"Don't see why not." Harrigan flipped the audio switch. "Stores.
Hanson? Send a man up with formula thirteen, will you?"
When the supplies arrived a few minutes later, the three men indulged
in an orgy of mixing and much testing, and, when the contents of the
huge bowl met their rigid specifications, sat around it and reminisced
about the early days in the Force.
The three might easily have personified the Solar Federation Space
Force. Harrigan, the organizer par excellence, tall, lean and tanned
by the radiation of a thousand suns. O'Brien, the admiral's life-long
friend, squat and muscular--the fatherly but deadly Irishman who had
hated the League with all his powerful heart since the day, dim in time
but not in memory, that the Xantus had murdered his parents on Sirius
III in the First Campaign. And Irvington, one of the truly fabulous
characters in the Federation. The man who could reputedly hit a black
basketball at three million miles with an energy gun, who flunked out
of pilot's school and turned gunner, and who, annually, spent his leave
mining in the Solar asteroid belt and had become the richest man in the
Force.
These men led the _Albion_ on its questionable course into the future.
Human, and therefore prone to human failings, to be sure. But wise in
the ways of space they were too, and aware of its terrible dangers.
At long last, when the ship's clock stood at 1100 hours, the party
broke up. Ash-trays were piled high, the magnificent punchbowl was
empty. Irvington and O'Brien left together, and Harrigan collapsed on
his bunk.
In his dreams he roamed the narrow streets of Mars Center, watched
the pale, reed-like dancing girls sway their sensuous bodies before
the open-mouthed Federation Cadets, and heard the far-off, haunting
desert music. He walked through the fairy cities of Zithobar where
the fragile, ethereal architecture belied the sadistic temperament of
the inhabitants. And he cruised the tainted stratosphere of the Xantu
planet, that dark and sinister world whose peoples enjoyed nothing more
than heaving Terran prisoners, one by one, into the mouths of roaring
volcanoes.
* * * * *
Anaton, the Federation base on Antares IV, was six days at full blast
without Hyper-drive. After the round of hectic activity surrounding
their escape from Sector I, officers and crew alike found the
uneventful trip restful but boring. O'Brien played endless games of
solitaire; Irvington slept; and Harrigan planned. Anaton was the
biggest Federation base in Sector II, and the Hyper-drive was there.
He just hoped that the base itself was there yet. At 0300 hours on the
sixth day, Antares shone like a great red eye and they were three hours
out of base. Antares III swung slowly past and Harrigan alerted the
crew.
They didn't have long to wait. O'Brien had just stacked his cards away
when the starboard watch howled and three Xantu ships screamed across
the _Albion_ bow, almost on collision course. Harrigan's brow wrinkled
as the tail ship dropped back to engage the _Albion_ and the other two
fled. These were not the usual Xantu tactics. Irvington coolly got
the black craft between his sights, there was a whoosh and a blinding
blast and four billion square miles of space flashed into daylight.
The _Albion_ quickly overtook the two remaining ships and gun-banks
three, four and five riddled one of them. It slowed, spun and became a
lifeless, drifting shell.
[Illustration: A blinding blast, and four billion square miles of space
flashed into daylight....]
But the pilot of ship three was no fool. He suddenly swiveled his
ship, boomed off at a tangent, and, as the _Albion_ whipped by, his
gunner caught her full in the tubes with a full charge from the stern
guns. Now it was the _Albion's_ turn to spin end for end. But as the
Xantu craft spun into his sights for a fraction of a second, Irvington
tripped the atomic cannon again. The bolt ricochetted off the Xantu's
bow and the ship slowly split down the center like an over-ripe melon.
From the bridge, Harrigan counted three life boats deserting the mother
ship and he watched the gunners vainly try to pick them off. But they
were too small a target, and they quickly merged into the sanctuary of
darkness.
He buzzed O'Brien. "Let's get down to Drive, quick. They got that Xantu
blast dead center."
The drive section was a shambles. Men in weird asbestos suits and masks
staggered through the smoke and fumes with the broken bodies of the
rocket crew that had been caught in the explosion. Harrigan brushed at
angry tears as they carried Joe Merrick--the officer in charge--past
them and laid the charred body beside the others. Merrick had been with
him through both campaigns, and now the bitterness within Harrigan
turned to grim resolution. At length, thirty-seven men were counted out
of action permanently. The admiral turned solemnly away.
"Think we'd better set her down on III?" O'Brien asked quietly.
"Guess so, Mike. We can take her down on anti-grav and maneuver with
the bow jets." And then, slowly, "This puts us out of the war, you
realize that...."
"Yeah. And we can't even holler for help or they'll swarm in on us like
a pack of harpies."
"I don't know about that, Mike. Those boats that got away will probably
alert other elements of the League fleet as to our location. It's only
a matter of time anyway. So we might as well break radio silence and
try to get some Federation ships here first. It'll be a race, but it's
the only chance we've got."
Radio room sent the S.O.S. and rang back the bridge almost immediately.
"Message away, sir, but our receiver was knocked out by the blast. We
get no acknowledgment on S.O.S."
"Oh great," Harrigan groaned, "that's all we needed."
"Maybe we could make Anaton on the bow jets," O'Brien offered.
"Doubtful. Besides, we don't want to chance being caught in space with
the _Albion_ in this shape. If my guess is any good, those three ships
were part of a fleet which has just attacked Anaton and by now the
base is probably a smoking hole in the ground. No point in going to
something like that."
* * * * *
It took superhuman maneuvering and quite a bit of luck, but at last
the scarred battleship came to rest, in partial hiding, at the foot
of a cliff wall on the rugged, boulder-strewn surface of Antares III.
Space Directory termed the planet "Earth-type; diam. 9,300; atmosphere
breathable for Terrans for a period not to exceed twelve hours."
Harrigan had the portable Dyer guns arranged in a semi-circle at
advantageous spots behind boulders up to one mile from the _Albion_,
in case the survivors of the League ships might set their boats down
nearby and attempt a coup over land. The _Albion's_ own boats carried
out patrols in the hope of locating the enemy before the enemy located
them.
For sixteen hours after the landing, everything was absolutely quiet.
And then, as relief gun-crews slogged out the main hatch to take their
positions at the portables, all Hell broke loose.
A short range, explosive rocket shell arched perfectly into the hatch
and exploded with a deafening roar, scattering the relief crews like
ten pins and slamming the two-ton hatch cover clean off its swivel
pins. The three League boats, with devastating surprise, zoomed in low
and fast over the outlying gun positions, spraying a trail of Reezi
powder which was ignited by their rockets. The countryside went up
in a swirl and a flash. Another explosive rocket struck the _Albion_
amidships before the crews got the more cumbersome fixed guns into
firing position.
The lightning-fast boats were too small and swift to be speared by
anything save a lucky shot. Back and forth they raked the almost
helpless battleship. The attack waned momentarily as one of the black
boats was caught and instantly charred by cross-fire from the _Albion_
one and four banks. The remaining two changed tactics, roaring in over
the big ship, past the top of the cliff, only to spin back, hit and run.
Five of the _Albion_ patrol boats skittered home only to be caught in
the fray and immediately knocked down. Three more met the same fate
and a fourth was dodging desperately for its life when Harrigan's
eyes popped wide open with amazement. A pencil-like, silver destroyer
escort, bearing the insignia of the Federation Forces, fell on the
League boats from zenith position and in a screaming, twisting dive
blasted one and rammed the other into flying rubbish.
The silver ship climbed a few miles vertically to see if the field had
been properly cleared, flashed down and dusted to a stop beside the
_Albion_. Harrigan stepped over the smoking bodies in the main hatchway
and dropped to the ground. O'Brien sprinted to join him, but before
they could reach the other ship, an officer leaped from a belly-lock
and walked briskly towards them.
He snapped a salute. "Admiral Harrigan and the _Albion_?" he asked.
"Right, Lieutenant," Harrigan smiled wearily. "You're very welcome."
"Lieutenant Sanderson, sir, Third Fleet attack arm. I was supposed...."
"Sanderson," O'Brien roared.
"Yes, sir. I was assigned to the _Albion_, sir, but it took me ten
weeks to walk halfway around Pluto from where the Ziths dumped me and
catch a ship to Terra base. I take it they dubbed one of their beasties
in for me?"
"They sure did," Harrigan answered, "but there wasn't much harm done. I
killed you on the bridge, Lieutenant."
"Oh?" Sanderson looked puzzled for a brief moment, then smiled. "Oh,
that's good."
"What's the score now?" O'Brien asked.
"Well, sir, the Third attack fleet is standing off Anton now. You have
probably guessed that part of a League fleet attacked the base. We
picked up a few survivors, but damned few. Then we picked up a weak
distress signal from this area and Admiral Brands had us check on it."
"Good thing he did," Harrigan admitted. "And now, Lieutenant, if you
will be so good as to radio for a tub to pick us up, I will be most
happy to leave this planet."
"Yes, sir, at once." Sanderson saluted and ran for his ship.
* * * * *
Three hours and a few odd minutes later, the transport tub _Avalon_
settled its ponderous bulk beside the _Albion_ and the slow transfer of
the living and the dead began. One hundred and fifty-five bodies were
slated for burial on Terra; another sixty were missing, whiffed into
gas by League guns.
Harrigan sank deeper into gloom as he removed the ship's log and
helped O'Brien check the men off the _Albion_. At last the loading
was completed; the _Avalon_ hung for a moment on its anti-gravs, and
Harrigan and Commander Johnson, in charge of the tub, looked down on
the battered remains of the great craft.
"Better come to the bridge and sit," Johnson said softly.
On the bridge, he poured Harrigan a stiff drink and cautioned, "Swallow
that, and get ready."
Harrigan complied, puzzled. No sooner had he placed his glass on the
table than a small but virile mule kicked him in the stomach.
"Suffering ... what was that?" he gasped.
Johnson smiled. "Hyper-drive. Apparently Tech hasn't got the bugs
worked out yet, but it's good enough for me. Only four hours to Terra."
"Well, well," Harrigan mused. He rose and looked at the swirling
grayness outside the ports. "Same deal on the other end?"
"Yeah. A little wrench in the gut, but you get used to it."
Harrigan said, "Well, well," again and sat down.
"Admiral," Johnson hesitated, "no offense, now, you understand, but I
have been wondering what the _Albion_ was doing way out here on Antares
III. I understood that you were coming into Terra from the other side
of Sector I when the fracas started."
"We were. But when the League took Polaris Base and cut us off we had
to...."
"Took Polaris Base! The League didn't take Polaris Base. They had a
dozen or so cruisers in that area, but they didn't tackle the Base.
Didn't even make a pass at it."
Harrigan slowly dropped his head into his hands.
"Oh my God," he moaned, "and I lost two hundred men on a bad guess. I
deserve to be broken to a Spaceman third class for this." He jumped up
and paced the bridge. "Great guns, what a fool I am! Polaris intact and
I risk a ship-load of green men on a bad guess. This washes me up in
the Force, that's for damn sure."
"Oh, I don't think so, Admiral." Johnson smiled. "In fact I think
that...."
"I don't give a damn what you think, Commander. The Force is no place
for fools. I'm done." And Harrigan slammed off the bridge towards his
quarters.
Johnson smiled faintly and poured himself a drink.
* * * * *
It was a tired and bedraggled admiral who stepped off the _Avalon_
four hours later into the sunlit bustle of Terra Base I. He felt pride
well up in him at the sight of the powerful base, the battlewagons
and cruisers and squat tubs, some with their guts spread on the steel
docks, waiting for the 'drive installation. Crane winches clanked and
howled, welding torches flashed, and many-wheeled trailers sped about
with ponderous equipment. But the activity was not frantic; it was
efficient and orderly.
He turned for a word with O'Brien, who was now puffing down the
gangway, when a bright young Spaceman First stepped up and saluted with
a grin. "Admiral Garrison's regards to Admiral Harrigan and Captain
O'Brien, and would they report to HQ at once."
"Well, here it comes, Mike."
"Guess so," Mike agreed gloomily. "Why are all these baboons so happy?"
He indicated the clustered groups of Spacemen who regarded them
smilingly as they passed and talked excitedly among themselves.
"Dunno. Maybe they like the thought of admirals and captains getting
chewed down."
They paused briefly outside the door marked:
Adm. Garrison,
G.G. Port Admiral