Crandall woke up with a headache and a general feeling of fuzziness. The first news he received was that the latest model delGrange mechanical suits had arrived from Purth during the night. The next news was that the operators had arrived from Szalesh in the early morning, had put on the suits, and practiced in them. Immediately afterward, he received a message:
* * *
Planetary Development H.Q. Cygnes VI m 4 to Space Force H.Q., Cygnes III Personal: To Col. Matthew Crandall.
Sir: At 0630 TCT this morning, I sent down to Cygnes VI the reduced force of delGrange mechanicals with their operators. In obedience to your orders, I have, as you require, held back from the mining operation a full two dozen . . . twenty-four . . . latest model delGrange mechanicals along with over seven dozen operators. These tremendous machines and their highly trained operators cannot, as we informed you time and again prior to your imposition of martial law, take part in the mining operations for over four weeks more. Because of your order, these huge engines and their skilled operators must now be held idle at tremendous expense to the taxpayers.
While I certainly don’t desire that I or any of the Planetary Development organization be shot dead for saying so, still I would very respectfully like to make, sir, a suggestion. Perhaps, sir, you did not create this terrific waste intentionally, but were misled into causing this expense by the temptation to activate the obsolete Sections 67 and 68 of the Interservice Code. I say this, sir, with no intention or desire to be shot for treason for making the suggestion, but because—logically, sir—I think you should somehow come to realize fully just what damage these Sections 67 and 68 are doing to Terra.
Obediently,
John R. Hennings, Acting Chief,
Planetary Development, Cygnes.
* * *
Crandall read this over three times. Hitherto, the new delGrange devices were “suits,” now they were “mechanicals,” “huge engines,” “tremendous machines.” Crandall looked hard at various parts of the message, checked this one with previous messages, then tapped out:
Space Force H.Q., Cygnes III to Special Service Command Staff:
Unpack and set up immediately one (1) gallows, portable, M12, using the nearest plot of ground convenient to H.Q. prisoner detention area.
Matthew Crandall, Space Force, Commanding.
* * *
Space Force H.Q., Cygnes III to Planetary Development H.Q. Cygnes VI m 4 Staff:
Pursuant to Section 67d, John R. Hennings is rpt is hereby suspended from office. His successor’s name is to be sent immediately to Space Force H.Q., Cygnes III.
Matthew Crandall, Colonel,
Space Force, Commanding.
Space Force H.Q., Cygnes III to T. S. F. Cruiser Vengeance Staff:
The following personnel are to be placed under arrest and delivered to H.Q. prisoner detention area:
1) David L. Paley
2) Peyton B. Jones
3) John R. Hennings
These men are to be held separately under close guard. They are not rpt not to be allowed to communicate with each other, or with outsiders. They may, if they so request, receive religious guidance and counsel from chaplains of their own faith.
Matthew Crandall, Colonel,
Space Force, Commanding.
Planetary Development H.Q. Cygnes VI m 4 to Space Force H.Q., Cygnes III Staff:
James L. Buzzel is successor to John R. Hennings.
Space Force H.Q., Cygnes III to Planetary Development H.Q. Cygnes VI m 4
Personal: To J. L. Buzzel.
Sir: You are hereby required and directed to immediately prepare for inspection one rpt one latest model delGrange mechanical suit.
Matthew Crandall, Colonel,
Space Force, Commanding.
Space Force H.Q., Cygnes III to Special Services Command Staff:
Obtain the names of the next-of-kin of the following:
1) David L. Paley
2) Peyton B. Jones
3) John R. Hennings
Forward these names to this office as soon as possible.
Matthew Crandall, Colonel,
Space Force, Commanding.
* * *
Crandall pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. He ordered a light scout spacer gotten ready, then turned as the message bell pinged again. He read:
G.H.Q. Space Forces, Terra to Space Force H.Q., Cygnes III Personal: To Col. Matthew Crandall.
For your information, we have learned that Planetary Development G.H.Q. is readying bill to strike out Sections 67 rpt 67 and 68 rpt 68, and replace same with new sections placing Planetary Development Authority in charge of Space Force in order to quote eliminate confusion end-quote.
G. C. Davis, General, Chief of Staff.
* * *
The intercom buzzed and Crandall flipped it on.
“Your ship’s ready, sir.”
Crandall boarded the spacer. Several times on the trip to Planetary Development H.Q., he found himself wondering whether asteroid plotting would be such a bad life after all. He forced his mind back to reality, then was interrupted by a startled grunt from the pilot.
Crandall looked up. “Now what?”
“Look at the upper right of the screen, sir. Coming into view as we turn.”
Crandall bent forward and looked at the upper right section of the screen. He saw what looked like a huge spindly webwork, interspersed with big shiny rectangular blocks. As the ship turned, more and more of this web came into view, till it filled the screen from right to left and top to bottom.
“What in space,” said Crandall, “is that?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Crandall and the pilot sat, squinting, each man turning his head to different angles, trying to reduce the monstrosity to some familiar pattern. Abruptly the pilot switched on his microphone and began barking queries. He blinked, scratched his head, and turned to Crandall.
“Sir, Planetary says that mess is ‘one dozen mechanical suits.’ There’s another dozen around the other side of the base.”
Crandall let his breath out with a hiss. He fastened his gaze on one of the long strands of the web. Close observation showed at intervals what appeared to be joints, and on the underside of the thing, a row of sharp metal teeth. Crandall traced along the arm to a thing like a shiny boxcar. From this boxcar stretched thick cables that twined like long metal snakes. Crandall leaned forward and enlarged the scene. From one end of the boxcar jutted a thick bar bearing a flat base with a curved transparent cover. Inside the cover, grids, loops, and V’s turned listlessly. A big gray crate was fastened by loose cables to the end of the boxcar.
Crandall readjusted the focus of the screen for an overall view. There were many of these floating boxcars and crates. When he counted them, he found a dozen of each. They were all inter-tangled. The teeth on jointed arms had hooked cables, the cables were caught around the short bars between boxcars and housings, and eccentrically-attached conveyer belts floated loose and free from the boxcars, tangled at random with long metal arms, cables, and each other. The whole mass wavered and rippled with a slow motion, like seaweed under water.
“Sir,” said the pilot, “there goes one of their dock-you ships.”
“Their what?”
“Dock-you . . . Documentary ships, sir. They make surveys on new planets, take before and after pictures, and so on. Funny to see one out here.”
Crandall studied the documentary ship with narrowed eyes. The ship raced forward, slowed with a blast of rockets, lit with winking flashes of light—presumably a signal that it was taking pictures—then darted up, slowed, eased back and forth, and lit with more flashes of light. It rushed off to a new position.
“Sir,” said the pilot, “they’re sending up the technicians.”
“Tell them,” said Crandall, “that I want to see Buzzel, too.”
Crandall boarded the Planetary Development ship with the feelings of an explorer starting across a swampy tract where the bog grass stands in clumps amidst sinkholes of bottomless muck. Buzzel, on his part, greeted Crandall with the calculating wariness of a zoologist transferring a captured hornet to the cyanide bottle. The two went to a small conference room, and opened a conversation that circled in gingerly from the general to the particular, till Buzzel asked:
“Why did you have to hold two dozen of them?”
“Why wasn’t I told they were so big?”
Buzzel gave a spare smile. “Classified.”
“What,” said Crandall, “will you do if something does go wrong down there?”
“What could?”
Crandall shook his head, as if to brush away a swarm of gnats. “Suit failure,” he said. “The breakdown of one small part in any vital place. Or psychological difficulties on the part of the operator.”
Buzzel frowned, then said positively, “Those suits are mechanically and electronically perfect. DelGrange assembled them and tested them himself in conditions comparable to those here on Cygnes VI.” Buzzel relaxed. “What more could you ask?”
“A test on the spot,” said Crandall. He scowled. “How do you get those suits down through VI’s atmosphere without burning them up?”
Buzzel gave his spare smile. “Classified.”
Crandall felt his collar get tight.
Buzzel raised a hand and said cautiously, “I don’t mean this offensively, but I think it ought to be said. You have your job. We have ours. I wouldn’t presume to advise you in carrying out a fleet action. How do you suppose it makes us feel to have the military riding herd over us in our job?”