It so happened that for many long weeks there had been lying in New
York space port an urgent shipment for Alsakan. And not only was that
urgency a one-way affair. For, with the possible exception of a few
packets, whose owners had locked them in vaults and would not part with
them at any price, there was not a single Alsakanite cigarette left on
Earth!
Luxuries, then as now, soared feverishly in price with scarcity.
Only the rich smoked Alsakanite cigarettes, and to those rich the
price of anything they really wanted was a matter of almost complete
indifference. And plenty of them wanted, and wanted badly, their
Alsakanite cigarettes. There was no doubt of that.
The current market report upon them was: "Bid, one thousand credits per
packet of ten. Offered, none at any price."
With that ever-climbing figure in mind, a merchant prince named
Matthews had been trying to get an Alsakanbound ship into the ether.
He knew that one cargo of Alsakanite cigarettes safely landed in any
Tellurian space port would yield more profit than could be made by his
entire fleet in ten years of normal trading. Therefore, he had for
weeks been pulling every wire, and even every string, that he could
reach--political, financial, even at times verging altogether too close
for comfort upon the criminal--but without results.
For, even if he could find a crew willing to take the risk, to launch
the ship without an escort would be out of the question. There would be
no profit in a ship that did not return to Earth. The ship was his, to
do with as he pleased, but the escorting maulers were assigned solely
by the Galactic Patrol, and that patrol would not give his ship an
escort.
In answer to his first request, he had been informed that only cargoes
classed as necessary were being escorted at all regularly; that
seminecessary loads were escorted occasionally, when of a particularly
useful or desirable commodity and if opportunity offered; that luxury
loads, such as his, were not being escorted at all; that he would be
notified if, as, and when the _Prometheus_ could be given escort. Then
the merchant prince began his siege.
* * * * *
Politicians of high rank, local and national, sent in "requests" of
varying degrees of diplomacy. Financiers first offered inducements,
then threatened to "bear down," then put on all the various kinds
of pressure known to their pressure-loving ilk. Pleas, demands,
threats, and pressures were alike, however, futile. The patrol could
not be coaxed or bullied, cajoled, bribed, or cowed; and all further
communications upon the subject, from whatever source originating,
were ignored.
Having exhausted his every resource of diplomacy, politics, guile, and
finance, the merchant prince resigned himself to the inevitable and
stopped trying to get his ship off the ground.
Then, like the proverbial bolt from the blue, New York sub-base
received from Prime Base an open message, not even coded, which read:
Authorize space ship _Prometheus_ to clear for Alsakan at will,
escorted by patrol ship B 42 TC 838, whose present orders are
hereby canceled. Signed, Haynes.
A demolition bomb dropped into that sub-base would not have caused
greater excitement than did that message. Neither the base commander,
the captain of the mauler, the captain of the _Prometheus_, nor the
highly pleased but equally surprised Matthews could explain it; but
all of them did whatever they could to expedite the departure of the
freighter. She was, and had been for a long time, practically ready to
sail.
As the base commander and Matthews sat in the office, shortly before
the scheduled time of departure, Kinnison arrived--or, more correctly,
let them know that he was there. He invited them both into the control
room of his speedster; and invitations from gray Lensmen were accepted
without question or demur.
"I suppose that you are wondering what this is all about," he began.
"I'll make it as short as I can. I asked you in here because this is
the only convenient place in which I _know_ that what we say will not
be overheard. There are lots of spy rays around here, whether you know
it or not. The _Prometheus_ is to be allowed to go to Alsakan, because
that is where pirates seem to be most numerous, and we do not want to
waste time hunting all over space to find one.
"Your vessel was selected, Mr. Matthews, for three reasons, and
in spite of the attempts you have been making to obtain special
privileges, not because of them: first, because there is no necessary
or seminecessary freight waiting for clearance into that region;
second, because we do not want your firm to fail. We do not know of any
other large shipping line in such a shaky position as yours, nor of any
firm anywhere to which one single cargo would make such an immense
financial difference."
"You are certainly right there, Lensman!" Matthews agreed,
whole-heartedly. "It means bankruptcy on the one hand and a fortune on
the other."
* * * * *
"Here's what is to happen. The ship and the mauler blast off on
schedule, fourteen minutes from now. They get about to Valeria, when
they are both recalled--urgent orders for the mauler to go on rescue
work. The mauler comes back, but your captain will, in all probability,
keep on going, saying that he started out for Alsakan and that's where
he's going----"
"But he wouldn't. He wouldn't _dare_!" gasped the ship owner.
"Sure he would," Kinnison insisted, cheerfully enough. "That is the
third good reason your vessel is being allowed to set out: because it
certainly will be attacked. You didn't know it until now, but your
captain and over half of your crew are pirates themselves, and----"
"What? Pirates!" Matthews bellowed. "I'll go down there and----"
"You'll do nothing whatever, Mr. Matthews, except watch things, and you
will do that from here. The situation is entirely under control."
"But my ship! My cargo!" the shipper wailed. "We'll be ruined if----"
"Let me finish, please," the Lensman interrupted. "As soon as the
mauler turns back it is practically certain that your captain will
send out a message, letting the pirates know that he is easy prey.
Within a minute after sending that message, he dies. So does every
other pirate aboard. Your ship lands on Valeria and takes on a crew
of space-fighting wildcats, headed by Peter VanBuskirk. Then it
goes on toward Alsakan. When the pirates board that ship, after its
prearranged, half-hearted resistance and easy surrender, they are going
to think that all hell's out for noon. Especially since the mauler,
back from her 'rescue work,' will be tagging along, not too far away."
"Then my ship will really go to Alsakan, and back, safely?" Matthews
was almost dazed. Matters were entirely out of his hands, and things
had moved so rapidly that he hardly knew what to think. "But if my own
crews are pirates, some of them may----But I can, of course, get police
protection if necessary."
"Unless something entirely unforseen happens, the _Prometheus_ will
make the round trip in safety, cargoes and all--under mauler escort all
the way. You will, of course, have to take the other matter up with
your local police."
"When is the attack to take place, sir?" asked the base commander.
"That's what the mauler skipper wanted to know when I told him what was
ahead of him." Kinnison grinned. "He wanted to sneak up a little closer
about that time. I'd like to know, myself, but unfortunately that will
have to be decided by the pirates after they get the signal. It will be
on the way out, though, because the cargo she has aboard now is a lot
more valuable to Boskone than a load of Alsakanite cigarettes would be."
"But do you think you can take the pirate ship that way?" asked the
commander, dubiously.
"No. But he will cut down his personnel to such an extent that he will
have to head back for base."
"And that's what you want--the base. I see."
He did not see--quite--but the Lensman did not enlighten him further.
* * * * *
There was a brilliant double flare as freighter and mauler lifted into
the air. Kinnison showed the ship owner out.
"Hadn't I better be going, too?" asked the commander. "Those orders,
you know."
"A couple of minutes yet. I have another message for you--official.
Matthews won't need a police escort long--if any. When that ship is
attacked it is to be the signal for cleaning out every pirate in
Greater New York--the worst pirate hotbed on Tellus. Neither you nor
your force will be in on it directly, but you might pass the word
around, so that our own men will be informed ahead of the Telenews
outfits."
"Good! That has needed doing for a long time."
"Yes. But you know it takes a long time to line up every man in such
a big organization. They want to get them all, without getting any
innocent by-standers."
"Who's doing it? Prime Base?"
"Yes. Enough men will be thrown in here to do the whole job in an hour."
"That _is_ good news. Clear ether, Lensman!" And the base commander
went back to his post.
As the air-lock toggles rammed home, sealing the exit behind the
departing visitor, Kinnison eased his speedster into the air and headed
for Valeria. Since the two vessels ahead of him had left atmosphere
inertialess, as would he, and since several hundred seconds had elapsed
since their take-off, he was, of course, some ten thousand miles off
their line as well as being uncounted millions of miles behind them.
But the larger distance meant no more than the smaller, and neither of
them meant anything at all to the patrol's finest speedster. Kinnison,
on easy touring blast, caught up with them in minutes. Closing up to
less than one light year, he slowed his pace to match theirs and held
his distance.
Any ordinary ship would have been detected instantly--long since, in
fact--but Kinnison rode no ordinary ship. His speedster was immune to
all detection save electromagnetic or visual, and, therefore, even at
that close range--the travel of half a minute for even a slow space
ship in open space--he was safe. For electromagnetics are useless at
that distance; and visual apparatus, even with subether converters, is
reliable only up to a few mere thousands of miles, unless the observer
knows exactly what to look for and where to look for it.
* * * * *
Kinnison, then, closed up and followed the _Prometheus_ and her mauler
escort; and as they approached the Valerian solar system, sure enough,
the recall messages came booming in. Also, as had been expected, the
renegade captain of the freighter sent back, first his defiant answer,
and then his message to the pirate high command. The mauler turned
back; the merchantman kept on. Suddenly, however, she stopped, inert,
and from her ports were ejected discrete bits of matter--probably the
bodies of the Boskonian members of her crew. Then the _Prometheus_,
again inertialess, flashed directly toward the planet Valeria.
An inertialess landing is, of course, highly irregular, and is made
only when the ship is to take off again immediately. It saves all
the time ordinarily lost in spiraling and deceleration, and saves
the computation of a landing orbit, which is no task for an amateur
computer. It is, however, dangerous.
It takes power, plenty of it, to maintain the force which neutralizes
the inertia of mass, and if that force fails, even for an instant,
while a ship is upon a planet's surface, the consequences are usually
highly disastrous. For in the neutralization of inertia there is no
magic, no getting of something for nothing, no violation of Nature's
law of the conservation of matter and energy. The instant that force
becomes inoperative the ship possesses exactly the same velocity,
momentum, and inertia that it possessed at the instant the force took
effect.
Thus, if a space ship takes off from Earth, with its orbital velocity
of about eighteen and one half miles per second relative to the
Sun, goes free, dashes to Mars, lands free, and then goes inert,
its original velocity, both in speed and in direction, is instantly
restored, with consequences better imagined than described. Such a
velocity, of course, _might_ take the ship harmlessly into the air; but
it probably would not.
But the _Prometheus_ landed free, and so did Kinnison. He stepped out,
fully armored against Valeria's extremely heavy atmosphere and laboring
a trifle under its terrific gravitation, to be greeted cordially by
_Lieutenant_ VanBuskirk, whose fighting men were already streaming
aboard the freighter.
"Hi, chief!" the Dutchman called, gayly. "Everything went off like
clockwork. Won't hold you up long--be blasting off in ten minutes."
"Ho, Lefty!" the Lensman acknowledged, as cordially, but saluting the
newly commissioned officer with an exaggerated formality. "Say, Bus,
I've been doing some thinking. Why wouldn't it be a good idea to----"
"Uh-uh, it would _not_," denied the fighter, positively. "I know what
you're going to say--that you want in on this party--but don't say it."
"But I----" Kinnison began to argue.
"Nix," the Valerian declared flatly. "You've got to stay with your
speedster. No room for her inside, as she's full to the last meter with
cargo and with my men. You can't clamp on outside, as that would give
the whole thing away. And besides, for the first and last time in my
life I've got a chance to give a gray Lensman orders. Those orders are
to stay out of and away from this ship--and I'll see to it that you do,
too, you little Tellurian wart! Boy, what a kick I get out of that!"
"You would, you big, dumb Valerian ape. You always were a small-souled
type!" Kinnison retorted. "Piggy-piggy----Haynes, huh?"
"Uh-huh." VanBuskirk nodded. "How else could I talk so rough to _you_
and get away with it? However, don't feel too bad. You aren't missing
a thing, really. This thing is in the cans already, and your fun is
up ahead somewhere. And by the way, Kim, congratulations. You had it
coming. We're all behind you, from here to the next universe and back."
"Thanks. And the same to you, Bus, and many of 'em. Well, if you won't
let me stow away, I'll tag along behind, I guess. Clear ether--or
rather, I hope it's full of pirates by to-morrow morning. Won't be,
though, probably; don't imagine they'll move until we're almost there."
* * * * *
And tag along Kinnison did, through thousands and thousands of parsecs
of uneventful voyage.
Part of the time he spent in the speedster, dashing hither and yon.
Most of it, however, he spent in the vastly more comfortable mauler;
to the armored side of which his tiny vessel clung with its magnetic
clamps while he slept and ate, gossiped and read, exercised and played
with the mauler's officers and crew, in deep-space comradery. It so
happened, however, that when the long-waited attack developed he was
out in his speedster, and thus saw and heard everything from the
beginning.
Space was filled with the old, familiar interference. The raider
flashed up, locked on with magnets, and began to beam. Not
heavily--scarcely enough to warm up the defensive screens--and Kinnison
probed into the pirate with his spy ray.
"Terrestrials--and Americans!" he exclaimed, half aloud, startled for
an instant. "But naturally they would be, since this is a put-up job
and over half the crew were New York gangsters."
"The blighter's got his spy-ray screens up," the pilot was grumbling
to his captain. The fact that he spoke in English was immaterial to
the Lensman; he would have understood equally well any other possible
form of communication or of thought exchange. "That wasn't part of the
plan, was it?"
If Helmuth, or one of the able minds at his base, had been directing
that attack it would have stopped right there. The pilot had shown a
flash of feeling that, with a little encouragement, might have grown
into a suspicion.
But the captain was not an imaginative man. Therefore: "Nothing was
said about it, either way," he replied. "Probably the mate's on duty.
He is not one of us, you know. All the better if he is. The captain
will open up. If he doesn't do it pretty quick, I'll open her up
myself. There, the port's opening. Slide a little forward.... Hold it!
Go get 'em, men!"
Then men, hundreds of them, armed and armored, swarmed through the
freighter's locks. But as the last man of the boarding party passed the
portal something happened that was most decidedly not on the program:
the outer port slammed shut and its toggles drove home!
"Blast those screens! Knock them down! Get in there with a spy ray!"
barked the pirate captain. He was not one of those hardy and valiant
souls who, like Gildersleeve, led, in person, the attacks of his
cutthroats. He emulated, instead, the higher Boskonian officials
and directed his raids from the safety of his control room; but, as
has been intimated, he was unlike those officials in that he lacked
directorial ability. Thus it was only after it was too late that he
became suspicious. "I wonder if somebody could have double-crossed us?
Hi-jackers?"
"We'll soon know," the pilot growled, and even as he spoke the spy ray
got through, revealing a very shambles.
For VanBuskirk and his Valerians had not been caught napping, nor
were they a crew--unarmored, partially armed, and rendered even more
impotent by internal mutiny, strife, and slaughter--such as the
pirates had expected to find.
* * * * *
Instead of such a crew the boarders met a force that was overwhelmingly
superior to their own--not only in point of numbers, but even more
markedly in the strength and agility of its units. Also, the defenders
were more capably armed than were the attackers, since, in addition
to the efficient armor of the patrol and its ultra-deadly portable
weapons, at least one of those terrific semiportable projectors
commanded every corridor of the freighter. In the blasts of those
projectors most of the pirates died instantly, not knowing what struck
them, not even knowing that they died.
They were the fortunate ones. The others knew what was coming and saw
it as it came, for the Valerians did not even draw their DeLameters.
They knew that the pirates' armor could withstand for many minutes
any hand weapon's beams, and they disdained to remount the heavy
semiportables. They came in with their space axes, and at the sight
the pirates broke and ran screaming in panic fear. But they could not
escape. The toggles of the exit port were not only in their sockets,
but they were also locked in them.
Therefore, the storming party died to the last man; and, as VanBuskirk
had foretold, it was scarcely even a struggle. For any ordinary space
armor is just so much tin against a Valerian swinging a space ax.
The spy ray of the pirate captain got through just in time to see the
ghastly finale of the massacre, and his face turned first purple, then
white.
"The patrol!" he gasped. "Valerians--a whole company of them! I'll say
we've been double-crossed!"
"Right-o--we've jolly well been," the pilot agreed. "You don't know the
half of it yet, either. Somebody's coming, and it isn't a boy scout. If
a mauler should suck us in, we'd be very much a spent force, what?"
"Cut out the conversation!" snapped the captain. "Is it a mauler, or
not?"
"A bit too far away yet to say, but it probably is. They wouldn't have
sent those jaspers out without cover, old bean. They knew that we can
burn that freighter's screens down in an hour. Better cut the beams and
get ready to run, what?"
The commander did so, wild thoughts racing through his mind. If a
mauler got close enough to him to use magnets, he was done. Cutting
arcs would burn through his armor like cheese, and he had no fighting
men left. And even if he had--even a full crew of the most savage
fighters known would have to be inescapably cornered before they would
mix it with what that mauler had aboard. He would have to go back to
base, anyway----
"Tally ho, old fruit!" The pilot slammed his levers over to maximum
blast. "It's a mauler and we've been bloody well jobbed. Back to base?"
"Yes." And the discomfited captain energized his communicator, to
report to his immediate superior the humiliating outcome of the
supposedly carefully planned coup.