Golden Age of Science Fiction Vol IX Page 5

  "Yeah. To the extent of our personal investment. The Bank of Ceres still has nearly all the money that was put in. We didn't figure to have them paid off for another ten years. They, or their insurance carrier, will get the indemnity. And after our fiasco, they won't make us a new loan. They were just barely talked into it, the first time around. I daresay Systemic Developments will make them a nice juicy offer to take this job over."

  Ellen colored. She stamped her foot. "You're talking like a paranoiac. Do you really believe the government of North America would send a battleship clear out here to do you dirt?"

  "Not the whole government. A few men in the right positions is all that's necessary. I don't know if Hulse was bribed or talked into this. But probably he agreed as a duty. He's the prim type."

  "A duty--to destroy a North American business?"

  * * * * *

  Chung finished at the intercom in time to answer: "Not permanent physical destruction, Miss Ziska. As Mike suggested, some corporation will doubtless inherit the Sword and repair the damage. But a private, purely asterite business ... yes, I'm afraid Mike's right. We are the target."

  "In mercy's name, why?"

  "From the highest motives, of course," Chung sneered bitterly. "You know what the Social Justice Party thinks of private capitalism. What's more important, though, is that the Sword is the first Belt undertaking not tied to Mother Earth's apron strings. We have no commitments to anybody back there. We can sell our output wherever we like. It's notorious that the asterites are itching to build up their own self-sufficient industries. Quite apart from sentiment, we can make bigger profits in the Belt than back home, especially when you figure the cost of sending stuff in and out of Earth's gravitational well. So certainly we'd be doing most of our business out here.

  "Our charter can't simply be revoked. First a good many laws would have to be revised, and that's politically impossible. There is still a lot of individualist sentiment in North America, as witness the fact that businesses do get launched and that the Essjays did have a hard campaign to get elected. What the new government wants is something like the Eighteenth Century English policy toward America. Keep the colonies as a source of raw materials and as a market for manufactured goods, but don't let them develop a domestic industry. You can't come right out and say that, but you can let the situation develop naturally.

  "Only ... here the Sword is, obviously bound to grow rich and expand in every direction. If we're allowed to develop, to reinvest our profits, we'll become the nucleus of independent asterite enterprise. If, on the other hand, we're wiped out by an unfortunate accident, there's no nucleus; and a small change in the banking laws is all that's needed to prevent others from getting started. Q.E.D."

  "I daresay Hulse does think he's doing his patriotic duty," said Blades. "He wants to guarantee North America our natural resources--in the long run, maybe, our allegiance. If he has to commit sabotage, too bad, but it won't cost him any sleep."

  "No!" Ellen almost screamed.

  Chung sagged in his chair. "We're very neatly trapped," he said like an old man. "I don't see any way out. Think you can get to work now, Mike? You can assign group leaders for the evacuation--"

  Blades jumped erect. "I can fight!" he growled.

  "With what? Can openers?"

  "You mean you're going to lie down and let them break us?"

  Avis came back. She thrust the bottle into Blades' hands as he paced the room. "Here you are," she said in a distant voice.

  He held it out toward Ellen. "Have some," he invited.

  "Not with you ... you subversive!"

  Avis brightened noticeably, took the bottle and raised it. "Then here's to victory," she said, drank, and passed it to Blades.

  He started to gulp; but the wine was too noble, and he found himself savoring its course down his throat. Why, he thought vaguely, do people always speak with scorn about Dutch courage? The Dutch have real guts. They fought themselves free of Spain and free of the ocean itself; when the French or Germans came, they made the enemy sea their ally--

  The bottle fell from his grasp. In the weak acceleration, it hadn't hit the floor when Avis rescued it. "Gimme that, you big butterfingers," she exclaimed. Her free hand clasped his arm. "Whatever happens, Mike," she said to him, "we're not quitting."

  Still Blades stared beyond her. His fists clenched and unclenched. The noise of his breathing filled the room. Chung looked around in bewilderment; Ellen watched with waxing horror; Avis' eyes kindled.

  "Holy smoking seegars," Blades whispered at last. "I really think we can swing it."

  Captain Janichevski recoiled. "You're out of your skull!"

  "Probably," said Blades. "Fun, huh?"

  "You can't do this."

  "We can try."

  "Do you know what you're talking about? Insurrection, that's what. Quite likely piracy. Even if your scheme worked, you'd spend the next ten years in Rehab--at least."

  "Maybe, provided the matter ever came to trial. But it won't."

  "That's what you think. You're asking me to compound the felony, and misappropriate the property of my owners to boot." Janichevski shook his head. "Sorry, Mike. I'm sorry as hell about this mess. But I won't be party to making it worse."

  "In other words," Blades replied, "you'd rather be party to sabotage. I'm proposing an act of legitimate self-defense."

  "If there actually is a conspiracy to destroy the Station."

  "Adam, you're a spaceman. You know how the Navy operates. Can you swallow that story about a missile getting loose by accident?"

  Janichevski bit his lip. The sounds from outside filled the captain's cabin, voices, footfalls, whirr of machines and clash of doors, as the Pallas Castle readied for departure. Blades waited.

  "You may be right," said Janichevski at length, wretchedly. "Though why Hulse should jeopardize his career--"

  "He's not. There's a scapegoat groomed back home, you can be sure. Like some company that'll be debarred from military contracts for a while ... and get nice fat orders in other fields. I've kicked around the System enough to know how that works."

  "If you're wrong, though ... if this is an honest blunder ... then you risk committing treason."

  "Yeah. I'll take the chance."

  "Not I. No. I've got a family to support," Janichevski said.

  Blades regarded him bleakly. "If the Essjays get away with this stunt, what kind of life will your family be leading, ten years from now? It's not simply that we'll be high-class peons in the Belt. But tied hand and foot to a shortsighted government, how much progress will we be able to make? Other countries have colonies out here too, remember, and some of them are already giving their people a freer hand than we've got. Do you want the Asians, or the Russians, or even the Europeans, to take over the asteroids?"

  "I can't make policy."

  "In other words, mama knows best. Believe, obey, anything put out by some bureaucrat who never set foot beyond Luna. Is that your idea of citizenship?"

  "You're putting a mighty fine gloss on bailing yourself out!" Janichevski flared.

  "Sure, I'm no idealist. But neither am I a slave," Blades hesitated. "We've been friends too long, Adam, for me to try bribing you. But if worst comes to worst, we'll cover for you ... somehow ... and if contrariwise we win, then we'll soon be hiring captains for our own ships and you'll get the best offer any spaceman ever got."

  "No. Scram. I've work to do."

  Blades braced himself. "I didn't want to say this. But I've already informed a number of my men. They're as mad as I am. They're waiting in the terminal. A monkey wrench or a laser torch makes a pretty fair weapon. We can take over by force. That'll leave you legally in the clear. But with so many witnesses around, you'll have to prefer charges against us later on."

  Janichevski began to sweat.

  "We'll be sent up," said Blades. "But it will still have been worth it."

  "Is it really that important to you?"

  "Yes. I admit I'm no crusa
der. But this is a matter of principle."

  Janichevski stared at the big red-haired man for a long while. Suddenly he stiffened. "O.K. On that account, and no other, I'll go along with you."

  Blades wobbled on his feet, near collapse with relief. "Good man!" he croaked.

  "But I will not have any of my officers or crew involved."

  Blades rallied and answered briskly, "You needn't. Just issue orders that my boys are to have access to the scoopships. They can install the equipment, jockey the boats over to the full balloons, and even couple them on."

  Janichevski's fears had vanished once he made his decision, but now a certain doubt registered. "That's a pretty skilled job."

  "These are pretty skilled men. It isn't much of a maneuver, not like making a Jovian sky dive."

  "Well, O.K., I'll take your word for their ability. But suppose the Altair spots those boats moving around?"

  "She's already several hundred kilometers off, and getting farther away, running a search curve which I'm betting my liberty--and my honor; I certainly don't want to hurt my own country's Navy--I'm betting that search curve is guaranteed not to find the missile in time. They'll spot the Pallas as you depart--oh, yes, our people will be aboard as per orders--but no finer detail will show in so casual an observation."

  "Again, I'll take your word. What else can I do to help?"

  "Nothing you weren't doing before. Leave the piratics to us. I'd better get back." Blades extended his hand. "I haven't got the words to thank you, Adam."

  Janichevski accepted the shake. "No reason for thanks. You dragooned me." A grin crossed his face. "I must confess though, I'm not sorry you did."

  * * * * *

  Blades left. He found his gang in the terminal, two dozen engineers and rockjacks clumped tautly together.

  "What's the word?" Carlos Odonaju shouted.

  "Clear track," Blades said. "Go right aboard."

  "Good. Fine. I always wanted to do something vicious and destructive," Odonaju laughed.

  "The idea is to prevent destruction," Blades reminded him, and proceeded toward the office.

  Avis met him in Corridor Four. Her freckled countenance was distorted by a scowl. "Hey, Mike, wait a minute," she said, low and hurriedly. "Have you seen La Ziska?"

  "The leftenant? Why, no. I left her with you, remember, hoping you could calm her down."

  "Uh-huh. She was incandescent mad. Called us a pack of bandits and--But then she started crying. Seemed to break down completely. I took her to your cabin and went back to help Jimmy. Only, when I checked there a minute ago, she was gone."

  "What? Where?"

  "How should I know? But that she-devil's capable of anything to wreck our chances."

  "You're not being fair to her. She's got an oath to keep."

  "All right," said Avis sweetly. "Far be it from me to prevent her fulfilling her obligations. Afterward she may even write you an occasional letter. I'm sure that'll brighten your Rehab cell no end."

  "What can she do?" Blades argued, with an uneasy sense of whistling in the dark. "She can't get off the asteroid without a scooter, and I've already got Sam's gang working on all the scooters."

  "Is there no other possibility? The radio shack?"

  "With a man on duty there. That's out." Blades patted the girl's arm.

  "O.K., I'll get back to work. But ... I'll be so glad when this is over, Mike!"

  Looking into the desperate brown eyes, Blades felt a sudden impulse to kiss their owner. But no, there was too much else to do. Later, perhaps. He cocked a thumb upward. "Carry on."

  Too bad about Ellen, he thought as he continued toward his office. What an awful waste, to make a permanent enemy of someone with her kind of looks. And personality--Come off that stick, you clabberhead! She's probably the marryin' type anyway.

  In her shoes, though, what would I do? Not much; they'd pinch my feet. But--damnation, Avis is right. She's not safe to have running around loose. The radio shack? Sparks is not one of the few who've been told the whole story and co-opted into the plan. She could--

  Blades cursed, whirled, and ran.

  His way was clear. Most of the men were still in their dorms, preparing to leave. He traveled in huge low-gravity leaps.

  The radio shack rose out of the surface near the verandah. Blades tried the door. It didn't budge. A chill went through him. He backed across the corridor and charged. The door was only plastiboard--

  He hit with a thud and a grunt, and rebounded with a numbed shoulder. But it looked so easy for the cops on 3V!

  No time to figure out the delicate art of forcible entry. He hurled himself against the panel, again and again, heedless of the pain that struck in flesh and bone. When the door finally, splinteringly gave way, he stumbled clear across the room beyond, fetched up against an instrument console, recovered his balance, and gaped.

  The operator lay on the floor, swearing in a steady monotone. He had been efficiently bound with his own blouse and trousers, which revealed his predilection for maroon shorts with zebra stripes. There was a lump on the back of his head, and a hammer lay close by. Ellen must have stolen the tool and come in here with the thing behind her back. The operator would have had no reason to suspect her.

  She had not left the sender's chair, not even while the door was under attack. Only a carrier beam connected the Sword with the Altair. She continued doggedly to fumble with dials and switches, trying to modulate it and raise the ship.

  "Praises be ... you haven't had advanced training ... in radio," Blades choked. "That's ... a long-range set ... pretty special system--" He weaved toward her. "Come along, now."

  She spat an unladylike refusal.

  Theoretically, Blades should have enjoyed the tussle that followed. But he was in poor shape at the outset. And he was a good deal worse off by the time he got her pinioned.

  "O.K.," he wheezed. "Will you come quietly?"

  She didn't deign to answer, unless you counted her butting him in the nose. He had to yell for help to frog-march her aboard ship.

  * * * * *

  "Pallas Castle calling NASS Altair. Come in, Altair."

  The great ovoid swung clear in space, among a million cold stars. The asteroid had dwindled out of sight. A radio beam flickered across emptiness. Within the hull, the crew and a hundred refugees sat jammed together. The air was thick with their breath and sweat and waiting.

  Blades and Chung, seated by the transmitter, felt another kind of thickness, the pull of the internal field. Earth-normal weight dragged down every movement; the enclosed cabin began to feel suffocatingly small. We'd get used to it again pretty quickly, Blades thought. Our bodies would, that is. But our own selves, tied down to Earth forever--no.

  The vision screen jumped to life. "NASS Altair acknowledging Pallas Castle," said the uniformed figure within.

  "O.K., Charlie, go outside and don't let anybody else enter," Chung told his own operator.

  The spaceman gave him a quizzical glance, but obeyed. "I wish to report that evacuation of the Sword is now complete," Chung said formally.

  "Very good, sir," the Navy face replied. "I'll inform my superiors."

  "Wait, don't break off yet. We have to talk with your captain."

  "Sir? I'll switch you over to--"

  "None of your damned chains of command," Blades interrupted. "Get me Rear Admiral Hulse direct, toot sweet, or I'll eat out whatever fraction of you he leaves unchewed. This is an emergency. I've got to warn him of an immediate danger only he can deal with."

  The other stared, first at Chung's obvious exhaustion, then at the black eye and assorted bruises, scratches, and bites that adorned Blades' visage. "I'll put the message through Channel Red at once, sir." The screen blanked.

  "Well, here we go," Chung said. "I wonder how the food in Rehab is these days."

  "Want me to do the talking?" Blades asked. Chung wasn't built for times as hectic as the last few hours, and was worn to a nubbin. He himself felt immensely keyed up. He'd alwa
ys liked a good fight.

  "Sure." Chung pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and began to fill the cabin with smoke. "You have a larger stock of rudeness than I."

  [Illustration]

  Presently the screen showed Hulse, rigid at his post on the bridge. "Good day, gentlemen," he said. "What's the trouble?"

  "Plenty," Blades answered. "Clear everybody else out of there; let your ship orbit free a while. And seal your circuit."

  Hulse reddened. "Who do you think you are?"

  "Well, my birth certificate says Michael Joseph Blades. I've got some news for you concerning that top-secret gadget you told us about. You wouldn't want unauthorized personnel listening in."

  Hulse leaned forward till he seemed about to fall through the screen. "What's this about a hazard?"

  "Fact. The Altair is in distinct danger of getting blown to bits."

  "Have you gone crazy? Get me the captain of the Pallas."

  "Very small bits."

  Hulse compressed his lips. "All right, I'll listen to you for a short time. You had better make it worth my while."

  He spoke orders. Blades scratched his back while he waited for the bridge to be emptied and wondered if there was any chance of a hot shower in the near future.

  "Done," said Hulse. "Give me your report."

  Blades glanced at the telltale. "You haven't sealed your circuit, admiral."

  Hulse said angry words, but complied. "Now will you talk?"

  "Sure. This secrecy is for your own protection. You risk court-martial otherwise."

  Hulse suppressed a retort.

  * * * * *

  "O.K., here's the word." Blades met the transmitted glare with an almost palpable crash of eyeballs. "We decided, Mr. Chung and I, that any missile rig as haywire as yours represents a menace to navigation and public safety. If you can't control your own nuclear weapons, you shouldn't be at large. Our charter gives us local authority as peace officers. By virtue thereof and so on and so forth, we ordered certain precautionary steps taken. As a result, if that war head goes off, I'm sorry to say that NASS Altair will be destroyed."

  "Are you ... have you--" Hulse congealed. In spite of everything, he was a competent officer, Blades decided. "Please explain yourself," he said without tone.