Kaplan was standing in front of the machines, gazing down at the
reading. "Commissioner--"
Sudden alarm plucked at Reinhart. There was something in Kaplan's
voice. He hurried quickly over. "What is it?"
Kaplan looked up at him, his face white, his eyes wide with terror.
His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came.
"_What is it?_" Reinhart demanded, chilled. He bent toward the
machines, studying the reading.
And sickened with horror.
100-1. _Against_ Terra!
He could not tear his gaze away from the figures. He was numb, shocked
with disbelief. 100-1. _What had happened?_ What had gone wrong? The
turret was finished, Icarus was ready, the fleet had been notified--
There was a sudden deep buzz from outside the building. Shouts drifted
up from below. Reinhart turned his head slowly toward the window, his
heart frozen with fear.
Across the evening sky a trail moved, rising each moment. A thin line
of white. Something climbed, gaining speed each moment. On the ground,
all eyes were turned toward it, awed faces peering up.
The object gained speed. Faster and faster. Then it vanished. Icarus
was on his way. The attack had begun; it was too late to stop, now.
And on the machines the odds read a hundred to one--for failure.
At eight o'clock in the evening of May 15, 2136, Icarus was launched
toward the star Centaurus. A day later, while all Terra waited, Icarus
entered the star, traveling at thousands of times the speed of light.
Nothing happened. Icarus disappeared into the star. There was no
explosion. The bomb failed to go off.
At the same time the Terran warfleet engaged the Centauran outer
fleet, sweeping down in a concentrated attack. Twenty major ships were
seized. A good part of the Centauran fleet was destroyed. Many of the
captive systems began to revolt, in the hope of throwing off the
Imperial bonds.
Two hours later the massed Centauran warfleet from Armun abruptly
appeared and joined battle. The great struggle illuminated half the
Centauran system. Ship after ship flashed briefly and then faded to
ash. For a whole day the two fleets fought, strung out over millions
of miles of space. Innumerable fighting men died--on both sides.
At last the remains of the battered Terran fleet turned and limped
toward Armun--defeated. Little of the once impressive armada remained.
A few blackened hulks, making their way uncertainly toward captivity.
Icarus had not functioned. Centaurus had not exploded. The attack was
a failure.
The war was over.
"We've lost the war," Margaret Duffe said in a small voice, wondering
and awed. "It's over. Finished."
The Council members sat in their places around the conference table,
gray-haired elderly men, none of them speaking or moving. All gazed up
mutely at the great stellar maps that covered two walls of the
chamber.
"I have already empowered negotiators to arrange a truce," Margaret
Duffe murmured. "Orders have been sent out to Vice-Commander Jessup to
give up the battle. There's no hope. Fleet Commander Carleton
destroyed himself and his flagship a few minutes ago. The Centauran
High Council has agreed to end the fighting. Their whole Empire is
rotten to the core. Ready to topple of its own weight."
Reinhart was slumped over at the table, his head in his hands. "I
don't understand.... _Why?_ Why didn't the bomb explode?" He mopped
his forehead shakily. All his poise was gone. He was trembling and
broken. "_What went wrong?_"
Gray-faced, Dixon mumbled an answer. "The variable man must have
sabotaged the turret. The SRB machines knew.... They analyzed the
data. _They knew!_ But it was too late."
Reinhart's eyes were bleak with despair as he raised his head a
little. "I knew he'd destroy us. We're finished. A century of work and
planning." His body knotted in a spasm of furious agony. "All because
of Sherikov!"
* * * * *