Meanwhile, General Maklin came back in. Maklin did not move an inch out of his path, so the NRPA officers had to jump aside.
Moffis watched their departure with pursed lips, then put the safety on his stitching-gun. He aimed the snout of the gun steeply upward, but kept it handy.
Horsip settled back in his chair, and tried to sort things out. There were now two fleets on the way. Ganfre and the Snard Soviet were both coming to wipe him out. All he had was a handful of troops, his own command ship, an imitation fleet that was already known to be imitation—plus the Earthman Hunter, and his imitation fleet, which was already suspected to be imitation. That should get here sometime tomorrow. Horsip shook his head.
General Maklin, with a look of grim satisfaction, strode up the aisle.
Maklin beamed.
“A great day, General Horsip.”
Horsip looked around to see who might be in hearing distance that Maklin might want to bluff, turned back, and thought again of the approaching enemy fleets, which for all he knew might be acting together.
Horsip said politely, “Why?”
Maklin looked intently at Horsip. Suddenly Maklin burst out, “Great hairy master of sin! Was that all bluff?”
“Would you tell me what else there is around here to work with?”
Maklin clapped Horsip on the shoulder, and pointed toward the Master Control Center.
“The Fleet’s coming in!”
Horsip crossed quickly to the screens of the Master Control Center, and stopped in his tracks. Staring down at him was a huge array of ships stretching across the screen, with enigmatic symbols above and beside the screen, to give details of distance, fleet strength, and direction.
Horsip dazedly feasted his eyes on the mighty ships, emblazoned with the emblems of Centra. The array seemed endless. The symbols detailing the numbers of the Fleet staggered the imagination.
For an instant, Horsip was carried back to the days of his youth, when Centra ruled the universe, when the Old Ways were backed by unyielding might, when the power had all been taken for granted, because it was always there. Tears came to his eyes. An instant later, he was alert, sentiment blasted like pretty flowers in a frost. He glanced at the figures beside the screen, then at Maklin.
“Do I read this correctly? These ships will get here tomorrow?”
“That’s right, General Horsip.” Tears were streaming down Maklin’s cheeks. He banged one fist into the other. “No one beats the High Council! That’s where the corruption stops!”
Horsip glanced around at Moffis. Moffis was carefully oiling his stitching-gun.
Horsip took a deep breath, went back to his desk, and sat down. In a low voice, he murmured, “What do you think, Moffis?”
“About what?”
“That fleet on that screen.”
Moffis kept his voice quiet.
“Able Hunter is supposed to get here tomorrow.”
Horsip nodded.
“At least, it looks convincing.”
“So did the fleet in the asteroid belt—until the Earth experts went to work on it.”
Horsip tried to think of some way to back up Hunter’s bluff. Unfortunately, he could find nothing to work with.
Maklin spoke from the Control Center.
“General Horsip, the Fleet Commander wishes to talk to you.”
Horsip got up. The “Fleet Commander,” under whatever guise he appeared on the screen would almost certainly be Able Hunter. And very possibly the conversation might be intercepted and monitored by Snard or Ganfre. That might even be the purpose of the call.
Horsip straightened his uniform, and strode to the screen, where a tough-looking Centran general in battle dress snapped to attention, and brought his arm up in a stiff salute, after the fashion of years gone by.
Horsip, impressed with Hunter’s realism, returned the salute stiffly.
The Centran on the screen barked, “Nock Sarlin, Commander Battle Fleet V, reporting to United Forces Command Headquarters. Where is the enemy?”
Horsip thought fast. This must be a request for information.
Horsip gave a quick resume of what had taken place that day, with his best opinion of the likely location of the approaching fleets of Snard and Ganfre, and their probable strength.
“Sarlin” saluted, made a quarter turn, and barked, “Fleet course: lock-on Target B. Close at maximum fleet maneuver acceleration, opening out by divisions to depth 3 plus 1. Heavy bombardment squadrons numbers 1 through 40 to the right wing, angular concentration plus 20 to minus 20; heavy bombardment squadrons numbers 40 through 50 to the left wing by groups; numbers 51 through 100 to Fleet Reserve. Fleet conform by squadrons. Number 99 heavy bombardment squadron will detach from Fleet Reserve with accompanying medium and light squadrons as escort for Landing Force Ships, which will remain in this system under direct control of the Supreme Commander. Numbers 1 through 4 ships of the guard will land near the United Forces Command Headquarters subject to approval of the Supreme Commander, to act as the Supreme Commander’s guard. Execute!”
Horsip, dazed as “Sarlin” turned to face him, returned his salute. Horsip’s imagination was still catching up with the “Fleet Commander’s” orders. Everything seemed technically correct, but it implied an even more gigantic force than appeared on the screen. Snard or Ganfre might easily have concentrated such a force. But would they believe he, Horsip, could do it?
With “Sarlin’s” salute, the screen went blank, and before Horsip had time to recover there flashed on the screen the image of a younger officer, who saluted briskly.
“Nar Doppig, Guard Force Commander, reporting to the Supreme Commander for landing permission.”
“Granted,” said Horsip automatically, and an instant later, while returning Doppig’s salute, it occurred to Horsip that he should have refused. How could Hunter land nonexistent troops?
Horsip stood looking blankly at the screen, then, there being nothing else he could do, went back to work. He seemed hardly to have gotten started when Moffis’ voice reached him.
“Sir,” said Moffis dryly, “the emissaries from Snard and Ganfre want to see you again. Now they’re here together.”
“Send them in,” snarled Horsip.
“One at a time?”
“However they want to come.”
Moffis spoke into the phone.
A minute or two later, there was a sound of heels and the two emissaries, one broad and burly, the other tall, haughty, and heavily bandaged, started down the aisle toward Horsip’s desk. They halted before the desk, glanced at Moffis’ stitching-gun, which Moffis had again lowered, so that they were looking down its muzzle. They cleared their throats, looked at Horsip, and, as if remembering something, saluted.
Horsip returned the salute.
They stood looking at him, but said nothing.
Horsip said, “Gentlemen, if you have something to say, I am listening.”
The burly Snard emissary looked faintly regretful.
“You can’t get away with it.”
Horsip smiled.
The emissary from Ganfre spoke almost reluctantly.
“After what you have done to me, I should hate you. But, I have to admit, you almost convinced me. Let me extend to you the compliment of my professional admiration. I never saw nothing made into such a convincing appearance of might.”
The Snard emissary spoke almost sadly.
“You overdid it.”
Horsip shook his head regretfully. His voice was assured.
“You have been warned. There is nothing else I can do for you.”
“It is impossible,” said the Snard emissary, “for the Integral Union to have such strength. It is therefore obviously a clever trick. With a third or a half the number, you might have convinced us.”
Horsip sat back and looked confident. There must have been some reason for Hunter to use that number of decoys.
Horsip said, “And what do your trained Earth specialists have to say this time?”
“Only that your technique of mass production of dummy ships is highly advanced, and that this batch might have fooled them, except for the excessive and uneconomical use of what reads out on the detectors as belt armor on the ships.”
Horsip looked blank.
Belt armor was one of those things that the Centran Fleet had always made abundant use of—until the Earth specialists had proved by statistics that it was not economical.
But Hunter was as familiar with the present lack of armor belts as Horsip was.
Horsip spoke carefully.
“Let me be sure of what you just said. Except for the belt armor—”
“The appearance of belt armor—as our detectors, and data analysis, show it.”
Horsip nodded. “Except for this appearance, you would now be here offering peace instead of threats?”
Ganfre’s emissary said condescendingly, “And the numbers, General. But the point is, we are separately prepared to offer you considerable benefits if you join us willingly.”
“Why?”
The emissary cleared his throat.
“We have agreed to unite with each other—our leaders, that is, have so agreed—in order to finish off . . . ah . . . Columbia—in an economical way. We are stronger even than you realize, but in dealing with the Columbians—who have peculiar weapons—our wise leaders choose to apply the maximum force. With your realistic dummy fleets, General, we believe we can deceive the Columbians as to our actual intentions. We propose to open the psychological attack against Columbia by the total defeat of the Integral Union. We will not reveal your actual weakness, but will give out reports of a great battle, which we have won by better leadership, in order . . .”