Roberts swore, whipped the patrol ship around, and shot after the fleeing commerce raiders, laying down a ruinous fire, and under its cover dropping inflatable deception packs among the widening clouds of debris.
Hammell, waiting in his battle armor to go into Maury’s ship, called, “What’s wrong?”
“The Space Force has showed up!”
Roberts spun the ship after another fleeing commerce raider, succeeded in laying a few more packs, and gave it up in disgust.
On the outside viewscreen, the approaching fleet was decelerating fast.
Morrissey said nervously, “Now what do we do?”
“Well, I’ve sowed a lot of deception packs—”
“What for?”
Roberts exhaled carefully. “The idea was that we could inflate them to dummy ships, beam ‘desire to believe’ at that fleet, and—”
Hammell said incredulously, “What, the Space Force?”
Roberts could now see just what likelihood there was of that working. “It’s a chance,” he said stubbornly, “and we’re in no spot to ignore a chance.”
“Then” said Morrissey, “let’s get out of here! This ship is fast, isn’t it?”
“That’s an admission of guilt,” said Roberts, inwardly kicking himself for not “chasing” the commerce raiders at top speed.
Hammell had the same idea. “Why didn’t you go after Maury? Nobody would have known whether you were chasing him, running away, or what.”
“It would have been out of character,” said Roberts lamely, “for the king to leave with a larger force approaching.”
“Nuts!” said Hammell. “His screen could have been damaged. He could have been wounded or knocked out.”
The communicator buzzed imperatively.
Moodily, Roberts reached out to snap it on. Before he could reach the switch, there was a click, and a cold voice said, “What interstellar force is this? Stand warned! This is a King’s ship, on the King’s business, and you have no right to patrol here.”
An auxiliary screen lit up, to show a frowning officer in the uniform of a Space Force lieutenant general.
“What ship is this?”
“Imperial ship Nom de Guerre. Who asks?”
“Lieutenant General Nils Larssen. What Empire?”
“The Empire.”
“Who commands that ship?”
There was a silence, and Roberts, fearing that the symbiotic computer had run out of words, snapped on the sound transmission.
“I command this ship!”
Roberts suddenly found himself at the parting of the ways. He could meekly identify himself. Or he could carry the bluff to the ridiculous point where he challenged the Space Force.
Abruptly he discovered that he couldn’t back down.
He said coldly, “You come too late to save your comrades. They are dead, or fled like cowards. Now I wait to test your steel.”
Larssen looked blank. He pursed his lips, turned away, then turned back, apparently to rephrase the question.
Roberts waited, grimly aware of the cracking ice he stood on.
At this delicate juncture, the symbiotic computer put its oar in. With icy hauteur, using Roberts voice, it said: “I have spoken.”
Larssen opened his mouth, and shut it. His face reddened. “Listen—I don’t give a damn who you are! You’ll answer my questions, and you’ll answer them straight!”
Roberts groped for some way out.
Then he heard his own voice speak coldly from the communicator, as if to someone nearby, “The bark of this interstellar dog hath a petulant note.”
Hammell’s voice, though Hammell was standing by in silent paralysis, said coolly, “We know ways to train the surly cur, if he intrudes too far.”
Morrissey was sitting at the want-generator, looking from Roberts to Hammell as if they’d gone insane, and now he had the added treat of hearing his own voice contribute, though his mouth was tightly shut.
“We’ll send this rabble to the Earl of Hell, and let them mount patrol on the fiery march.”
On the screen, Larssen paused, an odd listening expression on his face.
Roberts’ own voice called, “Master of the Ordnance!”
“Ready, Sire!”
“Master of the Helm!”
“Ready, Sire!”
“Then we’ll put it to the test! Master of the Helm, brace your engines! Master of the Ordnance, pick your targets!”
A roar and a howling whine sounded together as the gravitors counteracted the reaction drive, in a prelude to a furious burst of acceleration.
On the control console, a switch snapped forward, to activate the deception packs and create the appearance of a formidable squadron—though the Space Force detectors should quickly spot the trick.
Larssen, suddenly perspiring, called, “Wait!” Then he whirled and shouted an order.
On the screen, the hurtling formation of ships began slowly to turn, swinging away from Paradise.
Roberts, startled, saw Larssen turn back to the screen, his expression intent and wary.
“I didn’t mean to intrude on a region you patrol.”
An elaborately courteous voice replied, “To do so were an incivility bordering on the interstellar.”
“Then patrol it if you want it so damned much!” snarled Larssen.
“The interstellar regions subject to the rule of His Royal and Imperial Majesty, Vaughan the First, we will patrol, surely.”
Larssen shut his mouth with a click of the teeth.
The screen abruptly went blank, but a silent burst of profanity seemed to radiate from it after it was off.
Roberts, drenched in sweat, groped in his pocket for a handkerchief, but couldn’t find one.
Hammell got out of his armor, looking like a ghost.
Morrissey staggered to his feet, and promptly banged his head on the shiny cylinder.
Roberts finally located the handkerchief, and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He took another look at the outside viewscreen.
Larssen’s fleet traveled past in formidable array.
Roberts glanced at the battle screen. On his side there was only the patrol ship, and the imitation ships blown up out of—Roberts blinked, and adjusted the outside viewscreen—
There amongst the seeming patrol ships and cruisers lay a gigantic ship—a dreadnought fit to take on whole fleets all by itself. The sunlit side was toward Roberts, and the name was clearly visible: Coeur de Lion.
The deception pack out of which a thing like that might be blown up would take a battleship to carry it.
Roberts took a deep breath. “Well, men, we’re still alive. And here’s one big reason.”
Hammell ducked under the glittering cylinder, and looked at the screen.
Morrissey warily slid one hand along the cylinder and ducked under to stand beside Hammell.
“Great space!” said Hammell, suddenly seeing what Roberts was looking at.
Morrissey murmured, “Coeur de Lion. Isn’t that the ship you said called you—when Maury stopped us at the asteroid belt?”
“Yes,” said Roberts. “But I thought it was just a clever gambit of the symbiotic computer. Now there it is.”
Hammell said uneasily, “It’s friendly?”
“I hope so. But where did it come from?”
Hammell said hesitantly, “Apparently the Space Force didn’t see it till the last minute. They were going to chop us into mincemeat, then all of a sudden, they changed their minds.”
“It must have been undetectable—they’ve got some kind of device that blanks them out to radar, gravitor, and all the other standard detection systems!” said Roberts. “Wait, now. What—” Suddenly what he was trying to think of came to him: “Listen, our missiles got to Maury’s ships undetected.”
Morrissey said wonderingly, “They were the missiles originally supplied with this ship?”
“I haven’t bought any.”
Morrissey stared at the screen. “Listen, this may sound nuts, but when I look at that ship, it looks to me a lot like this one we’re on. That one is a whole lot bigger, and the proportions aren’t identical, but there’s a kind of similarity of plan that . . .”
Hammell said nervously, “That dreadnought was undetectable. This ship’s missiles were undetectable. That dreadnought looks like this ship, owing to a kind of similarity of plan. This ship is an Interstellar Patrol ship. It follows that that dreadnought—”
Roberts’ throat felt dry.
Morrissey said, “What happens to unauthorized individuals who get caught using Interstellar Patrol ships?”
Hammell sucked in his breath. “The Interstellar Patrol is even worse to tangle with than the Space Force. They don’t operate by the book. Setups nobody else can handle go to the Interstellar Patrol.”
Roberts uneasily considered the bargain he had gotten—even though it had cost the better part of his life’s savings—when he bought the patrol ship at the salvage cluster. Now he wondered if, through some piece of treachery, the original crew had been slaughtered, and now the dreadnought was waiting patiently for Roberts to identify himself, and if he didn’t—
“Nuts,” said Roberts. He snapped on the communicator.
“Imperial Ship Nom de Guerre, His Royal and Imperial Majesty Vaughan the First commanding, to Imperial Dread-nought Coeur de Lion. How many of that first batch of outspace dogs got away with their skins?”
Immediately, a tough-looking individual appeared on an auxiliary screen. His gaze drilled into Roberts’ eyes.
Roberts saw no virtue in pussyfooting around. If the dreadnought was going to blow him up, well, then let it blow him up. He looked directly into the eyes of the face on the screen, and growled, “The Empire does not maintain these ships at heavy cost that her captains may use them for toys. Speak up! Hast swallowed thy tongue? Didst accomplish anything, besides to look pretty?”