The signal officer leaped from his position and made a vicious grab
at the thin paper tape that was snaking from his typer to the master
transmitter. It tore just at the entrance slot. The tape-end slid in;
disappeared.
The master transmitter growled as the tape-end passed the scanner.
Meters slapped up against the overload stop and two of the big
rectifier tubes flashed over. Circuit breakers came open with a crash
down in the power room, and up in the master modulator room the bell
alarms rang, telling of the destruction of one of the tuning guides
from overload peak.
The signal officer paid no attention to the damage his action had
caused. He grabbed for the telephone and dialed a number.
"I want confirmation of messages forty-eight and forty-nine," he
snapped. "What fool let 'em get this far?"
"What happened?" asked the superior officer mildly.
"I got forty-eight on the tape before I came to forty-nine," explained
the signal officer. "I grabbed the tape just as it was hitting the
master transmitter. The tape-end raised hell, I think. Default alarms
are ringing all over the building. But who--?"
"It was my fault--I'll confirm in writing--that forty-eight was not
preceded by an official sanction. You were quite correct in stopping
them at any cost. As soon as the outfit is on the air again, send 'em
both."
"Yeah, but look--"
"Orders, Manley."
"I'll follow 'em," said Signal Officer Manley, "but may I ask why?"
"You may, according to the Book of Regs, but I'm not certain of the
reason myself. Frankly, I don't know. I questioned them myself, and got
the same blunt answer."
"The whole terran sector has been slaving for years to keep this
proposition from happening," grumbled Manley. "For years we have been
most careful to stop any possible slipup. Now I find that the first
time it ever gets down as far as my position and I leap into the breach
like a hero, I'm off the beam and the stuff is on the roger."
"I'll give you a Solar Citation for your efforts," offered the superior
ruminatively. "I know what you mean. We've been trying to keep it from
happening by mere chance. And all of a sudden comes official orders,
not happenstance, but ordering it. Let's both give up."
"The gear is on the air again," said Manley. "I'll carry on, like
Pagliacci, roaring madly to our own doom. But first I'm going to have
to restring the master. Shoot me a confirm, will you? I don't expect to
use it, but it'll look nice in some time capsule as the forerunner of
history."
Within a minute messages forty-eight and forty-nine were through the
machine, up through the master modulator room and out in space, on
their way to Mars and Venus, respectively.
* * * * *
The Little Man looked up at Co-ordinator Kennebec. The head of the
Solar Combine looked down with a worried frown. This had been going
on for some time. The Little Man had been, in turn, pleading, elated,
demanding, mollified, excited, and unhappy because the ruler of the
Solar Combine could not understand him fully. He was also unhappy
because he could not understand the head man's meaning, either.
The Little Man had three cards in his hand. He was objecting violently,
now. He was not angry, just positive of his desire. He put two of
the cards on the desk before Kennebec, and agreed, most thoroughly,
that these were what he wanted. The third card he tossed derisively,
indicating negation. This one was of no use.
Kennebec shrugged. He picked them up and inserted the unwanted card
between the other two. He did it with significance, and indicated that
there was a reason.
The Little Man shrugged and with significance to his actions, accepted
the three. If he could not have the two without the third, he'd take
all three.
He saluted in the manner that Kennebec understood to be a
characteristic of the Little People's culture. Then he turned and left
the office, taking with him the three cards.
As he opened the door, he was almost trampled by Kennebec's daughter,
who was entering on a dead run with a bundle of transmitter tape
trailing from one hand. Patricia looked down, made a motion of apology
to the Little Man, whose head came just even with her hip, and then
turned to her father as the Little Man left the scene.
"Dad," she said, "here are press flashes from Mars and Venus. Singly,
either one of them pleases me greatly. Simultaneously I can't take it."
"Sorry, Pat. But this isn't a personal proposition."
"But it means trouble."
"Perhaps."
Patricia snorted. "It does mean trouble and you know it. How are you
going to avoid it?"
"I'm going to assign Flight Commander Thompson to the task of keeping
or combing them out of one another's hair."
"And if and when he's successful," smiled Pat derisively. "I assume
that Thompson will be awarded the Solar Citation for bravery and
accomplishment far above and beyond the call of flesh?"
"He'll have earned it," smiled Kennebec. "Let's see what the sister
worlds have to say."
"Not much--yet. Neither one of them seems to be aware of the other's
action--yet. I'll bet the Transplanet Press Association wires will be
burning when they all find out."
"TPA is going to suppress any word of dissension," said Kennebec.
"Um-m-m--seems that Terra, as usual, has a bear by the tail. Why
couldn't he have picked less dangerously?"
"Knowing nothing of the Little People's culture, I can't say. I don't
even understand him most of the time excepting that I have attained the
idea that something is very important and must be done immediately.
What it is I don't really know, but I gather that it concerns the
integrity of a number of stellar races including that of the Little
People."
"Sounds like corny dialogue from a bum soap opera," said Patricia.
"It's a sorry day for civilization when it must depend upon a deal like
this."
"I'm certain that they understand. The Little Man reviewed the records.
Given the apparent understanding of mere records that he has--in spite
of not being able to understand me or any other Solarian--he must know
that we're all playing fireman in a powderhouse. He is going on through
with it in spite of what he must certainly know."
"I feel inclined to take a vacation at Lake Stanley or Hawaii until
this blows over."
Kennebec laughed. "It won't be that bad, and besides, you're a part of
this and no matter where you go, you'll be in it. Might as well give
up, Pat. You can't run now."
"I know," answered Patricia wistfully, "but I'd like to keep out of the
way of any flying glass."
* * * * *
Stellor Downing was Martian by birth and by six hundred years of
Martian-born forebears. His family could trace its line back to the
first group of Terran colonists that braved the rigors of Martian life
before technology created a Martian world that was reasonably well
adapted for human life.
Downing, being of hard nature, cold and calculating, and murderously
swift, should probably have been dark and swarthy with beetling brows
and a piercing stare.
But Downing lived on Mars, where in spite of the thin atmosphere, Sol's
output was low. Downing had light hair, a skin like the baby-soap ads,
and pale-blue eyes that looked as innocent.
A lot of people had been fooled--but not Martians.
Stellor Downing's rapid rise up through the ranks of the Solar Guard
was legendary on Mars. His swinging gait was more or less known to all
theater-going Martians, and the sound of his voice over the radio was
familiar. He wore a double modine belt, with one of the nasty weapons
on each hip--where they crossed over his stomach, a dull silver
medallion held them together.
The medallion was the sharp-shooter's award.
Stellor Downing came on the spaceport escorted by six or seven
officials. He talked with them until it was time for take-off. Then
they all became more serious.
"We have no idea what this mission is," said one. "But if you do it
honor, you'll get that other star."
"That'll make you a Flight Co-ordinator," added another.
"I can't make any promises," said Downing. "I'll do my best."
"Terra must be really in a hole to call on you," laughed a third.
"You're by and far the best flight commander in the Guard."
Downing lifted his eyebrow. "I'll admit that I'm not the worst," he
said cheerfully. "I hope you're right about the other." He turned to
his orderly and gave a sign. The orderly lifted a whistle and blew a
shrill note that cut the thin air of Mars.
Three hundred men entered twenty-five ships, and the spaceport was
cleared. Radio messages filled the ether, as the ships were checked
before take-off. Then as the clamoring of the radio died, a more
powerful transmitter in the flight commander's ship gave the order to
lift.
The center ship, bearing the red circle of Mars with the five stars
ringing it, lifted first, followed by the next concentric ring of ships.
The third ring followed in close formation and then the last. In
a great space cone, the flight closed into tighter formation and
streaked straight upward and out of sight.
Stellor Downing was on his way to Terra.
* * * * *
Flight Commander Clifford Lane was driven onto Venusport in a
cream-colored roadster that was either spotless enamel or mirror-finish
chromium as far as the eye could reach. In the car with Cliff Lane
were four women whose glitter was no less flagrant than the car's. The
slight olive-tint to their skin made their very white teeth flash in
the sunshine as they smiled at their passenger.
This was Venus--living at its highest temperature. The car rolled to a
stop beside Cliff Lane's command and they all climbed out. It was with
a generous display of well-browned skin.
Lane's costume was no less scanty than the women's. The modine over
his right hip was chased with silver and engraved, the holster was
hand-tooled and studded with five small emeralds.
"What are you going for?" asked one of the women.
"Don't you know?" teased the one beside her. "Cliff is going to Terra
to court Patricia Kennebec."
"I think we should kidnap him."
"You'd be sorry," laughed Cliff, waving the official order in front of
her.
"Maybe we can bribe him. Tell you what, Cliff, you get this job done
and you'll probably get a promotion. If you do, we'll all chip in and
get that insignia on your modine holster changed to six full stars.
But to do it you'll have to come back to us--single."
Cliff laughed. "And if it takes me more than six months, you'll all be
off elsewhere."
"But what's Patricia got that we haven't?" wailed one.
"Him," grinned another.
"No, we've got him--now."
"Any time someone wants something else, you might as well give it to
them, because they'll get it one way or another."
"Look, kids," interrupted Lane, "we've been talking this up and down
for three hours. Now it's time to take off. Scram, like good little
lovelies."
Cliff bade them a proper good-by and herded them back into the car.
It started and rolled slowly away amid feminine calls. Its course was
erratic, for the driver was handling the car by instinct; her head
being turned back over the front seat to watch Lane, too. Had she been
on a road instead of a broad, shining expanse of tarmacadam, trouble
would have met her more than half-way.
Cliff waved a last good-by and turned to face a group of
kine-photographers. "Hi, Hal. Hello, fellers."
"Hey, Cliff, will you wipe your puss or don't you care if Venus sees
their Favorite Son in lipstick?"
Lane laughed and wiped. "On me it doesn't look good," he agreed.
"What'll you have?"
"We'd like shots of you giving the last order, entering the ship, and
then wait until we can get set up on the edge of the field. We want a
pan shot of the command hitting the ether."
"O.K. That we can do."
He turned to the group of unit commanders and said, "The usual,
fellows. Straight up and away. Hey, Hal, pan the gang, will you? As a
hotshot I'm slightly cool if they aren't behind me."
"Great stuff," grinned Hal. The kinephotogs spread out, took their
shots, and then closed up for the final order. As the space door
clanged shut, they raced for the edge of the field and waited.
With an instantaneous rush, the lead ship, bearing the green triangle
of Venus surrounded by the five stars of the flight commander, took off
in a slight swirl of airswept dust. Then at a separation of exactly
three tenths of a second, the other twenty-four ships leaped into the
sky and formed a long spiral in space.
The specks that were lost in the sky were Clifford Lane and his command
heading for Terra.