Ben Williamson sat bolt upright in his chair and listened to the faint
piping whistle that came through the communicator along with the sounds
from the communications office. He snapped the button calling for
silence in order to hear better, and then scratched his head in wonder.
"Executive to Communications and Pilot: Tune in that signal better and
get a fix on it. Prepare to follow the fix."
"Received," came the laconic reply, and then the less formal: "What's
in the sky, Ben?"
"Whether you know it or not, that signal was Guy Maynard's private
sign."
"I thought so," said the communications officer. "I wasn't certain."
"We'll not court-martial you for that," laughed Ben. "After all, you
didn't know Maynard personally."
"Right. I didn't know him at all. But this fix--I've got it."
"Can you get range and possible track?"
"Fairly well." There was silence for several minutes and then the
communications officer announced the figures concerning the distance
and probable course constants of the emitting source.
"Executive to Technician: Jimmy, have you got the cards on the
_Mardinex_ or did we put them in the morgue after we slipped her the
slug?"
"Still got 'em. BuSI thought we should keep 'em a bit just in case.
After all, the _Mardinex_ was a secret proposition and to remove her
cards from the Terran cardexes would be like the guy in that story."
"Which guy in what story."
"The fellow who suspected his neighbor of stealing his chickens just
because he found the neighbor garbaging chicken feathers and chicken
carcasses. They've made no announcement of the _Mardinex's_ failure
to return. To have Terra toss away the information that we have so
painstakingly gathered concerning her most intimate features would be
almost an open admission that Terra is not longer concerned about the
_Mardinex_."
"They couldn't prove a thing."
"No, but as the Chinese say: 'A wise man does not stoop to secure his
shoes in a melon patch nor adjust his hat under a cherry tree.' They
could trump up enough evidence to arouse their people if they could
prove our disinterest in some concrete manner. As it is, the whole
system knows that Terra still carries the cards of the _Mardinex_.
That's the one thing they've ascertained. We've got 'em all right."
"Good. Then as soon as we get close enough to that source, and the
spotters take hold, run the constants through the cardex."
"Good Sol, Ben. What do you expect?"
"Dunno. Couldn't be the _Mardinex_, of course. That couldn't possibly
be here and now. But--that was Maynard's sign and he may have survived
in some queer manner. We know that the _Mardinex_ carried lifeships."
* * * * *
Time passed as the destroyer accelerated constantly, reached turnover,
and began to decelerate toward the suspected position of the
signal-emitting object. Just after turnover the spotters took hold and
announced that the object was capable of being scanned and analyzed.
The whirr of the file as the cardex ran through the thousands of
minute cards filled the technician's office and came through the open
communicator. Then the attention bell tingled once, and the card that
matched the constants of the emitting object was slid from the file
into a projector. The micro-printing above the cardex pattern was
projected on the ground glass above the instrument and the technician
read it off in a flat voice.
"Fore lifeship--standard type from Martian space craft of the
_Mardinex_ class. One of six similar models placed in the upper
quadrant of the ship. These ships are capable of four gravities,
Terran, and are capable of making the one hundred million mile
trip. No armament as per agreements under the Eros Conference. Will
accommodate thirty passengers for a period of ninety days, Terran
without discomfort other than atmosphobia and the possibility of
avoirduphobia if the distance demands free flight for any period of
time. Equipped with spotter equipment and signaling equipment capable
of reaching interested searchers but not raising those whose equipment
is nondirective or whose directive equipment is pointed away from the
emitting source. Also equipped with complete spares for signaling
equipment--"
"That's enough," said Ben. "Executive to Turretman: Trim your autoMacs
and load the torpedo tubes. This may be a trap."
"Right," said Tim. "And according to Jimmy, they may be trying to see
how we react after a sign of the _Mardinex_'s lifeship pattern. They're
capable of duplicating that pattern, you know."
"We're going in there to win or lose," said Ben soberly. "No matter how
they take it, we're ready. Tim, put a remote arming fuse in one torp
and launch it right now. If this is trouble, we'll butter our chances.
If this is not trouble, we'll keep the arming signal running and
retrieve the torpedo. Right?"
"Received. Want it set to remain inert as long as the arming signal is
on?"
"That's the order."
The destroyer bucked slightly and Tim said: "She's off. Any time
anybody thinks we should let her roar, poke the arming button on the
panels."
Instinctively, Ben Williamson glanced at the minute pilot light that
gleamed faintly just above a button on the ordnance panel. It was the
left-most button of a row of twenty. By reaching out of his chair
with the right hand and leaning back so that his spine was arched
deeply, Williamson could touch the arming control. He nodded, and as
he watched, the panel below winked on, indicating that the turret was
ready for action. Beside it, the winking lights indicated that his
orders to load up the torpedo tubes had been conveyed to the tube crew.
A string of varicolored lights indicated a series of interferers and
space bombs that were being armed in the bomb bay. Williamson smiled.
Tim Monahan was an excellent ordnance officer; one who rode the turret
himself and directed the fire controls from there.
"Executive to Pilot: What's our position?"
"Twenty minutes from object."
"Ring the Action Alarm. Who knows--we may see action!"
"Turretman to Executive: Object sighted. Definitely a lifeship. Doesn't
look dangerous. Shall we take a chance?"
"Executive to Communications: Answer 'em on their band."
"Received. Ben, they went off the air as soon as I opened my
transmitter." There was some period of silence. "Communications to
Executive: Identifies himself as Guy Maynard. Says alone and safe. Cut
emitter to prevent curiosity on the part of Martian observers who may
be listening."
"Good fellow. He should be an Intelligence Officer. Tell him to prepare
for transshipping."
"He says that after a year in that sardine can, it can't be too quick.
Want him to jump?"
"Can he put on any speed?"
"His suit is still in partial operation. He can rev up about a G."
"Tell him to dive. We'll scoop him without trying to match speed."
* * * * *
Guy smiled vaguely. He made one last prayer that he could look as
starved for company as a man would after a year in that tiny ship. He
didn't stop to wonder why they'd asked him to dive. He merely prayed
that his story would be acted as convincingly as his forged diary
read. He'd partially committed that to memory; certain lapses would
be expected. It was good and it contained several references to ideas
for equipment which would help explain his sudden inventive streak. He
hugged the volume to him and dived out of the open space lock. Once
free of the ship, Guy turned the tiny driving fin on and he stood
upright on the soles of the spacesuit shoes.
And minutes later the destroyer arrowed silently past and a silent,
invisible tractor reached out and caught him in the focal area. It
stretched like a thin elastomer cord, invisible, and it accelerated him
gently as the destroyed sped on. He caught up with the destroyer and
was taken aboard just as the soundless gout of flame far below marked
the end of the lifeship.
"Why?" he asked patiently, shortly and tersely.
"Didn't care to leave any evidence for the Marties."
"Sort of got attached to it," said Guy.
"Could be, but one sight of that anywhere in the Solar System would
mean trouble. Evidence from the _Mardinex_, you know. Forget it,
Maynard. You're far more important. What happened, and how, and why?"
Maynard looked pained.
"Forget it, Guy. Obviously you had a tough time. Take your time about
telling us. What do you want most?"
Guy smiled shyly. "I thought about that a lot," he said slowly. "I
wanted steak and potatoes. I wanted cigarettes. I even thought of Laura
Greggor. I wanted.... Ben, I want everything, and in mass-production
lots."
"Steak and potatoes we can give you. Cigarettes we have in plenty.
A shower and a shave and a soft, well-made man-sized bed. Books and
pictures and a dollop of liquor, too. Candy, cigars, chewing gum, et
cetera. But the only female we have on board is cooky's pet hen. Like a
fresh egg?"
"Anything as long as it is not lonely," said Guy. "My throat is
slightly lame."
"I can imagine. Well, it's sick bay for you and we'll wait on you.
And--Guy, there'll be plenty of company." Ben snapped the general
communicator button and said: "Executive to crew: Junior Executive Guy
Maynard is aboard. He is to be shown every consideration, and it is
directed that each watch appoint three roving spacemen whose duties
will be to replace crew members who will visit Maynard. His stay in
sick bay is not quarantine."
"Williamson, I'll take that shower now. And then the steak. Got a
cigarette?"
As Maynard ignited the cigarette, he thought: Carefully prepared
evidence! How painstaking they were! Even the scratches on the wall
made so that the earlier ones would be made first. The millions of
fingerprints. And destroyed because it would be bad evidence against
us. Ironic. And yet--they might have missed something. And supposing
Williamson hadn't armed that torpedo but had taken the crate in to
Terra instead? Then Ertene's evidence would have been needed. We
couldn't have known--
"Now for that shower," he said to Ben. There was no use in deliberately
thinking of Ertene now. Forget it. To Ben he added: "Might run through
that log of mine. Gives you the story pretty well, and my voice-box is
still unused to talking much. I'm going, but I'll be back."
"Good thing you kept a log," said Ben. "It'll be most valuable evidence
for the investigation."
Investigation! Guy hadn't thought of that factor. Naturally he must
give his evidence before a court-martial, though he would by no means
be on trial. Yet, they were thorough and he prayed that he wouldn't
make the most unnoticed slip. They'd ply him with questions and watch
his answers. He was glad that he hadn't memorized the log by rote.
To repeat word for word certain parts would be expected, and to miss
completely other parts would be expected. There would even be parts he
had forgotten and parts too doleful for the mind to keep fresh.
Then Guy Maynard put it all aside. He forgot his troubles and his
worries, and gave himself up to the luxuries of civilization once
more. His act was most convincing. He ate with relish and smoked until
his throat was sore. He was reticent at the right time, and he made
it appear as though it had become habit with him to remain silent;
and also brought out the fact that his larynx was slightly unused to
exercise. He was glad to be home, though he deplored the destruction of
his lifeship--he spoke of it affectionately sometimes, other times he
outwardly hated the thought of it--because there were some experiments
uncompleted on it. They could be duplicated from the log, of course,
but the originals were priceless in his estimation--
* * * * *
And then the reaction really set in. Guy Maynard was home again.
Home, to Guy, was the ever-changing orientation of the starry sky and
the never constant gravity. He fingered the ordnance controls on the
destroyer with affection and realized that Ertene was long ago and far
away, and that his place was here, and that his life was geared to the
quick life of a spaceman in the Terran Space Patrol.
Peace was wonderful, of course, and at the time he wanted it
desperately. But now he realized that the excitement of living in a
system of planets offered more than the placid existence of Ertene with
its one moon and the occasional space trip.
In spite of the treaties and acceptance of peaceful measures made
on the part of the Martians, there was always the chance that some
underhanded move might be made. There was that edge to life; that fine,
razor-sharp edge of excitement and danger. Mars might make untoward
moves, but it was not all Mars' party. Terra made her own espionage and
operations tended to display her might to the Red Planet. Brushes that
never reached notice were always going on.
He permitted himself to wax enthusiastic over his being home again.
They never knew that it was not merely the release from space
loneliness but a return from a too long, too uneventful vacation.
He considered himself objectively one day after he found himself
looking forward to the return to Terra. The investigation did not
bother him; it was the question of whether his year of absence from the
service would cause him a year's loss in advancement. If it caused him
no loss, he would become a Senior Executive within a month or so after
his return. That would give him the right to captain a destroyer like
this one.
His interest and anxiousness to return to Terra had become honest. On
Ertene he had argued against it. Now he knew his mind and also knew
that Charalas had done the proper thing. He would not have remained on
Ertene. Some day the everlasting peace and quiet would get him, and
then there would have been trouble.
He owed them his life, and if some of the things in his log worked to
his own satisfaction, he owed them more than that. He'd keep their
secret; denying Terra the right to exploit Ertene was hard, but better
deny them that than to deny them the knowledge he had gained. Terra
would hold dominance over the Solar System without Ertene's presence;
though it was not without Ertene's help.
Poor Ertene. A sterile, placid life that was beginning to look pale
and uninteresting against the rugged, boisterous existence of men who
roamed the Solar System.
Let them have their stability. What was their history? A few thousand
years since the dawn of their written lore? Far greater than Sol's
though he had been loath to tell them that. At that time such an
admission was like admitting that one was but an adolescent. But it
was true. But in those thousands of years, had their science come a
comparable distance with Terra's?
And Guy knew why. With nothing to strive against, progress ceases.
He wondered whether the investigating committee would make an issue of
the fact that a junior executive had been so oblivious to his duty as
to permit capture by Martians. That was the only fly in his ointment,
the only point over which he worried. He felt that his capture could
have happened to anyone, and secretly he admired the bold stroke in the
light of how daring it had been for Mars to storm the very ramparts of
Sahara Base.
But investigating committees are strange things and their decisions are
often based on theory instead of action with no regard to circumstances.
That one minor point continued to worry him at times.
* * * * *
And then the destroyer dropped out of the sky onto Sahara Base, and Guy
Maynard stooped to pick up a handful of the soil of Terra. He shook it
in the sky and rubbed it into his hands. He smelled of it and exhaled
deeply. Then, still holding a bit of it, he faced the sector commander
who was waiting for him in the command car.
The commander smiled curtly and said: "Junior Executive Maynard, you
are to speak to no one. You are technically not under arrest, nor are
you to be placed in that light. However a violation of the order to
discuss nothing with anyone will lead to arrest."
"How long is this quarantine going to last, sir?"
"Not too long. The Board of Investigation will convene tomorrow. At
that time we will decide your future."
Maynard entered the command car and they drove off silently. He was
thinking: One more hurdle. If I can make it--
His dreams were troubled that night. There was nothing definite about
them; they were kaleidoscopic in nature and Charalas whirled in and
out of them along with Greggor of the Bureau of Exploration and Laura
Greggor. In these dreams he was the central figure; a pitiful, unarmed
being that could not strike back against the pointed questions that
they hurled at him. He was mired in a black mess of intrigue that would
follow him forever. And only by living in constant guardedness would he
be safe.
For once the hurdle of the investigation was passed, there would be no
recanting.
God help him if after he perjured himself they found out that his tale
had been designed to cover a definite breach of his own oath.
It was the price he would pay for the success that Ertene's science
would bring him.
Yet he knew that if he continued as he had started, he would be all
right. To be convincing in a lie, he knew that the first problem was to
convince himself.
And so Guy Maynard went into the Board of Investigation almost
self-convinced that his year of loneliness was a fact.
He didn't dare consider the future if he failed to convince the Board.
Not only for himself, but for Ertene and Terra both. They--he dropped
the awful possibility there. He stiffened his resolve and thrust the
thought from his mind. There must be no slip.
So with a part of his mind fighting to keep from viewing utter chaos,
and another part of his mind telling him that he was hiding his head in
the sand like an ostrich, Guy Maynard entered the large room with the
silent, waiting men.
He swallowed deeply as he noted the weight of the platinum braid and he
took his appointed position with a qualm of misgiving.