Nobody had ever found any use for the Glamis solar system. There was a
sun of highly irregular variability. There were two planets, of which
the one farther out might have been useful for colonization except that
it was subject to extreme changes of climate as its undependable sun
burned brightly or dimly. The nearer planet was so close to its primary
that it had long ceased to rotate. One hemisphere, forever in sunshine,
remained in a low, red heat. Its night hemisphere, in perpetual
darkness, had radiated away its heat until there were mountains of
frozen atmosphere piled above what should have been a mineral surface.
It was a matter of record that a hundred standard years before, a ship
had landed there and mined oxygen-containing snow, which its air
apparatus was able to refine so the crew could breathe while they
finished some rather improbable repairs and could go on to more
hospitable worlds.
The farther-out planet was sometimes a place of green vegetation and
sprawling seas, and sometimes of humid jungles with most of its oceans
turned to a cloud-bank of impenetrable thickness. Also, sometimes, it
was frozen waste from pole to pole. The vegetation of that planet had
been studied with interest, but the world itself was simply of no use to
anybody. Even the sun of the Glamis system was regarded with suspicion.
The fleet of Kandar made rendezvous at the galactic-north pole of the
second planet. On arrival the massed cruisers and battleships went into
orbit. The smaller craft went on a scouting mission, verifying that
there was no new colony planted, that there was no man-made radiation
anywhere in the system, that there was no likelihood of the fleet's
presence--or for that matter its continued existence--becoming known to
anybody not of its ship-crews.
The scout-ships came back, reporting all clear. The great ships drew
close to one another and small space-boats shuttled back and forth,
taking commanders and captains and vice-admirals to the ship, which, by
convention, was commanded by King Humphrey VIII of Kandar.
Captain Bors got to the conference late. There were some grave faces
about the conference room, but there were also some whose expressions
were unregenerate and grimly satisfied. As he entered the room the king
was speaking.
"I don't deny that it was a splendid victory, but I'm saying that our
victory was a catastrophe! To begin with, we happened to hit the
Mekinese fleet when it was dispersed and disorganized. That was great
good fortune--_if_ we'd wanted a victory. The enemy was scattered over
light-minutes of space. His ships could not act as a massed,
maneuverable force. They were simply a mob of fighting ships who had to
fight as individuals against our combat formation."
"Yes, Majesty," said the gray vice-admiral, "but even when we broke
formation--"
"Again," said the king, more fretfully still, "I do not deny that the
fighting ability of our ships was multiplied by the new way of using
missiles. What I do say is that if we'd come upon the Mekinese fleet in
combat formation instead of dispersed; if we'd attacked them when they
were ready for us, it would be doubtful that we'd have been so
disastrously successful! Say that the new missile settings gave each of
our ships fire-power as effective as two or three or five of the enemy.
The enemy was ten to one! If we hadn't hit them when they were in
confusion, we'd have been wiped out. And if we'd hit their fleet anyhow,
we'd be dead. We did not hit the main fleet. We annihilated a division
of it, a small part. We are still hopelessly inferior to the vast
Mekinese fleet."
Bors took a seat at the rear of the room.
A stout rear-admiral said somberly, "We hope we annihilated it, Majesty.
There's no report of any ship fleeing in overdrive. But if any did
escape, its report would lead to an immediate discovery of the exact
improvement in our missiles. I am saying, Majesty, that if one enemy
ship escaped that battle, we can look for all the enemy ships to be
equipped with revised missiles like ours."
Bors raised his voice. "May I speak?"
"Ah," said the king. "Bors. By all means."
"I make two points," said Bors with reserve. "One is that the Mekinese
are as likely to think our missiles captured theirs as that they were
uncomputable. Missile designers have been trying for years to create
interceptors which capture enemy missiles. The Mekinese may decide we've
accomplished something they've failed at, but they're not likely to
think we've accomplished something they never even thought of!"
Voices babbled. A pompous voice said firmly that nobody would be so
absurd. Several others said urgently that it was very likely. All
defense departments had research in progress, working on the capture of
enemy missiles. If it were accomplished, ships could be destroyed as a
matter of routine.
Bors waited until the king thumped on the table for silence.
"The second thing I have to say, Majesty, is that there can be no plans
made until we know what we have to do. And that depends on what Mekin
thinks has happened. Maybe no enemy ship got home. Maybe some ships took
back inaccurate reports. It would be very uncomfortable for them to
report the truth. Maybe they said we had some new and marvellous weapon
which no fleet could resist. In that case, we are in a very fine
position."
The king said gloomily, "You think of abominably clever things, Captain.
But I am afraid we've been too clever. If Mekin masses its entire fleet
to destroy us, they can do it, new missile-system or no new
missile-system! We have somehow to keep them from resolving to do just
that!"
"Which," said Bors, "may mean negotiation. But there's no point in
negotiating unless you know what your enemy thinks you've got. We could
have Mekin scared!"
There was a murmur, which could not be said to be either agreement or
disagreement. The king looked about him.
"We cannot continue to fight!" he said sternly, "not unless we can
defend Kandar--which we can't as against the Mekinese main fleet. We
were prepared to sacrifice our lives to earn respect for our world, and
to leave a tradition behind us. We must still be prepared to sacrifice
even our vanity."
The vice-admiral said, "But one sacrifices, Majesty, to achieve. Do you
believe that Mekin will honor any treaty one second after it ceases to
be profitable to Mekin?"
"That," said the king, "has to be thought about. But Bors is right on
one point. We should come to no final conclusion without information--"
"Majesty," Bors interrupted. His words came slowly, as if an idea were
forming as he spoke. "The enemy may have no news at all. They may know
they've been defeated, but they'd _never_ expect _our_ freedom from
loss. Why couldn't a single Kandarian ship turn up at some port where
its appearance would surely be reported to Mekin? It could pose as the
sole survivor of our fleet, which would indicate that the rest of us
were wiped out in the battle. If we _had_ all been wiped out, there'd be
no point in their fusion-bombing Kandar. Certainly they expected us to
be destroyed. One surviving ship can prove that we _have_ been!"
The king's expression brightened.
"Ah! And we can go and intern ourselves--"
There was a growl. The pompous voice said, "We would gain time, Majesty.
Our fear is that Mekin may feel it must avenge a defeat. But if one ship
claims to be the sole survivor of our fleet, it announces a Mekinese
victory. That is a highly desirable thing!"
The king nodded.
"Yes-s-s.... We were unwise to survive the battle. We can hide our
unwisdom. Captain Bors, I will give you orders presently. As of now, I
will accept reports on battle-damage given and received." As Bors
saluted and turned to the door, the king added, "I will be with the
Pretender presently."
It was an order and Bors obeyed it. He went to find his uncle. He found
the former monarch in the king's cabin of this, the largest ship of the
fleet. The Pretender greeted Bors unhappily.
"A very bad business," he observed.
"Bad," agreed Bors. "But for the two of us, a defeat for Mekin is not
bad news."
"For us and Tralee," the old man said reprovingly, "there is some
pleasure. But it is still bad. Every ship we destroyed must be replaced.
Like every other subject planet, Tralee will be required to build--how
many ships? Ten? Twenty? We have increased the burden Mekin lays on
Tralee. And worse--much worse--"
"There's such a thing," protested Bors, "as using a microscope on
troubles! We did something we badly wanted to! If we can keep it up--"
The Pretender said, "How is the food-supply on your ship? How long can
you feed your crew without supplies from some base?"
Bors swore. The question had the impact of a blow. His _Isis_, like the
rest of the fleet, had taken off from Kandar to fight and be destroyed.
There were emergency rations on board, of course. But the food-storage
compartments hadn't been filled. The fleet did not expect to go on
living, so it did not prepare to go on eating. It would have been absurd
to carry stores for months when they expected to live only hours. It
simply hadn't occurred to anyone to load provisions for a long operation
away from base.
"That's what the king is worrying about," said the Pretender. "We've
some thousands of men who will be hungry presently. If we reveal that we
survived the battle, Mekin's tributaries will begin to think. They might
even hope--which Mekin would have to stop immediately. If we do not
reveal that we still exist, what can be done about starving ship-crews?
It is a bad business. It would have been much better if the fleet had
been destroyed, as we expected, in a gesture of pure fury over its own
helplessness."
Bors said sardonically, "We can all commit suicide, of course!"
The Pretender did not answer. His nephew sank into a chair and glowered
at the wall. The situation was contrary to all the illusions cherished
by the human race. To act decently and with honor is somehow fitting to
a man and consistent with the nature of the universe, so that decency
and honor may prosper. But recent events denied it. Men who were willing
to die for their countrymen only injured them by the attempt. And now
the conduct which honor would approve turned upon them to bring the
consequences of treason and villainy.
A long time passed. Bors sat with clenched hands. It was the barbaric
insistence of Mekin upon conquest that was at fault, of course. But this
happens everywhere, as it has throughout all history. There are, really,
three kinds of people in every community, as there have always been.
There are the barbarians, and there are the tribesmen, and there are the
civilized. This was true when men lived on only one planet, and
doubtless was true when the first village was built. There were
civilized men even then. If there was progress, they brought it about.
And in every village there were, and are, tribesmen, men who placidly
accept the circumstances into which they are born, and who wish no
change at all. And everywhere and at all times there are barbarians.
They seek personal triumphs. They thrive on high emotional victories.
And at no time will barbarians ever leave either civilized men or
tribesmen alone. They crave triumphs over them and each other, and they
create disaster everywhere, until they are crushed.
Bors said evenly, "If the king's planning to surrender the fleet to
Mekin as ransom for Kandar, it won't work."
"He's considering it," said his uncle. "It will be a way of giving them
the victory we cheated them of, though we didn't intend to win."
"It won't work," repeated Bors. "It won't do a bit of good. They'll want
to punish Kandar because it wasn't beaten. They feed on destruction and
brutality. They're barbarians. The economic interpretation of history
doesn't apply here! The Mekinese who run things _want_ to be evil. They
will be until they're crushed."
"Crushed?" asked the Pretender bitterly. "Is there a chance of that?"
Bors considered gravely. Then he said, "I think so."
The door opened and the king came in. Bors rose and the king nodded. He
spoke to the Pretender.
"Somebody raised the question of food," he said. "There isn't any to
speak of, of course. You'd think grown men would face facts! There's not
a man willing to accept what is, and work from that! Lunatics!"
He flung himself into a chair.
"Suggested," he continued, "that a part of the fleet go to Norden to buy
food and bring it back. Of course Mekin wouldn't hear about it, wouldn't
guess at the survival of the fleet because food was bought in such
quantities! Suggested, that a part of the fleet go to some uncolonized
planet and hunt meat. Try to imagine success in that venture! Suggested,
that we travel a long distance, pick out a relatively small world, land
and seize its spaceport and facilities and equip ourselves to bomb Mekin
to extinction. And do it in a surprise attack! Suggested--"
The king shook his head angrily. He did not look royal. He did not look
confident. He looked embittered and even helpless. But he still looked
like a very honest man trying to make up for his admitted deficiencies.
"Majesty," said Bors.
The king turned his eyes.
"You're going to send me off for news," said Bors. "I suggested earlier
that my ship pretend to be the sole survivor of the fleet. I suggest
now that the ship add the wild and desperate boast that since there's no
longer a world which will sponsor it, it's turned pirate. It will take
vengeance on its own. It defies the might of Mekin and it dares the
Mekinese fleet to do something about it."
"Why?" asked the king.
"Pirates," Bors answered, controlling his enthusiasm, "have to be hunted
down. It takes many ships to hunt down a pirate. I should be able to
keep a good-sized slice of the Mekinese navy busy simply lying in wait
for me here and there."
"And?"
"There are tribute-ships which carry food from the subject worlds to
Mekin. Hating Mekin as befits the sole survivor of this fleet, Majesty,
it would be natural for me to capture such ships, even if I could do
nothing better with them than send them out to space to be wasted. They
wouldn't be wasted, naturally. They'd come here."
The king said, "But you couldn't supply the fleet indefinitely!"
Bors nodded agreement. But he waited.
"You may try," said the king querulously. "Have you something else up
your sleeve?"
Bors nodded in his turn.
"Don't tell me what it is," said the king. "So long as the fleet gets
some food and its existence isn't known.... If I knew what you're up to,
I might feel I had to object."
"I think not, Majesty," Bors said, showing a rare smile. "I'll need some
extra men. If I do capture food-ships, they'll be useful."
"I can't imagine that anything would be useful," said the king bitterly.
"Tell the admiral to give them to you."
Bors saluted and left the room. He went directly to the admiral who in
theory was second in command only while the king was aboard. He
explained his mission and some of his intentions. The admiral listened
stonily.
"I'll give you fifty men," he said. "I think you'll be killed, of
course. But if you live long enough to convince them that the fleet's
been destroyed, you'll be of service."
"What," Bors asked, with a trace of humor, "can possibly be done about
the fact that we wiped out a Mekinese fleet instead of letting it
exterminate us?"
"The matter," the admiral answered seriously, "is under consideration."
Bors shrugged and went to his own ship, the _Isis_. He was excessively
uncomfortable. He'd said to his uncle, and implied to the king, that he
had some plan in mind. He did, but it angered him to know that he
counted on assistance; that, in theory, he could not possibly accomplish
it alone. It was irritating to realize that he expected Gwenlyn and her
father to turn up, with their Talents, when absolutely nobody outside of
the fleet could possibly imagine where the fleet had gone. On Kandar it
must be assumed, by now, that it was dead.
His ship's boat clanked into position in the lifeboat blister. The
valves closed on it. A moment later there was a whistling murmur, and
the boat's vision-ports clouded over outside and then cleared. He
stepped out into the ship's atmosphere. His second-in-command greeted
him in the control-room.
"I was trying to reach you at the flagship, sir," he said. "The yacht
_Sylva_ is lying a few miles off. Her owner has forwarded news reports
to the flagship. He asks that you receive him when you can, sir."
Bors's apparent lack of surprise was real. He wasn't surprised. But he
was annoyed with himself for expecting something so impossible as the
_Sylva_ tracing the fleet through an overdrive voyage of days to a most
unlikely destination like Glamis.
"Tell him to come aboard," he commanded.
He went to talk to the mess officer, reflecting that he would ask the
Morgans how the _Sylva_ had known where to come, and they'd tell him,
and it would be extremely unlikely, and he would accept the explanation.
The mess-officer looked harassed at the news of fifty additional crewmen
to be fed.
"Principles of prudence and common sense," said Bors, "don't apply any
more. We'll feed them somehow."
He went back to the control-room. When Morgan appeared, beaming
expansively, Bors was again unsurprised to see Gwenlyn with him. Logan,
the Mathematics Talent, followed in their wake, looking indifferently
about him.
"We wiped out the fleet headed for Kandar," Bors observed. "I don't
suppose that's news, to you?"
Morgan cheerfully shook his head.
"And we're in considerably more trouble than before. Is that news?"
"No," admitted Morgan. "It's reasonable for you to be."
"Then, damnit, I'm going off on a pirating-news-gathering-food-raiding
cruise alone," said Bors. "Is that news?"
"We brought Logan," said Morgan, "to go with you. He'll be useful.
That's Talents--"
"--Incorporated information and I can depend on it," said Bors dourly.
"In plain common sense the odds are rather high against my accomplishing
anything, such as coming back."
Morgan looked at his daughter. He grinned.
"We heard gloom from him the other day before a certain space-battle,
didn't we?" He turned back to Bors. "Look, Captain. Our Talents don't
prophesy. Precognition simply says that when there are so many thousand
ways an event in the future can happen, then, in one of those several
thousand ways, it will. Precognition doesn't say which way. It doesn't
say how. Especially, it doesn't say why. But we have a very firm
precognition by a very reliable Talent that you'll be alive and doing
something very specific a year from now. So we assume you won't be
permanently killed in the meantime."
"But anything else can happen?"
"More or less," admitted Morgan.
"What will happen?"
"We don't know!" said Morgan again. "Someday I may take you aside and
explain the facts of precognition and other talents as I understand
them. I'm probably quite wrong. But I do know better than to try to pry
certain kinds of information from my Talents. Right now--"
"I'm going to try to capture a, what you might call a tribute-ship,
loaded with food for Mekin."
"Tralee," said Morgan with finality. "You'll try there."
"Will I capture a food-ship there?" asked Bors.
"How the devil would I know?" Morgan snapped.
"You asked the wrong question," said Gwenlyn cheerfully. "If you asked
if there's a cargo-ship down on Tralee, loading foodstuffs for Mekin,
there can be an answer to that."
"Is there?"
"At the moment, yes," Morgan answered. "So the dowsing Talent says."
"Then I'll go there," said Bors.
"I thought you might," said Morgan. He looked at his daughter.
"May I come along?" asked Gwenlyn. "With an assortment of Talents? My
father's going to have long conferences with the king. He'll need some
Talents here to work out things. But I could go along on your ship with
a few of the others. We could help a lot."
"No!" said Bors grimly.
"I thought not," said Morgan. "Very well. Logan, you'll help Captain
Bors, I'm sure."
The math Talent said offhandedly;
"Any calculations he needs, of course."
He looked about him with a confident, modestly complacent air.
Bors walked with Morgan and his daughter to the airlock. He turned to
Gwenlyn. "I don't mean to be ungallant, refusing to let you run risks."
"I'm flattered but annoyed," Gwenlyn answered. "It means I'll have to
take drastic measures. Luck!"
She and her father went into the _Sylva's_ space-boat. The blister doors
closed. Bors went back to the control room. He began to set up the
computations for astrogation from the sun of Glamis to the sun of
Tralee. He shortly heard the sound of arrivals via the _Isis's_
airlock. Presently, his second-in-command reported fifty additional
hands aboard. They included astrogators, drive-engineers and assorted
specialists.
After clearance with the flagship, the little warship aimed with
painstaking exactitude at Tralee's sun, making due allowance for its
proper motion, Glamis's proper motion, the length of time the light he
aimed by had been on its way, the distance, and the _Isis's_ travel-rate
in overdrive.
Presently Bors said, "Overdrive coming!" and counted down. After "one"
he pressed a button. There was the singularly unpleasant sensation of
going into overdrive. Then the small fighting ship was alone in its
cocoon of warped and twisted space. Until it came out again, there was
no possible way by which any message could reach it or its existence be
detected or proved. Theory said, in fact, that the cosmos could explode
and a ship in overdrive would be unaware of the fact so long as it
stayed in overdrive.
But Bors's light cruiser came out where the sun of Tralee was a disk of
intolerable brilliance, and all the stars in every direction looked
exactly as usual.