Hartnett's men were presented to the ship's commander more as a
formality than anything else, as he had met them before. Thorne, a full
Commander, was Flotilla Astrogator, Wilson and Orsov, Lieutenants,
were Flotilla Gunnery Officers, James, a jaygee, was Flotilla Signals
Officer, and Ensign Ward, a thin boy about Blake's age, was the
Commodore's Aide. He sported his single silver augilette proudly.
They didn't seem a bad lot, reflected Scott grudgingly. Maybe they
wouldn't get in the way too much.
"We can lift ship as soon as convenient, Mr. Scott," said Hartnett,
issuing his first order.
"Aye, sir."
Hartnett turned to his staff. "Get yourselves below and sort yourselves
out. Try not to take up too much room." As they vanished down the ramp,
he turned to take a seat at the visiplates.
Scott was taking a time check from the Tower Control, and the signalmen
were relaying the lift-ship order to the three other ships of Blue
Three. Outside on the airless field, the amber warning lights were
spinning on the Tower mast, warning the spacesuited maintenance crews
away from the blast pits.
Chavez was snapping orders into the intercom and the _Darkside_ was
awaking to activity smoothly. Five shielded decks below Control,
Chief Jetman Collins and the black-gang were busily removing
the seals from the cadmium dampers in the blast chambers. The
"three-minutes-to-lift-ship" alarm blared and the lights dimmed,
leaving Control lighted only by the reflected glow of the panel lights.
On the visiplate screen, the slender shapes of the _Lysander_, the
_Argus_ and the fat, ungainly silhouette of the ironically named
_Artemis_ showed clearly in the earthlight.
The _Artemis_, thought Hartnett, was the only weak link in his command.
The other three ships were modern, but the _Artemis_ was an ancient
alcohol burner, converted to atomics and pressed into service by the
exigencies of an undeclared and treacherous war.
At best, she could stand no more than 5 Terran Gs and the rest of the
Flotilla would be forced to keep to her reduced speed throughout the
cruise. Her armament was lighter and her armor thinner than it should
be. In fact, she was strictly Cat meat if she should ever be forced to
stand and fight. And if they intercepted any Cats, that is exactly what
she would have to do, since she was the only ship of Blue Three that
could not outrun any comparable Martian ship.
Scott was giving his orders now, eyes fastened on the master
chronometer. Hartnett was pleased to see that he did so without a
sidelong look at his superior. He knew his business and did it. Good.
Then Hartnett could stick to handling Blue Three and worrying about the
_Artemis_ without thought of how the ship under him was being managed.
He slipped into his G-Suit and plugged the lines into an outlet on the
side of his chair. The second hand swept up the face of the dial, and
Scott hit the firing studs. Far below, Jetman Collins removed the
dampers from the main blast chambers.
* * * * *
The takeoff was strictly routine for the Luna Base personnel. The
four ships of the Flotilla rose from the pits on their long tails of
radioactive flame, setting the outside Geiger counters to clucking
wildly and outlining in vivid relief the three dreadnaughts that lay in
their careening berths and the dozen or so smaller ships on the line.
Under 3 Terran Gs of acceleration, Flotilla Blue Three was soon lost in
the ebony sky. For just an instant there was the vaguest suggestion of
four racing shadows on the blue-green disk of the gibbous Terra that
hung low in the heavens, and then nothing. The airless silence of Luna
Base continued unbroken.
In the sheathed Control Tower, the Operations Officer made ready to go
off watch. He was thinking of a few drinks and a girl and maybe a thick
steak down in Ley City. Wonderful place, Ley City ... even in wartime.
The door burst open, but it was not his relief. It was a breathless
yeoman of signals. He held a sheaf of papers in his hand.
"Has Blue Three lifted, sir? Cryptographing sent me with this."
"Damn! They're well out by this time Reilly." He indicated the radar
screen that showed four rapidly moving pips already heading into deep
space.
The yeoman handed him the papers without a word.
"What kept you?" The officer demanded angrily.
Reilly looked at his superior reproachfully. "I made it from Crypto in
forty seconds flat, sir. Couldn't come any faster!"
"Dammit! Now we'll have to put this on tight beam and scramble it.
Intelligence suspects the Cats have cracked our cipher!"
He sat down at the scrambler and began to type.
"COMMODORE CLARE HARTNETT: ABOARD TRS DARKSIDE FLOTILLA BLUE THREE.
PRIORITY MISSION. REPEAT. PRIORITY MISSION. SPATIAL INTELLIGENCE
REPORTS LARGE QUANTITY ISOTOPE X-R REFERENCE 6589-3 CODE BOOK IN
DANGER OF CAPTURE AT METALLURGICAL STATION 9 CHART REFERENCE A-5.
PREVENT AT ALL COSTS. LARGE CONCENTRATION MARTIAN PHOBOS CLASS
CRUISERS AND POSSIBLE SUPERDREADNAUGHT ARMED WITH CYCLOTRONICS IN
VICINITY SEARCHING FOR STATION 9. REPEAT. X-R MUST NOT FALL INTO
MARTIAN HANDS. DESTROY IF NECESSARY. FOR YOUR INFORMATION AND
GUIDANCE INTELLIGENCE SUSPECTS CIPHER TWO HAS BEEN CRACKED BY
MARTIAN CRYPTO. LUCK. DO NOT ACKNOWLEDGE. SIGNED: TORAN LONG,
CAPTAIN, SENIOR CONTROL, LUNA BASE. END MESSAGE."
Rising, he detached the roll of perforated tape from the scrambler and
fed it into the tight beam transmitter. When the roll was consumed,
Long dropped sullenly into a chair. His relief arrived, but all desire
to partake of the joys of Ley City was gone. Like most of the old
timers he admired Hartnett immensely, and he could not rid himself
of the feeling that he was in some way responsible for sending the
fabulous spaceman into sure destruction.
Against the ten known cruisers and the suspected superdreadnaught that
were searching that quadrant for the illusive Station 9, the strength
of Flotilla Blue Three was sadly inadequate.
If the message had arrived earlier, a dreadnaught or at least a couple
of cruisers could have been despatched with Hartnett's force. But the
impossibility of a rendezvous in space made it strictly the Commodore's
baby now. Besides, Terra had no ships to spare. Hartnett would have to
rescue the three technicians at the Station and destroy the Isotope X-R
with no help.
The Cats didn't know what X-R was, but they wanted to find out awfully
badly if their concentration of strength in the Uranus quadrant was any
indication. And it wouldn't be very long before they found that the
mysterious Station 9 was on Oberon, either. With more than eleven ships
prowling around, they wouldn't miss such an obvious bet for very much
longer. All Hartnett had to do now was sneak through their screen,
land a ship on Oberon, take the technicians off, destroy the X-R, and
get away again without being seen because the _Artemis_ couldn't fight!
Long groaned. That's all!
Oh, why, he wondered, wouldn't Terrans learn? An ancient leader of
Terra's nationalist era had said it perfectly for them. Speak softly,
he had said, but carry a big stick! Why wouldn't they listen?
He shook his head and left the Control Tower wearily.
"What's eating him?" asked the relief.
"He's just sent Blue Three into the Uranus quadrant," replied Reilly.
The relief gave a low whistle and turned to look out over the earthlit
moonscape. "Too bad."
* * * * *
Hartnett caught the Commander's eye as he worked at the control board.
"Sorry to crowd you like this, Mr. Scott," he said.
"It's nothing at all, sir. It's a pleasure to have you aboard." Even
as he said it, Scott realized how stupid it must sound. Of course it
crowded him to have Hartnett aboard and it annoyed him being the second
ranking officer on his own ship.
Commodore Hartnett smiled at the Commander's words. There was hardly
anything else he could say, poor devil. Rank has its privileges,
he thought. But he said: "Glad you feel that way," and fell silent
watching Scott and the Quartermaster guide the ship through the first
stages of acceleration.
Scott felt he should say something more, but he wasn't at all sure just
what. Finally he said, "We've only an hour or so more of acceleration,
sir. If there's anything you want tied down in your cabin, you'd best
notify Mr. Ward. The _Darkside_ has no gravitators."
"The cabin will be in order, Mr. Scott," replied Hartnett casually, "My
staff and I are all destroyer men."
Scott cursed himself for an idiot and mumbled an apology, but the
Commodore had let the incident pass with a half hidden smile and was
inspecting the orbital calculators at the far wing of the Control panel.
The voice of Lieutenant Morse, Astrogation Officer, saved Scott any
further embarassment. The communicator buzzed and Scott closed the
switch.
"Control here!" he snapped, a bit too crisply.
"Astrogation. We'll be at the boundary of our inner patrol zone at 2335
Sidereal, sir."