Danger began about one light-year from goal: the distance within which the instantaneous space-time pulses emitted by a vessel in hyperdrive are detectable. Beljagor's boat lay outside that radius, her own detectors wide open. Not that there was any measurable chance of a speck like her being found by accident. Falkayn would have trouble enough making rendezvous, knowing her location. But if Beljagor observed the "wake" of another ship, he would be careful not to start his own secondary engines until the stranger was safely remote again.
Falkayn had no like choice. At full quasi-speed, he drove straight for Beta Centauri.
The sun grew and grew before him. Under magnification, he could see the disc, seething with nuclear storms, raging with billion-kilometer prominences, hell-blue and terrible. Eleven times the mass of Sol; fourteen hundred times the luminosity; across a full hundred and ninety light-years, one of the brightest stars in Earth's sky. He tried to whistle a tune, but the sound was too small and scared.
Inward. Inward. Now he could start the cameras. Photographing the viewscreens, which compensated for aberration and Doppler effect, they pictured a stable background of constellations. Planets, though, registered as meteorite streaks—yes, here! Falkayn changed course and repeated his observations. Before long he had the triangulation data to feed his computer.
He'd only spotted a few of the captured worlds, not all of them possible habitations. What he had was sufficient, however, especially when one turned out to be approximately thirty-seven astronomical unit: from the sun, the right distance and the right diameter for Neuheim. And, uh-huh, his detectors showed hypervibrations criss-crossing local space, comings and goings among the stars.
One indication was too damn near for his liking, and getting nearer. A patrol craft must have sniffed his trail and be on her way to investigate. Well, she'd have to be fiendish fast to catch this little beauty of his!
She was.
As he fled spaceward, Falkayn watched the intensity readings creep higher. He scowled, puffed his pipe, and figured. He could rendezvous with Beljagor before he was overhauled, but then the Antoranite would be within a light-year of them, and get a fix on both.
Well, they could separate. . . .
A second needle flickered on the detector panel. Falkayn said bad words. Another ship was closing in. Extrapolating directions and rates of amplitude increase, he found that Number Two couldn't run him down—but could snag Beljagor's ambling Holbert.
So. The thing to do was switch off the secondaries and lie doggo, hidden by the sheer vastness of space. . . . Uh-uh. If those fellows knew their business, they'd identify the point where he stopped—at this range—within several million kilometers. They'd also go sublight, and home on the neutrino emission of his power plant. Or simply finger him with a radar sweep.
"Brother," Falkayn told himself, "you've had it, with pineapples."
He looked into the glory which was space, sun after sun until suns grew so thick that they melted into the great argent flood of the Milky Way. He remembered how light is trapped in the leaves of a wind-tossed tree; and how good the beer had tasted in a funny little Swiss tavern; and how often he had laughed among friends; and how a woman felt; and he sensed an utter lack of ambition to be a hero.
Don't irritate them. Surrender. Otherwise they'll phase in to your hyperjump frequency and put a warhead between your ears.
Beljagor could still report to the League, after the enemy had returned home. Of course, then he'd have no confirmation of Beta Centauri's nature. Falkayn's not showing up was inadequate proof, when he could have come to grief in any number of ways. So the League must send spies of its own, who would also be detected. Using ultrafast ships, they'd get away, but the enemy would be alerted and would mount strong guard on his home country. If war then came, it would be more savage than one dared think about, whole planets might be incinerated, Jutta be blown to incandescent gas, Falkayn himself—Judas!
Why wasn't there faster-than-light radio, so he could beam a message to the factor before he must stop? Damn the laws of physics!
The boat hummed and quivered with driving energies. Falkayn was maddeningly aware of thirst, an itch between his shoulder blades, a need for a haircut. This was no time to be human. Think, blast you.
He couldn't. He prowled the cabin, smoked his tongue leathery, forced down a plateful of rations, and came back to gloom at the detectors. Until finally he said, "To hell with this," killed his last bottle of Scotch and went to sleep.
He awoke some hours later, and there was his solution. For a while he lay staring at the overhead, awed by his genius. But according to computation, he'd soon reach Beljagor. Which meant he was in detection range right now, and the Jaleelan was certainly cursing a Beta-colored streak as he watched his own instruments. He'd not be asleep under these circumstances—not him.
"No time like the present," Falkayn said, thus proving his originality had limits. He sprang from his bunk and started scribbling notes.
"Okay, chum." He settled into the pilot chair. Switch off the secondaries and go sublight. One minute later, switch them back on. Thirty seconds later, off again. One minute later, on again.
Polesotechnic pulse code. The needles of whichever detectors were tuned on him must be jumping back and forth, dash-dot-dash-dash-dot. HYPOTHESIS CONFIRMED. F. Repeat the cycle, to be sure Beljagor noticed. And again. Let him wonder if the F was anything but an initial. He'd get the rest of the idea, which was all that mattered. God willing, the Antoranites would not; this particular code was kept secret.
The engines began objecting to abuse. Falkayn whiffed scorched insulation and heard an ominous whine in the power hum. He switched vectors, taking off at a sharp angle to his former path, and drove steadily.
Arithmetic showed that when Enemy Number One pulled alongside him, they'd be well over a light-year from Beljagor. So would Enemy Number Two, who was obligingly coming about also. Falkayn left the board on automatic, showered, dressed in his fanciest clothes, and fixed a leisurely breakfast.
Next he destroyed his photographs, registry, route papers, and certain parts of his log, and did an artistic job of forging substitutes. League vessels are equipped for a variety of emergencies.
The Antoranite hove close, a Comet class with wicked-looking guns. Her probelight flashed the command to halt. Falkayn obeyed. The other went sublight likewise, matched kinetic velocities, and lay at a cautious distance. The radio buzzed. Falkayn accepted.
A long-jawed human officer type with a chestful of ribbons glared from the screen. "Hello," Falkayn said. "Do you speak Anglic or Latin?"
"Ja," said the man. He picked the former. "Yourself identify."
"PL speedster Greased Lightning out of Tricorn for Hopewell, journeyman Sebastian Tombs aboard solo. And who might you be?"
"Neuheim warship Graf Helmuth Karl Bernhard von Moltke, Landholder Otto von Lichtenberg commanding, Oberleutnant Walter Schmitt speaking."
"Neuheim? Where the devil is Neuheim? Never heard of it."
"Vot iss your purpose? Vy haff you tried to escape?"
"My purpose," Falkayn said, "is a trip from my post on Tricorn to ask for some emergency supplies from the Polesotechnic station on Hopewell. We had a flood and it rather messed us up. As for why I ran from you, good Lord, when strangers start chasing a fellow, what do you expect him to do?"
"You assumed ve vas unfriendly," Schmitt said, more in anger than in sorrow. "Maybe you iss unfriendly to us, ha?"
"No, ha. If you consult your navigation tables, you'll find Beta Centauri is almost directly between Tricorn and Hopewell. And I was bound for Hopewell, instead of some closer post, because Hopewell is the nearest planet where I can be sure of getting the stuff we need. Zipping past Beta, I noticed a roughness in the engines." It was there yet, thanks to his using them for a radio. "To check the vector control, I changed course a few times, as you probably noticed. Then all at once, whoosh, here I detected a ship headed for me where no ship ought to be. Perhaps you were a harmless scientific expedition, anxious for a gabfest. But I wasn't about to chance it. Pirates do exist, you know. I skedaddled. My engines began spontaneously popping in and out of secondary. I got the Lauritzens fixed and tried a change of course, hoping you'd understand I didn't want company and leave me alone. No luck. So here we are."
Falkayn donned an indignant look and pounded the pilot board. "Seems like you're the one who has explaining to do," he barked. "What is this Neuheim comedy? Why are warships hanging around a blue giant? What's the idea, taking off after a harmless passerby? The Polesotechnic League is going to hear about this!"
"Perhaps," said Schmitt. "Shtand by to be boarded."
"Damnation, you have no right—"
"Ve haff several nuclear cannon zeroed on you. Gifs t'at a right?"
"It does," Falkayn sighed.
He cooperated in linking air locks by a gangtube. Schmitt entered with a squad, who pointed their rifles at him, and demanded to see his papers.
Presently: "Fery vell, Herr Tombs. Might be you are honest. I do not know. Ve haff our orders. It vill be necessary to intern you on Neuheim."
"What?" Falkayn bellowed. He held his breath till he turned scarlet and his eyes popped. "Do you realize who I am? I'm a certified member of the Polesotechnic League!"
"Too bad for you," Schmitt said. "Come along." He grabbed Falkayn's wrist.
Falkayn yanked it back, drew himself straight, and blessed his father for teaching him the proper mannerisms. "Sir," he said, and liquid helium dripped from every word, "if I am to be a prisoner, I protest the illegality but I must yield. Nevertheless, there is such a thing as the laws of war. Furthermore, I am heir apparent to the Barony of Dragonshaw, United Kingdom of New Asia and Radagach. You will treat me with the respect according to my station!"
Schmitt paled. He clicked his heels, bowed, and followed with a salute. "Jawohl, mein Herr," he gasped. "I beg for your most gracious pardon. If you had seen fit to tell me more earlier—Landholder von Lichtenberg vill be reqvesting t'e honor uff your pressence at tea."