The tough scarred face on the screen broke into a momentary grin. “Your Majesty, forgive my witless hesitation. We feared you dead from these verminous outspacers. We cleaned out the lot, save for one that broke into sub-space even as we poised thumb and forefinger to pop him like a grape.”
“That one was the worst,” said Roberts, as Hammell and Morrissey stared. “There went the brain and guiding will of the evil band.”
“Some other time, he may run afoul of us, and have a slower ship, or we a faster.”
“Hasten the day,” said Roberts, smiling. He was beginning to think he had worked out the combination.
The face on the screen changed expression slightly.
“If Your Majesty please, the Empire anxiously awaits your return, to heal its wounds in the pomps and pleasures of the coronation. The Great Lords and Nobles count the days, till they may reaffirm their loyalty to the Crown, and swear allegiance to Vaughan the First. If we may accompany you—lest other outspace dogs pop up out of nowhere—’Tis daring greatly, I know, to suggest it, but Coeur de Lion has spacious accommodation—We may take aboard Nom de Guerre and all, if you like—’Twould speed the day of your return. I crave forgiveness if I presume—”
“And it were freely granted, but your offer is welcome. We shall come aboard at once.”
The man on the screen bowed his head respectfully. “Your Majesty doth greatly honor us.”
“‘Tis an honor to honor such loyal subjects.”
The tough face looked humbly appreciative. Then the screen went blank.
Hammell and Morrissey stood speechless as Roberts headed the patrol ship toward the dreadnought.
Hammell took a deep breath. “Look—no offense if I just call you ‘sir’? Is this an Interstellar Patrol ship? You must know a lot more about this than we do. Or is it a . . . ah . . . an Imperial ship?”
Morrissey swallowed and listened alertly.
Roberts said cheerfully, “We weren’t talking on tight-beam, and there are plenty of technological ears on that planet, now that the technicians have had time to go to work. The more wide-awake among them will put together the number of times ‘interstellar’ and ‘patrol’ occurred in the conversation with Larssen, and then they will realize in whose tender hands their fate rests. But they can’t prove a thing.”
“Then,” said Hammell, thinking hard, “this last conversation was a blind?”
“No, it just takes a certain piece of key knowledge to figure it out.”
“What might that be?”
“Anyone listening to that conversation would be justified in thinking I was the boss. And because of the fact people might be listening, that’s how it had to be. But what do you think?”
Hammell smote his forehead. “You were ordered to come on board?”
“That’s right,” Roberts said.
Morrissey said, “Why not just have the conversation on tight beam?”
“Because I wanted to put them on the spot, to see what they’d do.”
Morrissey glanced at the gigantic dreadnought on the outside viewscreen. “Anyone who’d do a thing like that ought to be in the Interstellar Patrol.”
Roberts nodded. “As Hammell says, they don’t operate by the book.”
Morrissey stared at him. Hammell said, “Holy—”
Roberts pressed the button to the left of the instrument panel, near the glowing lens lettered “SMB CMP,” and said, “How does the Interstellar Patrol recruit new members?”
The symbiotic computer replied, “By whatever method works.” It then described several reasonably conventional methods, and added, “Ships are sometimes used to obtain recruits, as nearly every independent individual actively operating in space, and hence basically qualified as a recruit, at one time or another needs a ship. The patrol ship is always modestly priced for its value, as the salvage operator finds it hard to dispose of, and impossible to break up. The ship attracts only a certain basic type. Those who want it must have the proper mental, physical, and moral equipment, and the right basic style of self-respect, or the ship’s symbiotic computer won’t accept them. Those accepted are next tested by the use to which they put the power of the patrol ship’s equipment. Those who successfully pass the built-in obstacles become members of the Interstellar Patrol, captains of their own ships, and, in due time, they often recruit their own crew at no expense to the Patrol—sometimes before they really accept that they are members—”
“Oh, my God—” said Hammell.
Morrissey looked thunderstruck. “I knew we should have stayed on the yacht!”
“—Or before the prospective crew,” the symbiotic computer went on, “expresses a truly sincere desire to enlist. However, just as the judgment of the symbiotic computer is accepted in the selection of the ship’s captain, so is the judgment of the captain accepted in the selection of the ship’s crew. This method has proved highly satisfactory and inexpensive.” The symbiotic computer paused a moment, then added, “Moreover, the procedure is in accord with the highest traditions of the Interstellar Patrol.”
Hammell nodded. “It would be.”
“Well,” said Roberts, “don’t complain. It’s not everyone who escapes from a routine space-transport to be a king or a duke—or a member of the Interstellar Patrol.”
Roberts saw the look of puzzled surprise, a brief glint of pride, and the glow of interest light the faces of Hammell and Morrissey. They weren’t going aboard the gigantic ship as prisoners, to be interrogated. They were actually going as members of the legendary Interstellar Patrol.
Roberts saw the brief outthrust of jaw that told of determination to make good. That was how he felt, too.
It occurred to him that neither he, nor Hammell, nor Morrissey, would have voluntarily tried to enlist in the Patrol. The thing was too much. They might not make it. Their qualifications might not meet the standards. They might not like it if they did make it. So the Interstellar Patrol, with deep-laid craft, so arranged matters that none of them had the faintest idea what was going on until the thing was accomplished.
An organization run on that basis must be no lover of red tape and stuffed shirts. In an organization so capable of understanding human nature, it might be possible to get things done.
Roberts guided the patrol ship on its course, and gradually, the gigantic curve of the dreadnought loomed closer, to fill the viewscreen.
Before them, the big hatch slowly swung wide, to reveal the brightly-lighted interior. Spacesuited figures stepped into view, to wave them forward.
Carefully, Roberts guided the patrol ship through the hatchway into the gigantic spaceship.
Part II: Boot Camp
A QUESTION OF ATTITUDE
Dan Bergen lay motionless on his narrow limb amongst the big green leaves, and wished he had never heard of the Interstellar Patrol.
A yard from Bergen’s nose, the constrictor glided ahead, then stopped. A small bump on its back bulged up and an eye looked out. The eye swiveled around like a rotating radar antenna, then came to a stop with its gaze fixed on Bergen.
Bergen didn’t move. He looked at the eye. The eye looked at him.
A long moment passed.
The eye swung away again. Bergen instantly looked away. The eye swung back, its gaze again fixed on Bergen. Bergen didn’t move. The eye swung around, then pulled inside. The bulge on the constrictor’s back diminished to a small bump. The snake glided ahead.
Bergen allowed himself the luxury of a breath of air. He relaxed.
The snake continued to glide ahead.
Before, the constrictor had moved, at most, a few feet at a time. Now, yards of it were sliding past.
Frowning, Bergen looked around.
About three feet above the level of his head, and perhaps eight feet away, the big leaves thrust aside. A pair of large opaque green eyes looked at Bergen over a blunt green-and-brown snout.
Bergen for a split-second balanced the question whether he should roll off the limb. That would send him in a headlong plunge through wide-spaced branches toward the forest floor a hundred and eight feet below. Or should he—
The snake’s head blurred. Its jaws clamped, in a burst of pain, on his left shoulder.
Bergen struck at it with his right fist.
The head twisted and wrenched, sinking its fangs deep into his shoulder. There was a steady hiss as the rest of the snake slid forward. A thick coil looped around him.
Bergen sucked in a deep breath, and stabbed at the snake’s eyes with his extended forefingers.
A thick skin blurred down over its eyes. Another loop passed over Bergen’s body. The muscular coils tightened. There was a crushing pressure at his ribs.
Through a red haze, Bergen’s right hand found the snake’s eyes. The head moved, something gripped his hand, mashed and snapped and ground it, then crushed it at the wrist.
Somewhere within Bergen, a cool sense of calculation told him the fight was all over. But at the same time, he knew he had to get free.