“Earth,” said Paley tiredly, “has to have the ore.”
“O.K. It’s down there ready to load. But you’ll do things our way. We’re going to the nurse-ships and service each other. When enough of us are ready, we’ll get the ore—if there’s time. If you don’t like it that way, that’s tough.”
Paley said, in a dispirited voice, “Give me a few minutes to think it over.”
“We’ll give you nothing. If the nurse-ships don’t open up when we get to them, we’ll knock a hole in the side. If you want to do it some other way, forget it. This is the way it’s going to be.”
Paley snapped off his microphone and turned to Crandall. “The only way I know that they can service each other without leaving the suits is to first cut the nerve cable that supplies the front outer wall of the suits. Then they have to cut out a section of wall and reach through from outside. I don’t see how they can repair the cable. That means that future injuries in that part of the suit are likely to go unnoticed. And if they don’t put the section of wall back with a very strong tight join, the pressure down there will either make a leak, or else shove the whole section in. Worse yet, I don’t think they have either the knowledge or the equipment to do a good job of servicing. If they’d listen, I think I could convince them. But meanwhile, time’s passing. We have only so long to get the ore up, the suits serviced, and new operators down there.” Paley shook his head. “Maybe your plan will work.”
Crandall flipped on one of his bank of microphones. He cleared his throat with a rasping sound. “Attention. This is the Commanding Officer, Space Force, Cygnes. Martial law has been established throughout Cygnes System. Failure of any delGrange suit operator to obey instructions of authorized personnel may be regarded as mutiny.”
There was a moment’s silence and then, as Crandall had expected, a stream of obscenities came out of the communicator.
Crandall snapped off the microphone, looked at the viewscreen and noted that all the suits seemed to have come up from Cygnes VI. They were bunched, those in back having put on more speed to catch up, and those in front having slowed to change direction.
Crandall glanced at the communications screen. “Monitor only, open fire.”
Tiny streaks of flame curved away from the massive sphere in its wheel, raced in and out amongst the suits and exploded nearby in brilliant flashes of light.
Incoherent shouts came from the communicator. One voice dominated the rest, and the suits began to move toward Monitor. Further bunching now took place, as the suits nearest Monitor hung back, while those far away advanced bravely. Monitor hurried the process by exploding missiles in front of the nearest suits and behind the farthest.
Crandall, watching intently, said “Scout spacers. First flight only. Ready. Dump your cargo! Second flight, stand by.”
Scout spacers dove toward the delGrange suits.
“Second flight only. Ready. Dump your cargo! Third flight, stand by. First flight, reload.”
Mingled shouts and curses came from the communicator. On the screen, the suits writhed, twisted, and began to mill about, losing their momentum toward Monitor. Over the howling confusion, one voice rose loud and clear:
“Move! Spread out! Keep moving toward Monitor!”
Crandall studied the suits and turned to Paley. “O.K. Now.”
Paley shouted into a microphone.
Twenty-three delGrange suits—the reserve that hadn’t dropped to Cygnes, came out from behind the Monitor, spread out, and raced toward the other suits, which were now twisting, writhing, and milling about, their flexible arms scrubbing their sides, their jointed, steel-toothed extensions sawing jerkily across their backs.
“Third flight,” said Crandall, “practice dive only. Practice dive. Ready—”
The new delGrange suits raced in among the rest, and new sounds burst amongst the screamed and muttered curses:
“Look out! Here they come again!”
“Run for it!”
“LOOK OUT! HELP!”
“To the nurse-ships!”
“Quick! To the nurse-ships!”
These new shouts drowned out a stream of insistent orders and pleadings to “Keep moving toward Monitor!” The whole mass began to move in the opposite direction, save for one gesticulating knot of cables that waved and pointed furiously toward Monitor, found itself isolated, dropped back and gripped another, then another, succeeded in getting three or four headed back toward Monitor, and then received special attention as Crandall sent scout spacers to dump cargo on the hindmost delGrange suits.
The retreat from Monitor turned into a wild rush toward the nurse-ships.
Paley gripped his microphone. “Attention! Proceed in an orderly manner to the nurse-ships for decontamination. Attention! Proceed in an orderly manner to the nurse-ships!”
A wild yell burst from the communicator. “Let me out of this suit!”
“Slow down!” roared Paley. “No crowding! There’s room for everyone. Don’t leave your suits till you’re inside the ships! Retract those drills! Don’t use them on the suits! SLOW DOWN!”
The screen was a spidery nightmare. The delGrange suits rushed headlong into the giant maw of nurse-ship number one, flowed around it and vanished into others. The big doors closed.
Crandall and Paley looked at each other and smiled feebly.
* * *
Crandall was massaging his throat several weeks later, following a visit of high government officials, when the lieutenant reported his presence.
“Sir,” said the lieutenant, handing Crandall a stamped slip of paper with an official seal, “I’ve been told that you must have made this payment.”
Crandall took the paper and saw:
Rec’d Payment
1 pipet, 25ml., smashed $2.75
O.K. P.D.A.
“Hm-m-m,” said Crandall. “Well—That’s taken care of.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“You’re welcome, lieutenant.”
“And now, sir—” The lieutenant handed Crandall a small, neatly wrapped package. Crandall, frowning, took it. The package, though small, felt heavy. A card on the outside read:
“To Col. Matthew Crandall, from the officers and men of his command, Cygnes System.”
“Well,” said Crandall, groping mentally. “Hm-m-m. I certainly appreciate this—”
“I’ll tell the men, sir. Ah, sir, may I ask a question?”
“Certainly.”
“What was that stuff in bottles and sprayers that we dumped on the suits?”
“Acid,” said Crandall, smiling. “The suit operators felt mild corrosion of the suit’s outer skin as an itch. The acid gave a sensation like poison ivy on a huge scale. The operators left their suits, the acid was neutralized, an inductive device we’d worked out was installed, and next time we hope to get a better result with less trouble. Keep your eyes open. There’ll be a White Paper out on the whole thing pretty soon.”
“Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant.
Crandall glanced curiously at the package. “Ah—Would you express my thanks for this gift, lieutenant?”
“Certainly, sir.”
The lieutenant and Crandall exchanged salutes. The lieutenant about-faced and left the room.
Crandall relaxed in his chair. He turned the package over thoughtfully in his hand.
“Hm-m-m,” he said.
He took the card off carefully, untied the ribbon, and folded back the paper. Highly-polished silver flashed in the light of the room.
Crandall squinted, then started to grin.
He got up, opened the door, and glanced out in the corridor to see whether anyone was still around outside.
He walked back into the room and laughed.
He turned the gift in his hands, and saw the word “STERLING.” A massive silver bolt joined the two halves unbreakably together.
Crandall set the gift prominently in the center of his desk and got back to work.
The first Space Force officer in history to own a massive, finely-detailed, solid silver pair of pliers.
STRANGLEHOLD
Stellar Scout James Connely and Sector Chief of Scouts Gregory MacIntyre sat by the communicator, with the star charts spread out around them, and considered their predicament.
From the nearby communicator came a recorded voice:
“Don’t land. Keep off this planet. For everybody’s sake as well as your own. Stay away.”
MacIntyre growled, “Nice and informative, isn’t it? What’s wrong with the planet? Earthquakes? Plague? Carnivores? Vermin? You’d think anyone that gets in trouble and throws up a warning satellite would have the wit to say what the trouble is. But no, all we’re told is, ‘Don’t land. For everybody’s sake. Stay away.’ A lot of help that is.”
A rapid sequence of beeps came in, and Connely said, “Well, at least we know it’s Barnes.” Barnes was a Stellar Scout who’d been missing well over a year, and MacIntyre recognized his voice.
“Yeah,” said MacIntyre sourly. “It’s his voice, all right, and it’s his recognition signal, but he doesn’t seem to have been using his brain. The thing is just a little miniature warning satellite. If he’d only followed standard procedure, he’d have put a full-size signal satellite in orbit before he went down there. Then he could have got a full-length message started back through channels the same day he got in trouble. But this thing leaves us tied in knots.”
Connely nodded moodily.