Fleet Admiral Guerdon Dann, being a psiontist, could understand and could work in
subspace. Therefore he could perceive subspace-going vessels before they emerged
into normal space, a feat no non-psionic observer could perform. Thus he perceived a
very large number of vessels so maneuvering in subspace as to emerge in a roughly
globular formation well outside his own globe of warships. He perceived that they were
warcraft and really big stuff-super-dreadnougbts very much like his own-and that there
were four or five hundred of them. That wasn’t good; but, since their purpose was
pellucidly clear, he’d have to do something. What could he do? His mind raced.
He wasn’t a war admiral-pirates didn’t fight in fleets. He didn’t know any more about fleet
action in space than a pig did about Sunday. There’d never been any. Missile-killers were
new and had extreme range, and no repulsor except a planet-based super-giant could
stop one after fifteen seconds of flight at 175,000 gravities. However, they carried no
screen, so they’d be duck soup for beams, especially lasers-if they could spot them soon
enough, and he’d have to assume that they could.
Torps had plenty of screen, but they were slow; hence they were duck soup for
repulsors. What he ought to have, dammit, was something with the legs of a killer and
the screens of a torp, and there was nothing like that even on the drawing boards.
Before leybyrdite nothing like that had been possible.
Beams, then? Uh-uh! They’d englobe shipwise, four or five to one. His ships could then
immerge-if they were fast enough-or get whiffed out.
He got into telepathic touch with his officers. “I don’t know whether we can do anything to
those boys or not. Probably not. We certainly can’t if we let them get close to us-they’ll
englobe us four or five to one if we make like heroes, so we won’t. Be ready to immerse
when I give the word. Try killers at fifteen seconds range as they emerge and send out
some torps on general principles, but that’s all. We’re going to execute a strategic
withdrawal-in other words, run like hell.”
Computers computed briefly; impressed data upon mechanical brains. Missile-killers and
torpedoes hurtled away. The first strange warship emerged and the first missile-killer
flashed into a raging, space-wracking fireball miles short of objective.
“I was afraid of that,” Dann thought on, quietly. “I don’t think they’II follow us-I think I
know what they’re after-so we’ll run. Numbers one to fifty, to Galmetia; fifty one to one
hundred, to Newmars; and everybody, get under an umbrella, just in case they do follow
us.”
En route to Galmetia-the flagship Terra was of course Number One-Dann had a long
telepathic conversation with Maynard, and on landing he went straight to GalMet’s main
office. Maynard was waiting for him, with a staff of some fifty people. Maynard said:
“You all know that the purpose of the enemy fleet was not specifically to attack our fleet
or our planets, but to break our blockade of Earth. They broke it, and announced that
any planet refusing to resume full trade with Earth would be bombed. So,” he shrugged
his shoulders and grimaced wryly, “we give in and it is now business as usual. We have
of course taken the obvious steps; we are beefing up our repulsors and are developing a
laser that will cut an eighty-mile asteroid up into thin slices at half a million miles. We’ve
also started on your special torp, Guerd, on a crash-pri basis. `TIMPS’ is the name:
Torpedo, Improved, Missile-Propelled, Screened. But we haven’t been able to do
anything more than guess at the answers to such questions as: Who are they? Where do
they come from? No known planet, of that we are sure. Capital, Communism, Labor, or
what? Hatfield, have you anything to offer?”
The meeting went on for four hours; but beyond the obvious fact that there was a
planet-and not a Johnny-Come-Lately planet, either, but one long-enough established to
have plenty of people, plenty of industry, and plenty of money or its equivalent-the
meeting got nowhere. At adjournment time Maynard flashed Deston a thought to stay
behind, and after the others had gone he said:
“You told me you didn’t know anything. I didn’t ask you then and I’m not asking you now
what you’re figuring on doing about it. But you’re going to do something. Correct?”
“Correct. I don’t know what anybody can do, but we’re going to work on it. They have
leybyrdite; but they almost certainly did not develop it themselves.”
“Cancel the `almost’. We’ve never limited its sale-we can’t. Anyone could have bought
any amount of it. Dummy concerns-untraceable-is my guess on that. We know that a lot
of Tellurian capital has always operated on the old grab-everything-in-sight principle, and
everyone knows what Communism does. Either of them could and would run a planet as
that one has obviously been run for many years-in a way that would make the robber
barons of old sick at the stomach. But since it doesn’t make sense that Labor has been
doing it … it almost has to be either Capital or Communism.”
“It looks that way.” Deston frowned in thought. “But I don’t know any sure-fire way of
finding out which, if either . . . so I’d better go get hold of some people to help me think.
‘Bye.”
Deston did not walk out of the room, but ‘ported himself to Barbara’s side in the
University office. “Hi, pet,” he said, kissing her lightly. “I got troubles. How about busting
in on that squirrel-some foursome that Horse French is in? I want to cry in their beer.”
“Uh-uh, let’s not bust in; they’ll have to come up for air pretty soon. Let’s wait ’til they do,
then ‘port up there with some lemon sour and Gulka fizz and cherry sloosh and stuff for a
break.”
The foursome did and the Destons did and Deston said:
“Well, well, Frenchy old horse, fancy meeting you here!” and four strong hands gripped
and shook hard. This was the Communications Officer to whom Deston had reported the
survival of the liner Procyon so long before. “Nobody ever even suspected you of having
a brain in your head. All beef-nothing but muscle to keep your ears apart, I always
thought.”
“Hi, Runt! You? Think? What with? But I’ll tell you how it was. So many captains got
married that they couldn’t find room for enough desks for ’em all to sit at, so they loaned
me to this here Adams projecton pay, too. Nice of ’em, what?-but you’ve never met my
wife. Paula, this renegade fugitive from InStell is Babe Deston-the unabashed hero of
subspace, you know.”
“I know.” The slender, graceful, black-haired, black-eyed girl with the almost theatrical
make-up, who had been watching and listening to this underplayed meeting as intently as
Barbara had, gave him a firm, warm handshake and turned to Barbara. “And you’re
Bobby, of course. These men of ours. . . .” She raised one carefully-sculptured eyebrow,
“but toe don’t have to insult each other to prove that we’re . . .”
“Hey!” Deston broke in then. He had been studying the way Paula walked-he’d never
seen anybody except Barbara move with such perfect, automatic, unconscious
coordination as that “Wha’-d’ya mean, Paula?” he demanded. “She’s Angelique de St.
Aubin!”
“In Person, not a tri-di,” French bragged. “But Paula’s her real name. The only things
about her that are French are the name she married and her professional accent. This
psionics stuff is the only way I could lure her down off of the high wire-she wouldn’t come
to ground, even after she got her Mrs. degree, just for the honor and privilege of being
Mrs. Captain Horace French.”
“Let’s spread this around a little, huh, and give the rest of us a chance.” The coltish but
attractive teenager, having gulped the last syrupy bits of a full half liter of cherry sloosh,
came in. “I’m May Eberly. I can’t tell you two wonderful people how glad I am that you
started this and let me in-I never dreamed-well, anyway, it’s exactly what I was born for.
The others, too. You know what they call us? The Effeff-the Funny Four, no less-but I
don’t care. I love it! And this,” she waved a hand at the oldster, “is Titus Fleming. He’s
got pots of money, so we call him `Tite’, but of course he isn’t, just the opposite, in fact
he spoils us all rotten, and. .
“Hush, child,” Fleming said, with an affectionate smile. Then, to Deston, “May has an
extraordinarily brilliant and agile mind, but she is inclined to natter too much.”
“Well, why not?” the youngster demanded, engagingly. When we’re en rapport I don’t
talk at all, so I have to make up for it sometime, don’t I? And Mr. Deston -no, I think I’ll
call you `Babe’, too. Okay?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Horse, there-I never heard him called that before, but I like it-says if everybody’s