The Commodore shook his head. "Just have the other ships maintain
visual contact. Particularly the _Artemis_. The _Lysander_ can take the
rear position. Have me called in my cabin if anything comes up before
then. See you in the wardroom at dinner. Carry on, Mr. Scott."
He left Scott feeling sorry for his friend, Tom Drew, who commanded
Blue Three's lame duck, the beloved _Artemis_.
* * * * *
Striding down the ramp, the Commodore came to the main gun-deck and
headed aft, past the banks of five inchers and torpedo tubes that lined
the inner shell. The gun crews stood respectfully as he walked past
them and returned young Blake's sharp salute. Hartnett restrained a
smile and continued down to the cabin deck.
Ensign Ward was unpacking his gear as he came through the valve,
and listening to a commercial broadcast on short wave that crackled
and faded with the vagaries of Terra's faraway heavyside layer. The
reports, pieced together, gave a fairly comprehensive picture of the
fighting that was going on in the Uranian quadrant.
"I don't like the way things are going, sir," said Ward.
Hartnett didn't either, but he could see no point in saying so.
Besides, the Flotilla's patrol area was on the other side of the sun
from Uranus, and the news there was bad enough to give him food for
thought.
"I won't need you for a bit, Ward. Take off and get yourself settled,"
he suggested.
The aide saluted and left. Hartnett stripped off his blouse and shirt
and settled himself comfortably on the acceleration bunk. He switched
on the bank of solar lamps and let the warm rays sooth and relax his
tired muscles. The tension of many harrowing days in the Pentagon began
to leave him, and he felt a great pity for the desk-bound VIP who could
not know the joy of a ship under them in deep space. Thank God he got
past the last physical. They were getting tougher every patrol!
The radio was still on and as the news reports came in, his restless
mind turned to consider the unfortunate tactical situation in which the
Terran Space Force now found itself.
It was the old democratic failing. God Bless it! As old as Terra's
history. Ship for ship and man for man the Terran Forces were better
than the Martian. Terrans shot faster and straighter. Terran ships flew
farther and faster. And Terra, for all its failings, was a free world
fighting for a free space. But the Cats had more ships and a hell of a
lot less reluctance about using them to enslave everybody in sight.
* * * * *
The first Martian war had ended the squabbling confederation of
sovereign states that had been the UN. And the Martian war had brought
about in five short years the advancement of space-flight that might
otherwise have taken decades. It was ironic that the peace-loving
peoples of the Universe always seemed to produce better under the harsh
goad of war. The nastier the war the more magnificent the achievements.
Hartnett wondered if that were not a very significant commentary on the
true nature of the human organism.
But in the first Cat war the Solar System had been faced with the
unfortunate situation of two races developing interplanetary flight
within a decade of each other ... and both starting out to proselytize
their own peculiar institutions among the outposts of the System. A
clash was inevitable ... and Terra won the narrow margin of victory by
a more comprehensive understanding of material science. While the war
had begun with chemical fueled ships and bombs, it had ended up with
atomic powered ships and proton cannon.
The primitive ships of the war's beginning were still vivid memories to
Hartnett. He had spent many months in them, suffering the effects of
free-fall for weeks while they coasted in half-computed orbits around
the sun. The people of Terra had long had atomics, but it was not until
the third year of war that a method had been found to utilize the power
of the atom for a space drive. In those days a ship did not dare even
a perihelion passage, for fear the terrible heat of the sun would
detonate their precious reserves of fuel. Things were different now.
Ward reentered the room abruptly. "Message from Luna Control, sir,"
he said, passing over the note. "Came on tight beam, coded, and
scrambled," he added unnecessarily.
The Commodore read it over slowly and pursed his lips. He swung his
legs over the side of the bunk and reached for the intercom. "Control."
"Control here," came the reply.
"Stand by for a change of course. Be with you in a moment."