"Anywhere," Glayne replied. "Anywhere, just so long as we get far
enough out of this system to drop into sub-space." He rubbed his
bristly chin for a moment, thinking. "Make it eight G's," he added.
Graysen acknowledged and turned away. Almost immediately the inert
screens were dropped and a floor began to build under Glayne's feet. By
the time he had mounted to the Captain's Station, he was panting with
effort. Automatically he jabbed an anti-thrust surette into his arm and
felt his muscles relax instantaneously under the influence of the magic
drug.
The inter-ship communicator phones gurgled over his head for a couple
of seconds, then Brodis' voice issued from the speaker: "The General
is floating up to his ears in verchromynal, Captain. They're putting
his face back together right now. Give the word and I'll go to work on
him, thrust or no thrust."
"No," Glayne replied. "We'll make sub-space in a few hours. Then we'll
have all the time we need to pump him. And, Lieutenant...."
"Sir?"
"Prepare the General's very own treatments for him."
Brodis paused for an appreciable instant, then said, "Right, Captain,"
and cut off.
Glayne watched the globe of Sterle II diminish in his battle screen
with deep satisfaction. The first step in his plan had been carried
off with miraculous good fortune. Now the most pressing necessity was
speed. Once the _Algol_ was sufficiently far from mass to drop into
sub-space, the mysterious power source of the Delbans would be only
a couple of hours distant at the most. With Ganser under control and
acting as a safe conduct, Glayne saw success dangling just within his
fingers.
Yet deep within his nether-mind he felt a twinge of foreboding--as
if he had forgotten some vital factor in his calculations. The dim
awareness was almost on the threshold of prescience, but it was too
indistinct for him to make out clearly. Uneasily he sought to ignore it
but could not.