He locked the top button at full depression and struggled to keep his
legs straight beneath him, braced as they were now against a bulkhead
which but a few minutes before had been, not a floor, but a wall. The
ship's gyro system was no longer functioning as a pseudograv unit,
but rather as a vertical stabilizer, and the second dial said four
gravities.
The acceleration needle dropped with agonizing slowness. Four
gravities, three point seven. The altimeter said one hundred thousand
feet, then ninety thousand, eighty, seventy-five.
Three point five gravities. Three point three. Even three at last.
Fifty thousand feet, forty-five, forty-two, forty thousand.
Two point six gravities.
Thirty-five thousand.
Two. One point nine. Point eight, seven, six, five.
Twenty-three thousand.
One gravity.
And the ship was hovering balanced by her gyros, at twenty-one thousand
feet above boundless reaches of Venusian sea.
Gingerly, Doug pressed the top of the panel, released the top button.
There was a sickening drop as from somewhere deep inside the ship new
sets of engines rumbled automatically to life as her nose came down,
her belly-jets belching, breaking the drop on their cushion of power.
And again the craft hovered, but now horizontally.
Tayne's corpse tumbled grotesquely off the bulkhead to the deck, made
Doug miss his footing, and he fell.
But nothing happened. The panel, without pressure, had returned
automatically to zero setting, and the belly-jets held steady.
Swiftly then, cursing himself for his awkwardness, Doug tore at Tayne's
cloak, the blood-soaked tunic beneath it. Somewhere he must have
it--logically, he must have it.
Something crackled. Doug smeared stinging sweat from his eyes as he
bent closer, found the neatly-hidden pocket, thrust a hand inside.
It was hard to keep the thin, bound packet of wide plastisheets steady.
Clumsily, he flicked to blank pages of Tayne's unused record tablet. In
those he had examined at his office the campaign maps had been in the
back.
And he found them there. _Estimated deployment, Phase One, First Hour._
No good ... two, perhaps three hours had elapsed. Gamble on Phase Three.
Division Thirty, Second Regiment, First Battalion, 'A' Company. There.
He stood up, locked a deep breath inside him, and placed his fingers
on the inverted T of control buttons for a second time.
North was the top of the viewscreen. What shown in it then must slide
from the top down.
His fingertip caressed the bottom-most button. And there was a gentle
surge of acceleration, and the screen picture was moving diagonally.
First button on the right....
* * * * *
The picture swung slowly around. And then it was moving from top to
bottom of the screen. He pushed the bottom button all the way in, and
the velocity needles swung slowly up. A touch on the button above it,
and the needle quivered five hundred ten.
And then on the horizon there was suddenly a light blue blur, and he
braced himself against the shock of forward acceleration as he pushed
the button all the way in. Its limit was close to two thousand miles
per hour, and he locked it there.
Moments later he released it, eased pressure on it as the blue blur
shaped itself into the coastline of the northern land mass. Gradually,
he depressed the panel a full ninety degrees.
And the hurtling craft swung again on her blazing tail. Doug let the
panel return to zero and held the bottom button in. The belly-jets had
automatically cut out, and again he hovered, sinking slightly, this
time not above the dark blue waste of the Venusian sea, but above the
place where fantastic young armies with ten-year-old soldiers were
writhing, dying.
The altimeter needle showed five thousand feet, and already he was able
to discern the battle-lines of the two quadrants, no longer in close
marching formation, but now spread wide to cover an irregular area of
more than one hundred square miles. The lines surged first forward then
back, as though joined in some Gargantuan tug-of-war--shifted, changed,
like a great wounded serpent in its death-throes.
The lines were little more than a hundred yards in depth because
deployment for the games provided for no rear echelons--there were
only the battle echelons, with their ends defended mightily against
encirclement, attack from the rear.
Eventually, Doug knew, the flank defenses of both lines would give way,
and the centers of each would rupture, and then, until the hovering
tab and evac planes gave the signal that the Phase Three limit had
been reached, the battle would wage in a great undulating mass,
without formation, without plan, without reason. He had to reach Mike
and Terry before then, for once the lines disintegrated into Final
Phase--deployment at will--they'd be lost to him for good.
And Phase Three lasted at best for three hours. Final Phase, when it
begun, would last as many days.
Somehow, he had to jockey the hovering ship over the area where the
map-estimate indicated that Mike and Terry would be fighting. And when
he landed, he must somehow halt the carnage momentarily--just long
enough for them to see him, to run....
Doug tilted the great ship at an angle of about seventy degrees,
compensated it on the main drive and the single bank of bow belly-jets
that automatically checked in as the ship left vertical balance. And
the terrain below him moved slowly, canted oddly between horizon and
sky.
Slowly, toward the area designated on the map--slowly, sinking
slightly, so that he could see their faces now, watch as their maces
shattered the glittering helmets into junk, smashed into living flesh,
as their broadswords glistened red and swung, struck....
* * * * *
Momentarily hypnotized by the horror that screamed below him and by
the sickening realization that what he saw was real even though his
reason rebelled through force of habit from admission that such reality
could exist, Doug watched the tilted battlefield as it stretched but
hundreds of feet below him now, watched as a smoothly-oiled, carefully
calculated device preserved the peace of a planet.
_A small, sweating body was hewn in two._
_A helmeted head fell; an arm dropped grotesquely beside it._
_A boy's boot was bathed in blood as he kicked viciously at his
opponent's chest to withdraw his sword from it._
_A brief, two-handed struggle with sword and mace--a sword stroke was
parried, the swinging mace was not, and a splintered rib with shreds
of flesh still sticking to it clung to the mace-pikes as an adversary
fell, the left side of his body gone._
And the dead, still-quivering masses of flesh and bone were trampled
as they fell, to be swiftly covered by other still-dying bodies which
collapsed, writhing, atop them, to be trampled in their turn....
Doug shuddered uncontrollably. Kids, dying on a battlefield like this!
A pair of helmeted heads suddenly disappeared in a twin red gush
from two pairs of sweating shoulders, and a group of twenty boys
converged on the spot, fought for almost a minute, and then the heads
were covered, and one boy at length dragged himself away, arms limp,
helpless. He died while an evac ship was landing. The swinging mace
that broke his back had not been necessary. He who wielded it fell
also an instant later, his spine severed in a long, diagonal gash. And
Doug thought how odd it was that a sword-cleft could look so like the
tearing wound which a flying chunk of shrapnel would gouge.
He was so low now that he had long since lost sight of the lines'
ends, had no way of knowing when encirclement at last would begin,
when the center of each line would give way, when Final Phase would
begin. But it seemed that the fighting had become less orderly, more
closely-grouped, more frenzied. Within minutes the Third Phase map
would be useless, and in Final Phase, there would be no knowing. No
knowing until long after the end.
The altimeter needle said two hundred feet, when, if he had read the
map with any degree of accuracy, he was over the area assigned to
Tayne's Thirtieth Division. He had the ship straightened and descending
when the blue light inset in the communications panel began to blink.
He would let it blink. Yet if he answered, at least he would know their
intentions....
Bloody young warriors sought desperately to give the great craft room
as he descended. Some were incinerated in its back-blast, and Doug
murmured a prayer that they had been among the already-dying. He would
not let himself think that of all he had seen die, any two could have
been Terry and Mike. He refused to let himself think that of the dozen
turned to cinders by his descending jets, any two could have been Terry
and Mike....
* * * * *
The blue-red ground came slowly up to meet him. The blue light kept
blinking. He increased pressure on the bottom button--hovered, sank,
hovered again, sank.
And when the ground was obliterated with the searing flame of his
drive tubes, there was a gentle jar, and Doug let the button snap from
beneath his finger. He was down, and there was not even time to feel
relief.
He tripped over Tayne's body, fell heavily against the communications
panel. His fingers fumbled for a switch near the inset microphone.
The words blurred.... _FIELD ADDRESS. RADIO-SEND. RADIO-REC. FLEET
INTERCOM._
He twisted the knob to _RADIO-REC._ and the blue light stopped blinking.
"... D to QT, D to QT, over...."
He turned the dial to _RADIO-SEND_.
"This is QT," he said. He switched back, waited.
"Larsen, this is Gundar! What in Napoleon's name are you doing? What
did you do with Blair?"
Doug tore a plastisheet leaf from Tayne's note tablet, thrust it over
the mike-face.
"I had to kill him."
"_Kill_ him? Larsen you fool.... You know what they'll say--"
"He tried to get at the manual controls ... succeeded in wrecking the
autorobot, so I had to use them. And I had to kill him when he tried to
take over by force. Give you a--"
"Larsen, something wrong with your communications? You're coming in
badly--didn't read your last. Say again please."
"He wrecked the robot-control," Doug repeated. His lips were dry across
his teeth and it was hard to keep his voice even. "I had to break out
the manual. He tried to take them over, too, so I had to kill him. He
was like a maniac--you know how he hated me. Must have figured out the
whole plan somehow, and went berserk. I'll file a complete report when
this is finished. Over." He waited, sweat rolling in icy rivulets the
length of his arms. The wound on his back stung, and his muscles were
trembling with fatigue.
"What do you mean, when this is finished? Got to be immediate, man!
There'll be hell to pay as it is. I was afraid something would go
wrong--he was a smarter man than you thought, and I told you as much.
Take care of whatever you're checking on down there immediately and
then get back to headquarters and draw up a form 312-L-5. File for my
office and the PG's. You should've done that at once. Out."
"Yes, sir, right away. Out."
There was a silent prayer on Doug's lips as he turned the knob to
_FIELD ADDRESS_. It was worth a try....
There was a humming sound. However it functioned, it was ready.
"This is Senior Quadrate Blair. All units within range of this command
will cease battle immediately...."
He twisted a control under the viewscreen, kept twisting until its
scope had undergone a ninety degree shift. And then he saw them, waves
of them, slowing, stopping, turning to face the ship. Unbelievably,
the sound of his voice had somehow been carried for a radius of at
least a mile, and thousands of them, their blood mingled with their
muddied sweat, were suddenly still, listening. Some fell, untouched,
as a last wound belatedly took its toll. But all that could remained
standing. There could be no sitting rest, for none knew when the
command to resume battle would come, and when it did, it would be death
to be sitting.
Within a half minute, a great circle of them was still, battle
continuing only at its periphery where his command was either being
defended or had gone unheard.
"Attention, troops of Division Thirty, Second Regiment, First
Battalion, A Company. If--" and he dared not hesitate, must say it
quickly, and then wait, "--Ronal Blair and Kurt Blair are able, they
will report to this ship on the double! Terry, Mike--" and there was
a sudden catch in his voice that he could not help. Then, "_Come
running._"
And he watched the viewscreen, turned the knob slowly to revolve its
range, a complete 360 degrees.
Nothing, nothing as he turned slowly.
* * * * *
In moments Gundar Tayne would contact him again, question him, and
he would have no convincing answer. And then it would be too late.
He would have the choice of punching the top button and catapulting
himself to safety, not knowing even if Mike and Terry still lived
somewhere down there, or staying to carry out a gamble that should have
been lost a dozen times already.
Suddenly, he saw it. The huge ship of the Director, in a long, circling
glide. And the boys were moving again, raising their swords, circling
their maces. He had been countermanded--
The blue light was blinking.
Another ten degrees of turn--
There was a terrible clattering at the stern of the ship as though
it was being rent apart plate by plate. The screen would not depress
that far. He revolved it back. Tayne's ship had landed a scant hundred
yards away and a guard had already been flung around it. And men were
approaching on the run, strange devices in their hands. Then they
stopped, were putting the devices in position on the ground.
The clanging grew louder now.
It would be one of them. One of them with a warning, and if he did not
open up, surrender.... But the blue light still blinked.
He could have missed them. As he swung the screen, they could have
been running in an area yet untouched--the last ten degrees....
The clanging was lessening.
He hauled down the knife-switch marked "STERN PORT."
The clanging ceased.
And then, muffled almost to inaudibility, a wild, far-off yell. "_Shut
it, Dad, for the luvva mike, SHUT it!_"
And he jammed the switch home.
There was an awful racket then. An awful, wonderful racket. Mike,
Terry, clambering hell-bent up the spiraling cat-walks! Mike, Terry,
safe aboard....
A movement in the viewplate stilled the cry that had formed in his
throat. The strange devices--there was a bluish-white flash, and the
viewscreen was suddenly white with a ball of coruscating brilliance.
Short....
Had to blast-off--but the kids, not braced on the cat-walks.... Still
clambering, maybe only half-way up....
Another streak, but no flash. Over. They were bracketing.
The next one, whatever it was, the next one would be a bulls-eye.
With all his voice he bellowed "_HANG ON!_" even as Mike and Terry
burst, breathless, into the control room.
His finger hesitated only a moment. And then he jammed the bottom
button in and his knees bent, but they held.
And in the corner of his eye he saw the blue-white flash erupt
dead-center below.
He eased the button pressure and hovered, out of range.
In a moment Gundar Tayne's craft would be in the air. Then....
"Kids--kids, you O.K.?" He locked the ship in its hover and then he
was beside them, scanning their half-naked, bruised bodies in quick
glances, then holding them to him with all the strength of both arms.
"Dad?"
"Yes. Me, your old man...."
"We been dodgin' and watchin' for hours, Dad. Let's get out of here!"
He held them to him a second longer, then turned to the communications
panel, Mike at his left, Terry at his right. "... They almost caught us
at the door down there.... Dad I--I think I killed one...."
"We did as you said, Dad. We watched as much as we could, but most of
the time we had to stay on the ground, playing dead...."
The communications dial was still at _FIELD ADDRESS_.
He looked at it, then looked at the viewscreen. Thousands of them,
stilled for so short a moment, now surging, tearing at each other's
vitals again. There was a terrible hurt somewhere deep inside him, and
he wanted to voice it, to get it out, to tell them somehow.
But they would not understand him if he were to speak for a minute or
for an hour. These whom he watched had been lost from the day of their
birth.
But, thank Heaven, not the two at his side.
"Get in those hammocks, kids," he said.
They did, and he braced himself against the bulkhead. He was twisting
the top button even as he punched it home, and it caught.
The deck rushed up with smashing force.