Of course Dusty had expected there would be quite a difference between
his handling of Marandanian spacecraft and the professional. But he did
not realize how great this difference was. In a larger ship than Scyth
Radnor's, spearheading a conical flight of twelve more ships, he rode
behind the pilot and admired the smoothness of the man's operation.
The color of the plate was high in the blue-violet and the stars leaped
out of their background to whip past with hardly a flick. Beacons
fairly buzzed and they grew into flaming balls and were gone behind as
the pilot moved the 'Tee' bar with a deft motion of one hand and used
the other hand to flick back and forth across the controls, changing
the viewpanel co-ordinates and adjusting the various factors for
flight. He skirted gas fields dangerously close and zipped between the
cluster by the double zigzag with a swaying motion, then humped the
spacer down tight and made a dead run for it.
And behind him in a cone came the rest, in tight formation, conically
arranged below the leader in tiers, three, four, five.
They soared around another beacon, its flashing fire bright blue
and the coronal glow reaching out for them, and then the pilot was
calling out numbers and a man at the computer was punching keys. On
the viewpanel before them lay another beacon, winking ... winking ...
winking.
Behind them, a continuous tape was running through the recording
machine, playing its words on the phanoband communication channels:
"Calling Transgalactic. Government Priority and Emergency! Calling
Transgalactic! You are to disable your barytrine generator, you are to
discontinue all operations at once! By Order of the Bureau Of Galactic
Affairs!"
A man sat tense in his chair peering at a greenish screen that had a
halo-spot in the middle. The halo was growing larger, but so slow as to
be almost steady. The man held a micrometer thimble between his thumb
and forefinger and was turning it slowly, keeping a pair of dark lines
tangent to the bright edge of the halo. From time to time he would call
out a figure which another man would pluck out on a keyboard.
"Why don't they answer?" breathed Barbara.
Gant smiled sourly. "Because they are going to go through with it if
they can."
"But--?"
"They have every legal right to maintain communication silence, even
though at the present time there is small point in maintaining secrecy
about this rift. Their legal position is one of fair safety; one cannot
be convicted of disobeying orders that one does not hear."