Since the tests took much time, and were strictly routine in nature,
there is no need to go into them in detail. At their conclusion, Garlock
said:
"First: either Jim alone, or Lola alone, or Jim and Lola together, can
hit any destination within any galaxy, but can't go from one galaxy to
another.
"Second: either Belle or I, or any combination containing either of us
without the other, has no control at all.
"Third: Belle and I together, or any combination containing both of us,
can go intergalactic under control.
"In spite of confession being supposed to be good for the soul, I don't
like to admit that we've put gravel in the gear-box--do you, Belle?"
Garlock's smile was both rueful and forced.
"You can play _that_ in spades." Belle licked her lips; for the first
time since boarding the starship she was acutely embarrassed. "We'll
have to, of course. It was all my fault--it makes me look like a damned
stupid juvenile delinquent."
"Not by nineteen thousand kilocycles, since neither of us had any idea.
I'll be glad to settle for half the blame."
* * *
"Will you please stop talking Sanskrit?" James asked. "Or lep it, so we
two innocent bystanders can understand it?"
"Will do," and Garlock went on in thought. "Remember what I said about
this drive not being conditioned to anything? I was wrong. Belle and I
have conditioned it, but badly. We've been fighting so much that
something or other in that mess down there has become conditioned to
her; something else to me. My part will play along with anyone except
Belle; hers with anybody except me. Anti-conditioning, you might call
it. Anyway, they lay back their ears and balk."
"Oh, hell!" James snorted. "Talk about gobbledygook! You are still
saying that that conglomeration of copper and silver and steel and
insulation that we built ourselves has got intelligence, and I still
won't buy it."
"By no means. Remember, Jim, that this concept of mechanical
teleportation, and that the mind is the only possible controller, are
absolutely new. We've got to throw out all previous ideas and start new
from scratch. I postulate, as a working hypothesis drawn from original
data as modified by these tests, that that particular conglomeration of
materials generates at least two fields about the properties of which we
know nothing at all. That one of those properties is the tendency to
become preferentially resonant with one mind and preferentially
non-resonant with another. Clear so far?"
"As mud. It's a mighty tough blueprint to read." James scowled in
thought. "However, it's no harder to swallow than Sanderson's Theory of
Teleportation. Or, for that matter, the actual basic coupling between
mind and ordinary muscular action. Does that mean we'll have to rebuild
half a million credits' worth of ... no, you and Belle can work it,
together."
"I don't know." Garlock paced the floor. "I simply can't see any
_possible_. mechanism of coupling."
"Subconscious, perhaps," Belle suggested.
"For my money that whole concept is invalid," Garlock said. "It merely
changes 'I don't know' to 'I can't know' and I don't want any part of
that. However, 'unconscious' could be the answer ... if so, we may have
a lever.... Belle, are you willing to bury your hatchet for about five
minutes--work with me like a partner ought to?"
"I certainly am, Clee. Honestly. Screens down flat, if you say so."
"Half-way's enough, I think--you'll know when we get down there." Her
mind joined his and he went on, "Ignore the machines themselves
completely. Consider only the fields. Feel around with me--keep
tuned!--see if there's anything at all here that we can grab hold of and
manipulate, like an Op field except probably very much finer. I'll be
completely damned if I can see how this type of Gunther generator can
put out a manipulable field, but it must. That's the only--O-W-R-C-H-H!"
This last was a yell of pure mental agony. Both hands flew to his head,
his face turned white, sweat poured, and he slumped down unconscious.
He came to, however, as the other three were stretching him out on a
davenport. Belle was mopping his face with a handkerchief.
"What happened, Clee?" All three were exclaiming at once.
"I found my manipulable field, but a bomb went off in my brain when I
straightened it out." He searched his mind anxiously, then smiled. "But
no damage done--just the opposite. It opened up a Gunther cell I didn't
know I had. Didn't it sock you, too, Belle?"
"Uh-uh," she said, more than half bitterly. "I must not have one. That
makes you a Super-Prime, if I may name a new classification."
"Nonsense! Of course you've got it. Unconscious, of course, like me, but
without it you couldn't have conditioned the field. But why.... Oh, what
bit me was the one conditioned to me."
"Oh, nice!" Belle exclaimed. "Come on, Clee--let's go get mine!"
"Do you want a bit of knowledge _that_ badly, Belle?" Lola asked.
"Besides, wait, he isn't strong enough yet."
"Of course he's strong enough. A little knock like that? _Want_ it! I'd
give my right leg and ... and almost _anything_ for it. It didn't kill
him, so it won't kill me."
"There may be an easier way," Garlock said. "I wouldn't wish a jolt like
that onto my worst enemy. But that had two hundred kilovolts and four
hundred kilogunts behind it. Since I know now where and what the cell
is, I think I can open it up for you without being quite so rough."
"Oh, lovely. Come in, quick! I'm ready now."
* * *
Garlock went in; and wrought. It took longer--half an hour, in fact--but
it was very much easier to take.
"What did it feel like, Belle?" Lola asked, eagerly. "You winced like he
was drilling teeth and struck a couple of nerves."
"Uh-uh. More like being stretched all out of shape. Like having a child,
maybe, in a small way. Let's go, Clee!"
They joined up and went.
"Ha, _there_ you are, you cantankerous little fabrication of nothings!"
Belle said aloud, in a low, throaty, gloating voice. "Take _that_--and
_that_! And now behave yourself. If you don't, mama spank--but _good_!"
Then, breaking connection, "Thanks a million, Clee; you're tall, solid
gold. Do you want to run some more tests, to see which of us is the
intergalactic transporter?"
"Not unless you do."
"Who, me? I'll be tickled to death not to; just like I'd swallowed an
ostrich feather. Back to Tellus, then?"
"Tellus, here we come," Garlock said. "Jim, what are the Tellurian
figures for exactly five hundred miles up?"
"I'll punch 'em--got 'em in my head." James did so. "Shall Brownie and I
set our blocks?"
"No," Belle said. "Nothing can interfere with us now."
"Ready." Garlock sat down in the pilot's seat. "Cluster 'round, chum."
* * *
Belle leaned against the back of the chair and put both arms around
Garlock's neck. "I'm clustered."
"The spot we're shooting at is exactly over the exact center of the
middle blast-pit at Port Gunther. In sync?"
"To a skillionth of a whillionth of a microphase. I'm _exactly_ on and
locked. Shoot."
"Now, you sheet-iron bucket of nuts and bolts, _jump_!" and Garlock
snapped the red switch.
Earth lay beneath them. So did Port Gunther.
"Hu-u-u-uh!" Garlock's huge sigh held much more of relief than of
triumph.
"They did it! We're home!" Lola shrieked; and, breaking into unashamed
and unrestrained tears, went into her husband's extended arms.
"Cry ahead, sweet. I'd bawl myself if Garlock wasn't looking. Maybe I
will, anyway," James said. Then, extending his right arm to Garlock and
to Belle, "I was scared to death you couldn't make it except by back
tracking. Good going, you two Primes," but his thoughts said vastly more
than his words.
Belle's eyes, too, were wet; Garlock's own were not quite dry.
"You weren't as sure as you looked, then, that we could do it the hard
way," Belle said. "All inside, I was one quivering mass of jelly."
"Afterward, you mean. You were solid as Gibraltar when I fired the
charge. You're the kind of woman a man wants with him when the going's
tough. Slide around here a little, so I can get hold of you."
Garlock released Belle--finally--and turned to the pilot, who was just
pulling a data-sheet from Compy the Computer. "How far did we miss
target, Jim?"
* * *
James held up his right hand, thumb and forefinger forming a circle.
"You're one point eight seven inches high, and off center point five
three inches to the north northeast by east. I hereby award each of you
the bronze medal of Marksman First. Shall I take her down now or do you
want to check in from here first?"
"Neither ... I think. What do you think, Belle?"
"Right. Not until you-know-what."
"Check. Until we decide whether or not to let them know just yet that we
can handle the ship. If we do, how many of our taped reports we turn in
and how many we toss down the chute."
"I get it!" James exclaimed, with a spreading grin. "_That_, my dear
people, is something I never expected to live long enough to see--our
straight-laced Doctor Garlock applying the Bugger Factor to a research
problem!"
"I prefer the term 'Monk's Coefficient,' myself," Garlock said, "from
the standpoint of mathematical rigor."
"At Polytech we called it 'Finagle's Formula'," Belle commented. "The
most widely applicable operator known."
"Have you three lost your minds?" Lola demanded. "That's nothing to joke
about--you wouldn't destroy official reports! All that astronomy and
anthropology that nobody ever even dreamed of before? You _couldn't_!
Not _possibly_!"
"Each of us knows just as well as you do how much data we have, exactly
how new and startling it is; but we've thought ahead farther than you
have. None of us likes the idea of destroying it a bit better than you
do. We won't, either, without your full, unreserved, wholehearted
consent, nor without your fixed, iron-clad, unshakable determination
never to reveal any least bit of it."
"That language is far too strong for me. I'd like to be able to go along
with you, but on those terms, I simply can't."
"I think you can, when you've thought it through. You've met Alonzo P.
Ferber, haven't you? Read him?"
"One glimpse; that was all I could stand. He pawed me mentally and
wanted to paw me physically, the first time I ever saw him."
"Check. So I'm going to ask you two questions, which you may answer as
an anthropologist, as Lola Montandon, as Mrs. James James James the
Ninth, as a member of our team, or as any other character you choose to
assume. Remembering that Ferber's a Gunther First--and pretends to be an
Operator whenever he can get away with it--should he, or anyone like
him, _ever_ be allowed to visit Hodell? Second question: if there is any
possible way for him to get there, can he be made to stay away?"
"Oh ... Grand Lady Neldine and that perfectly stunning Grand Lady Lemphi
they picked out for Jim ... they're such _nice_ people ... and the
Gunther genes...." As Lola thought on, her expressive face showed a
variety of conflicting emotions before it hardened into decision. "The
answer to both questions--the only possible answer--is no. I subscribe;
on the exact terms you stipulated. And you don't believe, Clee, that my
thesis had anything to do with my holding out at first?"
"Certainly I don't. Besides...."
"What thesis?" Belle asked.
* * *
"For my Ph.D. in anthropology. I thought I had it made, but it just went
down the chute. And I don't know if any of you realize just how nearly
impossible it is to make a really worthwhile original contribution to
science in that field."
"As I started to tell you, Brownie," Garlock said, "I don't think you've
lost a thing. There's a bigger and better one coming up."
"_What_?"
"Sh-h-h-h," Belle stage-whispered. "He's got a theory--such a weirdie
that he won't talk about it to anybody."
"It isn't a theory yet--at least, not ripe enough to pick--but it's
something more than a hunch," Garlock said.
"But what could _possibly_ make as good a thesis as those extra-galactic
tapes?" Lola wailed. "They would have made my thesis a summer breeze."
"More like a hurricane--the hottest thing since doctorate disputations
first started," Garlock said. "However, as I started to say twice
before, it still will be. Intra-galactic tapes will be just as good. In
this case, better."
"W-e-l-l ... possibly. But we haven't any."
"That is what this conference is about. We can't destroy the stuff we
have unless we can replace it with something better. My idea is that we
should visit a few--say fifty--Tellus-type planets in this galaxy; the
ones closest to Tellus. I'm pretty sure they'll be inhabited by _Homo
Sapiens_. There's a chance, of course, that they'll be like Hodell and
the others we've seen; in which case I don't see how we can keep Gunther
genes confined to Earth. However, I'm pretty sure in my own mind that
we'll find them all very much like Tellus, Gunther and all. What would
you think of _that_ for a thesis, Lola?"
"Oh, wonderful!"
"Okay. Now to get back to whether we want to check in or not. I don't
like to duck out without letting them know we can handle this
heap--after a fashion, that is; they don't need to know we can really
handle it--but we've got nothing we can report and Fatso will blow his
stack--Oh-oh! Should've remembered Tellus isn't Hodell; the tri-di's
setting up! Belle, you take it. She'd give me Fatso, because he wants to
chew me out, but she won't put him on for you. Cut her throat, but good!
Brownie, hide somewhere! Jim, set up for Beta Centauri--not Alpha, but
Beta--and fast! Give her hell, Belle!" Garlock sent this last thought
from behind a davenport, from which hiding-place he could see the tri-di
screen and both Belle and James; but anyone on the screen could not see
him.
* * *
Miss Foster's likeness appeared upon the screen. Chancellor Ferber's
secretary was a big woman, but not fat; middle-aged, gray-haired,
wearing consciously the aura and the domineering, overbearing expression
of a woman who has great power and an even greater drive to exert her
authority.
"Why haven't you reported in?" Miss Foster snapped, with a glare that
was pure frost. "You arrived thirteen minutes ago. Such delay is
inexcusable. Get Garlock."
"Captain Garlock is off-watch; asleep. I, Commander Bellamy, am in
command." Standing stiffly at attention, Belle paused to exchange glares
with the woman across the big desk. If Miss Foster's was frost,
Commander Bellamy's was helium ice.
"Ready to go, Jim?" Belle flashed the thought.
"Half a minute yet."
"Any time after I sign off. Pick your own spot." Then aloud into the
screen: "I will report to Chancellor Ferber. I will not report to
Chancellor Ferber's secretary."
"Doctor James!" Miss Foster's voice was neither as cold nor as steady as
it had been. "Bring that ship down at once!"
James made no sign that he had heard the order. Belle stood changelessly
stiff. She had not for an instant taken her coldly competent eyes from
those of the woman on the ground. Her emotionless, ultra-refrigerated
voice went, as ever, directly into the screen.
"I trust that this conversation is being recorded?"
"It certainly is!"
"Good. I want it on record that we, the personnel of the starship
_Pleiades_, are not subject to the verbal orders of the Chancellor's
secretary. You will now connect me with Chancellor Ferber, please."
"The Chancellor is in conference and is not to be disturbed. I _have_
authority to act for him. You will report to me, and do it right now."
Foster's voice rose almost to a scream.
"That ground has been covered. Since you have taken it upon yourself to
exceed your authority to such an extent as to refuse to connect the
officer in command of the _Pleiades_ with the Chancellor, I cannot
report to him either the reasons why we are not landing at this time or
when we expect to return to Tellus. You are advised that we may leave at
any instant, just like that!" Belle snapped her finger under the imaged
nose. "You may inform the Chancellor, or not inform him if you prefer,
that our control of the starship _Pleiades_ is something less than
perfect. I do not know exactly how many seconds longer we will be here.
Commander Bellamy signing off. Over and out."
"_Commander_ Bellamy, indeed! Commander my left foot!" Miss Foster was
screaming now, in thwarted fury. "You're no more a commander than my
lowest office-girl is! Just wait 'till you get down here, you
green-haired hussy, you shameless notor...." The set went
instantaneously from full volume to zero sound as James drove the red
button home.
"Belle, you honey!" Garlock scrambled out from behind the davenport,
seized her around the waist, and swung her, feet high in air, through
four full circles before he let her down and kissed her vigorously. "You
little _sweetheart_! You're the first living human being ever to really
pull Foster's cork!"
"_What_ a goat-getting!" James applauded. "That will go down in history
as the star-spangled act of the century."
* * *
Belle was, however, unusually diffident. "I stuck my neck out a
mile--worse, Clee's. I'm sorry, Clee. I had to have some weight to throw
around, and I had only a second to think, and that was the first thing I
thought of, and after half a minute she made me so _damn_ mad that I
went entirely too far."
"Uh-uh. Just far enough. That was a _perfect_ job."
"But she'll never forget that, and she'll crucify you, as well as me,
when we land. She knows I'm not a commander."
"She just thinks you ain't. The official log will show, though, that
after only one day out I discovered that we should all be officers--one
captain and three commanders--with pay and perquisites of rank. I'll
think up good and sufficient reasons for it between now and when I make
up the log."
"But you can't! Or can you, really?"
"Well, nobody told me I couldn't, so I assumed the right. Besides, you
didn't tell her commander of what, so I'll make it stick, too--see if I
don't. Or else I'll tear two or three offices apart finding out why I
can't. You can be sure of that."
"All that may not be necessary," Lola said. "That tape will never be
heard. I'll bet she's erased it already."
"Perhaps; but ours isn't going to be erased--it will be heard exactly
where it will do the most good."
"I'm awfully glad you don't think we're on the hook. All that's left,
then, is that second-in-command business. Both of you know, of course,
that that was just window-dressing."
"You were telling the truth and didn't know it," James said, cheerfully.
"You have actually been second-in-command ever since the drive tests."
"I haven't, and I won't. Surely you don't think I'm enough of a heel,
Jim, to step on your toes like that?"
"Nothing like that involved. You tell her, Clee."
"Gunther ability is what counts. You're a Prime, Jim's an Operator; so,
now that we can handle the heap, you'll have to be second-in-command
whether you like it or not. Any time you can out-Gunther me we'll trade
places. And you won't have to take the job away from me--I'll give it to
you."
"But ... no hard feelings, Jim? No reservations? Screens down?"
"None whatever. In fact, I'm relieved. I'm Gunthered for this board
here--for that one I'm not. Come in and look; and shake on it."
* * *
Belle looked; and while they were shaking hands, she flashed a thought
at Lola. "Do you know that we've got two of the finest men that ever
lived?"
"I've known that for a long time," Lola flashed back, "but you've hardly
started to realize what they _really_ are."
"Well, shall we start earning our pay and perquisites by getting to work
on this planet, that we haven't even looked--wait a minute! We're just
about to open up the galaxy, aren't we?"
They were.
"Then there'll have to be some kind of a unifying and correlating
authority--a Galactic Council or something--and the quicker it's set up
the better; the less confusion and turmoil and jockeying-for-position
there will be. Question: should this authority be political?"
"It should _not_!" James declared. "It takes United Worlds seven solid
days of debate to decide whether or not to buy one lead pencil."
"Military--or naval, I suppose it'd be--that's what Clee's driving at,"
Belle said. "You're wonderful, Clee--simply priceless! We're officers of
the brand-new Galactic Navy. Subject to civilian control, of course, but
the civilians will be the United Galaxian Societies of the Galaxy, and
nobody else. _Beautiful_, Clee! There are ten Operators, Jim. Right?"
* * *
"Check. Brownie and I are here; the other eight are running the Galaxian
Society under Clee. And the whole Society eats out of his hand."
"I don't know about that, but Belle and I together could swing it, I
think."
"I'll say we could," Belle breathed. "And I simply can't wait to see you
kick Fatso's teeth in with _this_ one!"
"I don't like the word 'Navy'," Garlock said. "It's tied definitely to
warfare. How about calling it the 'Galactic Service'? Applicable to
either war or peace. Brass Hats will think of us in terms of war, even
though we will actually work for peace. Any objections?"
There were no objections.
"About the uniforms," Lola said, eagerly. "Space-black and star-white,
with chromium comets and things on the shoulders...."
"To hell with uniforms," Garlock broke in. "Why do women have to go off
the deep end on clothes?"
"She's right--you're wrong, Clee," James said. "Without a uniform you
won't get off the ground, not even with the Society. And you'll be
talking to Top Planetary Brass. Also, they're Gunthered plenty--you can
feel their Op field clear out here."
"Could be," Garlock conceded. "Okay, you girls dope it out to suit
yourselves. But think you can stand it, Belle, to wear more than twelve
square inches of clothes?"
"Wait 'til you see it, chum. I've been designing a uniform for myself
for positively _years_."
"I can't wait. And you're a captain, of course."
"Huh? You can't have two cap.... Oh, I see. Primes. I appreciate that,
Clee. Thanks."
"Hold on, both of you," James said. "You haven't thought this through
far enough. Suppose we meet forces already organized? Better start high
than low. You've got to be top admiral, Clee."
"Rocket-oil! Suppose we don't find anything at all?"
"You're right, Jim," Belle said. "Clee, you talk like a man with a paper
nose. It's _you_ who's been yowling for two solid years about being
ready for _anything_. We've got to do just that."
"Correction accepted. Brief me."
"Ranks should be different from those of United Worlds. They should be
descriptive, but impressive. Tops could be Galactic Admiral. That's you.
Vice Galactic Admiral; me...."
"Galactic Vice Admiral would be better," Lola said.
"Accepted. Those two we'll make stick come hell or space-warps. Right?"
Garlock did not reply immediately. "Up to either one of two points," he
agreed, finally.
"What points?"
"War, or being out-Gunthered. Top Gunther takes top place; man, woman,
bird, beast, fish, or bug-eyed monster."
"Oh." Belle was staggered for a moment. "No war, of course. As to the
other ... I hadn't thought of that."
"There are a lot of things none of us has thought of, but as amended
I'll buy it."
"Then several Regional Admirals, each with his Regional Vice Admiral.
Then System Admirals and Vices, and World or Planetary--naming the
planet, you know--Admirals and Vices. Let the various Galaxian Societies
take over from there down. How do you like _them_ potatoes, Buster?"
"Nice. And formal address, intra-ship, will be Mister and Miss. Jim and
Brownie?"
They liked it. "Where do we fit in?" James asked.
"Pick your own spots," Garlock said.
"If we stick to the Solar System we aren't so apt to get bumped by
Primes. So make me Solar System Admiral and Brownie my Vice."
"Okay. How long will it take you, Belle, to materialize those uniforms?"
"Fifteen seconds longer than it takes the converter to scan us. Lola's
color scheme is right, and I've got everything else down to the last
curlicue of chrome. Let's go."
* * *
They went: and came back into the Main in uniform. Belle had really done
a job.
That of the men, while something on the spectacular side, was more or
less conventional, with stiff-visored, screened, heavily-chromed caps;
but the women's! Slippers, overseas caps, shorts and jackets--but what
jackets!
"Well...." Garlock said, after examining the two girls speechlessly for
a good half minute. "It doesn't look _exactly_ like a spray-on job; but
if you ever take a deep breath it'll split from here to there. Fly
off--leave you naked as a jay-bird."
"Oh, no. The fabric stretches a little. See? Nothing like a sweater, but
a similar effect--perhaps a bit more so."
"Quite a bit more so, I'd say. However, since Operators and Primes are
automatically stacked like Tennick Towers, I don't suppose your recruits
will be unduly perturbed at, or will squawk too much about,
overexposure. Are we finally ready to go down and get to work?"
"I am," James said. "How do you want to handle it?"
"Run a search pattern. Belle and I will center their Op field and check
on Ops and Primes. You two probe at will."
Around and around the planet, in brief bursts of completely
incomprehensible speed, the huge ship darted; the biggest, solidest, yet
most elusive and fantastic "flying saucer" ever to visit that world. The
tremendous oceans and six great continents were traversed; the ice-caps;
the frigid, the temperate, and the torrid zones. Wherever she went,
powerful and efficient radar scanned and tracked her; wherever she went,
excitement seethed.
"Beta Centauri Five," Garlock reported, after a few minutes. "Margonia,
they call it. Biggest continent and nation named Nargoda. Capital city
Margon; Margon Base on coast nearby. Lots of Gunther Firsts. All the
real Gunther, though, is clear across the continent. They're building a
starship. Fourteen Ops and two Primes--man and woman. Deggi Delcamp's a
big bruiser, with a God-awful lot of stuff. Ugly as hell, though. He's a
bossy type."
"I'm amazed," James played it straight. "I thought all male Primes would
be just like you. Timorous Timmies."
"Huh? Oh...." Garlock was taken slightly aback, but went on quickly,
"What do you think of your opposite number, Belle?" He whistled a
wolf-call and made hour-glass motions with his hands. "I'd thought of
trading you in on a new model, but Fao Talaho is no bargain, either--and
_nobody's_ push-over."
"_Trade_! You _tomcat_!" Belle's nostrils flared. "You know what that
bleached-blonde tried to do? High-hat _me!_"
"I noticed. When we four get down to business, face to face, there
should be some interesting by-products."
"You chirped it, boss. Primes seem to be such _nice_ people." James
rolled his eyes upward and steepled his hands. "If you've got all the
dope, no use finishing this search pattern."
"Go ahead. Window dressing. The Brass hasn't any idea of what's going
on, any more than ours did."
The search went on until, "This is it," James reported. "Where? Over
Margon Base?"
"Check. Kick us over there, ten or twelve hundred miles up."
"On the way, boss. Looks like your theory is about ready to pick."
"It isn't much of a theory yet; just that cultural and evolutionary
patterns should be more or less homogeneous within galaxies. Until it
can explain why so many out-galaxies are just alike it doesn't amount to
much. By the way, I'm glad you people insisted on organization and rank
and uniforms. The Brass is going to take a certain amount of convincing.
Take over, Brownie--this is your dish."
"I was afraid of that."
The others watched Lola drive her probe--a diamond-clear, razor-sharp
bolt of thought that no Gunther First could possibly either wield or
stop--down into the innermost private office of that immense and
far-flung base. Through Lola's inner eyes they saw a tall, trim,
handsome, fiftyish man in a resplendent uniform of purple and gold; they
watched her brush aside that officer's hard-held mental block.
* * *
"I greet you, Supreme Grand Marshal Entlore, Highest Commander of the
Armed Forces of Nargoda. This is the starship _Pleiades_, of System Sol,
Planet Tellus. I am Sol-System Vice-Admiral Lola Montandon. I have with
me as guests three of my superior officers of the Galactic Service,
including the Galactic Admiral himself. We are making a good-will tour
of the Tellus-Type planets of this region of space. I request permission
to land and information as to your landing conventions. The landing
pad--bottom--of the _Pleiades_ is flat; sixty feet wide by one hundred
twenty feet long. Area loading is approximately eight tons per square
foot. Solid, dry ground is perfectly satisfactory. While we land
vertically, with little or no shock impact, I prefer not to risk
damaging your pavement."
They all felt the Marshal's thoughts race. "Starship! Tellus--Sol, that
insignificant Type G dwarf! Interstellar travel a commonplace! A ship
_that_ size and weight--an organized, uniformed, functioning Galaxy-wide
Navy and they don't want to _damage_ my _pavement_! My God!"
"Good going, Brownie! Kiss her for me, Jim." Garlock flashed the
thought.
Entlore, realizing that his every thought was being read, pulled himself
together. "I admit that I was shocked, Admiral Montandon. But
landing--really, I have nothing to do with landings. They are handled
by...."
"I realize that, sir; but you realize that no underling could possibly
authorize my landing. That is why I always start at the top. Besides, I
do not like to waste time on officers of much lower rank than my own,
and," Lola allowed a strong tinge of good humor to creep into her
thought, "the bigger they are, the less apt they are to pass the
well-known buck."
"You have had experience, I see," the Marshal laughed. He _did_ have a
sense of humor. "While landing here is forbidden--top secret, you
know--would my refusal mean much to you?"
"Having made satisfactory contact, I introduce you to Galactic Admiral
Garlock. Take over, sir, please."
* * *
Entlore winced, for the probe Garlock used then compared to Lola's very
much as a diamond drill compares to a piece of soft brass pipe.
"It would mean everything to us," Garlock assured him. "Our mission is a
perfectly friendly one. We will have a friendly visit or none. If you do
not care for our friendship, another nation will."
"That wouldn't do, either, of course." Entlore paused in thought. "It
boils down to this: I must either welcome you or destroy you."
"You may try." Garlock grinned in frankly self-satisfied amusement.
"However, the best you can do is lithium-hydride fusion missiles in the
hundreds-of-megatons range. Firecrackers. Every once in a while a planet
has to try a few such things on us before it will believe that we are
powerful as well as friendly. Would you like to test our defenses? If
so, I will neither take offense nor retaliate."
Supreme Grand Marshal Entlore was floored. "Why ... er ... not at all. I
read in your mind...." He broke off, to quell an invasion into his own
private office. "Damn it, keep _still_!" all four "heard" him yell. "I
know they ran a search pattern. I know _that_, too. I know _everything_
about it, I tell you! I'm in full rapport with their Supreme Grand
Admiral. There's only the one ship, they're friendly, and I'm inviting
them to land here on Margon Base. Give that to the press. Say also that
entrance restrictions to Margon Base will not be relaxed at present.
Grand Marshal Holson and ComOff Flurnoy, stay here and tune in. The rest
of you get out and _stay_ out! Throw all reports about any alien vessel
or flying saucer or what-have-you into the waste-basket!"
"Resume command, please, Miss Montandon," Garlock directed; and withdrew
his probe from Entlore's mind.
"I thank you, Supreme Grand Marshal Entlore, for your welcome," Lola
sent. "I'm sorry that our visits cause so much disturbance, but I
suppose it can't be helped. Our Gunther blocks are down. Would you and
your two assistants like to teleport out here to us, and con us down
yourselves?" Lola knew instantly that they could not, and covered deftly
for them. "But of course you can't, without knowing a focus spot here in
the Main. Shall I teleport you aboard?"
* * *
ComOff Flurnoy's face--she was an attractive, nicely-built red-head
wearing throat-mike, earphone, and recorder--turned so pale that a faint
line of freckles stood out across the bridge of her nose. She very
evidently wanted to scream a protest, but would not. Both men, strangely
enough, were eager to go. Instantly all three were standing in line on
the deep-piled rug of the Main, facing the four Tellurians. Seven bodies
came rigidly to attention, seven right hands snapped into two varieties
of formal salute. Standing thus, each party studied the other for a
couple of seconds.
There was no doubt at all as to which two of the visitors the two
Nargodian men were studying; but neither of them could quite make up his
mind as to which of the black-and-white-clad women to study first or
most. The red-head's glance, too, flickered between Belle and
Garlock--incredulous envy and equally incredulous admiration lit her
eyes.
"At rest, please, fellow-officers," Garlock said, and Lola performed the
necessary introductions, adding, "We do not, however, use titles aboard
ship. Mister and Miss are customary and sufficient."
Behind each row of officers a long davenport appeared; between them a
table loaded with sandwiches, olives, pickles, relishes, fruits, nuts,
soft drinks, cigars, and cigarettes.
"Help yourselves," Garlock invited. "We serve neither intoxicants nor
drugs, but you should find something there to your taste."
"Indeed we shall, and thank you," Entlore said. "Is there any objection,
Mr. Garlock, to Miss Flurnoy transmitting information of this meeting
and of this ship to our base?"
"None whatever. Send as you please, Miss Flurnoy, or as Mr. Entlore
directs."
"I'm glad I didn't quite scare myself out of coming up here," the
Communications Officer said. "This is the biggest and nicest thrill I
ever had. Such a thrill that I don't know just where to begin." She
cocked an eyebrow at her commanding officer.
"As usual. Whatever you think should be sent." Entlore sent her a
steadying thought. Then, as the girl settled back with a sandwich in one
hand and a tall glass of ginger-ale in the other, he went on, to
Garlock, "She is a very fine and very strong telepath--by our standards,
at least."
"By galactic standards also." Garlock had of course been checking.
"Accurate, sharp, wide-range, clear-thinking, and fast. Not one of us
four could do it any better."
"I thank you, Mr. Garlock," the girl said, with a blush of pleasure--and
with scarcely a perceptible pause in her work.
* * *
A tour of the ship followed; and as it progressed, the more confused and
dismayed the two Nargodian commanders became.
"But no crew at _all_?" Holson demanded incredulously. "How can a thing
like this _possibly_ work?"
"It's fully Gunthered," Lola explained. "It works itself. That is,
almost all the time. Whenever we land on any planet for the first time,
one of us has to control it. Or for any other special job not in its
memory banks. When you're ready for us to land I'll show you--it's my
turn to work."
"Miss Flurnoy, have they cleared the air over Pylon Six?"
"Yes, sir. Clearance came through five minutes ago. They are holding it
clear for us."
"Thank you. Miss Montandon, you may land at your convenience."
"Thank you, sir." Lola took the pilot's chair. "This is the scanner. I
pull it over my face and head, so. Since I am always in tune with the
field...."
"What does _that_ mean?" Entlore asked, dark foreboding in his mind.
"I was afraid of that. You can't feel an Operator Field. I'm sorry, sir,
but that means you can't handle these forces and never will be able to.
Certain Gunther areas of your brain are inoperative. On our scale you
are a Gunther First...."
"On ours, I'm an Esper Ten, the highest rating in the world--except for
a few theoretical crackpots who.... Excuse me, please, I shouldn't have
said that, in view of what I see happening here."
"No offense taken, sir. Those who developed the Gunther Drive were
crackpots until they got the first starship out into space. But with
this scanner on, I think of where I want to look and I can see it. I
then think the ship a few miles sidewise--so--and we are now directly
over your Pylon Six. I'm starting down, but I won't go into free fall."
Apparent weight grew less and less, until: "This is about enough for
you, Miss Flurnoy?"
"Just," the ComOff agreed, with a gulp. "One pound less and I'm afraid
I'll upchuck that lovely lunch I just ate."
"We're going fast enough now. Everyone sitting down? Brace yourselves,
please. You'll be about fifty percent overweight for a while."
* * *
As bodies settled deeper into cushions Entlore sent Garlock a
thought. "We three weigh about five hundred pounds. You lifted
us--instantaneously or nearly so, but I'll pass the question of
acceleration for the moment--eleven hundred miles straight up. How did
you repeal the Law of Conservation?"
"We didn't. We have fusion engines of twenty million horsepower. Our
Operator Field, which has a radius of fifteen thousand miles and is
charged to an electrogravitic potential of one hundred thousand gunts,
stores energy. Its action is not exactly like that of an electrical
condenser or of a storage battery, but is more or less analogous to
both. Thus, the energy required to lift you three came from the field,
but the amount was so small that it did not lower the potential of the
field by any measurable amount. Setting this ship down--call it sixty
thousand tons for a thousand miles at one gravity--will increase the
field's potential by approximately one-tenth of one gunt. Have you
studied paraphysics?"
"No."
"It wasn't practical, eh?" Garlock smiled. "Then I can't make even a
stab at explaining instantaneous translation to you. I'll just say that
there is no acceleration involved, no time lapse. There is no violation
of the Law of Conservation since departure and arrival points are
equi-Guntherial. But what I am really interested in is that small group
of high espers you mentioned."
"Yes, I inferred that from Miss Montandon's comments." Entlore fell
silent and Garlock watched his somber thoughts picture Margon Base and
his nation's capital being attacked and destroyed by a fleet of
invincible and invulnerable starships like this _Pleiades_.
"You are wrong, sir," Garlock put in, quietly. "The Galactic Service has
not had, does not and will not have, anything to do with intra-planetary
affairs. We have no connection with, and no responsibility to, any world
or any group of worlds. We are an arm of the United Galaxian Societies
of the Galaxy. Our function is to control space. To forbid, to prevent,
to rectify any interplanetary or interstellar aggression. Above all, to
prevent, by means of procedures up to and including total destruction of
planets if necessary, any attempt whatever to form any multi-world
empire."
The three Nargodians gasped as one, as much at the scope of the thing as
at the calmly cold certainty of ability carried by the thought.
"You are transmitting this precisely, Miss Flurnoy?" Entlore asked.
"Precisely, sir; including background, fringes, connotations, and
implications; just as he is giving it to us."
"Let us assume that your Nargodian government decides to conquer all the
other nations of your planet Margonia. Assume farther that it succeeds.
We will not object; in fact, we will, as a usual thing, not even be
informed of it. If then, however, your government decides that one world
is not enough for it to rule and prepares to conquer, or take aggressive
action against, any other world, we will be informed and we will step
in. First, warning will be given. Second, any and all vessels dispatched
on such a mission will be annihilated. Third, if the offense is
continued or repeated, trial will be held before the Galactic Council
and any sentence imposed will be carried out."
In spite of Garlock's manner and message, both marshals were highly
relieved. "You're in plenty of time, with us, sir," Entlore said. "We
have just sent our first rocket to our nearer moon ... that is, unless
that group of--of espers gets their ship off the ground."
"How far along are they?"
"The ship itself is built, but they are having trouble with their drive.
The hull is spherical, and much smaller than this one. It has atomic
engines, but no blasts or ion-plates ... but neither has this one!"
"Exactly; they may be pretty well along. I'd like to get in touch with
them as soon as possible. May I borrow a 'talker' like Miss Flurnoy for
a few days? You have others, I suppose?"
"Yes, but I'll let you have her; it is of the essence that you have the
best one available. Miss Flurnoy?"
"Yes, sir?" Besides reporting, she had been conversing busily with James
and Belle.
"Would you like to be assigned to Mr. Garlock for the duration of his
stay on Margonia?"
"Oh, _yes_, sir!" she replied, excitedly.
"You are so assigned. Take orders from him or from any designate as
though I myself were issuing them."
"Thank you, sir ... but what limits? And do I transmit to and/or record
for you, sir?"
"No limit. These four Galaxians are hereby granted nation-wide top
clearance. Transmit as usual whatever is permitted."
"Full reporting is not only permitted, but urged," Garlock said. "There
is nothing secret about our mission."
* * *
As the _Pleiades_ landed: "If you will give us your focus spot, Mr.
Entlore, we can all 'port to your office and save calling staff cars."
"And cause a revolution?" Entlore laughed. "Apparently you haven't been
checking outside."
"Afraid I haven't. I've been thinking."
"Take a look. I got orders from the Cabinet to put guards wherever
people absolutely must not go, and open everything else to the public. I
_hope_ there are enough guards to keep a lane open for us, but I
wouldn't bet on it." Garlock was very glad that the military men's stiff
formality had disappeared. "You Galaxians took this whole planet by
storm while you were still above the stratosphere."
* * *
There is no need to go into detail concerning the reception and
celebration. On Earth, one inauguration of a president and one
coronation of a monarch were each almost as well covered by
broadcasters, if not as turbulently and enthusiastically prolonged. From
the _Pleiades_ they went to the Administration Building, where an
informal reception was held. Thence to the Capitol, where the reception
was very formal indeed. Thence to the Grand Ballroom of the city's
largest hotel, where a tremendous--and long-winded--banquet was served.
At Garlock's request, all sixteen members of the "crackpot" group--the
most active members of the Deep Space Club--had been invited to the
banquet. And, even though Garlock was a very busy man, his talker tuned
in to each one of the sixteen, tuned them all to the Galactic Admiral,
and in odd moments a great deal of business was done.
After being told most of the story--in tight-beamed thoughts that ComOff
Flurnoy could not receive--the whole group was wildly enthusiastic. They
would change the name of their club forthwith to The Galaxian Society Of
Margonia. They laid plans for a world-wide organization which would have
tremendous prestige and tremendous income. They already had a
field--Garlock knew about their ship--they wanted the _Pleiades_ to move
over to it as soon as possible--Yes, Garlock thought he could do it the
following day--if not, as soon as he could....
* * *
The _Pleiades_ had landed at ten o'clock in the forenoon, local time;
the banquet did not come to an end until long after midnight. Throughout
all this time the four Galaxians carried on, without a slip, the act
that all this was, to them, old stuff.
It was just a little before daylight when they returned, exhausted, to
the ship. ComOff Flurnoy went with them. She was still agog at the
wonder of it all as Belle and Brownie showed her to her quarters.