Regin Naylo barked crisp orders, and some of the ships took off to
surround the small Earth scout craft. One of the big cruiser class
swerved over and hurled out a blanketing infrawave that quietly clamped
down on space and shut off Hatch's transmission as abruptly as cutting
the wires on a telephone line. Except that there was not even a
click....
Wilson grabbed a phone and barked, "Froman! You're Hatch's second.
Scout that! And report constantly!"
"Affirm, Commodore!"
Wilson called Admiral Stone. "Trouble, Admiral," he snapped curtly.
"We've contacted what appears to be a war fleet in space."
Admiral Stone was dumbfounded. Like many others, he realized that the
mathematical probabilities of there being another sentient race in
the Galaxy was almost a certainty, that considering the billions of
stars, the figures read to the tune of probably some twenty thousand
such planetary races, even taking the probabilities in a pessimistic
quantity.
But twenty thousand sentient races sprinkled across a volume of space
with the infinity of the Galaxy gave each and every one of them a
lot of room. Their making contact with one another was slightly less
probable than the close passage of two stars.
Then the men of Earth waited again.
They realized that nothing is ever done right in a hurry. Light leagues
of space separated the human forces from the alien. Light years had
to be crossed. As time passed, everybody sat tense, each with his own
personal thoughts.
An alien race? Certainly everybody expected that Humankind would some
day meet up with some stellar race distant and remote and probably as
exotic-looking as anything that the most lurid magazines had ever used
on their covers. Or possibly they would be human-looking. Each man had
his own ideas, and no two were exactly alike. The aliens would come as
friends. They would be met as friends. They would come as superiors to
help them to reach Utopia, or come as masters to make them slaves. They
were humanivorous--or they were good to eat themselves. And what might
happen to an intelligent filet mignon?
And so the time passed slowly until Hatch's second, Major Spaceman
Froman, and his scouts made contact.
* * * * *
They were wide spread as they came against that space lattice of Viggon
Sarri's first wave. Their reports were sketchy and incomplete, because
they had been ordered to make contact, to observe, and to swoop back.
In snatches they described the fleet:
"Thousand feet long--"
"Five hundred in diameter--"
"Twelve turrets--"
"With four projectors each."
"Two forward and--"
"Two at spread behind."
"Carriers--"
"Why haven't we got carriers?"
"Fighters with fixed--"
"Hundreds of them!"
Stone heard, and digested the ramble of information. He heard things
described that he could not believe, and things that he had to accept.
"Wilson!" he barked. "Retreat! Retire."
"But look, Admiral--"
Admiral Stone took a deep breath and fought his dazzled mind into a
semblance of order.
"Commodore Wilson," he snapped crisply, "official orders. You are to
abandon this search. At once."
"But do you realize--"
"Stop it, Commodore Wilson!! I am well aware of the fact that there
are three human lives at stake. But under these circumstances I cannot
permit three thousand lives to remain in jeopardy on the scant chance
that three may be saved. You are ordered to abandon the search and
return to base."
"Admiral, I--"
"I sit here arguing with you, Wilson, because I don't want to take
punitive measures. But please understand that you are facing a battle
fleet of unknown strength and unknown fire power, both factors of which
must certainly be greater than any power or number we can put in the
field. You cannot face them, Wilson! Your space rifles are stowed and
your ammunition holds are empty. Your torpedo bays are stocked with
a few scattered practice missiles with smoke-flare warheads. Your
fire-control equipment needs overhaul and adjustment, and your lockers
are not checked out for battle maneuver. For the safety of your men,
Wilson, and for the safety of your home, you must stop this senseless
argument and obey your orders!"
"Sorry, Admiral, I--"
"This is mutiny!"
"I guess it is, but I am going to find--"
"You will transfer your command to Mr. Manning, who will take the
temporary rank of Commodore Executive. You will consider yourself under
arrest without confinement to quarters, and you will present yourself
to my office upon your return."
"I will do nothing of the sort!"
"Then I must take punitive measures.... Attention, all squadron
commanders and officers above the technical grade! Commodore Theodore
Wilson is relieved of command, and you are to proceed on your own
flight plans to your individual bases. This is by order of my office. I
am Admiral Stone."
Toby Manning came in, and behind him were Edwards and Wainright. Wilson
faced them angrily. "Well?" he snapped.
Manning looked uncomfortable, but said nothing.
"By Regs," said Wilson slowly, "I am still in the command of this
squadron."
Toby Manning nodded slowly.
"I am refusing to obey orders. I am _not_ placing my squadron in your
command, Mr. Manning. Understand?"
Toby smiled crookedly. "I understand. You are accepting all
responsibility, and you are telling me that if I do not follow your
orders, I am disobeying a senior officer."
"Precisely."