Which was something the Viper already knew. But it had been designed to be a hunting machine more nearly than anything else, and at times its hunting impulses had to be diverted. Pagadan did that as automatically as she would have checked a similar impulse in her own mind—in effect, whenever she was on board, there was actually no very definite boundary between her own thoughts and those that pulsed through the Viper. Often the Lannai would have found it difficult to say immediately whether it was her organic brain or its various electronic extensions in the ship which was attending to some specific bit of business. Just now, as an example, it was the Viper who had been watching the communicators.
“The Agent-Trainee on the O-Ship off Ulphi is trying to talk to you, Pagadan,” the robot-voice came into the room. “Will you adjust to his range?”
The Lannai’s silver-nailed hand shot out and spun a tiny dial on the desk before her. From a communicator to her left a deep voice inquired, a little anxiously:
“Pag? Do you hear me? This is Hallerock. Pag?”
“Go ahead, chum!” she invited. “I was off beam for a moment there. The planet still look all right?”
“No worse than it ever did,” said Hallerock. “But this is about your Fleet operation. The six destroyers are spread out behind you in interception positions by now, and the cruiser should be coming into detection dead ahead at any moment. You still want them to communicate with you through the Observation Ship here?”
“Better keep it that way,” Pagadan ordered. “The Bjantas might spot Fleet signals, as close to me as they are, but it’s a cinch they can’t tap this beam! I won’t slip up again. Anything from the Department?”
“Correlation is sending some new stuff out on the Ulphi business, but nothing important. At any rate, they didn’t want to break into your maneuver with the Bjantas. I told them to home it here to the O-Ship. Right?”
“Right,” Pagadan approved. “You’ll make a Zone Agent yet, my friend! In time.”
“I doubt it,” Hallerock grunted. “There’s no real future in it anyway. Here’s the cruiser calling again, Pag! I’ll be standing by—”
Pagadan pursed her lips thoughtfully as a barely audible click indicated her aide had gone off communication. She’d been a full-fledged Zone Agent of the Vegan Confederacy for exactly four months now—the first member of any nonhuman race to attain that rank in the super-secretive Department of Galactic Zones. Hallerock, human, was an advanced Trainee. Just how advanced was a question she’d have to decide, and very soon.
The surface reflections vanished from her mind at the Viper’s sub-vocal warning:
“Cruiser—dead ahead!”
“The disk on your left!” Pagadan snapped. “Cut it off from the others as soon as they begin to turn. Give it a good start then—and be sure you’re crowding the last bit of speed out of it before you even think of closing in. We may not be able to get what we’re after—probably won’t—but Lab can use every scrap of information we collect on those babies!”
“We’ll get what we’re after, too,” the Viper almost purred. And, a bare instant later:
“They’ve spotted the cruiser. Now!”
* * *
In the vision tank, the fleeing disk grew and grew. During the first few minutes, it had appeared there only as a comet-tailed spark, a dozen radiant streamers of different colors fanning out behind it—not an image of the disk itself but the tank’s visual representation of any remote moving object on which the ship’s detectors were held. The shifting lengths and brightness of the streamers announced at a glance to those trained to read them the object’s distance, direction, comparative and absolute speeds and other matters of interest to a curious observer.
But as the Viper began to reduce the headstart the Bjanta had been permitted to get, at the exact rate calculated to incite it to the most intensive efforts to hold that lead, a shadowy outline of the disk’s true shape began to grow about the spark. A bare quarter million miles away finally, the disk itself appeared to be moving at a visual range of two hundred yards ahead of the ship, while the spark still flickered its varied information from the center of the image.
Pagadan’s hands, meanwhile, played continuously over the control desk’s panels, racing the ship’s recording instruments through every sequence of descriptive analysis of which they were capable.
“We’re still getting nothing really new, I’m afraid,” she said at last, matter-of-factly. She had never been within sight of a Bjanta before; but Vega’s Department of Galactic Zones had copies of every available record ever made of them, and she had studied the records. The information was largely repetitious and not conclusive enough to have ever permitted a really decisive thrust against the marauders. Bjantas no longer constituted a major threat to civilization, but they had never stopped being a dangerous nuisance along its fringes—space-vermin of a particularly elusive and obnoxious sort.
“They’ve made no attempt to change direction at all?” she inquired.
“Not since they first broke out of their escape-curve,” the Viper replied. “Shall I close in now?”
“Might as well, I suppose.” Pagadan was still gazing, almost wistfully, into the tank. The disk was tilted slightly sideways, dipping and quivering in the familiar motion-pattern of Bjanta vessels; a faint glimmer of radiation ran and vanished and ran again continuously around its yard-thick edge. The Bjantas were conservatives; the first known recordings made of them in the early centuries of the First Empire had shown space-machines of virtually the same appearance as the one now racing ahead of the Viper.
“The cruiser seems satisfied we check with its own line on the Mother Disk,” she went on. She sighed, tapping the tank anxiously. “Well, nudge them a bit—and be ready to jump!”
* * *
The Viper’s nudging was on the emphatic side. A greenish, transparent halo appeared instantly about the disk; a rainbow-hued one flashed into visibility just beyond it immediately after. Then the disk’s dual barrier vanished again; and the disk itself veered crazily off its course, flipping over and over like a crippled bat, showing at every turn the deep, white-hot gash the Viper’s touch had seared across its top.
It was on the fifth turn, some four-tenths of a second later, that it split halfway around its rim. Out of that yawning mouth a few score minute duplicates of itself were spewed into space and flashed away in all directions—individual Bjantas in their equivalent of a combined spacesuit and lifeboat. As they dispersed the stricken scout gaped wider; a blinding glare burst out of it; and the disk had vanished in the traditional Bjanta style of self-destruction when trapped by superior force.
Fast as the reaction had been, the Viper’s forward surge at full acceleration following her first jabbing beam was barely slower. She stopped close enough to the explosion to feel its radiations activate her own barriers; and even before she stopped, every one of her grappling devices was fully extended and combing space about her.
Within another two seconds, therefore, each of the fleeing Bjantas was caught—and at the instant of contact, all but two had followed the scout into explosive and practically traceless suicide. Those two, however, were wrenched open by paired tractors which gripped and simultaneously twisted as they gripped—an innovation with which the Viper had been outfitted for this specific job.
Pagadan, taut and watching, went white and was on her feet with a shriek of inarticulate triumph.
“You did it, you sweetheart!” she yelped then. “First ones picked up intact in five hundred years!”
“They’re not intact,” the Viper corrected, less excitedly. “But I have all the pieces, I think!”
“The bodies are hardly damaged,” gloated Pagadan, staring into the tank. “It doesn’t matter much about the shells. Just bring it all in easy now! The lovely things! Wait till Lab hears we got them.”
She hovered around nervously while the flat, brown, soft-shelled—and really not badly dented—bodies of the two Bjantas were being drawn in through one of the Viper’s locks and deposited gently in a preservative tank, where they floated against the top, their twenty-two angular legs folded up tightly against their undersides. Most of the bunched neural extensions that made them a unit with the mechanisms of their detachable space-shells had been sheared off, of course; but the Viper had saved everything.
* * *
“Nice work, Pag!” Hallerock’s voice came from the communicator as she returned exultantly to the control room. “No chance of any life being left in those things, I suppose?”
“Not after that treatment!” Pagadan said regretfully. “But I’m really not complaining. You heard me then?”
“I did,” acknowledged Hallerock. “Paralyzing sort of war whoop you’ve got! Want to see the recording the cruiser shot back to me on the Mother Disk? That run just went off, too, as per schedule.”