_In all Creation, Bigboss knew there
was nothing superior to him. Yet a nagging
in his memory drums hinted that somewhere
were creatures who challenged his rule._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories August 1963.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"The way this thing shapes up," Director Gabe Randall of the Bureau
of Interstellar Exploration was saying in his usual manner of
understatement, "it will be our most important trouble-shooting
mission to date."
He stood cranelike, one leg hooked over a corner of the desk, as he
whacked his thigh with an illuminated indicator rod. With purposeful
eyes, he sized up the other three men in the briefing room. Lean and
alert, he held himself straight against the encroachment of age that
was evident in a fully white shock of hair and a brow furrowed with
decades of executive responsibility.
"I suppose," he digressed, smiling, "that we'll have to get along
without our Maid of the Megacycles."
Dave Stewart, Randall's assistant, glanced at the empty chair. "Carol
said she'd be along shortly." Actually, she hadn't. But, if the
situation were reversed, she'd cover for him.
"Woman's prerogative," the director observed, shrugging phlegmatically.
"Gentlemen, I submit that the greatest deterrent to progress in BIE is
the fact that direct radio empathy can be developed only in women--and
young ones at that."
But Stewart recognized the imperceptible jocularity in the other's
stare. It contrasted the sobriety with which he had said only a moment
earlier that the nature of the mission required top personnel.
At half the director's age, Stewart had earned his recognition
as logical successor to the seat of executive authority. And, in
Carol Cummings, Randall had selected the most capable radio empathy
specialist BIE had produced in years. The prettiest, too, he added as
an afterthought.
But there you could draw the line. Below was the _Photon II's_ crew.
At 44, Nat McAllister, pilot, was well past the age when he might look
forward to a supervisory position, thanks to a rash of bad-judgment
accidents and a general absence of ambition. And Ship Systems Officer
Mortimer, ten years younger, seemed anchored to his niche by an equal
measure of minimum ability--if not by the sheer weight of his two
hundred and fifty pounds.
"Top" personnel for a "priority" job? Stewart shook his head dubiously.
* * * * *
Randall rapped the desk and the sharp sound snapped McAllister's chin
from his chest, where it had gradually descended.
"Since it appears we'll continue to be disfavored by Miss Cummings'
absence," the director resumed, "we'll proceed."
He touched a button and darkness filled the room. Another stud hurled
into existence a ten-foot sphere of galactic luminosity, ablaze with
motes of scattered brilliance.
Stewart located the co-ordinate axes and traced them to Sol. Nearby
was Centauri, ringed with a halo to signify location of Headquarters,
Bureau of Interstellar Exploration. Mortimer's corpulent face took
on a Buddha-like appearance in the illumination from Alpha Hyades,
hovering near his left cheek.
"All right, Stewart," Randall gestured with his rod. "Suppose you
identify that star immediately behind your shoulder for McAllister and
Mortimer's benefit."
"Alpha Tauri."
"Right. Aldebaran--where you made a telepuppet drop on Four-B two years
ago."
"Just before Harlston and I pushed on out to explore beyond Aldebaran."
Randall directed his next words at the pilot and ship systems officer.
"What Stewart did not know as he ranged outward was that the Aldebaran
telepuppet team, for some reason, stopped transmitting--less than a
year after the drop."
Stewart finger-combed a spray of blond hair off his forehead. In the
pseudo galactic illumination his face, tanned from exposure to a score
of suns radiating heavily in the ultraviolet range, appeared cinnamon
in hue.
Randall glanced back at him. "Tell them what we're going to do on this
mission."
"Unknot the puppet strings," he said laconically, becoming impatient
with his dutiful recitation to enlighten the other two.
The director glanced off to his right, eyebrow raised to compound
the eternal ridges of his forehead. "I see we've got our Maid of the
Megacycles with us at last. Couldn't you tear yourself away from a
Terracast, Miss Cummings? Or did you bring it along?"
Carol advanced through a patch of projected galactic nebulosity. Ebon
hair sheening with the reflected glow, she smiled saucily and tapped
her temple. "It so happens I _am_ peeking in on a videocast," she
bantered. "And I'm learning more about what's behind this briefing than
if I'd been here all along."
Groping for her chair, she weaved between the steady, cold points of
suspended light that represented Epsilon Scorpii and Eta Orphiuchi.
"Don't look now, Chief," she added, winking, "but I'm afraid this
newscast shows you've got a leak in your bureau."
Stewart caught her arm and guided her toward the chair. His hand held
the coarse texture of fatigue coveralls that did little to obscure the
shapeliness of her lithe, five-foot-four form.
She returned his greeting with a spirited, "Hi, glad to have you
aboard. Not planning to lead us off on a two-year jaunt?"
Randall tapped the desk with his rod. "If Miss Cummings is willing to
forego informalities, we can get along with our briefing."
McAllister tossed his head erect, but started nodding again almost
immediately. Mortimer looked up tolerantly from contemplation on the
orbiting of one of his stout thumbs around the other.
The director touched another button and the celestial sphere expanded
to twice its diameter, encompassing another seventy light-years in all
directions. "Again, directly behind you, Stewart, is--what?"