"Good!"
"It could be better. I'd hoped that they would be mere opposing
personalities. It is not necessary that people of opposite personality
be bitter rivals for everything."
"But the greater the opposing forces, the greater the strength of the
mental field."
"In this case," said Toralen Ki thoughtfully, "they insist upon
including a third party, of equal rank, to act as referee, or mediator.
It will be his task to keep the Opposites from fighting one another."
"They were quite concerned?"
"Definitely. It was most difficult to convey to them the fact that the
future of their--and all, for that matter--race depends upon absolute
co-operation between the mental opposites we have picked."
"Once the suppressor is destroyed, communication with this race will be
easy. Then they can be told."
Toralen Ki shook his head. "Fate is like that. To carry out the plan
properly, they must co-operate. In order to tell them what they must
do, the suppressor must first be destroyed. And were it not for the
suppressor in the first place, the mental capability of this race would
require no assistance from the like of you and I or any other member of
any other race. The Loard-vogh were very brilliant, Hotang Lu. To hurl
suppressors of mental energy through the Galaxy was a stroke of genius."
* * * * *
Hotang Lu smiled sourly. "I suppose it is a strange trick of fate to
have the fate of the entire Galaxy hanging upon an act of co-operation
between two bitter rivals. Especially when the means to explain fully
also hangs upon the outcome of their co-operation. I am reminded of an
incident in my boyhood. I sought work. I had no experience. They wanted
men with experience. In order to get the experience I must work--but
they wouldn't put me to work without experience. But it will be easier
once the initial step is taken," said Hotang Lu.
"I know it will. It will be so much easier once they understand our
motives, at least. Had they proved non-co-operative, we would have
been completely stopped. As it is now, we can foresee the proper
culmination of all of our plans. We will win, yet!"
"To our ultimate victory," said Hotang Lu, taking a sip from the tall
tube before him. Toralen Ki followed the other, echoing the words.
"It is fortunate that they have evolved as far as they have," said
Toralen Ki, after the toast. "Dealing with a completely ignorant race
is more difficult. These people have a proper evaluation of technical
ideas. Therefore they will understand the proper course without having
it forced down their collective throats."
"With their already available knowledge of the super drive, it
indicates their ability. Have they colonized any of the nearer stellar
systems yet?"
"Several. But the urge is not quite universal, yet. Only the
adventurers and the malcontents seem to go. They will spread though, if
they're not stopped within a reasonable time."
"Time.... Time--" muttered Hotang Lu. "Always time. Must we fight time
forever?"
"Fighting time is most difficult when you are behind," remarked Toralen
Ki. "When you are ahead, it is no longer a fight."
"We must move swiftly and yet we can do nothing to cause haste.
Confound it, must a man always be pinched between the urgency and the
impossible?"
"Certainly. It makes one feel the ease of life during the times of
no-stress."
"Some day I hope to see a period of no-stress that is longer than one
tenth the duration of the trouble before and after it."
"You may," smiled Toralen Ki. "But there will be no after."
"Gloomy thought. I'll forget it, thank you. But to change the gloomy
subject, I suggest that we contact Tlembo and let our ruler know that
we have, in part, been successful."
"Right. I wish we were artists. So much can be conveyed to others by
mere pictures."
Hotang Lu shook his head. "How could you possibly sketch the operation
of a suppressor? Perhaps _they_ could do it, for they seem to have
advanced the art of thought-conveyance through pictures to a high
degree. But recall that no Tlemban ever considered the art a necessary
one and so we lack the technique."
"I know."
"After we contact Tlembo, when can we say we are to start?"
"I think they convey something about two days. We await the arrival of
the contingents from the other planets."
"More time wasted."
"Think of the eons before this and the eons that will follow. And then
think of how utterly minute your two days are. They will arrive, but
quickly enough."
* * * * *
Flight Commander Cliff Lane heard the recognition gear tick off, and he
whirled to look at the scanning plate. "The devil," he growled.
"Sir?
"What is he doing here?"
"I don't understand, sir."
Cliff smiled wryly. "Sorry. I thought this would be more or less
pleasant."
"Isn't it?"
"That trace," he said, pointing to the squiggle on the scanning plate,
"happens to be the recognition trace of no one other than Stellor
Downing."
"Oh," said the orderly. "I didn't know."
Lane grinned. "Then you're the only one that doesn't. Any of the rest
of this outfit know it on sight. Take a good look at it, Timmy, and the
next time you see it, do your best to do whatever that is doing, but do
it quicker, neater, and with more flourish. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Lane strode into the operations room, and looked over the plotter's
shoulder. "What's he doing, Link?"
Lincoln made some calculations on a paper, plunked the keys on his
computer for a moment and then came up with an equation. He showed it
to Lane with a grimace.
"Landing," said Lane cryptically.
Lincoln nodded.
"Can we beat him in?"
"I think so--if we get the jump on him."
"There are just two landing circles on Mojave that aren't dusty," said
Lane. "One of them is not far from the field office building. The other
takes a full hour of travel before you can check in. I don't like to
walk."
"Right. I'll see what we can do."
"Good."
One-tenth of a light-second away, an aide entered Stellor Downing's
cabin. "Recognition, sir," he said. "Flight Commander Lane, from Venus.
I thought you'd like to know."
"What's his course?" clipped Downing.
"Mojave."
"Tell the tech to drop interferers. Tell navigator to correct course
for blitz-landing, and tell pilot to streak for landing Circle One.
Also broadcast crash-warning."
"Right. We're going in if we have to collide to do it, sir?"
"We'll have no collision. Lane wouldn't care to scrape any of his
nicely painted little toys."
"On the roger," said the aide, leaving immediately.
Two flights of ships changed course.
* * * * *
Down on Mojave, in the control and operations tower, signal officer
Clancey's face popped with beads of cold sweat. He sat down heavily in
a chair and:
"Tony! Get me the chief!"
"What's wrong, sir?" asked Tony.
"This desert ain't a big enough landing field to take on Lane and
Downing. Not all at once."
"Lane and Downing!" Tony streaked for the telephone. He called, and
handed the phone to Clancey, who plugged it into his switchboard,
putting it on his own headset so that he could hear both the chief and
the operations.
"Chief. Look, this is too hot to handle. Lane and Downing are both
heading for Mojave."
"I know."
"Do you?" asked Clancey sarcastically. "They're heading for Mojave.
They're racing for Number One. And they're due to arrive within three
or four milliseconds of one another!"
"Hell's Rockets!" exploded the chief. "Get 'em on the air and tell 'em
they're under orders."
"There isn't any air. One of 'em dropped interferers."
"Official?"
"Unofficial."
"O.K. Record the fact and then go out and watch. It's out of your hands
if they can't hear you. As long as you have a record of interference
it's not your cookie. It belongs to them."
"Mind if I head for a bomb-shelter?" grinned Clancey.
"Oh, they're both smart. That's one fight that never hit an innocent
bystander."
"--yet," added Clancey.
"Well--?"
"It might be the first time I died, too," objected Clancey.
"You don't want to live forever, do you?"
"Wouldn't mind."
"Nuts. There must be something good about dying. Everybody does it."
"But only one; never again."
"Well, play it your way. I sort of wish I could be there to watch, too."
"Just tell mother I died game. So long, chief. I hear music in the air
right now, and hell will pop directly."
* * * * *
Like twin, high-velocity jets of water, the two space flights came
together, rebounded off of their individual barrier-layers and mingled
in a jarring maze of whirling ships. In a shapeless pattern they
whirled, and they might have whirled shapelessly all the way to Mojave,
except for one item.
From Downing's lead ship there stabbed one of the heavy dymodine beams,
its danger area marked with the characteristic heterodyne of light.
It thrust a pale green finger into the sky before it, and as it came
around, the other ships moved aside. That was the breaker. The flights
reformed into twin interlocked spirals that thrust against one another
with pressors and tore at one another with tractors in an effort to
break up the other's flight.