* * * * *
A sleek, luxurious spaceyacht blasted from its plotted C-orbit out of
Earth and slanted down toward Venus' cloudbank. Within a plushy cabin
on its topside an incredibly fat man in white tie and tails squatted at
the controls, a self satisfied grin on his bejowled face.
"Jimmie," he said to the ruddy faced navigator, "we'll show the
Authority that we don't have to have instruments keying our course.
We'll show them that we don't have to get a buzz every thirty minutes
to tell us we're grooving our trajectory. No, sir, Jimmie, my lad. Now
we'll show them Charleston infrareds clear down to Pali-Vanyi port.
We'll show them that we don't need any antiquated radio range beam to
get us into that foggy port. That weather broadcast my daughter made us
listen to a while back said that Pali is completely fogged in, but that
isn't going to stop us. The Charleston infrareds will get us down.
"Sure, Jimmie, we proved that we can get from Earth to Venus without
the aid of a trajectory beam; now we'll prove that we can get all the
way down to surface without benefit of the Authority. We'll prove that
this Astronautics Authority stuff is just a waste of the taxpayers'
money, that the Charleston infrareds will make landing on Venus so
simple that even a freshman at Astrotech could get in safely. When
Congress convenes again, we'll show them, eh, Jimmie?"
"Yes, sir," the navigator yessed. "What's this Authority business
anyway? Just a political organization which takes the taxpayer's money
for something that isn't necessary at all. Sir, when you get back to
Washington, you'll show 'em!"
"Good boy, Jimmie," the resplendently clad individualist said with a
smile, patting the young fellow's shoulder with a diamond-studded paw.
Wherewith Dewitt Charleston peered through the forward port at the
onrushing, cloud-veiled sphere which was Venus and grinned very
happily. And then, from the corner of a flesh-surmounted eye he
glimpsed the red flaring of rocket exhausts on the port side, and not
more than ten miles away.
"Somebody crowding in on us," Charleston said. "Release the broadcast
antenna while I get the transmitter going. Let's see, what's Patrol
frequency? Sixty Megacycles."
Below the spaceyacht a long length of antenna dropped, trailing some
ten feet below the length of the four hundred foot hull.
Jimmie nodded an okay to his employer.
The fat one absorbed the microphone in a fleshy hand.
"Calling unknown ship on port side. Sy 2700 calling."
There was no answer.
"Rats," said Dewitt Charleston. "What do they mean, coming in on our
trajectory?"
"But, sir," Jimmie protested, "our trajectory isn't listed with the
Authority; they probably have this other ship scheduled to come in now."
"They shouldn't do things like that," Charleston protested peevishly
with a sublime disregard for the necessarily intricate workings of the
Authority. "No right at all. Might think we were ordinary spacebats or
something."
Which is when the receiver, attuned to the Patrol frequency, caught
Traffic Control's command to contact the unidentified destroyer.
Forthwith a third ship made itself present in the extra-Venusian
heavens; a red-lighted ship bearing the AAP of the Authority Patrol. It
came blasting from Venus' east and over its transmitter came:
"Patrol V-11 calling destroyer. What is your mission?"
Silence. It is a ruling in the interplanetary code that all ships use
the same wavelength when contacting ships of the Authority or ships
under the guidance of the AA's facilities; since silence reigned, it
was quite obvious that the unknown destroyer had not answered.
The patrol ship shot a warning flare across the destroyer's bow. It
burned bluely in the darkness of the outer atmosphere, lighting up that
entire quadrant of space, revealing the baleful circle-in-a-square
insignia of Mars on the destroyer's hull!
The receiver burst again into life.
"Patrol V-11 calling base. Destroyer is of Martian origin. Advise."
But before an answer was forthcoming, a luridly flaring object leaped
from the dark ship, speeding across the obscurity of interplanetary
space like a leaping bolt of lightning.
"Patrol V-11 to base. Destroyer launched torpedo. Trying to escape.
Blast jet bank seven. Blast nine. Nine! Nine!"
The voice went dead. A lurid red sundered the black abyss of space. It
was a void of baleful crimson in which two ships sped: Charleston's
spaceyacht and the destroyer out of Mars. Where V-11 had been was only
a glowing scattering of wreckage which faded into nothingness in the
eternal night of the void.
"Pali-Vanyi base calling V-11. Calling--"
But V-11 did not answer. V-11 could not answer. V-11 was but debris
dropping down into the everlasting clouds.
Charleston's fat face was covered with perspiration.
"Jimmie," he said, almost inarticulately, "something is very screwy
around here. Maybe I'd better contact Pali-Vanyi and find out what's
going on."
Cutting in the transmitter, Charleston began to bark excitedly:
"Sy 2700 calling Pali-Vanyi Base--"
Simultaneously a torpedo lanced from the destroyer's tubes, darting
straight at the spaceyacht. Charleston keyed in the underjets to avoid
it, praying fervently the while. A shudder ran through the yacht; then
it was running as smoothly as before.
"What happened?" Charleston cried, his eyes darting feverishly from
meter to meter.
"The torpedo ripped away our broadcast antenna," Jimmie said slowly.
"We can't contact Pali-Vanyi now!"
"Damn them, damn them!" Charleston murmured. "We'll follow them; we'll
find out what it's all about!"
"Yes, sir," Jimmie said, but his whole body was quivering and he was
wishing he was far, far away.