Blinded by the sweep of flame Kartr clung to one of the pillars to keep his footing.
“What—?” he gasped.
And a babble of question joined and drowned out his.
17 — THE END IS NOT YET
The hard surface of the partition ground into Kartr’s back as the pressure of the crowd jammed him against that barrier. All the refugees were there in the narrow space behind the control table, tense, expectant, with no attention for anything but the sky map on the wall. Beside the sergeant a tall girl in the battle-stained tunic of a civilian supply assistant muttered half aloud to herself.
“There’s only one of them—by the Grace of the Three—there is only one for him to face!”
Her “one” was that ominous red dot of the pirate ship still on course to Terra—headed without doubt for the very point on that planet where they now stood. But, even as they watched that advance helplessly, a second dot appeared on the screen—the Patrol ship moving out to meet the enemy.
“Time to try evasive!” Kartr caught the urgency in that man’s voice rising from the mass of watchers. “Evade, Corris!”
And, as if that half-order half-plea had actually reached across space, the course of the Patrol ship changed. It seemed now as if it were attempting to make a futile run for safety, trying to elude the pirate. Out there a single brave man swung before a control panel, enmeshed in a pilot’s web, prepared to fight a last battle to save his fellows. One lone Patrolman!
He continued to evade skillfully, altering his course just enough each time to draw the enemy after him, to persuade the other ship into pursuit and away from Terra. He had his screen up as the haze testified. That should act as a flaunting challenge to the pirate. The impulse of the pursuer would be to follow, to beat down the weak barrier, to put on a traction beam and warp in the Patrol ship. Only, what Captain Corris flew was no longer a ship, it was a single deadly weapon! And the enemy who strove to overtake and capture it would only trigger his own death in the same instant that he drew it in!
Kartr heard sobs, subdued, and little angry mutters from those about him.
“He has the war head ready.” That was the girl. She was talking as if to reassure herself, not to inform anyone else of what lay behind that silent battle out in the dark between worlds. “We were going to blow it if we were taken. He’ll trigger it when they beam him in—” Her voice was hoarse, almost fierce.
The red dots moved as fighters sparring for an opening, making patterns on the screen. Kartr, though he was ignorant of space maneuvers, guessed that he was now watching the last fight of an inspired pilot. And yet to the pirate it must appear that a weak ship was trying desperately to escape.
“If only they don’t suspect!” The girl’s tone was that of a prayer. “Spirit of Space, keep them from suspecting—”
The end came as the Patrol pilot had planned it. A glow of battle screens hazed both ships—and then the one surrounding the Patrol ship disappeared. The dots moved toward each other—the pirate had clamped a pincher beam on its prey, was dragging the helpless ship to where they could lock air-locks for boarding. At last the dots touched.
A flower of fire burst on the screen. It glowed for only a second and then died, to leave nothing behind it—nothing at all. The map was as blank as it had been when first they found it. Only the specks which were stars sparkled with aloof chill in the void.
No one in the crowd moved. It was as if they did not believe in the truth of what they had just witnessed, that they did not wish to believe. Then there was a single sigh and the tight mass broke apart. People drifted, with eyes which seemed to see nothing, out into the hall. Except for the shuffle of feet over the stone it was very quiet.
Overhead the gray light of another dawn gave a pale radiance. Kartr stepped up on the dais. He rested one hand on the back of the chair which was Terra’s and looked closely for the first time at these new companions in misfortune.
They were a mixed lot, both as to race and species, as might be expected from a Patrol Ranger base. There were two more Zacathans, a pale-faced woman and two children with the goggles of the Faltharians hanging from their belts, and he was sure he had seen a feather crest which could only have graced the head of a Trystian.
“You are in command here?”
Kartr’s attention flickered from the refugees to a girl—the same girl who had stood beside him to watch the battle—and two men standing together at the foot of the dais. Automatically Kartr’s hand arose to touch a helmet he no longer wore.
“Ranger Sergeant Kartr of the Starfire. We crashed here some time ago. Our party consists of three other rangers, a com-techneer and an arms-techneer—”
“Medico-techneer Veelson,” the shorter of the two men responded in a low and surprisingly musical voice. “This is Third Officer Moxan of our Base Ship, and Acting Sergeant Adrana of the Headquarters section. We are entirely at your service, Sergeant.”
“Your party—”
“Our party,” Veelson answered quickly, “numbers thirty-eight. Twenty women and six children are ranger dependents. Five crewmen under Moxan, and six supply corpswomen with Sergeant Adrana—and myself. As far as we know we are the only survivors of Base CC4.”
“Zinga—Fylh—Rolth—” Kartr gave the order which came naturally to him. “Firewood detail and get some fires going—” He turned back to the medico-techneer. “I take it, sir, that you haven’t much in the way of supplies?”
Veelson shrugged. “We have only what we could carry. It certainly isn’t too much.”
“A hunting party out, too, Zinga. Smitt, take over the communication board again. We don’t want to be caught napping if there is another ship on its way. Any of your men know com, sir?” he asked Moxan.
Instead of answering directly the third officer turned on his heel and called down the length of the hall. “Havre!”
One of the men in crew uniform came running.
“Com work,” his officer grunted. “Under this techneer.”
“I take it that we can live off the country, since you mentioned hunting,” Veelson asked.
“This is an Arth type planet. We’ve found it hospitable. In fact—this is Terra, you know.”
Kartr watched the medico-techneer closely to see if that registered. It took a second or two, but it did.
“Terra.” Veelson repeated the word blankly and then his eyes widened. “The home of the Lords of Space! But that is a legend—a fable!”
Kartr stamped on the dais. “Fairly substantial fable, don’t you think? You are in the Hall of Leave-Taking now—look at the seats of the first star rangers, if you wish.” He pointed to the chairs. “Read what is carved on the back of this one. Yes, this is Terra of Sol!”
“Terra!” Veelson was still shaking his head wonderingly when Kartr spoke to the girl.
“You have your corpswomen. Can you take charge of the women and children?” he asked abruptly. This sort of duty was beyond his experience. He had established field camps, led expeditions, fought his way back and forth across many weird worlds in the past, but never before had he been responsible for such a group as this.
She started to nod, flushed, and raised her hand in salute. A moment later she was back circulating among the tired women and the fretful children—aided by the Zacathan family.
“Any chance of there being another pirate after you? What did happen at the base?” Already forgetting the women, Kartr began to question the medico-techneer.
“The base was wiped out. But things had begun to go wrong before that. There has been a breakdown somewhere along the supply and communication route. Our yearly supply ship was three months overdue even before the attack. We’d received no messages from Central Control for two weeks. We sent out a cruiser and it never returned.
“Then the pirate fleet came in. If was a fleet and the whole raid had been carefully planned. We had five ships on the field. Two raised and accounted for three of the pirates before they were blasted out. We manned the perimeter guns as long as we could and cleared the air for the survivors to take off.
“What caught us napping was that they came in under false colors and we accepted them as friendly until too late. They were Central Control ships! Either some section of the Fleet has mutinied or—or something terrible has happened to the whole empire. They acted as if the Patrol had been outlawed—their attack was vicious. And because they had come in with all the proper signals we weren’t expecting it. It was as if they were the law—”