It was a normal enough order, relating to certain preparations. Mindhunter Svantozik of the Janneer Ya was departing for home as per command. He would not risk being spotted and traced back to Ardazir by some Terran, so would employ only a small ultra-fast flitter. (Flandry admired his nerve. Most humans would have taken at least a Meteor class boat.) The hour and date of his departure were given, in Urdahu terms.
“Rally ’round,” said Flandry. The Hooligan glided into action.
He did not come near Vixen. That was the risky business of the liaison craft. He could predict the exact manner of Svantozik’s takeoff: there was only one logical way. The flitter would be in the middle of a squadron, which would roar spaceward on a foray. At the right time, Svantozik would give his own little boat a powerful jolt of primary drive; then, orbiting with cold engines away from the others, let distance accumulate. When he felt sure no Terran had spied him, he would go cautiously on gravs until well clear—then switch over into secondary and exceed the velocity of light. So small a craft, so far away from Walton’s bases, would not be detected: especially with enemy attention diverted by the raiding squadron.
Unless, to be sure, the enemy had planted himself out in that region, with foreknowledge of Svantozik’s goal and sensitive pulse-detectors running wide open.
When the alarm buzzed and the needles began to waver, Flandry allowed himself a yell. “That’s our boy!” His finger stabbed a button. The Hooligan went into secondary with a wail of abused converters. When the viewscreens had steadied, Cerulia was visibly dimming to stern. Ahead, outlined in diamond constellations, the nebula roiled ragged black. Flandry stared at his instruments. “He’s not as big as we are,” he said, “but traveling like goosed lightning. Think we can overhaul short of Ardazir?”
“Yes, sir,” said Chives. “In this immediate volume of space, which is dustier than average, and at these pseudo-speeds, friction becomes significant. We are more aerodynamic than he. I estimate twenty hours. Now, if I may be excused, I shall prepare supper.”
“Uh-uh,” said Flandry emphatically. “Even if he isn’t aware of us yet, he may try evasive tactics on general principles. An autopilot has a randomizing predictor for such cases, but no poetry.”
“Sir?” Chives raised the eyebrows he didn’t have.
“No feel … intuition … whatever you want to call it. Svantozik is an artist of Intelligence. He may also be an artist at the pilot panel. So are you, little chum. You and I will stand watch and watch here. I’ve assigned a hairy great CPO to cook.”
“Sir!” bleated Chives.
Flandry winced. “I know. Navy cuisine. The sacrifices we unsung heroes make for Terra’s cause—!”
He wandered aft to get acquainted with his crew. Walton had personally chosen a dozen for this mission: eight humans; a Scothanian, nearly human-looking but for the horns in his yellow hair; a pair of big four-armed gray-furred shaggy-muzzled Gorzuni; a purple-and-blue giant from Donarr, vaguely like a gorilla torso centauroid on a rhinoceros body. All had Terran citizenship, all were career personnel, all had fought with every weapon from ax to operations analyzer. They were as good a crew as could be found anywhere in the known galaxy. And far down underneath, it saddened Flandry that not one of the humans, except himself, came from Terra.
The hours passed. He ate, napped, stood piloting tricks. Eventually he was close upon the Ardazirho boat, and ordered combat armor all around. He himself went into the turret with Chives.
His quarry was a squat, ugly shape, dark against the distant star-clouds. The viewscreen showed a slim blast cannon and a torpedo launcher heavier than most boats that size would carry. The missiles it sent must have power enough to penetrate the Hooligan’s potential screens, make contact, and vaporize the target in a single nuclear burst.
Flandry touched a firing stud. A tracer shell flashed out, drawing a line of fire through Svantozik’s boat. Or, rather, through the space where shell and boat coexisted with differing frequencies. The conventional signal to halt, was not obeyed.
“Close in,” said Flandry. “Can you phase us?”