In the name of Allah, most benevolent, ever merciful. Say: I seek refuge with the Lord of men, The King of men, From the evil of him who breathes temptations into the minds of men, Who suggests evil thoughts to the hearts of men— From among the djinns and men.
—al-Qur'an
On their last night together, Kevin told Ruth, "I'd take you with me if I could find any kind of excuse. Good or bad."
"Would you?"
"Yeah. We're crowded as hell, you know. We've dropped part of the kitchen, we're carrying a drop tank . . ." She wasn't buying it. "Love, when we get back into the Empire, it'll make the news. Contact me then? You've got my work number."
"I gave you mine." She looked down at her sleeves. The three rings of a full commander had just been sewn on. "Of course we're likely to be in different solar systems."
And it really felt like good-bye.
From New Scotland to the Jump would take nearly two weeks. Agamemnon and Atropos started later, but were moving at two gravities of thrust; they would Jump just ahead of Sinbad. Sinbad could beat them there with the drop tank's extra fuel, but Kevin refused to subject Bury to more than one gee. He would have preferred less.
This trip wasn't like the voyage from Sparta. Sinbad felt like a different ship. Attitudes had changed.
With Mercer gone, the kitchen storage region could carry cargo more appropriate to their mission. It didn't matter much. Sinbad's kitchen was styled to feed Horace Bury: to create small, healthful meals rich in flavor for a man whose taste buds were almost dead of old age. Now that program served Renner, too. Renner could diet between suns, when fresh food was unavailable anyway. Blaine, a lord's son but also Navy, expected no better. Buckman never noticed what he ate, and as for Joyce Mei-Ling Trujillo . . .
"Ms. Trujillo, are you getting fed all right?"
"Lieutenant Blaine asked me that, too. I eat whatever's where the story is, Mr. Renner. I'd say you set a fine table, but—have you ever eaten streaker rat? By the way, you'll be calling me Joyce eventually, won't you? Start now."
Perhaps Bury derived some satisfaction from what Joyce didn't know she was missing. He made no great effort to avoid her; he wasn't agile enough. In her presence he could be affable, but he called her Trujillo.
And so the ship was settling down, and Kevin Renner was enjoying his freedom.
Freedom. Ridiculous. He was surrounded by people, by walls, by obligations . . . and yet this was his place of power. Horace Bury's ship; but then, he was Bury's superior officer in the Secret Service. Sinbad went where he willed . . . except that with the Empire of Man at stake, his will had best take Sinbad straight through to MGC-R-31.
Over the past quarter of a century Kevin Renner and Horace Hussein Bury had evolved routines and rituals. One was coffee after dinner.
"She is attractive enough," Bury said. He sipped at the thick, sweet brew. "I know planets where she could be sold at a high price." He chuckled softly. "Not as many as there once were, thanks to our efforts. Perhaps we could arrange to use her as bait. . . ."
"She'd be good at that. For a good enough story she'd volunteer," Renner said.
Bury fingered his beard and waited.
"Only guessing," Renner said. "I really haven't spent much time with her at all."
"So I noticed."
"Yeah. Well, put it down to complications. We've got all the time in the world just now, but that could change. Or not. Most likely thing is we spend a boring six months in an empty solar system until an Imperial fleet comes in and chases us out."
"If so, Miss Trujillo will be desperate for distractions," Bury said. "I would presume from anyone willing to provide them."
"Hmpf. Truth is, Horace, it feels good to be—unencumbered."
"The Devil he blew an outward breath, for his heart was free from care."
Renner grinned. "Something like that." And maybe she wants something I can't deliver. . . .
"I cannot say Allah has not been merciful. It would not do to presume too much on His mercy," Bury said.
"And that's the truth. We'll be to the I-point soon enough. What's happening there could tear everybody's leisure all to hell."
"I still don't understand," the Honorable Frederick Townsend said. "And I don't think I ever will."
"I'm sorry," Glenda Ruth said. She looked around the ship's lounge. I think I know every rivet and seam. Hecate was not much larger than a messenger ship. She was fast, but not overly comfortable. Freddy Townsend had bought her for racing, not for longdistance cruising. Compartments had been added for ship's stores and one servant, but everything was cramped. "I should have gone with Kevin—"
"You needn't start that again, either," Freddy said. "I suppose you could have gone with them, but why? I'm glad to do you the favor. I like doing things for you. As you must know. But—" Freddy looked up in irritation as Jennifer Banda came into the lounge. "Dinner in half an hour," he said. "Guess I'll get washed up."
Frederick Townsend insisted on dressing for dinner. It had seemed a bit silly at first, but at least it broke up the monotony. The ship was mostly automated, with only the ship's engineer, Terry Kakumi, as crew. The only servant was George, a retired Navy coxswain who served as cook, butler, valet, and sometimes piloted the ship as well. Having one nearly formal meal each day gave everyone something to do.
Jennifer waited until Freddy had left the lounge before she spoke. "I walk into something heavy?"
Glenda Ruth shrugged. "No heavier than usual. Glad you came in, though."
"You're driving that boy crazy," Jennifer said. "Sure you want to do that?"
"No, I'm not sure I want to do that."
"Want to tell me about it?"
"Not really. Yes. What Freddy is too polite to say is, 'You went to bed with me when we took the trip after graduation, so why won't you sleep with me now?' "
"Oh. I didn't know. I mean, I know what's happened since we left Sparta. Or what hasn't happened. Glenda Ruth, no wonder he's going nuts! I mean—" Jennifer stopped.
"I know what he had every right to expect."
"All right, so why? Bad experience the first time?"
"No." Glenda Ruth's voice was very low and small. "Not a bad experience." Silence; then, "You've studied Moties."
Jennifer smiled. "But I was raised by an all-human orchestra."
"Right. I picked up attitudes from the Moties. Consider that I can refuse to mate. From twelve to seventeen years of age I just plain enjoyed that. Then, consider that I can refuse to get pregnant."
"Freddy?"
"Yes. Sure. I've known him since we shared a crib. And we had just under a month . . . which was just about right for both of us to get to know our bodies. Something I wasn't likely to learn from Moties. Jennifer, I wish to hell I could tell him all this."
Jennifer was folded up like a stick figure into her web chair. "Ruth, I haven't heard a problem yet."
"Sometimes it takes a while before I feel the vibes. Particularly with vague, murky attitudes. You know?" Glenda Ruth was turned away, looking at the universe in a picture-window display. "My parents don't think it's right to take a bed partner before I'm married, or at least engaged, but they're not sure, so I can live with that. Freddy's parents are sure, but I can live with that, too."
Glenda Ruth turned around. "But Freddy's maybe half sure his parents are right, and it was two months after the trip before I realized it, while I was dancing with him, and what it amounts to is this. By the way, I really appreciate you listening."
"Okay."
"And understanding. Only a damn Motie expert could listen to this and not try to send me to a confessor. Okay. If I sleep with Freddy, it's because we're going to get married or it's because I'm a slut. I'm not sure I want to marry him, and I'm not sure I don't. Either way would be okay, but I'm hung up, so . . ."
"No man would understand that line of argument, counselor."
"Freddy's not stupid. He'd know, he'd understand, if I could say it right. So I'm still thinking. Damn."
"He'd marry you—"
Glenda Ruth grinned. "Like a shot. But—look, all my life—"
"All eighteen years."
"Well, it's a lifetime to me." Poor Charlie didn't last much longer, Glenda Ruth thought. "All my life I've had someone who could tell me what to do. Had the right to tell me. Now I don't. Now I've got my own money, and I'm legally an adult. Freedom! It's wonderful. The last thing I need is a husband."
"Maybe it's better this way. You sure keep the Honorable Freddy attentive!"
"Oh, damn, it does look that way, doesn't it? He hasn't seen it, but—"
"It'll be all right. Last jump tonight. We'll be on New Scotland in three weeks. Freddy can find another girl." Jennifer grinned. "Don't like that either? Honey, you are in what the Navy calls an untenable position."
Her cabin was small, like all the cabins on Hecate. The only spacious cabin belonged to Freddy. Of course he'd expected her to share it.
Why don't I? she wondered. I lie awake thinking about it. It's not like I don't have my pills, or Freddy has some kind of disease. It's not like I didn't—all I'd have to do is go tap on his door.
Maybe I'd lose him. Can't he be replaced? I can pick any stranger out of a crowd and know if he's sane, trustworthy, intelligent, horny, crosswired, docile. I hear women say they don't understand men, and I want to snicker—
There was a sharp wrenching sensation, and she felt sick and confused. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew the ship had made an Alderson Jump, and she was in the grip of the disorientation that always followed. Her father had told her there were a dozen explanations of Jump shock, all inconsistent with each other, but no one had ever been able to disprove any of them.
Gradually control returned. She moved her fingers, then her hands and arms, until they did what she wanted them to. Freddy always recovered faster than she did. She resented that. Not fair.
And now they were in New Caledonia system. Maybe Freddy would drop her off and go on to New Ireland. . . . She had just settled in to try to sleep when her intercom chirped.
"Glenda Ruth."
It was Freddy, of course. What in the world did he want? Hah. Well, why not? If he could stand her in this condition. It wouldn't take long to get cleaned up. She tapped the intercom button.
"Hi. Look, I hate to disturb you, but we've got a message for you."
"What?"
"There's a trader ship here, the New Baghdad Lion."
"Here?"
"Here. Waiting at the Jump point. They say they have a message for the Honorable Glenda Ruth Fowler Blaine. They need your identification code."
"Oh. All right, I'll be right there. You're on the bridge?"
"Yep."
"Be right up. And—Freddy, thanks."
"No problem. Bring your computer."
This sounded urgent, but she took the time to get dressed, the baggy trousers gathered at the ankles that were standard for low gravity. She also took time to put on an Angora sweater, comb her hair, and dab on lipstick. The ship was under slight acceleration, just enough to hold her slippers to the carpet. She made her way forward. Freddy was alone on the bridge.
He indicated the copilot chair. "They're standing by for your code."
She plugged her personal computer into the ship's system. "Clementine."
YES, DEAR. The words scrawled across her computer screen.
"We're supposed to identify ourselves," Glenda Ruth said. "This is me. Now prove it to them."
PASSWORD.
"Damn it all, you know it's me. All right." She sketched rapidly with the stylus; not words, but a cartoon.
RIGHT YOU ARE. There was no sound, but she knew the computer was sending an encrypted message that could be decoded using her public key. It hardly mattered what the message was, since only messages encrypted with her secret key could be decoded with her public key. The public/secret key system made for positive identifications as well as secure communication.
"Acknowledged," a voice said on the ship's speakers. It was a voice thick with Levantine accent. "Greetings to Miss Glenda Ruth Fowler Blaine. Please prepare to record an encoded message from Lieutenant Kevin Christian Blaine."
"Ah," Freddy said. "Standing by. Ready. Got it. Thank you, New Baghdad Lion."
"You are welcome. We have been instructed to offer you fuel."
"Fuel. Why would we want more fuel?" Freddy asked.
The Levantine voice was unperturbed. "Effendi, His Excellency told us to offer you fuel. We offer it. It will not take long to transfer. Shall we do so?"
Freddy looked to Glenda Ruth. "Now what?"
She shrugged. "They're bigger than we are, and if they wanted to do us any harm they'd have done it. Why not let them top off your tanks?"
"Lot more than topping off," Freddy said. "All right. New Baghdad Lion, we accept your offer with gratitude." He punched an intercom button. "Terry, that merchantman's going to pump us some hydrogen. Give them a hand, will you? You have the con."
"Aye, aye. I relieve you," the engineer said.
Freddy shook his head. "But just what is all this in aid of?"
"Maybe this will tell us," Glenda Ruth said.
The message had been encrypted using her public key. She set Clementine to decoding it.
KEVIN CHRISTIAN BLAINE TO GLENDA RUTH FOWLER BLAINE. THE REST DOES NOT BREAK IN CLEAR, the computer informed her.
"Hah. Use Kevin's special code."
WILLCO. She adjusted her earphones and waited. Everyone was assured that the public-key/private-key system was secure against everything. Maybe we're just paranoid.
She heard, "Sis, we have a problem. The Moties could be loose by the time you get this."
Freddy was watching her. "Ruth, what's wrong?"
"Nobody's dead. Shh." In the boredom and the interpersonal dominance games, she'd had weeks to forget that she was frightened for the Moties. Now—
Her brother's voice said, "We're taking three ships to the incipient Alderson point, the I-point, at MGC-R-31. Two Navy ships, and Bury's Sinbad. I've been put aboard Sinbad as liaison. I'm the senior Navy officer aboard, but I catch vibes from Renner. He can show he ranks me if he wants to. Maybe by a lot. The other Navy officer who came out here with Sinbad, an Intelligence lieutenant commander, decided she was needed back on New Scotland.
"I don't think of a lot we can do there by ourselves. The Moties have had a quarter century to prepare for this, and we're just now realizing we have a problem. I can't think three ships will have any surprises for them.
"The pot odds say we'll get there with ten to twenty years leeway, but there are complications. Odd things happening. It might be a lot sooner. There's even a chance it happened already.
"Sis, I sure wish we had the latest the Institute has developed. So does Mr. Bury. If you can get that to us, it might change things. I've attached our best-guess coordinates for the I-point. We thought about waiting for you, but we don't know just how long we have before everything happens. Bury arranged for the ship that gave you this message to refuel yours. Let them, if you haven't done that already. Try to get to the I-point before the Moties do.
"Sinbad's crowded. Bury's got Nabil and three women including Cynthia, no change in the relationships. There's me, Dr. Jacob Buckman, and Joyce Mei-Ling Trujillo, the newscaster. She's interesting. Intelligent and wants to prove it, female and doesn't have to. Commander Cohen decided she was needed on New Scotland just after Trujillo was invited aboard, and that leaves Renner loose. Interesting patterns here.
"You may get here and find nothing's happening at all. Some of the blockade fleet may be en route already, but of course it'll take them months. If things last that long, maybe there won't be a problem, or maybe Mom's Crazy Eddie project will work just fine and we can think on how to use it.
"Or it may be all over before you get here. If they send through a big fleet with Warriors . . ."
If they do that, you'll talk to the Master in charge. If we have the symbiote, maybe she'll listen. If you live long enough to talk, Glenda Ruth thought. If.
And her brother's voice ran on: "Anyway, we're going for a look. It will probably help if you can get here pretty quick, but you do what you think best.
"Love, Chris."
She reset and heard the message through again. "Freddy?"
"Yes, my love?"
She let it pass. "Freddy, we're being given fuel so that we can go direct to"—she punched in the coordinates from Kevin Blaine's message, and the navigation screen lit up—"here, instead of going to New Scotland first."
Freddy studied the display. "That's a wretched red dwarf system. There's nothing there."
"There will be."
"Glenda Ruth, do you know what you're doing?"
"I think so. It's no trivial thing, Freddy—"
"All right." He turned to the computer.
"No trivial thing at all. I don't exaggerate, do I? So. The fate of the Empire and the fate of the Motie species"—he hadn't paused— "it's all on our shoulders. I didn't even bother to ask Jennifer, she's worked up to this her whole life, but you—"
He'd finished typing in the course change. A warning note sounded, then they felt gentle acceleration. Hecate was now on route to MGC-R-31. Freddy relaxed in his chair, tired, not looking at her.
Didn't wait. Didn't need to think it over. Just trusted me and moved.
And she saw that it would break him. He would heal, over the years, almost; but his view of women of his class would be colored by a period of terrible frustration while his life was bent to one powerful woman's missionary urge.
She made a bet with herself, no trivial thing at all, and said, "I'll be moving into your cabin, if your offer's still open."
He looked up, and searched among possible answers while hiding his surprise. She held her expression solemn, a bit uneasy. Freddy nodded and smiled and took her hand, and still feared to speak.
Chris Blaine reminded Kevin of someone. Of Captain Roderick Blaine, of course, but of someone else, too . . . and he finally got it as Chris paused at a window. Kevin had seen Midshipman Horst Staley looking out at Murcheson's Eye blazing against the Coal Sack, like a single coal red eye within a monk's hood, just before MacArthur jumped to Murcheson's Eye itself.
And Chris took his fill of the Hooded Man, then moved on aft to get breakfast, while Kevin mused at his station.
Why Horst? Horst Staley, who had learned too much on Mote Prime and died for it, twenty-eight years ago. They could never have met. They certainly weren't related. Chris Blaine looked like his father, square face, fine blond hair, tiny Irish nose . . . his father's was broken, of course . . . whereas Horst Staley had been enlistment-poster handsome, triangular face, long, heavy muscles, and sloping shoulders. . . .
"Ah."
Horace Bury looked up. "What?"
Chris Blaine was just coming into earshot; Renner could hear his voice. He said, "Just a vagrant thought."
As they approached their stations, Renner heard Trujillo's voice, cheerful and musical and not quite audible; then Blaine's voice raised above the hum of the ship's systems. "If you hadn't been digging for scandal, the high brass wouldn't have heard about the token ships for years. They look so harmless!"
"I can't take credit for that. It was the scandal I was after."
They were both finishing breakfast bars. Joyce Trujillo's assigned chair was out of the way, with a view of several screens but no controls. Blaine took his place as copilot. Renner waited a few minutes, then asked, "Chris, how're we doing?"
"Seventy hours en route and up to speed. I'll wind down the thrust"—tap—"now. Then we can drop the external tank and coast till we're approaching the Jump to the red dwarf. Two hundred seventy hours, unless the Jump point's moved, in which case all Hell lets out for lunch."
"I'm inclined to keep the tank and refill it. Better safe."
Blaine nodded.
During the next five minutes the thrust dropped from a standard gravity to .05 gee, just enough to pull spilled liquid out of the air. Renner waited it out, then said, "Lieutenant, you have the con." And he went aft for coffee.
He was unsurprised to find that Bury had floated after him. He asked, "Turkish?"
"Please. You have left—left Blaine in charge of my ship. Is that wise?"
"We're barely beyond Dagda's orbit in New Cal system in free fall, near as dammit. What could happen? Outies? Helium flash in the motor? He's Navy trained, you know."
"Yes."
"Like me."
"Yes. Kevin, what was it you didn't want him to overhear? Or was it the Trujillo woman?"
"Oh . . . something was nagging at me, irritating me, and I finally got it. You wouldn't remember Midshipman Horst Staley. He was an idealized Navy officer, handsome, imposing, the kind you put on posters. So's Blaine, but he's doing it consciously, like a signal."
"Yes, after all, he was raised by Moties. What think you now of Trujillo?"
"All sex and all business, generally not at the same time. She can turn it on and off. What are the rules this trip, Horace? Sex or no sex?"
"Blind eyes, I think. Poor old Trader Bury notices nothing. But she is staying to business?"
"Yeah. Projects availability, but. I like it, actually. I like flirting." Bury did not smile. Renner said, "Give her a break, Horace. Her dad told her about Traders, merchant princes, but she doesn't know any. She'll learn about Traders from you."
" 'Your reputation precedes you,' " Bury quoted.
"I doubt she meant that as viciously as it sounded." Renner sighed. "It's going to be a fun trip. Trujillo offended you first chance she got, you hate Blaine, and if everything goes right, we'll get there in time to find a Motie armada coming out at us."
In the pause that followed, Renner finished brewing two bulbs of Turkish. Bury took his and asked, "How can you say that I hate Kevin Christian Blaine? He is your godson. He is my guest."
"Horace, you haven't been overtly rude, but I know you. And look, if I had to . . . Igor! Tonight we will make something quite different, quite."
"Yes, Doctor Frankenstein! Yes! Yes!"
"Tonight we will create the infidel least likely to be welcome aboard a teeny tiny spacecraft with Trader Horace Bury. We will give him the following characteristics, hnpf hnpf hnpf! Anglo-Saxon. Christian. An Empire Navy man. Related to the same Roderick Blaine who once held Bury prisoner aboard a Navy warship. And lastly, hnpf hnpf hnpf! He will be raised by Motie Mediators!"
Horace dropped the accent. "Lastly, he is a manipulative son of a dog."
"I'd say that goes with the Motie training."
"Yes, Kevin, but he tried to manipulate me. Does he think me a fool?"
"Mmm."
"It was not Joyce Trujillo who discovered the significance of the token ships!"
"I'll be dipped. Horace, he's chasing her."
"Eh?"
"I didn't see it. She's a career woman six years older than he is! Even so, that's it. He let her see him manipulating you for her benefit. I wonder if she'll buy it?"
Renner hadn't even decided if he liked her. That was not always the most interesting question. Perhaps, somewhere in the back of his brain, he had considered Joyce Mei-Ling Trujillo to be his by default. Blaine was too young, Buckman and Bury were too old, and Kevin Renner was captain of Sinbad.
The problem lay in what she might want. Not money, nor entree into certain levels of society; he could do that. But secrets . . . she loved secrets, and Kevin Renner's were not his to give away.
Blaine was too young, and he was a classic model of a Navy man—but Kevin Christian Blaine had been raised by Motie Mediators. Why was that so easy to forget? Renner began to watch him.
Sinbad in free fall could not be spun up. Chris Blaine was used to a bigger Navy ship. He was clumsy for the first couple of days. So was Joyce; she had not spent much time in space. Then they got oriented more or less together. Simultaneously, in fact. . . .
You had to concentrate to see it, how often they occupied the same space. In any of the narrow passages they might pass without brushing. Joyce was still a bit clumsy, but Chris could eel gracefully past her, close enough to link magnetic fields, but without touching her at all. Like dancing.
The morning before Sinbad began deceleration, Joyce Trujillo looked different, and so did Chris Blaine. They both seemed a bit embarrassed about it, and they couldn't seem to avoid body contact.
Two centuries ago, Jasper Murcheson had cataloged most of the stars this side of the Coal Sack. He had numbered them in some haste for his Murcheson General Catalog, then filled in details at leisure.
Half those stars were red dwarves, such as this orange-white dot called MGC-R-31. Murcheson had collected more detail on the hotter yellow dwarves, those that might have habitable planets and particularly those that did. MGC-R-31 had a brown dwarf star companion at half a light-year's distance; Murcheson hadn't even known that much.
Kevin Renner knew it the moment he popped into the system. He knew because some unseen nearby mass had skewed his Jump point by several million miles.
It should be located, fast. It would move the I-point, too! Buck-man and Renner set to work at once.
It was good to be in MGC-R-31 system, good to have something to do, to have an excuse to lock that door.
A week of Bury's strained good manners and Blaine's and Trujillo's body-contact formality had been getting on everyone's nerves . . . or maybe only on Kevin Renner's. Buckman's needs gave him an excuse to do something about it. Renner had a section of Sinbad's lounge partitioned off to become Jacob Buckman's laboratory.
It was cramped for Buckman, very cramped for Buckman and Renner; visitors were impossible. They preferred using it that way to everyone's popping in and out of the small bridge compartment. The others tried not to interfere.
Search for a brown dwarf. First observe the red dwarf, find its plane of rotation. By then Buckman had calculated a series of distances and masses that might account for the shift in the Alderson point. Look at one locus of points, observe again, calculate again . ..
Dinner appeared from somewhere. Renner would have ignored it, but Buckman hadn't even looked up. Better to eat, and make Buckman eat too.
And breakfast . . . but by then they were done. Renner sighed in relief. He opened the door to the lounge and announced, "Nothing. We're here first."
"Allah is merciful," Bury said.
"How sure are you?" Joyce Trujillo asked.
Chris Blaine said, "Good question. You can't know where the Alderson point is going to be."
"I do know that there is no new Alderson point in this region," Buckman said. "As to where the incipient point will be, I've had to change the locus because of the companion. Not much. Brown dwarf stars don't radiate much. It's still an arc along here, still about a million klicks long. I moved it by a couple of light-minutes. And it isn't there."
The arc Buckman's cursor made across the screen stretched away from the orange-white glare of MGC-R-31, toward the Coal Sack and an off-centered red peephole into Hell: Murcheson's Eye.
Renner touched a button on the console. "Agamemnon, this is Sinbad. We get a clean sweep. Do you? Over."
Agamemnon had popped out a few minutes ahead of Sinbad, separated by no more than the gap between Earth and Earth's moon. Now they were a few tens of thousands of miles apart, while Atropos moved ahead toward the hypothetical I-point. Agamemnon's response came immediately.
"Sinbad this is Agamemnon. Affirmative. I say again, affirmative, there are no signs of any ships in this system. We are definitely here first. Is Lieutenant Blaine available?"
"Right here."
"Please stand by for the skipper."
"Right."
"So that's that," Joyce Trujillo said. She was all business now, as Blaine was all officer.
"For the moment," Bury said. "They will come. But now—now I believe Allah has given us this chance. We may yet lose it, but we have the opportunity."
"God is merciful," Joyce said. "He will not do everything and thus take away our free will and that share of glory that belongs to us."
"Biblical?" Renner asked.
She laughed. "Niccolo Machiavelli."
"Arrgh! Joyce, you have done it to me again."
Buckman said, "Horace? I've listed it as Bury's Infrastar. Your ship, your crew, your discovery."
Seconds late, Bury reacted. He smiled with effort and said, "Thank you, Jacob."
"Here's the skipper," the comm set announced.
"Blaine?"
"Yes, sir. We're all here."
"Some of my officers are suggesting this is a wild-goose chase."
"I would like nothing better, Commander," Horace Bury said. "But I do not believe that."
"Don't guess I do either. We're wondering what to do next. I don't mind admitting this isn't a situation I was trained to deal with," Balasingham said.
"Nothing complicated about it," Buckman said. "Renner has us on a course to coast along the arc over the next . . ."
"Fifteen days."
"Fifteen days. Your other ships have our data."
Chris Blaine took over. "Sir, we've sent the data to Atropos, so he'll take up station ahead of us. The I-point will be in this region. I suggest that Agamemnon stay behind, that is, between us and the path back to New Caledonia. Maybe they can intercept. As for us, we make repeated passes until the I-point appears."
"All right," Balasingham said. "For now, anyway. The Viceroy's sending more ships." Short pause. "What if a Motie fleet comes through shooting?"
"Then we do what we can," Bury said.
"And maybe the horse will sing," Renner muttered.
Bury shrugged. He seemed amazingly calm. "The Moties have no control over the protostar. This will be as Allah wills, and Allah is merciful."
If Buckman turned off his intercom, as he frequently did, the only way to find out what he was doing was to bang on his door and risk his acerbic comments about disturbing his work.
He had left the compartment door open this morning. Buckman had been constantly in his laboratory or the adjacent lounge for over thirty hours. Kevin Renner and Chris Blaine had alternated waiting just outside the lab door, and it was Chris's turn. He'd been there an hour, with nothing to do. Then he heard a shout.
"By God!"
Chris went to the compartment door. Buckman was hunched
over a console. His grin was wide. "What is it?" Chris asked.
"It's happening."
Chris didn't ask what. "How far away?"
"I'm only getting a flux reading. It's not stable yet, but it will be. It's tremendous! By God! Blaine, this is the best record of a new Alderson event anyone has ever got! Now we can set up for the visuals."
"How far away, Doctor Buckman?"
Buckman shook his head vigorously. "It's wobbling back and forth! The new star must be pulsing. It's traversing the arc. Half a million kilometers of sweep. More. We could conceivably Jump while it passes us, if it was anything like stable yet."
"I'll tell the other ships."
"It's strong enough that even Navy instruments should pick it up, but go ahead." Buckman went back to his console.
Blaine used the lounge intercom. "Kevin. Buckman says this is it. I'll alert Agamemnon."
"Agamemnon this is Sinbad. Alderson event detected in our vicinity. Buckman data attached to this message. Suggest you converge on probable Alderson point location. I am also sending this message to Atropos. Blaine."
They waited. Two minutes later the answer came. "Sinbad this is Agamemnon. We are under way at three gee, I say again, three standard gravities. We'll move toward you, but I will remain between the I-point and the exit to New Cal."
"Doesn't take him long to make decisions," Renner said. "He's about twenty light-seconds behind us, but he's not going where we are. He can get to the New Cal Jump point in"—he typed rapidly—"about five hours, starting now. And Atropos is ahead of us. I don't know the best tactics."
"Depends too much on what comes through," Chris Blaine said crisply.
"What is it? What's happening?" Joyce eeled out of her cabin, hurriedly adjusting her clothing. "Moties? They've come through?"
"Not yet," Blaine said. "They will."
"Yeah," Renner said. "Dr. Buckman, have things stabilized at all?"
"Beginning to, yes, Kevin. Do you see how the I-point comes fast toward us along the arc and slow going back? I expect we're seeing irregular pulses on the protostar."
"Yeah. Boom and it settles down, boom and it settles down, boom. When the protostar stops flaring . . ."
"Well, for the next hundred thousand years it won't quite."
"Eases off, then. The I-point will be ahead of us, won't it? Closer to Atropos than us, and still wobbling a bit."
"At a guess, Kevin. This is a first in every way. The collapse of Buckman's Protostar into Buckman's Star."
"It's all guesses, but give Atropos about four and a half hours. At one gee we'll take about eight."
"But you and Buckman don't think we have four hours," Blaine said.
Renner said, "I know, can't push much more than a gee without killing Bury."
"Do not worry about me," Bury said from behind him. "I will be in my water bed. Nabil is bringing it to the lounge now."
"One and a half, then. No more," Renner said. "Okay, as soon as you get in it—"
"Stabilized!" Buckman shouted.
"How do you know?"
"A ship came through. There's another! A light-second or two apart."
Renner brought the images up on his screen. "About three light-seconds ahead of us. Closer to us than Atropos—three ships." Renner's fingers were dancing. An alarm wheeped; Renner slapped the volume down. Secure for acceleration. "Four ships. Five."
Sinbad's motor lit. Objects drifted aft.
"They're well separated. The star must be still flaring, the I-point's still drifting."
"Mercy of Allah," Bury muttered. "Quickly, Nabil, get me into my water bed."
"I must secure it to the deck," Nabil said calmly. The little old assassin moved easily under what had become half a gee of pull.
"Six. Seven," Renner said. "Seven so far. Blaine, you'd better get Atropos on line."
"Roger. Doing it."
"What's happening?" Joyce Mei-Ling demanded from the lounge door.
"Secure for acceleration, dammit!" Renner shouted. "All hands, secure. Nabil, let me know when it's safe!"
"The bed is secured. If you do not turn too much, I can put him in it when we are under way."
"I'll hold it at one gee until you've got him set. Everyone secure? Buckman, you holding on to something? Here we go."
Sinbad eased up to one gee. "They're scattering," Renner said.
"Must have come through with different velocities," Blaine said. "It's just drift so far."
"Sure."
"They will scatter," Bury said. "Of course they will. Seven ships. They have been preparing for this for years. Kevin, can we intercept them all?"
"Not likely. Moties can't take as much gee stress as we can, but there's no way three ships can chase down seven. Not given that much head start."
"Sinbad this is Agamemnon. What's happening, Blaine?"
"Seven Motie ships so far," Blaine said. "Beyond us, and drifting in seven directions. I'll squirt up the data we have." He pressed keys, and the computer sent out what it had. Data twenty-plus seconds out-of-date would be better than nothing.
Nearly a minute went by. "Blaine, they'll have plenty of time to recover from Jump shock before we get there," Balasingham's voice said. "Assuming each one accelerates along its present course, and giving them anything like the performance Motie ships had at the blockade point, we aren't going to catch more than four. Five tops, and that assumes we can cripple them without too much of a fight, which is assuming a lot. Damnation—"
Pause; then Balasingham said, "I think it's time to change tactics. I'm ordering Atropos to move toward the I-point and prepare to chase Motie ships. That gets him close to you. I'm taking Agamemnon back to block the way out of this system. Our entry point won't have changed enough to matter. We'll never catch them all, but maybe we can bottle them up in here."
"Not bloody likely," Blaine muttered. "But I suppose it's the best thing to try."
"Captain Renner," Balasingham continued. "You were given sealed orders when you left New Scotland. To be opened on my instructions. My orders said to have you do that when the situation got beyond my control. I hereby instruct you to open those orders.
"You'll find that your Reserve commission as Captain is activated, and you're in command of this expedition with the titular rank of commodore. I don't know what you can do, but I sure can't think of anything. I'm ordering Commander Rawlins in Atropos to put himself under your direction.
"Sir, I am now changing course to guard the Alderson point to New Caledonia. If you want me to do something else, tell me what it is. Agamemnon out."
"God's navel," Renner said.
"Kevin, have I heard correctly?" Bury demanded.
"Apparently," Renner said. "I heard it too."
"Moties," Joyce said from somewhere aft. "Chris—"
"Later."
"Yes, but—Chris, they're Moties!"
"Joyce, it's a great story, but there's no time!" Chris shouted. "Captain, the first two Motie ships are under acceleration. They must be automated; Moties wouldn't have recovered yet."
"Wonder what kind of computer they trust to work that soon after a Jump?" Buckman muttered.
Chris Blaine examined the computer screen. "Continuing in their original directions. My guess is they'll all do that."
Renner said, "Scatter and lose us. Only seven ships, and I don't see any more . . . in fact I've lost one. I'd have thought they would send more."
"Me, too," Blaine said. "Maybe they couldn't."
"Spacecraft are expensive," Bury said. He sounded comfortable enough under 1.5 gravities. "Many resources, of different kinds. A complex society."
"Which may mean they've got problems," Renner said. "Jacob, where in the Mote system will their end of the tramline be?"
"Fairly far out. Well beyond the orbit of their gas giant, Mote Beta."
"We never looked at the Trojan civilizations," Renner said. "Maybe we should have."
Half an hour later it was clear enough. Chris Blaine went back to explain to Joyce and Bury: "There are seven Motie ships. Five are under full acceleration in five different directions. One of them is lost, to us and Agamemnon and everyone else. Maybe we'll find it. Maybe not."
"Mercy of Allah," Bury muttered. "And the seventh?"
"The seventh is headed directly toward us, Excellency."
Bury fingered his beard. "They will want to talk, then."
Joyce Mei-Ling was staring at the viewscreen. Suddenly she pointed at the Motie ship. As they watched, a laser beam blinked on and off.
"As you said, Excellency.-If you'll excuse me . . ." Blaine went back to his duty station and turned to Renner. "Apparently they want to talk."
"So do we," Renner said. "We'll never catch any of the others. Atropos may, but we won't."
"One of the others looks to be heading for the Jump point to New Cal," Blaine said. "Agamemnon will be there first, though."
"Meanwhile, that ship is coming to us," Renner said. "Hah. They're modulating that beam. Let's see if any of it makes sense—"
"Imperial ship, this is Motie vessel Phidippides," the speaker said.
"I've heard that name," Joyce Mei-Ling Trujillo said.
"We come in peace. We seek His Excellency Horace Bury. Is he aboard?"
Joyce said, "Phidippides was the first Marathon runner. Delivered his message and died."
Renner and Blaine looked at each other, then at Bury flat in his water bed with a screen above his face. Renner looked at the sensors before he spoke. Bury's heartbeat was steady, brain waves indicating he was fully awake. Okay.
"Horace? It's for you."