A Circus of Hells by Poul Anderson. Part five

maximum thrust.

Blink … blink … blink … The blood-colored beacon glowed ever

brighter. Yet Djana could look directly into it, and she did not find

any disc. Stars frosted the night around. Which way was the Empire?

Flandry had given himself back to the machines. Twice he made a manual

adjustment.

After minutes wherein Djana begged God to restore Merseian courage to

her, the noise and vibration stopped. Head full of it, she didn’t

instantly recognize its departure. Then she bit her tongue to keep from

imploring a word.

When Flandry gave her one, she started shivering.

He spoke calmly, as if these were the lost days when they two had fared

after treasure. “We’re in the slot, near’s I can determine. Let’s relax

and give the universe our job for a bit.”

“Wh-wh-what are we doing?”

“We’re falling free, in a hyperbolic orbit around the pulsar. The

Merseians aren’t. They’re distributing themselves to cover the region.

They can’t venture as close as us. The potential of so monstrous a mass

in so small a volume, you see; differential forces would wreck their

ships. The boat’s less affected, being of smaller dimensions. With the

help of the interior field–the same that gives us artificial gravity

and counteracts acceleration pressure–she ought to stay in one piece.

The Merseians doubtless figure to wait till we kick in our hyperdrive

again, and resume the chivvy.”

“But what’re we getting?” Blink … blink … blink … Had his winter

exile driven him crazy?

“We’ll pass through the fringes of a heavily warped chunk of space. The

mass concentration deforms it. If the core got much denser, light itself

couldn’t break loose. We won’t be under any such extreme condition, but

I don’t expect they can track us around periastron. Our emission will be

too scattered; radar beams will curve off at silly angles. The Merseians

can compute roughly where and when we’ll return to flatter space, but

until we do–” Flandry had unharnessed himself while he talked. Rising,

he stretched prodigiously, muscle by muscle. “A propos Merseians, let’s

go check on old Ydwyr.”

Djana fumbled with her own buckles. “I, I, I don’t track you, Nicky,”

she stammered. “What do we … you gain more than time? Why did you take

us aboard?”

“As to your first question, the answer’s a smidge technical. As to the

second, well, Ydwyr’s the reason we’ve come this far. Without him,

we’d’ve been in a missile barrage.” Flandry walked around behind her

chair. “Here, let me assist.”

“You! You’re not unfastening me!”

“No, I’m not, am I?” he said dreamily. Leaning over, he nuzzled her

where throat met shoulder. The kiss that followed brought a breathless

giddiness which had not quite faded when he led the way aft.

Ydwyr sat patient on a bunk. Prior to sleeping, Flandry had welded a

short length of light cable to the frame, the other end around an ankle,

and untied the rope. It wasn’t a harsh confinement. In fact, the man

would have to keep wits and gun ready when negotiating this passage.

“Have you been listening to our conversation?” he asked. “I left the

intercom on.”

“You are thanked for your courtesy,” Ydwyr replied, “but I could not

follow the Anglic.”

“Oh!” Djana’s hand went to her mouth. “I forgot–”

“And I,” Flandry admitted. “We Terrans tend to assume every educated

being will know our official language–by definition–and of course it

isn’t so. Well, I can tell you.”

“I believe I have deduced it,” Ydwyr said. “You are swinging free,

dangerously but concealingly near the pulsar. From the relativistic

region you will launch your courier torpedoes, strapped together and

hyperdrives operating simultaneously. What with distortion effects, you

hope my folk will mistake the impulses for this boat’s and give chase.

If your decoy lures them as far as a light-year off, you will be outside

their hyperwave detection range and can embark on a roundabout homeward

voyage. The sheer size of space will make it unlikely that they,

backtracking, will pick up your vibrations.”

“Right,” Flandry said admiringly. “You’re a sharp rascal. I look forward

to some amusing chit-chat.”

“If your scheme succeeds,” Ydwyr made a salute of respect. “If not, and

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