It was not a long pursuit, and it ended in stalemate.
Falling through the non-space, non-time between the dimensions were the four ships: Adler, Wanderer, both versions of Faraway Quest. Trajectories had been matched, in spite of the initial efforts of Adler and Faraway Quest I to throw off their pursuers; but it was only those two vessels that had synchronized temporal precession rates.
Back toward The Outsider they ran, all four of them, a mismatched squadron. And they would run past their objective, and go on running, until somebody did something, somehow, to break the deadlock.
Meanwhile, Grimes had learned that his crew was safe, although they were now prisoners. At last, at long last, and with assistance from Metzenther and Trialanne, Mayhew had been able to reestablish his rapport with Clarisse. It had not been easy, but after many hours of concentrated effort the three telepaths had been able to drag her mind up out of its drugged sleep to a condition of full awareness. She was able, then, to supply the details of Druthen's take-over of the ship. It had been done with surprising ease, merely by the introduction of an instantaneously anesthetic gas into the air circulatory system. In theory, this should have been impossible. Alarms should have sounded; pumps and fans should have stopped; baffle plates should automatically have sealed off the ducts. But Druthen was a scientist, and his people were scientists and technicians. He had a very well equipped laboratory at his disposal. And, most important of all, Mayhew and Clarisse had obeyed that commandment of the Rhine Institute: Thou shalt not pry into the mind of a shipmate.
"It's no use crying over spilt milk, Ken," Grimes told his psionic communications officer. "At least we know that Clarisse and the others are unhurt. . . ."
"What the hell's the use of having these talents if you don't use 'em?" wondered Flandry, all too audibly.
"Some of us," Grimes told him coldly, "subscribe to ethical codes."
"Don't we all, Commodore? Do unto others as they would do unto you—but do it first!"
"Captain Flandry is right, John," said Sonya.
Yes, thought Grimes, I suppose the bastard is right. And, come to that, I've tried often enough, and sometimes successfully, to get PCOs to pry for me. . . . Like Spooky Deane, who loved his gin—or my gin. . . . Even so. . . .
Anyhow, there was now telepathic communication between the two Faraway Quests, and communication regarding which neither Druthen nor the captain of Adler was aware. Not that it would have worried them much if they had known about it. Clarisse was locked up in the quarters that she had shared with her husband. There was little that she could tell him, and nothing that she could do. She could not communicate with the other prisoners, who were non-telepaths. She could not even pry into the minds of Druthen and his people—and neither could Mayhew and Metzenther and Trialanne. The scientist had, somehow, succeeded in stimulating Mayhew's psionic amplifier—it could, of course, have been just a side effect of the anesthetic gas that had been used during the takeover—and the continual howling of that hapless, disembodied dog's brain blanketed all stray thoughts. Trained telepaths could punch their signals through the psionic interference, but that was all.
In any case, Druthen was willing enough to talk.
He, fat and slovenly as ever, glowered out at Grimes from the screen of the Carlotti transceiver. Grimes stared back at him, trying to keep his own face emotionless. It was all wrong that he should be looking into his own control room this way, from outside, that he should see the nerve center of his own ship in the hands of strangers, of enemies. With Druthen were two of the scientist's own people, and in the background were three uniformed men: large, blond, obviously officers of the Waldegren Navy.
The senior among them, a full commander by his braid, came to stand beside Dr. Druthen. Druthen seemed to resent this, tried to push the officer out of the field of the iconoscope. He muttered, "Nehmen Sie mal Ihre Latschen weg."
The other replied, "Sie sind zwar dick genug für zwei, aber Sie haben nur für einen Platz gezahlt Rücken Sie weiter."
Sonya laughed. Grimes asked her, "What's the joke?"
"Just that they don't seem to love each other. Druthen told the commander to get his big feet out of his way, and the commander told him that even though he's big enough to fill two seats he's only paid for one. . . ."
"Paid?" asked Grimes.
"Obviously. He's bought his way into the Duchy of Waldegren."
"Ja," agreed the Waldegren commander. And then, speaking directly to Grimes, "And you the captain of this ship were? But. . . ." His eyes widened. "Vich of you der kapitan vas?"
"I suppose we're twins, of a sort," grinned Grimes I. "The gentleman standing behind me is Commodore Grimes, commanding Faraway Quest. And I am Commodore Grimes, commanding Faraway Quest—the Faraway Quest aboard which you, sir, are trespassing."
"But I am the captain now," stated Druthen, smugly.
Grimes ignored this. He asked coldly, "Where are my people?" (There was no point in letting Druthen and the officers of the prize crew know that he was already fully informed on that subject.)
"Do you want them back?" countered Druthen, with an infuriating expression of deliberate incredulity.
"Yes. And my ship."
Druthen laughed sneeringly. "You don't want much, Commodore. Or should I say, ex-Commodore? Your masters will not be very pleased with you. The ship—I keep. Doubtless the Duchy will pay me a fair price for her. The crew. . . . They are useful hostages. You and your allies dare make no hostile move for fear of hurting them." The fat face was suddenly gloating, evil. "And, perhaps, I can use them to persuade you to call off this futile chase. Suppose I have them thrown, one by one, unsuited, out of the airlock . . . ?"
"Herr Doktor!" snapped the commander. "Enough. That I will never countenance. I am an officer, not an executioner."
"Sie glauben wohl Sie sind als Schiffsoffizier was besonderes!"
"Hau'ab!" The commander struck rather than pushed Druthen away from the screen. Those in the control room of Quest II watched, fascinated, a brief scuffle in the control room of the other ship. And then the senior officer of the prize crew was addressing them again. "Herr Commodore, my apologies. But I my orders must follow, even when I am told to cooperate with schwein. Aber, my word I give. I, Erich von Donderberg, promise you that your crew will be treated well as long as I in this ship am."
"Thank you, Commander," said Grimes stiffly.
Druthen, with one eye puffed and almost shut, bleeding from the corner of his mouth, reappeared.
"Officers!" he spat. "Gold-braided nincompoops, survivals from a past age who should have become extinct millennia ago! I'm cutting you off, Grimes. I want the transceiver so that I can call Captain Blumenfeld in Adler. There'll be some changes made in the composition of this so-called prize crew!"
The screen went blank.
"What now?" asked Flandry. "You know these Waldegren people. I don't."
"They're naval officers," said Grimes at last. "They're professional naval officers. They can be ruthless bastards—but they do, at times, subscribe to a rather antique code of honor. . . ."
"I concur," said Grimes II.
"Would you mind," asked Grimes I, "passing the recording of this rather odd interview on to Wanderer? Irene and her people may have some comments."
"Certainly, Commodore."
"And you should be able to let us know, Ken, if Druthen is able to persuade Captain Blumenfeld to let him play the game his way?"
"I'll try," said Mayhew doubtfully. "I'll try. With Clarisse alert and with Metzenther and Trialanne to help us. . . . Yes, I should manage."
"And so," commented Flandry, "we just, all of us, go on falling through sweet damn' all until somebody condescends to make something happen."
"That's the way of it," agreed Grimes.