"It's hard," Millie continued, "to look at more than one thing at a
time through a spacesuit helmet. I could've got 'em in the air hose
while you held their attention."
Mike's chuckle was just a trifle ragged, and his mutter about
blood-thirsty panthers didn't really go unheard as he began shucking
his spacesuit.
This was the most dangerous point, Mike knew. The axis tube went from
the observatory straight through to the south polar lock, with nothing
to block sight or sound from traveling its length. They'd have to
simply chance it. The spacesuits shucked, he opened the lock.
Their luck held. No Security man was stationed opposite the mouth of
the axis tube at the south polar lock.
Halfway to the engineering quarters, Mike stopped, used a special key
to open an inspection plate, and they dropped lightly into the huge
shielding tank that now held only air. From there the pair
back-tracked Mike's original path to the inspection plate in the
engineering quarters, and so into his own bailiwick, where they found
Ishie standing on catlike guard, a wrench in one hand, waiting for
whatever might come up.
"Confusion say," the grinning Chinese physicist declared, "two for one
is good luck."
* * * * *
General Steve Elbertson made his way wearily in through the south lock
and on to the bridge where he found the communications officer in
complete charge with two Security men for assistants. The captain and
Bessie were effectively bound, and placed in spare console seats.
General Elbertson made his way to the captain's console and seated
himself.
Hot Rod was dead, but their control was by no means lessened.
That he himself had not been shot dead on the way from Hot Rod was, to
him, a confirmation of the weakness of his enemies.
The satellite was under his control. The scientists would repair Hot
Rod--and well he knew how to see to it that they did so.
U.N. Security Forces were in complete, dictatorial command of Earth.
He had only to eliminate the renegade Indian, and long before the
Security scuttlebug, now on its way from Earth loaded with crack
troops, should arrive, Security would be in complete command not only
of the Space Lab, but of the weapon, which would by then be in repair.
As a final test of its operation, it would be amusing to use the
Indian, Blackhawk, as a target; and perhaps the captain as well,
though he might have to use them as examples sooner--the captain and
some others.
The fortuitous accident that had put Hot Rod in operation ahead of
schedule had also stepped many plans months ahead. No violence had
actually been planned until the weapon had been thoroughly tested; but
now things looked to be working in orderly fashion; working with the
well-oiled precision of a master-plan, properly designed and properly
executed in the proper military manner.
Only one small difficulty marred the current smoothness of the
operation. The Security men were attempting to instruct the computer
to precess the wheel back to its original position.
In reply, for every figure of any type sent over the keyboard, the Cow
sent back a half-yard of confused, rambling figures and would do
nothing else.
General Elbertson snapped a single command. "Turn the thing off. We'll
get to that later."
Busily the men switched the keys to the "off" position. Just as busily
the Cow continued to pour out figures, interspersed with rambling
pages of physics covering such odd subjects as the yak population of
the Andes, the number of buffalo that were purported to be able to
dance on the rim of the Grand Canyon--a fantastic figure--some
confused statement about the birth rate in Indo-China, and an equally
confused statement about the learning rate in schools in Haddock.
Eventually, if one cared to sort it out, the Cow might produce the
entire Encyclopedia Britannica for the year 1911; and then again,
possibly for the year 33,310. Actually, it only depended on what you
wished to select. It was a vast mass of material that was being
happily upchucked into the lap of the confused communications officer
and his two, unhelpful assistants.
[Illustration]
Not a single one of the view panels, either those at the computer's
console or the ones at the captain's console, were presenting a
readable picture. Hodgepodges and flickerings, yes. Scraps of
star-lit sky--perhaps. Or vaguely wavy electronic patterns that would
have been familiar to anyone who ever looked at a broken TV set.
The Cow was really wild.
Leaning back in the captain's chair, watching the screen casually,
General Elbertson chuckled.
He didn't, he noticed, feel nearly so weary.
The position actually was good, even if those idiots didn't know what
they were doing with the computer. That could be straightened out.
Somewhere, he was sure, there was cause for great pride in his
actions.
The peaceful glow of victory seemed to settle about him.
He HAD won. He was in the captain's chair of the only space station
that man had ever put in orbit.
His worst enemy was tied to a chair only a few feet away.
At times like this a man could glow, could feel expansive even towards
his enemies.
Naylor wasn't such a bad chap. If he hadn't thrown in with the
scientists he might even now be a fellow officer, entitled to full
respect and honor.
General Elbertson did not consider it odd that his face was suddenly
flushed with triumph. There was a glow of energy. Why, he could even
get up and dance a jig--and this he proceeded to do.
Around him, the two Security men joined in, followed by the
communications officer--and then, realizing that their friends
couldn't dance with them, they undid the ropes and invited the captain
and Bessie to join them.
Soon they were all whirling giddily, though there was hardly the space
for it. Maybe they should go next door, into the large clear area that
was the ship's gymnasium when not being used as a morgue.
Surprisingly, amidst these dancing figures, a head emerged from the
floor. All of them leaned over to laugh at it; and even the needle gun
failed to frighten them.
* * * * *
Bessie had a hangover. She groaned and stretched. There certainly must
have been lots of vodka at that party last night.
Party? What party?
It was difficult to separate various concepts and orient herself to a
present where and when.
Slowly the soft susurrus background song of the big wheel penetrated
consciousness, and another, closer roar. Millie taking a shower, she
realized.
Suddenly she came out of the vagueness wide awake, the hangover
cleared magically, evaporating much too quickly to have been caused by
alcohol.
But she had been tied up to a chair on the bridge beside Nails,
prisoner of the Security men, only minutes ago.
WHAT was going on?
Millie stepped out of the shower into the compartment the two girls
occupied, and smiled.
"How're you doing? About to come out of it?"
"Da, Da eta--" with an effort Bessie switched to English. "Explosion?
What happened?"
"Oh, Mike just had to get the Security men off guard. Something to do
with the air supply. He asked me to apologize to you if you don't feel
so good. But after all, we got the Lab back and that's the main
thing."
"Security. Oh! I've got to get to Nails right away. They've taken over
Earth, too, you know. We've got to make sure they don't get control of
the projects. We'll be shot of course. But their ambitions rest on
having control of Hot Rod and the wheel. Probably secret control--"
"But--"
"Nails has got to figure out how to destroy the project without too
many casualties. Maybe he can get some of our men back to Earth,
though of course we're all expendable. We can't let these monsters
have the wheel and Hot Rod! That's what they need for power--"
"Bessie--"
"Of course, we can stand and fight for as long as possible, but we're
sitting ducks, and even with Hot Rod there's not much we can do--we
can't fire on Earth, we'd hit friend as well as enemy. So I think
we've just got to stand and fight a bit, and then destroy both Hot Rod
and the wheel. Anyhow, that's Nails' decision, and I've got to get to
Nails--"
"Whoa!" Millie finally managed to stem the flow. "We're not stuck--not
just stuck here in orbit any longer, waiting to see what's going on on
Earth," she said softly, "or what they're going to do about us 'mad
scientists.' Mike and Ishie started this whole thing when one of their
experiments turned out to be a space drive, and the boys are working
real hard on getting a drive unit set up capable of taking our whole
complex out into space. But they need somebody to tell the captain ...
uh ... properly ... as soon as he's awake that is ... uh ... you know
what I mean."
"Whoa, yourself, girl. What's this--space drive?"
"Well, they didn't find out themselves until after it had wiped out
Thule Base--nearly ten hours after that, in fact. That magneto-ionic
thing the Sacred Cow's been talking about--they invented that real
quick to cover up. You see ... oh, it's too complicated.
"Look, we've got a real _space_ drive. We can go to the moon or
Mars--or Pluto if we want to. And we've got to let Nails know real
quick that he can get us out of here--and without making him mad that
we wrecked Thule Base. But really, after the way those Security goons
acted, maybe he won't be mad if you handle it right. How about it?"
The hangover was disappearing magically. But this flow of information
was nearly as bad.
A space drive? Bessie knew she couldn't evaluate one way or the other
on that. That would be Nails' problem.
But they were in a pickle, and it would be up to her to see that Nails
didn't waste too much time evaluating things. Those Security men had
been prepared to play real rough, and more of them were on their way
up.
"Where is Nails?"
"The boys put him to bed. In his quarters. He got a dose of the same
stuff that put you out. He ought to be coming to almost any time now.
And probably mad about the whole thing."
Instantly, Bessie was on her feet, flinging on clothes, and out down
the corridor toward Nails' private stateroom.
* * * * *
It had been thirty-two hours since Major--General--whatever it was
Elbertson--had been defeated on the bridge for the final time.
He and his men were now securely locked in one of the empty labs. The
paralysis effect of the needle gun had probably worn off. Mike hadn't
checked to find out.
Bessie and her relief operators were watching the prisoners through a
video display on the Sacred Cow's console, and would report anything
unusual that went on to Captain Andersen.
Mike, Ishie, Millie, Paul and Tombu had completed the new Confusor
drive units, and they were nearly installed.
More time would be taken arranging the engineering quarters so that
the installation of her control panel and the units themselves would
be completed.
This part, Mike didn't like too well. It meant re-arranging his
already carefully arranged units, and considerable re-wiring without
interfering with any of the basic functions of the wheel.
The new units had turned out to look very little like the original.
Fourteen feet long by eighteen inches outside diameter, they looked
very much like a group of stove-pipes arranged in a circular pattern
around the engineering quarters, braced from wall to wall.
The control console itself, even though made rapidly, had the look of
a carefully planned and well-made unit; something that might have
turned up in one of Earth's better R&D labs, as part of a
multi-million dollar project.
All together, the drive rods would provide something better than a
tenth of a gee thrust for the combined mass of the wheel, Hot Rod, the
pile and the other subsidiary units around them.
A tenth of a gee. Not enough to land on Earth; but with things down
there the way they were now, who wanted to?
With these units, the whole storehouse of the solar system was at
their disposal.
With these units they could reach the asteroids.
With these units, they could range as far out as Pluto without fear of
consequences--without, Mike added to himself, even the fear of
radiation that was a constant threat to them here, for the farther
from the sun they went, the less radiation they would have to endure.
The three months would be extended. For those who needed it, better
shielding could be found.
The system was theirs.
Possibly, also the stars beyond.
That, he reminded himself, if they could get these units installed
before the scuttlebug arrived.
Undoubtedly, Earth Security had sent arms as well as men.
Where they were, not strictly on course, but still in a satellite-type
orbit, they remained sitting ducks for any number of countermeasures
that Earth might throw against them.
Once gone from this orbit, there was not sufficient rocket-power on
Earth to track them down.
If they took Hot Rod with them, there was no single weapon at man's
command that could stop them. And take Hot Rod with them they would.
In his address to the ship's personnel this morning, Captain Nails
had made it quite clear that they wanted no part of the plots and
counterplots of Earth; that theirs was the job of scientists, not
soldiers; that a path was open to them that they would follow.
Later, they could return. Later, with the supplies that were free to
be taken from space, they could build strength.
They could return quietly, one by one, two by two, at times and places
of their own choosing.
Then, and only then, they could lend aid to those on Earth who would
always fight for freedom.
But not now.
They were yet weak; the path of escape and the path of promise lay
before them.
The only help they could be would be to follow that path.
It might not be that the path led where they wanted to go--or where
they thought they were going--but nevertheless the path was there, and
follow it they must.
* * * * *
Quite a speech, Mike thought. There had been much more, but that, and
the Declaration of the Freedom of Space, were the parts that had
stayed with him.
That last they had broadcast back to Earth, thrown, as it were, into
the screaming teeth of the new dictatorial leaders.
Mike leaned back from what he was doing and caught Ishie's eye.
He chuckled, and said "That was quite a mass of stuff that the Cow
upchucked on your command. Why didn't you just freeze her like I
thought you were going to do?"
"Confusion say," quoth Ishie blandly, "he who would play poker with
dishonest men should never put all cards on table too soon. Or in
other words, Confusion is the better part of valor. The garbage made
them think that the Cow had sprung a cog somewhere, without ever
guessing that we had control.
"And by the way, Mike, that was quite a trick you pulled with the air
supply. Having the Cow boost up the oxygen on the bridge until those
idiots got so drunk they were climbing the walls."
"You don't happen to have any education as a psychologist, do you
Ishie? Or perhaps a brain surgeon?" Mike inquired. "It seems a shame
to drag those Security apes along with us. We can't just dump them
overboard, but it would be nice if we could just confuse them or
something."
"Sorry, Mike. Techniques of brainwashing are a bit out of my line.
Beside, Confusion say those who run from wolf pack have better chance
if they leave some meat behind for the wolves to fight over. I've
already spoken to Captain Nails about it. We _intend_ to dump them
overboard--just twenty minutes before the scuttlebug arrives. In
suits, of course," he added. "Then we'll take off and see whether
Security takes care of its own."
There was a possibility, Mike felt grimly, that perhaps Security
wouldn't take care of its own. But then, he asked himself, did he
really care? And found it very difficult to come up with an answer.
But he realized with vast respect that the master of Confusion was not
himself confused as to the issues involved before them.
"It's lucky for us," Mike said, "that you happened to pick this time
to be aboard. Your work would have gone more smoothly if you'd waited
until the next go-round."
Ishie grinned, for once slightly embarrassed. "Confusion say," he
said, "luck is for those who make it. I expected that with Hot Rod
coming into operation, some such play would be attempted. I've met
Security before."
Millie laid down her soldering iron, and disappeared through the
bulkhead, returning shortly with a tray of sandwiches and coffee.
Coffee in real cups, for there was spin on the satellite, things were
working well, and those bottles--ugh.
"Relax, boys, we've still got three hours," she told them. "Radar
hasn't spotted the scuttlebug yet. But our new communications officer,
Lal, has them on the line. He's apparently convinced them of his
honorable intentions and gotten an exact prediction of arrival time.
They think Major ... uh, General Elbertson has the situation well in
hand. They even think Hot Rod's operational!"
The crew relaxed around the circular room, squatting wherever
convenient, and sipping luxuriously at the cups of coffee, munching
sandwiches, and for the moment content.
Hot Rod had been secured to the ship with extra acceleration cables,
and as soon as practicable a remote-controlled Confusor would be
placed aboard to assist in any fast maneuvers that they might have to
make; but for now there was no acceleration, and the group composed of
the wheel, the big laser, the dump and the pile moved peacefully in
orbit under free-fall conditions.
Millie began to hum a soft tune. Someone else brought forth a
harmonica that had been smuggled aboard, and suddenly Paul Chernov
burst into song, his deep baritone, perhaps inspired by the captain's
speech earlier in the day, lending the wailing "The Spaceman's
Lament," an extra folk beat:
_"The captain spoke of stars and bars
Of far-off places like maybe Mars
But the slipsticks slip on this ship of ours--
And we'll get where I wasn't going!"_
Mike looked over at Millie as she drank her coffee, a slender, dark
figure--able with a soldering iron; able as a defending panther; able
as a spaceman's mate. He was glad the captain of the ship was a proper
marrying officer, for he had an idea the feeling he felt was mutual,
as he joined with the crew in the chorus:
_"There's a sky-trail leading from here to there
And another yonder showing--
But when we get to the end of the run
It'll be where I wasn't going...."_
* * * * *