Like a contracting funnel, the Solar Guard closed down on the catman
ship. They crowded the catman spacer, forced him into a pocket, and
then started to drive him their way.
But unlike a pocketed ship, the catman slashed back. An invisible beam
came from somewhere on the craft. It slashed out, closed down upon a
midsection of the nearest Solar Guard, and ripped the belly out of the
ship. It was both brutal and sickening. One moment the Solarian craft
was forcing the catman ship to give space or collide. The next moment
the midsection had been gouged away; ripped out as with a vicious claw
or a set of cruel, gigantic teeth. The crushed midsection was flung
free of the stricken craft and as the ship collapsed over its open
belly, and died, the catman slashed at another and another of the
Solarians.
"Superdrive!" exploded Lane.
The slashing catman got one more ship before the Solar Guard went
into the superdrive and raced away.
"Did you record that?" asked Lane.
"Tried to. The recorder blew."
"So did all of them. Creepers! What a nasty thing to have around."
Thompson said: "One of my techs is repairing a recorder now. He thinks
he can give the wave analysis."
"How?"
"He finds that certain of the crystalline structures in the wave
recorder are de-crystallized."
"Meaning what?" demanded Lane.
"Meaning that certain frequencies hit the nuclear resonance of the
crystalline structures. I'll let you know."
"Let us know quick," said Downing. "If we can analyze it, we can either
reproduce it or shield against it."
"Cats at seven o'clock, forty degrees!" exploded the observer in Lane's
ship.
"Anywhere else?" demanded Lane.
No answer.
"Fight 'em," snapped Lane.
There were six catmen converging on Lane's command. The rest of
the Solar crew flung around and headed for the local fight. Lane's
dymodines flashed out and were stopped cold by barriers.
"Crash stations!" ordered Lane. "Prepare for total destruction!"
The six catmen got above Lane's ship and drove him downward with
pressors and an occasional light--it must have been very light--touch
of the belly-tearing beam. Above the six were the sixty-odd Solarians
fighting to get through and fighting a useless battle.
* * * * *
"We can't damage 'em," snarled Lane. "Superdrive--right through 'em!"
He almost made it. His ship rammed up under the stellar drive, came
level with the screen of catmen, and almost made it through. But four
of them reached forth with the belly-tearing beams and took separate
parts of his ship. The warning creak of plates caused the pilot to stop.
Lane's ship was thrust down below again.
"Superdrive--away!"
Lane's ship turned and dropped.
The action was too fast for the Solarian crew, and he left them far
behind. But the catmen were right with him all the way.
"Cut it," said Lane in a tired voice. "Let 'em play. Save our strength
for later when we can do something."
They went inert. No drive, no sign of fight, no objection.
A side-force hit them, slapping the ship sidewise about fifty feet. It
jarred the ship's delicate mechanisms into a short fluster of unreal
alarms and ringing signals, but the sturdy stuff was not permanently
damaged.
Still no response from Cliff's ship.
They poked him down brutally with a pressor and then jerked him back up
again.
More alarms and more nosebleed among the crew.
They caught the ship in force-zones and played catch with it from one
catman to the other, poking and thrusting. They ripped off one of the
turrets with the snatcher.
Then they stopped. And they waited. Quietly they hung above Lane's
ship, watching, watching, watching.
A full, solid, nerve-breaking hour they waited, and the men in Lane's
ship waited, wondering.
"Try it!" snapped Lane.
The ship leaped into motion, driving to one side.
Snatchers raced out and caught the fleeing ship, dragged it back, and
again they went through the pushing, pulling, tossing program. And then
again they stopped with a few, final perfunctory pokes and shoves.
"They're catmen, all right," snarled Lane.
The rest of the Solar Guard came up, and once more they tried to break
through the screen to free Lane's ship. Lane shook his head. "Pilot.
How long under superdrive before we hit the speed of light?"
"Seven minutes."
"Then drive straight down. I don't think any beam can exceed the speed
of light. Once we get up there, they can't reach forward after us, at
least."
Lane's ship dropped. And the catmen followed, maintaining their
distance with superior balance and accuracy. A minute passed. Two.
Three. Four. Five. And then at an even six, a snatcher reached forward
and took Lane's ship by the empennage and shook it enough to rend a few
seams.
"O.K., cut it," he said wearily. "I wonder what they want of us beside
to play cat-and-mouse?"
There were three more sessions of the cat-and-mouse trick, separated by
hour intervals. Then the six catmen, their nature satisfied, took hold
of Lane's ship in a cluster of snatcher beams. Lane heard the plates
give as the fields-of-focus closed down.
He closed his eyes, breathed a short prayer, and waited.
* * * * *
Stellor Downing called Thompson. "Back to One," he said.
"Giving up?"
"Can you think of anything to do?"
"No."
"Well, let's get back where we can plan."
Thompson assented. It was reluctant, however, and a day later, when
they landed on One at their camp, he faced Downing. "Sort of solves
your problem, doesn't it?"
"Look," snapped Stellor Downing. "I've got a few feelings and a number
of nerves. Lane and I were not deeply in love with one another. Yes,
it solves a lot of problems, Thompson, but don't taunt me about it, or
I'll take a modine to your throat, see?"
"We might have tried again," insisted Thompson.
"We might have tried for a month. We couldn't even touch them. If
you're intimating that I gave up quick--?"
"You weren't leaning over backwards."
"Quoting an old, famous fable, 'sometimes it is better to fall flat on
your face.'"
"Meaning?"
"We've got whole skins. They were after captives, not meat. They wanted
the same thing we do but they got 'em first."
"So?"
"So we take whatever wave analysis we have and try to figure 'em out.
If we can reproduce any of that stuff, we'll go back."
"Hm-m-m."
"Look, Thompson, as far as this job is concerned, your job of keeping
Lane and myself out of one another's hair is over. One head of hair is
gone, see."
"And what do you intend to do about it?"
"I intend to carry on. Now forget about the fact that a personal grudge
of mine has been taken out of my hands and let's get on to working out
some means of fighting back. Lane is gone. I'm trying not to gloat. But
you're not helping. So stop it."
* * * * *