“Quite a few. Around on the other side.”
Towers slipped the fishline out, and tied one end tightly in a shallow groove in the rod below the control knob. To the other end of the line, he tied one of the small lead weights.
From the ship boomed Glossip’s authoritative voice:
“Start for the green hatch, Towers, then swerve for the red!”
Logan said, “Sir, there’s another bunch in that inlet south of the ship.”
That decided Towers, who hovered above the ship. He roughly centered himself over the red hatch, lowered the weight on the fishline, peered along the swaying line, then called, “Look out below! Keep back from under the red hatch!”
“Towers!” boomed Glossip’s voice.
Towers, sighting along the line, seemed to be directly above the hatch, but he needed a check. He released the other small lead weight, and watched it dwindle. It seemed to be dropping straight for the hatch opening.
Glossip’s voice roared, “Start for the—” The instructions were interrupted by a bellow of pain and rage.
Towers carefully pressed down the control, and let the pack go. The pack accelerated for the ship.
“General,” he called, “I can’t swerve in time carrying the pack! I’m dropping it through the red hatch. Have your men grab it, and center the control knob!”
The pack was dwindling fast, headed for the hatch opening.
Near the top of the aft fin, there appeared half-a-dozen blue-green forms, each holding up what appeared to be a kind of large shell. From Towers’ angle of vision, these mermen seemed to abruptly displace themselves upward. Then he realized that the first were still in the same position, but more had appeared.
The coiled fishline was leaping from Towers’ hand and now he clapped his other hand on it to put a drag on the line, to yank the pack’s control to full lift. If he had gauged it properly, the Centrans should be able to grab it once it got in. But would it get past the blue-green forms around the fin? Towers’ service automatic was in his hand before he remembered the earlier warning not to fire. Before he could decide whether to squeeze the trigger there was a yell from below, and the blue-green forms were gone.
The pack shot in past the edge of the hatch opening, trailing the fishline. On full lift, it should, according to Towers’ estimate, lose enough accumulated momentum so the Centrans could grab it.
From below came a roar, yells, bellowed curses and orders, a loud crashing noise, then a momentary silence. Then there was a burst of ferocious profanity, and the pack shot up out of the hatch, a large furry form clinging to the straps.
For an instant, Towers was paralyzed. Before he recovered, Glossip went past like a rocket headed for outer space, the fishline trailing straight out behind.
Towers grabbed at the line, missed, yanked his own pack control to full lift, took another grab at the line, caught the weight for a moment, then it snapped free.
Towers was rising fast now, and swallowed to equalize the falling pressure against his eardrums. He looked up, and could see that he was gaining. Possibly Glossip had managed to center the control. Towers squinted against the wind, and abruptly shoved his own control all the way down.
Glossip had dwindled to a speck, but this speck was now enlarging like an onrushing meteor.
Glossip went past in a streak, upside down, hanging to the straps, accelerating straight for the island.
Towers shouted, “Center the control!”
Apparently, Towers had caught the weight for just an instant, but that had been enough to snap the control all the way down. Glossip had then continued to pull ahead on accumulated speed, while he and Towers were building up a big acceleration in opposite directions.
As the thought flashed through his mind, Towers was urgently looking for the line. Something blurred toward him, and he seized it and tried to hang on. It yanked his arm straight down, and shot free.
Towers snapped the control knob of his own grav pack to nearly full lift, and peered down.
Below him, Glossip appeared centered over the hatch. Towers prayed fervently and watched. Now there was a twisting motion that Towers hoped meant that the pack had started up again. Now a swarm of blue-green blurs appeared around the fin, apparently trying for a grab at the Centran general. Now they vanished. Glossip was still there. Carefully, Towers eased his pack control down a little to slow the ascent, felt the painful sense of pressure deaden his ears, yawned and swallowed, and got out the communicator.
“Logan—”
“I’m watching, sir.”
“If he gets by me, have a landing-boat match velocities over him and brake.”
Carefully, Towers gauged speed and position, and, as Glossip climbed past, Towers reached out intently and centered the control. Only when he’d done this, did he spare the attention to look at the general himself.
Glossip, the straps crushed in his hands, eyes tightly shut, had a look of pure bliss on his face.
For a dazed instant, Towers couldn’t remember where he’d seen that expression before. Then it dawned on him. He’d seen it down in Glossip’s office—on the face of the lizard swinging around on the fan blade.
With the packs slowing to an upward drift, Glossip now opened his eyes.
“Great, Towers! By the hairy arm of the first-born Mikeril!” He beamed as he looked all around. “How do you work this thing?”
Towers dazedly pointed out the control knob. “You move this whichever way you want to go. At the center, you hover. When you move it farther, you get higher velocities. When you move it some more, you get rapid acceleration. At the extreme position, you get maximum acceleration. You don’t have to worry about a change in attitude of the pack, because that is internally compensa—”
Glossip let go of the straps with one hand, took hold of the control, and before Towers could stop him, shot for the sky, whirled around as the landing-boats scattered, then plunged for the ocean. Towers snapped the communicator to his lips.
“Logan!”
“Sir?” Logan’s voice was that of one earnestly awaiting orders.
Towers started to speak, then stopped. Glossip was now in a steep dive. Now the steep dive stretched out into a shallow dive. Now Glossip was streaking along horizontally, almost skimming the open water. Now the water foamed ahead of him, and a huge snout lifted up, to open out a gigantic set of jaws. Glossip whipped around to one side, reappeared, and streaked in a shallow climb toward the nearest island, where he disappeared against a mottled background.
“Sir?” repeated Logan.
“Just stand clear,” said Towers. “Where is he now?”
“Climbing—right in line with the islands. Here he comes!”
Towers looked all around, saw nothing, then there was a roar from overhead. Glossip dove past, swung around in a flat turn, climbed sharply, and stopped dead in the air, beaming.
“Fine, Towers! First rate!” he looked intently at Towers’ harness, writhed around, shot one hand, then the other, through the straps, yanked the straps tight, and said, “Now, you saw what happened down there? You saw what these locals can do?”
With an effort, Towers dragged his mind onto the problem. “Yes, I—”
“Good,” said Glossip. “Then, you see why I couldn’t explain it. How could I explain it? These natives teleport. They can live on land or in the water, and when they’re in danger—which is often in that ocean, believe me—there’s a little splash as the water rushes in to fill up the space they just left, and they’re gone!”
“They’re gone. But where to?”
“That’s the worst of it. As far as we can discover, they can go to any place they’ve been before.”
Towers digested this, then shook his head.
“General, it seems to me that this is a good planet to leave alone.”
“Very true,” said Glossip. “And when a man reaches into a barrel, thinking it’s empty, and his arm sinks up to the elbow in soft tar—Why, yes, that was a good barrel to stay out of. But his problem now is that he’s got his arm in there up to the elbow.”
Towers started to speak, then paused. The natives could teleport. They could go anywhere they had already been.
Towers looked down at the Centran ship. He was high enough so that he could see, on neighboring islands, other Centran ships. And he knew that was just a small part of Glossip’s force. Frowning, he asked, “What’s the extreme range? How far can they teleport?”
“A very good question, Towers. That’s the crux of the matter. How far can they teleport? We don’t know. And there are a number of wrong ways we can find out.”
“When you say they can go ‘wherever they’ve been before’—”
“Let me show you.”
Glossip dipped into a shallow dive, and Towers followed. They streaked high over the island, across a narrow strip of water, crossed another island and several Centran ships, then still another island, and a ship with the hatches open and unguarded.