We're going to the stars."
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