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Greylorn (version 2)

Clay worked steadily over his chart table. Finally he turned to me. “Captain, I get a figure of over a hundred million tons mass; and calibrating the scope images gives us a length of nearly two miles.” I let that sink in. I had a strong and very empty feeling that this ship, if ship it were, was not an envoy from any human colony. The annunciator hummed and spoke. “Captain, I’m getting a very short wave transmission from a point out on the starboard bow. Does that sound like your torpedo?” It was Mannion. “That’s it, Mannion,” I said. “Can you make anything of it?” “No, sir,” he answered. “I’m taping it, so I can go to work on it.” Mannion was our language and code man. I hoped he was good. “What does it sound like,” I asked. “Tune me in.” After a moment a high hum came from the speaker. Through it I could hear harsh chopping consonants, a whining intonation. I doubted that Mannion would be able to make anything of that gargle. Our Bogie closed steadily. At four hundred twenty-five miles he reversed relative directions, and began matching our speed, moving closer to our course. There was no doubt he planned to parallel us. I made a brief announcement to all hands describing the status of the action. Clay worked over his televideo, trying to clear the image. I watched as the blob on the screen swelled and flickered. Suddenly it flashed into clear stark definition. Against a background of sparkling black, the twin spheres gleamed faintly in reflected starlight. There were no visible surface features; the iodine-colored forms and their connecting shaft had an ancient and alien look. We held our course steadily, watching the stranger maneuver. Even at this distance it looked huge. “Captain,” Clay said, “I’ve been making a few rough calculations. The two spheres are about 800 yards in diameter, and at the rate the structure is rotating it’s pulling about six gravities.” That settled the question of human origin of the ship. No human crew would choose to work under six gee’s. Now, paralleling us at just over two hundred miles, the giant ship spun along, at rest relative to us. It was visible now through the direct observation panel, without magnification. <hr class='minor' /> I left Clay in charge on the bridge, and I went down to the Com Section. Joyce sat at his board, reading instruments and keying controls. So he was back on the job. Mannion sat, head bent, monitoring his recorder. The room was filled with the keening <ins class='corr' title="Transcriber’s Note: The original showed ‘staccatto’.">staccato</ins> of the alien transmission. “Getting anything on video?” I asked. Joyce shook his head. “Nothing, Captain. I’ve checked the whole spectrum, and this is all I get. It’s coming in on about a dozen different frequencies; no FM.” “Any progress, Mannion?” I said. He took off his headset. “It’s the same thing, repeated over and over, just a short phrase. I’d have better luck if they’d vary it a little.” “Try sending,” I said. Joyce tuned the clatter down to a faint clicking, and switched his transmitter on. “You’re on, Captain,” he said. “This is Captain Greylorn, UNACV Galahad; kindly identify yourself.” I repeated this slowly, half a dozen times. It occurred to me that this was the first known time in history a human being had addressed a non-human intelligence. The last was a guess, but I couldn’t interpret our guest’s purposeful maneuverings as other than intelligent. I checked with the bridge; no change. Suddenly the clatter stopped, leaving only the carrier hum. “Can’t you tune that whine out, Joyce?” I asked. “No, sir,” he replied. “That’s a very noisy transmission. Sounds like maybe their equipment is on the blink.” We listened to the hum, waiting. Then the clatter began again. “This is different,” Mannion said. “It’s longer.” I went back to the bridge, and waited for the next move from the stranger, or for word from Mannion. Every half hour I transmitted a call identifying us, followed by a sample of our language. I gave them English, Russian, and Standard Interlingua. I didn’t know why, but somehow I had a faint hope they might understand some of it. I stayed on the bridge when the watch changed. I had some food sent up, and slept a few hours on the OD’s bunk. Fine replaced Kramer on his watch when it rolled around. Apparently Kramer was out of circulation. At this point I did not feel inclined to pursue the point. We had been at General Quarters for twenty-one hours when the wall annunciator hummed. “Captain, this is Mannion. I’ve busted it....” “I’ll be right there,” I said, and left at a run. Mannion was writing as I entered ComSection. He stopped his recorder and offered me a sheet. “This is what I’ve got so far, Captain,” he said. I read: INVADER; THE MANCJI PRESENCE OPENS COMMUNICATIONS. “That’s a highly inflected version of early Interlingua, Captain,” Mannion said. “After I taped it, I compensated it to take out the rise-and-fall tone, and then filtered out the static. There were a few sound substitutions to figure out, but I finally caught on. It still doesn’t make much sense, but that’s what it says.” “I wonder what we’re invading,” I said. “And what is the “Mancji Presence’?” “They just repeat that over and over,” Mannion said. “They don’t answer our call.” “Try translating into old Interlingua, adding their sound changes, and then feeding their own rise-and-fall routine to it,” I said. “Maybe that will get a response.” I waited while Mannion worked out the message, then taped it on top of their whining tone pattern. “Put plenty of horse-power behind it,” I said. “If their receivers are as shaky as their transmitter, they might not be hearing us.” We sent for five minutes, then tuned them back in and waited. There was a long silence from their side, then they came back with a long spluttering sing-song. Mannion worked over it for several minutes. .ldThey must have understood us, here’s what I get,” he said: <blockquote>THAT WHICH SWIMS IN THE MANCJI SEA; WE ARE AWARE THAT YOU HAVE THIS TRADE TONGUE. YOU RANGE FAR. IT IS OUR WHIM TO INDULGE YOU; WE ARE AMUSED THAT YOU PRESUME HERE; WE ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR INSOLENT DEMANDS. </blockquote> “It looks like we’re in somebody’s back yard,” I said. “They acknowledge our insolent demands, but they don’t answer them.” I thought a moment. “Send this,” I said. “We’ll out-strut them:” <blockquote>THE MIGHTY WARSHIP GALAHAD REJECTS YOUR JURISDICTION. TELL US THE NATURE OF YOUR DISTRESS AND WE MAY CHOOSE TO OFFER AID. </blockquote> Mannion raised an eyebrow. “That ought to rock them,” he said. “They were eager to talk to us,” I said. “That means they want something, in my opinion. And all the big talk sounds like a bluff of our own is our best line.” “Why do you want to antagonize them, Captain?” Joyce asked. “That ship is over a thousand times the size of this can.” “Joyce, I suggest you let me forget you’re around,” I said. <hr class='minor' /> The Mancji whine was added to my message, and it went out. Moments later this came back: <blockquote>MANCJI HONOR DICTATES YOUR SAFE-CONDUCT; TALK IS WEARYING; WE FIND IT CONVENIENT TO SOLICIT A TRANSFER OF ELECTROSTATIC FORCE. </blockquote> “What the devil does that mean?” I said. “Tell them to loosen up and explain themselves.” Mannion wrote out a straight query, and sent it. Again we waited for a reply. It came, in a long windy paragraph stating that the Mancji found electro-static baths amusing, and that “<ins class='corr' title="Transcriber’s Note: The original showed ‘crystalization’.">crystallization</ins>” had drained their tanks. They wanted a flow of electrons from us to replenish their supply. “This sounds like simple electric current they’re talking about, Captain,” Mannion said. “They want a battery charge.” “They seem to have power to burn,” I said. “Why don’t they generate their own juice? Ask them; and find out where they learned Interlingua.” Mannion sent again; the reply was slow in coming back. Finally we got it: <blockquote>THE MANCJI DO NOT EMPLOY MASSIVE GENERATION-PIECE WHERE ACCUMULATOR-PIECE IS SUFFICIENT. THIS SIMPLE TRADE SPEECH IS OF OLD KNOWLEDGE. WE SELECT IT FROM SYMBOLS WE ARE PLEASED TO SENSE EMPATTERNED ON YOUR HULL. </blockquote> That made some sort of sense, but I was intrigued by the reference to Interlingua as a trade language. I wanted to know where they had learned it. I couldn’t help the hope I started building on the idea that this giant knew our colony, in spite of the fact that they were using an antique version of the language, predating Omega by several centuries. I sent another query, but the reply was abrupt and told nothing except that Interlingua was of “old knowledge.” Then Mannion entered a long technical exchange, getting the details of the kind of electric power they wanted. “We can give them what they want, no sweat, Captain,” he said after half an hour’s talk. “They want DC; 100 volt, 50 amp will do.” “Ask them to describe themselves,” I directed. I was beginning to get an idea. Mannion sent, got his reply. “They’re molluscoid, Captain,” he said. He looked shocked. “They weigh about two tons each.” “Ask them what they eat,” I said. I turned to Joyce as Mannion worked over the message. “Get Kramer up here, on the double,” I said. <hr class='minor' /> Kramer came in five minutes later, looking drawn and rumpled. He stared at me sullenly. “I’m releasing you from arrest temporarily on your own parole, Major,” I said. “I want you to study the reply to our last transmission, and tell me what you can about it.” “Why me?” Kramer said. “I don’t know what’s going on.” I didn’t answer him. There was a long tense half hour wait before Mannion copied out the reply that came in a stuttering nasal. He handed it to me. As I had hoped, the message, after a preliminary recital of the indifference of the Mancji to biological processes of ingestion, recited a list of standard biochemical symbols. “Can we eat this stuff?” I asked Kramer, handing him the sheet. He studied it, and some of his accustomed swagger began to return. “I don’t know what the flowery phrases are all about, but the symbols refer to common proteins, lipins, carbohydrates, vitamins, and biomins,” he said. “What is this, a game?” “All right, Mannion,” I said. I was trying to hold back the excitement. “Ask them if they have fresh sources of these substances aboard.” The reply was quick; they did. “Tell them we will exchange electric power for a supply of these foods. Tell them we want samples of half a dozen of the natural substances.” Again Mannion coded and sent, received and translated, sent again. “They agree, Captain,” he said at last. “They want us to fire a power lead out about a mile; they’ll come in close and shoot us a specimen case with a flare on it. Then we can each check the other’s merchandise.” “All right,” I said. “We can use a ground-service cable; rig a pilot light on it, and kick it out, as soon as they get in close.” “We’ll have to splice a couple of extra lengths to it,” Mannion said. “Go to it, Mannion,” I said. “And send two of your men out to make the pick-up.” This wasn’t a communications job, but I wanted a reliable man handling it. I returned to the bridge and keyed for Bourdon, directed him to arm two of his penetration missiles, lock them onto the stranger, and switch over to my control. With the firing key in my hand, I stood at the televideo screen and watched for any signs of treachery. The ship moved in, came to rest filling the screen. Mannion’s men reported out. I saw the red dot of our power lead move away, then a yellow point glowed on the side of the vast iodine-colored wall looming across the screen. Nothing else emerged from the alien ship. The red pilot drifted across the face of the sphere. Mannion reported six thousand feet of cable out before the pilot disappeared abruptly. “Captain,” Mannion reported, “they’re drawing power.” “O.K.,” I said. “Let them have a sample, then shut down.” I waited, watching carefully, until Mannion reported the cannister inside. “Kramer,” I said. “Run me a fast check on the samples in that container.” Kramer was recovering his swagger. “You’ll have to be a little more specific,” he said. “Just what kind of analysis do you have in mind? Do you want a full....” “I just want to know one thing, Kramer,” I said. “Can we assimilate these substances, yes or no. If you don’t feel like co-operating, I’ll have you lashed to your bunk, and injected with them. You claim you’re a medical officer; let’s see you act like one.” I turned my back to him. Mannion called. “They say the juice we fed them was ‘amusing,’ Captain. I guess that means it’s O.K.” “I’ll let you know in a few minutes how their samples pan out,” I said. <hr class='minor' /> Kramer took half an hour before reporting back. “I ran a simple check such as I normally use in a routine mess inspection,” he began. He couldn’t help trying to take the center of the stage to go into his Wise Doctor and Helpless Patient routine. “Yes or no,” I said. “Yes, we can assimilate most of it,” he said angrily. “There were six samples. Two were gelatinous substances, non-nutritive. Three were vegetable-like, bulky and fibrous, one with a high iodine content; the other was a very normal meaty specimen.” “Which should we take?” I said. “Remember your teeth when you answer.” “The high protein, the meaty one,” he said. “Marked ‘6’.” I keyed for Mannion. “Tell them that in return for 1,000 KWH we require 3,000 kilos of sample six,” I said. Mannion reported back. “They agreed in a hurry, Captain. They seem to feel pretty good about the deal. They want to chat, now that they’ve got a bargain. I’m still taping a long tirade.” “Good,” I said. “Better get ready to send about six men with an auxiliary pusher to bring home the bacon. You can start feeding them the juice again.” I turned to Kramer. He was staring at the video image. “Report yourself back to arrest in quarters, Kramer,” I said. “I’ll take your services today into account at your court-martial.” Kramer looked up, with a nasty grin. “I don’t know what kind of talking oysters you’re trafficking with, but I’d laugh like hell if they vaporized your precious tub as soon as they’re through with you.” He walked out. Mannion called in again from ComSection. “Here’s their last, Captain,” he said. “They say we’re lucky they had a good supply of this protein aboard. It’s one of their most amusing foods. It’s a creature they discovered in the wild state and it’s very rare. The wild ones have died out, and only their domesticated herds exist.” “O.K., we’re lucky,” I said. “It better be good or we’ll step up the amperage and burn their batteries for them.” “Here’s more,” Mannion said. “They say it will take a few hours to prepare the cargo. They want us to be amused.” I didn’t like the delay, but it would take us about 10 hours to deliver the juice to them at the trickle rate they wanted. Since the sample was O.K., I was assuming the rest would be too. We settled down to wait. I left Clay in charge on the bridge and made a tour of the ship. The meeting with the alien had apparently driven the mood of mutiny into the background. The men were quiet and busy. I went to my cabin and slept for a few hours. <hr class='minor' /> I was awakened by a call from Clay telling me that the alien had released his cargo for us. Mannion’s crew was out making the pick-up. Before they had maneuvered the bulky cylinder to the cargo hatch, the alien released our power lead. I called Kramer and told him to meet the incoming crew and open and inspect the cargo. If it was the same as the sample, I thought, we had made a terrific trade. Discipline would recover if the men felt we still had our luck. Then Mannion called again. “Captain,” he said excitedly, “I think there may be trouble coming. Will you come down, sir?” “I’ll go to the bridge, Mannion,” I said. “Keep talking.” I tuned my speaker down low and listened to Mannion as I ran for the lift. “They tell us to watch for a little display of Mancji power. They ran out some kind of antenna. I’m getting a loud static at the top of my short wave receptivity.” I ran the lift up and as I stepped onto the bridge I said, “Clay, stand by to fire.” As soon as the pick-up crew was reported in, I keyed course corrections to curve us off sharply from the alien. I didn’t know what he had, but I liked the idea of putting space between us. My P-Missiles were still armed and locked. Mannion called, “Captain, they say our fright is amusing, and quite justified.” I watched the televideo screen for the first sign of an attack. Suddenly the entire screen went white, then blanked. Miller, who had been at the scanner searching over the alien ship at close range, reeled out of his seat, clutching at his eyes. “My God, I’m blinded,” he shouted. Mannion called, “Captain, my receivers blew. I think every tube in the shack exploded!” I jumped to the direct viewer. The alien hung there, turning away from us in a leisurely curve. There was no sign of whatever had blown us off the air. I held my key, but didn’t press it. I told Clay to take Miller down to Medic. He was moaning and in severe pain. Kramer reported in from the cargo deck. The cannister was inside now, coating up with frost. I told him to wait, then sent Chilcote, my demolition man, in to open it. Maybe it was booby-trapped. I stood by at the DVP and waited for other signs of Mancjo power to hit us. The general feeling was tense. Apparently they were satisfied with one blast of whatever it was; they were dwindling away with no further signs of life. After half an hour of tense alertness, I ordered the missiles disarmed. I keyed for General. “Men, this is the Captain,” I said. “It looks as though our first contact with an alien race has been successfully completed. He is now at a distance of three hundred and moving off fast. Our screens are blown, but there’s no real damage. And we have a supply of fresh food aboard; now let’s get back to business. That colony can’t be far off.” That may have been rushing it some, but if the food supply we’d gotten was a dud, we were finished anyway. We watched the direct-view screen till the ship was lost; then followed on radar. “It’s moving right along, Captain,” Joyce said, “accelerating at about two gee’s.” “Good riddance,” Clay said. “I don’t like dealing with armed maniacs.” “They were screwballs all right,” I said, “but they couldn’t have happened along at a better time. I only wish we had been in a position to squeeze a few answers out of them.” “Yes, sir,” Clay said. “Now that the whole thing’s over, I’m beginning to think of a lot of questions myself.” The annunciator hummed. I heard what sounded like hoarse breathing. I glanced at the indicator light. It was the cargo deck mike that was open. I keyed. “If you have a report, Chilcote, go ahead,” I said. Suddenly someone was shouting into the mike, incoherently. I caught words, cursing. Then Chilcote’s voice, “Captain,” he said. “Captain, please come quick.” There was a loud clatter, noise, then only the hum of the mike. “Take over, Clay,” I said, and started back to the cargo deck at a dead run. <hr class='minor' /> Men crowded the corridor, asking questions, milling. I forced my way through, found Kramer surrounded by men, shouting. “Break this up,” I shouted. ”Kramer, what’s your report?” Chilcote walked past me, pale as chalk. I pushed through to Kramer. “Get hold of yourself, and make your report, Kramer,” I said. “What started this riot?” Kramer stopped shouting, and stood looking at me, panting. The crowded men fell silent. “I gave you a job to do, Major,” I said; “opening a cargo can. Now you take it from there.” “Yeah, Captain,” he said. “We got it open. No wires, no traps. We hauled the load out of the can on to the floor. It was one big frozen mass, wrapped up in some kind of netting. Then we pulled the covering off.” “All right, go ahead,” I said. “That load of fresh meat your star-born pals gave us consists of about six families of human beings; men, women, and children.” Kramer was talking for the crowd now, shouting. “Those last should be pretty tender when you ration out our ounce a week, Captain.” The men milled, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, as I thrust through to the cargo lock. The door stood ajar and wisps of white vapor curled out into the passage. I stepped through the door. It was bitter cold in the lock. Near the outer hatch the bulky cannister, rimed with white frost, lay in a pool of melting ice. Before it lay the half shrouded bulk that it had contained. I walked closer. They were frozen together into one solid mass. Kramer was right. They were as human as I. Human corpses, stripped, packed together, frozen. I pulled back the lightly frosted covering, and studied the glazed white bodies. Kramer called suddenly from the door. “You found your colonists, Captain. Now that your curiosity is satisfied, we can go back where we belong. Out here man is a tame variety of cattle. We’re lucky they didn’t know we were the same variety, or we’d be in their food lockers now ourselves. Now let’s get started back. The men won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” I leaned closer, studying the corpses. “Come here, Kramer,” I called. “I want to show you something.” “I’ve seen all there is to see in there,” Kramer said. “We don’t want to waste time; we want to change course now, right away.” <hr class='minor' /> I walked back to the door, and as Kramer stepped back to let me precede him out the door, I hit him in the mouth with all my strength. His head snapped back against the frosted wall. Then he fell out into the passage. I stepped over him. “Pick this up and put it in the brig,” I said. The men in the corridor fell back, muttering. As they hauled Kramer upright I stepped through them and kept going, not running but wasting no time, toward the bridge. One wrong move on my part now and all their misery and fear would break loose in a riot the first act of which would be to tear me limb from limb. I travelled ahead of the shock. Kramer had provided the diversion I had needed. Now I heard the sound of gathering violence growing behind me. I was none too quick. A needler flashed at the end of the corridor just as the lift door closed. I heard the tiny projectile <ins class='corr' title="Transcriber’s Note: The original showed ‘richochet’.">ricochet</ins> off the lift shaft. I rode up, stepped onto the bridge and locked the lift. I keyed for Bourdon, and to my relief got a quick response. The panic hadn’t penetrated to Missile Section yet. “Bourdon, arm all batteries and lock onto that Mancji ship,” I ordered. “On the triple.” I turned to Clay. “I’ll take over, Clay,” I said. “Alter course to intercept our late companion at two and one-half gee’s.” Clay looked startled, but said only, “Aye, sir.” I keyed for a general announcement. “This is the Captain,” I said. “Action station, all hands in loose acceleration harness. We’re going after Big Brother. You’re in action against the enemy now, and from this point on I’m remembering. You men have been having a big time letting off steam; that’s over now. All sections report.” One by one the sections reported in, all but Med. and Admin. Well, I could spare them for the present. The pressure was building now, as we blasted around in a hairpin curve, our acceleration picking up fast. I ordered Joyce to lock his radar on <ins class='corr' title="Transcriber’s Note: The original showed ‘taget’.">target</ins>, and switch over to autopilot control. Then I called Power Section. “I’m taking over all power control from the bridge,” I said. “All personnel out of the power chamber and control chamber.” The men were still under control, but that might not last long. I had to have the entire disposition of the ship’s power, control, and armament under my personal direction for a few hours at least. Missile Section reported all missiles armed and locked on target. I acknowledged and ordered the section evacuated. Then I turned to Clay and Joyce. Both were plenty nervous now; they didn’t know what was brewing. “Lieutenant Clay,” I said. “Report to your quarters; Joyce, you too. I want to congratulate both of you on a soldierly performance these last few hours.” They left without protest. I was aware that they didn’t want to be too closely identified with the Captain when things broke loose. <hr class='minor' /> I keyed for a video check of the interior of the lift as it started back up. It was empty. I locked it up. Now we were steady on course, and had reached our full two and a half gees. I could hardly stand under that acceleration, but I had one more job to do before I could take a break. Feet dragging, I unlocked the lift and rode it down. I was braced for violence as I opened the lift door, but I was lucky. There was no one in the corridor. I could hear shouts in the distance. I dragged myself along to Power Section and pushed inside. A quick check of control settings showed everything as I had ordered it. Back in the passage, I slammed the leaded vault door to and threw in the combination lock. Now only I could open it without blasting. <hr class='minor' /> Control Section was next. It, too, was empty, all in order. I locked it, and started across to Missiles. Two men appeared at the end of the passage, having as hard a time as I was. I entered the cross corridor just in time to escape a volley of needler shots. The mutiny was in the open now, for sure. I kept going, hearing more shouting. I was sure the men I had seen were heading for Power and Control. They’d get a surprise. I hoped I could beat them to the draw at Missiles, too. As I came out in B corridor, twenty feet from Missiles, I saw that I had cut it a bit fine. Three men, crawling, were frantically striving against the multi-gee field to reach the door before me. Their faces were running with sweat, purple with exertion. I had a slight lead; it was too late to make a check inside before locking up. The best I could hope for was to lock the door before they reached it. I drew my Browning and started for the door. They saw me and one reached for his needler. “Don’t try it,” I called. I concentrated on the door, reached it, swung it closed, and as I threw in the lock a needler cracked. I whirled and fired. The man in the rear had stopped and aimed as the other two came on. He folded. The other two kept coming. I was tired. I wanted a rest. “You’re too late,” I said. “No one but the Captain goes in there now.” I stopped talking, panting. I had to rest. The two came on. I wondered why they struggled so desperately after they were beaten. My thinking was slowing down. I suddenly realized they might be holding me for the crowd to arrive. I shuffled backwards towards the cross corridor. I barely made it. Two men on a shuttle cart whirled around the corner a hundred feet aft. I lurched into my shelter in a hail of needler fire. One of the tiny slugs stung through my calf and ricocheted down the passage. I called to the two I had raced; “Tell your boys if they ever want to open that door, just see the Captain.” I hesitated, considering whether or not to make a general statement. “What the hell,” I decided. “They all know there’s a mutiny now. It won’t hurt to get in a little life-insurance.” I keyed my mike. “This is the Captain,” I said. “This ship is now in a state of mutiny. I call on all loyal members of the Armed Forces to resist the mutineers actively, and to support their Commander. Your ship is in action against an armed enemy. I assure you this mutiny will fail, and those who took part in it will be treated as traitors to their Service, their homes, and their own families who now rely on them. “We are accelerating at two and one-half gravities, locked on a collision course with the Mancji ship. The mutineers cannot enter the Bridge, Power, Control, or Missiles Sections since only I have the combination. Thus they’re doomed to failure. “I am now returning to the Bridge to direct the attack and destruction of the enemy. If I fail to reach the Bridge, we will collide with the enemy in less than three hours, and our batteries will blow.” Now my problem was to make good my remark about returning to the Bridge. The shuttle had not followed me, presumably fearing ambush. I took advantage of their hesitation to cross back to corridor A at my best speed. I paused once to send a hail of needles <ins class='corr' title="Transcriber’s Note: The original showed ‘ricocheted’.">ricocheting</ins> down the corridor behind me, and I heard a yelp from around the corner. Those needles had a fantastic velocity, and bounced around a long time before stopping. At the corridor, I lay down on the floor for a rest and risked a quick look. A group of three men were bunched around the Control Section door, packing smashite in the hairline crack around it. That wouldn’t do them any good, but it did occupy their attention. I faded back into the cross passage, and keyed the mike. I had to give them a chance. “This is the Captain,” I said. “All personnel not at their action stations are warned for the last time to report there immediately. Any man found away from his post from this point on is in open mutiny and can expect the death penalty. This is the last warning.” The men in the corridor had heard, but a glance showed they paid no attention to what they considered an idle threat. They didn’t know how near I was. I drew my needler, set it for continuous fire, pushed into the corridor, aimed, and fired. I shot to kill. All three sprawled away from the door, riddled, as the metal walls rang with the cloud of needles. I looked both ways, then rose, with effort, and went to the bodies. I recognized them as members of Kirschenbaum’s Power Section crew. I keyed again as I moved on toward the lift at the end of the corridor, glancing back as I went. “Corley, Mac Williams, and Reardon have been shot for mutiny in the face of the enemy,” I said. “Let’s hope they’re the last to insist on my enforcing the death penalty.” <hr class='minor' /> Behind me, at the far end of the corridor, men appeared again. I flattened myself in a doorway, sprayed needles toward them, and hoped for the best. I heard the singing of a swarm past me, but felt no hits. The mutineers offered a bigger target, and I thought I saw someone fall. As they all moved back out of sight, I made another break for the lift. I was grateful they hadn’t had time to organize. I kept an eye to the rear, and sent a hail of needles back every time a man showed himself. They ducked out to fire every few seconds, but not very effectively. I had an advantage over them; I was fighting for the success of the mission and for my life, with no one to look to for help; they were each one of a mob, none eager to be a target, each willing to let the other man take the risk. I was getting pretty tired. I was grateful for the extra stamina and wind that daily calisthenics in a high-gee field had given me; without that I would have collapsed before now; but I was almost ready to drop. I had my eyes fixed on the lift door; each step, inch by inch, was an almost unbearable effort. With only a few feet to go, my knees gave; I went down on all fours. Another batch of needles sang around me, and vivid pain seared my left arm. It helped. The pain cleared my head, spurred me. I rose and stumbled against the door. Now the combination. I fought a numbing desire to faint as I pressed the lock control; three, five, two, five ... I twisted around as I heard a sound. The shuttle was coming toward me, men lying flat on it, protected by the bumper plate. I leaned against the lift door, and loosed a stream of needles against the side of the corridor, banking them toward the shuttle. Two men rolled off the shuttle in a spatter of blood. Another screamed, and a hand waved above the bumper. I needled it. <hr class='minor' /> I wondered how many were on the shuttle. It kept coming. The closer it came, the more effective my bank shots were. I wondered why it failed to return my fire. Then a hand rose in an arc and a choke bomb dropped in a short curve to the floor. It rolled to my feet, just starting to spew. I kicked it back. The shuttle stopped, backed away from the bomb. A jet of brown gas was playing from it now. I aimed my needler, and sent it spinning back farther. Then I turned to my lock. Now a clank of metal against metal sounded behind me; from the side passage a figure in radiation armor moved out. The suit was self-powered and needle proof. I sent a concentrated blast at the head, as the figure awkwardly tottered toward me, ungainly in the multi-gee field. The needles hit, snapped the head back. The suited figure hesitated, arms spread, stepped back and fell with a thunderous crash. I had managed to knock him off balance, maybe stun him. I struggled to remember where I was in the code sequence; I went on, keyed the rest. I pushed; nothing. I must have lost count. I started again. I heard the armored man coming on again. The needler trick wouldn’t work twice. I kept working. I had almost completed the sequence when I felt the powered grip of the suited man on my arm. I twisted, jammed the needler against his hand, and fired. The arm flew back, and even through the suit I heard his wrist snap. My own hand was numb from the recoil. The other arm of the suit swept down and struck my wounded arm. I staggered away from the door, dazed with the pain. I side-stepped in time to miss another ponderous blow. Under two and a half gees, the man in the suit was having a hard time, even with power assisted controls. I felt that I was fighting a machine instead of a man. As he stepped toward me again, I aimed at his foot. A concentrated stream of needles hit, like a metallic fire hose, knocked the foot aside, toppled the man again. I staggered back to my door. But now I realized I couldn’t risk opening it; even if I got in, I couldn’t keep my suited assailant from crowding in with me. Already he was up, lurching toward me. I had to draw him away from the door. The shuttle sat unmoving. The mob kept its distance. I wondered why no one was shooting; I guessed they had realized that if I were killed there would be no way to enter the vital control areas of the ship; they had to take me alive. <hr class='minor' /> I made it past the clumsy armored man and started down the corridor toward the shuttle. I moved as slowly as I could while still eluding him. He lumbered after me. I reached the shuttle; a glance showed no one alive there. Two men lay across it. I pulled myself onto it and threw in the forward lever. The shuttle rolled smoothly past the armored man, striking him a glancing blow that sent him down again. Those falls, in the multi-gee field, were bone crushing. He didn’t get up. I reached the door again, rolled off the shuttle, and reached for the combination. I wished now I’d used a shorter one. I started again; heard a noise behind me. As I turned, a heavy weight crushed me against the door. I was held rigid, my chest against the combination key. The pressure was cracking my ribs and still it increased. I twisted my head, gasping. The shuttle held me pinned to the door. The man I had assumed out of action was alive enough to hold the lever down with savage strength. I tried to shout, to remind him that without me to open the doors, they were powerless to save the ship. I couldn’t speak. I tasted blood in my mouth, and tried to breathe. I couldn’t. I passed out. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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