  I expected trouble when I left the bridge. The tension that had been building for many weeks was ready for release in violence. The ship was silent as I moved along the passageway. Oddly silent, I thought; something was brewing. I stopped before the door of my cabin, listening; then I put my ear to the wall. I caught the faintest of sounds from within; a muffled click, voices. Someone was inside, someone attempting to be very quiet. I was not overly surprised. Sooner or later the trouble had had to come into the open. I looked up the passage, dim in the green glow of the nightlights. There was no one in sight. I listened. There were three voices, too faint to identify. The clever thing for me to do now would be to walk back up to the bridge, and order the Provost Marshall to clear my cabin, but I had an intuitive feeling that that was not the way to handle the situation. It would make things much simpler all around if I could push through this with as little commotion as possible. There was no point in waiting. I took out my key and placed it soundlessly in the slot. As the door slid back I stepped briskly into the room. Kramer, the Medical Officer, and Joyce, Assistant Communications Officer, stood awkwardly, surprised. Fine, the Supply Officer, was sprawled on my bunk. He sat up quickly. They were a choice selection. Two of them were wearing sidearms. I wondered if they were ready to use them, or if they knew just how far they were prepared to go. My task would be to keep them from finding out. I avoided looking surprised. “Good evening, gentlemen,” I said cheerfully. I stepped to the liquor cabinet, opened it, poured Scotch into a glass. “Join me in a drink?” I said. None of them answered. I sat down. I had to move just a little faster than they did, and by holding the initiative, keep them off balance. They had counted on hearing my approach, having a few moments to get set, and using my surprise against me. I had reversed their play and taken the advantage. How long I could keep it depended on how well I played my few cards. I plunged ahead, as I saw Kramer take a breath and wrinkle his brow, about to make his pitch. “The men need a change, a break in the monotony,” I said. “It might be a good bit of drill to set up a few live missile runs on random targets,” I said. “There’s also the possibility of setting up a small arms range and qualifying all hands.” I switched my eyes to Kramer. Fine was sorry he’d come, and Joyce wouldn’t take the initiative; Kramer was my problem. “I see you have your Mark 9, Major,” I said, holding out my hand. “May I see it?” I smiled pleasantly. I hoped I had hit him quickly and smoothly enough, before he had had time to adjust to the situation. Even for a hard operator like Kramer, it took mental preparation to openly defy his Commander, particularly in casual conversation. But possession of the weapon was more than casual.... I looked at him, smiling, my hand held out. He wasn’t ready; he pulled the pistol from its case, handed it to me. I flipped the chamber open, glanced at the charge indicator, checked the action. “Nice weapon,” I said. I laid it on the open bar at my right. Joyce opened his mouth to speak. I cut in in the same firm snappy tone I use on the bridge. “Let me see yours, Lieutenant.” He flushed, looked at Kramer, then passed the pistol over without a word. I took it, turned it over thoughtfully, and then rose, holding it negligently by the grip. “Now, if you gentlemen don’t mind, I have a few things to attend to.” I was not smiling. I looked at Kramer with expressionless eyes. “I think we’d better keep our little chat confidential for the present. I think I can promise you action in the near future, though.” They filed out, looking as foolish as three preachers caught in a raid on a brothel. I stood without moving until the door closed. Then I let my breath out. I sat down and finished off the Scotch in one drag. “You were lucky, boy,” I said aloud. “Three gutless wonders.” I looked at the Mark 9’s on the table. A blast from one of those would have burned all four of us in that enclosed room. I dumped them into a drawer and loaded my Browning 2mm. The trouble wasn’t over yet, I knew. After this farce, Kramer would have to make another move to regain his prestige. I unlocked the door, and left it slightly ajar. Then I threw the main switch and stretched out on my bunk. I put the Browning needler on the little shelf near my right hand. Perhaps I had made a mistake, I reflected, in eliminating formal discipline as far as possible in the shipboard routine. It had seemed the best course for a long cruise under the present conditions. I knew that Kramer was the focal point of the trouble. He was my senior staff officer, and carried a great deal of weight in the Officer’s Mess. As a medic, he knew most of the crew better than I. I thought I knew Kramer’s driving motive, too. He had always been a great success with the women. When he had volunteered for the mission he had doubtless pictured himself as quite a romantic hero, off on a noble but hopeless quest. Now, after four years in deep space, he was beginning to realize that he was getting no younger, and that at best he would have spent a decade of his prime in monastic seclusion. He wanted to go back now, and salvage what he could. It was incredible to me that this movement could have gathered followers, but I had to face the fact; my crew almost to a man had given up the search before it was well begun. I had heard the first rumors only a few weeks before, but the idea had spread through the crew like wildfire. Now, I couldn’t afford drastic action, or risk forcing a blowup by arresting ringleaders. I had to baby the situation along with an easy hand and hope for good news from the Survey Section. A likely find now would save us. There was still every reason to hope for success in our search. To date all had gone according to plan. We had followed the route of Omega as far as it had been charted, and then gone on, studying the stars ahead for evidence of planets. We had made our first finds early in the fourth year of the voyage. It had been a long tedious time since then of study and observation, eliminating one world after another as too massive, too cold, too close to a blazing primary, too small to hold an atmosphere. In all we had discovered twelve planets, of four suns. Only one had looked good enough for close observation. We had moved in to televideo range before realizing it was an all-sea world. Now we had five new main-sequence suns ahead within six months’ range. I hoped for a confirmation on a planet at any time. To turn back now to a world that had pinned its last hopes on our success was unthinkable, yet this was Kramer’s plan, and that of his followers. They would not prevail while I lived. Still it was not my plan to be a party to our failure through martyrdom. I intended to stay alive and carry through to success. I dozed lightly and waited. I awoke when they tried the door. It had swung open a few inches at the touch of the one who had tried it, not expecting it to be unlatched. It stood ajar now, the pale light from the hall shining on the floor. No one entered. Kramer was still fumbling, “I’ll be forced to kill the first man who enters this room,” I said in a steady voice. I hadn’t picked up the gun. I heard urgent whispers in the hall. Then a hand reached in behind the shelter of the door and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened, since I had opened the main switch. It was only a small discomfiture, but it had the effect of interfering with their plan of action, such as it was. These men were being pushed along by Kramer, without a clearly thought out plan. They hardly knew how to go about defying lawful authority. I called out, “I suggest you call this nonsense off now, and go back to your quarters, men. I don’t know who is involved in this, yet. You can get away clean if you leave quietly, now, before you’ve made a serious mistake.” I hoped it would work. This little adventure, abortive though it was, might serve to let off steam. The men would have something to talk about for a few precious days. I picked up the needler and waited. If the bluff failed, I would have to kill someone. Distantly I heard a metallic clatter. Moments later a tremor rattled the objects on the shelf, followed a few seconds later by a heavy shuddering. Papers slid from my desk, fluttered across the floor. The whiskey bottle toppled, rolled to the far wall. I felt dizzy, as my bunk seemed to tilt under me. I reached for the intercom key and flipped it. “Taylor,” I said, “this is the Captain. What’s the report?” There was a momentary delay before the answer came. “Captain, we’ve taken a meteor strike aft, apparently a metallic body. It must have hit us a tremendous wallop because it’s set up a rotation. I’ve called out Damage Control.” “Good work, Taylor,” I said. I keyed for Stores; the object must have hit about there. “This is the Captain,” I said. “Any damage there?” I got a hum of background noise, then a too-close transmission. “Uh, Cap’n, we got a hole in the aft bulkhead here. I slapped a seat pad over it. Man, that coulda killed somebody.” I flipped off the intercom and started aft at a run. My visitors had evaporated. In the passage men stood, milled, called questions. I keyed my mike as I ran. “Taylor, order all hands to emergency stations.” It was difficult running, since the floors had assumed an apparent tilt. Loose gear was rolling and sliding along underfoot, propelled forward by centrifugal force. Aft of Stores, I heard the whistle of escaping air and high pressure gasses from ruptured lines. Vapor clouds fogged the Clay appeared out of the fog with his damage control crew. “Sir,” he said, “it’s punctured inner and outer shells in two places, and fragments have riddled the whole sector. There are at least three men dead, and two hurt.” “Taylor,” I called, “let’s have another damage control crew back here on the triple. Get the medics back here, too.” Clay and his men put on masks and moved off. I borrowed one from a man standing by and followed. The large exit puncture was in the forward cargo lock. The room was sealed off, limiting the air loss. “Clay,” I said, “pass this up for the moment and get that entry puncture sealed. I’ll put the extra crew in suits to handle this.” I moved back into clear air and called for reports from all sections. The worst of the damage was in the auxiliary power control room, where communication and power lines were slashed and the panel cut up. The danger of serious damage to essential equipment had been very close, but we had been lucky. This was the first instance I had heard of encountering an object at hyper light speed. It was astonishing how this threat to our safety cleared the air. The men went about their duties more cheerfully than they had for months, and Kramer was conspicuous by his subdued air. The emergency had reestablished at least for the time the normal discipline; the men still relied on the Captain in trouble. Damage control crews worked steadily for the next seventy-two hours, replacing wiring, welding, and testing. Power Section jockeyed endlessly, correcting air motions. Meanwhile, I checked almost hourly with Survey Section, hoping for good news to consolidate the improved morale situation. It was on Sunday morning, just after dawn relief that Lt. Taylor came up to the bridge looking sick. “Sir,” he said, “we took more damage than we knew with that meteor strike.” He stopped and swallowed hard. “What have you got, Lieutenant?” I said. “We missed a piece. It must have gone off on a tangent through stores into the cooler. Clipped the coolant line, and let warm air in. All the fresh frozen stuff is contaminated and rotten.” He gagged. “I got a whiff of it, sir. Excuse me.” He rushed away. This was calamity. We didn’t carry much in the way of fresh natural food; but what we had was vital. It was a bulky, delicate cargo to handle, but the chemists hadn’t yet come up with synthetics to fill all the dietary needs of man. We could get by fine for a long time on vitamin tablets and concentrates; but there were nutritional I knew that Kramer wouldn’t let this chance pass. As Medical Officer he would be well within his rights in calling to my attention the fact that our health would soon begin to suffer. I felt sure he would do so as loudly and publicly as possible at the first opportunity. My best move was to beat him to the punch by making a general announcement, giving the facts in the best possible light. That might take some of the sting out of anything Kramer said later. I gave it to them, short and to the point. “Men, we’ve just suffered a serious loss. All the fresh frozen stores are gone. That doesn’t mean we’ll be going on short rations; there are plenty of concentrates and vitamins aboard. But it does mean we’re going to be suffering from deficiencies in our diet. “We didn’t come out here on a pleasure cruise; we’re on a mission that leaves no room for failure. This is just one more fact for us to face. Now let’s get on with the job.” I walked into the wardroom, drew a cup of near-coffee, and sat down. The screen showed a beach with booming surf. The sound track picked up the crash and hiss of the breakers. Considering the red plague that now covered the scene, I thought it was a poor choice. I dialed for a high view of rolling farmland. Mannion sat at a table across the room with Kirschenbaum. They were hunched over their cups, not talking. I wondered where they stood. Mannion, Communications Officer, was neurotic, but an old Armed Force man. Discipline meant a lot to him. Kirschenbaum, Power Chief, was a joker, with cold eyes, and smarter than he seemed. The question was whether he was smart enough to idealize the stupidity of retreat now. Kramer walked in, not wasting any time. He saw me and came over. He stopped a few feet from the table, and said loudly, “Captain, I’d like to know your plans, now that the possibility of continuing is out.” I sipped my near-coffee and looked at the rolling farmland. I didn’t answer him. If I could get him mad, I could take him at his game. Kramer turned red. He didn’t like being ignored. The two at the other table were watching. “Captain,” Kramer said loudly. “As Medical Officer I have to know what measures you’re taking to protect the health of the men.” This was a little better. He was on the defensive now; explaining why he had a right to question his Commander. I wanted him a little hotter though. I looked up at him. “Kramer,” Kramer was furious. “Joyce has relieved me, Captain,” he said, controlling his voice with an effort. “I felt I’d better take this matter up with you as soon as possible, since it affects the health of every man aboard.” He was trying to keep cool, in command of himself. “I haven’t authorized any changes in the duty roster, Major,” I said mildly. “Report to your post.” I was riding the habit of discipline now, as far as it would carry me. I hoped that disobedience to a direct order, solidly based on regulations, was a little too big a jump for Kramer at the moment. Tomorrow it might be different. But it was essential that I break up the scene he was staging. He wilted. “I’ll see you at 1700 in the chart room, Kramer,” I said as he turned away. Mannion and Kirschenbaum looked at each other, then finished their near-coffee hurriedly and left. I hoped their version of the incident would help deflate Kramer’s standing among the malcontents. I left the wardroom and took the lift up to the bridge and checked with Clay and his survey team. “I think I’ve spotted a slight perturbation in Delta 3, Captain,” Clay said. “I’m not sure, we’re still pretty far out.” “All right, Clay,” I said. “Stay with it.” Clay was one of my more dependable men, dedicated to his work. Unfortunately, he was no man of action. He would have little influence in a show-down. I was at the Schmidt when I heard the lift open. I turned; Kramer, Fine, Taylor, and a half a dozen enlisted crew chiefs crowded out, bunched together. They were all wearing needlers. At least they’d learned that much, I thought. Kramer moved forward. “We feel that the question of the men’s welfare has to be dealt with right away, Captain,” he said smoothly. I looked at him coldly, glanced at the rest of his crew. I said nothing. “What we’re faced with is pretty grim, even if we turn back now. I can’t be responsible for the results if there’s any delay,” Kramer said. He spoke in an arrogant tone. I looked them over, let the silence build. “You’re in charge of this menagerie?” I said, looking at Kramer. “If so, you’ve got thirty seconds to send them back to their kennels. We’ll go into the matter of unauthorized personnel on the bridge later. As for you, Major, you can consider yourself under arrest in quarters. Now Move.” Kramer was ready to stare me Kramer thought about going for his needler. I looked at him through narrowed eyes. He decided to rely on his mouth, as usual. He licked his lips. “All right, I’m under arrest,” he said. “But as Medical Officer of this vessel it’s my duty to remind you that you can’t live without a certain minimum of fresh organic food. We’ve got to start back now.” He was pale, but determined. He couldn’t bear the thought of getting bald and toothless from dietary deficiency. The girls would never give him another look. “We’re going on, Kramer,” I said. “As long as we have a man aboard still able to move. Teeth or no teeth.” “Deficiency disease is no joke, Captain,” Kramer said. “You can get all the symptoms of leprosy, cancer and syphilis just by skipping a few necessary elements in your diet. And we’re missing most of them.” “Giving me your opinions is one thing, Kramer,” I said. “Mutiny is another.” Clay stood beside the main screen, wide-eyed. I couldn’t send Kramer down under his guard. “Let’s go, Kramer,” I said. “I’m locking you up myself.” We rode down in the lift. The men who had been with Kramer stood awkwardly, silent as we stepped out into the passage. I spotted two chronic trouble-makers among them. I thought I might as well call them now as later. “Williams and Nagle,” I said, “this officer is under arrest. Escort him to his quarters and lock him in.” As they stepped forward hesitantly, Kramer said, “Keep your filthy hooks off me.” He started down the passage. If I could get Kramer put away before anybody else started trouble, I might be able to bluff it through. I followed him and his two sheepish guards down past the power section, and the mess. I hoped there would be no crowd there to see their hero Kramer under guard. I was out of luck. Apparently word had gone out of Kramer’s arrest, and the corridor was clogged with men. They stood unmoving as we approached. Kramer stopped. “Clear this passage, you men,” I said. Slowly they began to move back, giving ground reluctantly. Suddenly Kramer shouted. “That’s right, you whiners and complainers, clear the way so the Captain can take me back to the missile deck and shoot me. You just want to talk about home; you haven’t got the guts to do anything about it.” The moving mass halted, milled. Someone shouted, “Who’s he think he is, anyway.” “Williams, Nagle,” I said loudly, “clear this passage.” Williams started half-heartedly to shove at the men nearest him. A fist flashed out and snapped his head back. That was a mistake; Williams pulled his needler, and fired a ricochet down the passage. “’Bout twelve a you yellow-bellies git outa my way,” he yelled. “I’m comin’ through.” Nagle moved close to Williams, and shouted something to him. The noise drowned it. Kramer swung back to me, frantic to regain his sway over the mob. “Once I’m out of the way, there’ll be a general purge,” he roared. The hubbub faded, as men turned to hear him. “You’re all marked men. He’s gone mad. He won’t let one of you live.” Kramer had their eyes now. “Take him now,” he shouted, and seized my arm to begin the action. He’d rushed it a little. I hit him across the face with the back of my hand. No one jumped to his assistance. I drew my 2mm. “If you ever lay a hand on your Commanding Officer again, I’ll burn you where you stand, Kramer.” Then a voice came from behind me. “You’re not killing anybody without a trial, Captain.” Joyce stood there with two of the crew chiefs, needler in hand. Fine and Taylor were not in sight. I pushed Kramer out of my way and walked up to Joyce. “Hand me that weapon, Junior, butt first,” I said. I looked him in the eye with all the glare I had. He stepped back a pace. “Why don’t you jump him,” he called to the crowd. The wall annunciator hummed and spoke. “Captain Greylorn, please report to the bridge. Unidentified body on main scope.” Every man stopped in his tracks, listening. The annunciator continued. “Looks like it’s decelerating, Captain.” I holstered my pistol, pushed past Joyce, and trotted for the lift. The mob behind me broke up, talking, as men under long habit ran for action stations. Clay was operating calmly under pressure. He sat at the main screen, and studied the blip, making tiny crayon marks. “She’s too far out for a reliable scanner track, Captain,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure she’s braking.” If that were true, this might be the break we’d been living for. Only manned or controlled bodies decelerated in deep space. “How did you spot it, Clay?” I asked. Picking up a tiny mass like this was a delicate job, even when you knew its coordinates. “Just happened to catch my eye, Captain,” he said. “I always make a general check every watch of the whole forward quadrant. I noticed a blip where “You have quite an eye, Clay,” I said. “How about getting this object in the beam.” “We’re trying now, Captain,” he said. “That’s a mighty small field, though.” Joyce called from the radar board, “I think I’m getting an echo at 15,000, sir. It’s pretty weak.” Miller, quiet and meticulous, delicately tuned the beam control. “Give me your fix, Joyce,” he said. “I can’t find it.” Joyce called out his figures, in seconds of arc to three places. “You’re right on it, Joyce,” Miller called a minute later. “I got it. Now pray it don’t get away when I boost it.” Clay stepped over behind Miller. “Take it a few mags at a time,” he said calmly. I watched Miller’s screen. A tiny point near the center of the screen swelled to a spec, and jumped nearly off the screen to the left. Miller centered it again, and switched to a higher power. This time it jumped less, and resolved into two tiny dots. Step by step the magnification was increased as ring after ring of the lens antenna was thrown into play. Each time the centering operation was more delicate. The image grew until it filled a quarter of the screen. We stared at it in fascination. It showed up in stark silhouette, in the electronic “light” of the radar scope. Two perfect discs, joined by a fine filament. As we watched, their relative positions slowly shifted, one moving across, half occluding the other. As the image drifted, Miller worked with infinite care at his console to hold it on center, in sharp focus. “Wish you’d give me an orbit on this thing, Joyce,” he said, “so I could lock onto it.” “It ain’t got no orbit, man,” Joyce said. “I’m trackin’ it, but I don’t understand it. That rock is on a closing curve with us, and slowin’ down fast.” “What’s the velocity, Joyce?” I asked. “Averagin’ about 1,000 relative, Captain, but slowin’ fast.” “All right, we’ll hold our course,” I said. I keyed for a general announcement. “This is the Captain,” I said. “General Quarters. Man action stations and prepare for possible contact within one hour.” “Missile Section. Arm No. 1 Battery and stand by.” Then I added, “We don’t know what we’ve got here, but it’s not a natural body. Could be anything from a torpedo on up.” I went back to the Beam screen. The image was clear, but without detail. The two discs slowly drew apart, then closed again. “I’d guess that movement is due to rotation of two spheres around a common center,” Clay said. “I agree with you,” I said. I wondered whether Kramer had been locked up as I had ordered, but at this moment it seemed unimportant. If this was, as I hoped, a contact with our colony, all our troubles were over. The object (I hesitated to call it a ship) approached steadily, still decelerating. Now Clay picked it up on the televideo, as it paralleled our course forty-five hundred miles out. “Captain, it’s my guess the body will match speeds with us at about 200 miles, at his present rate of deceleration,” Clay said. “Hold everything you’ve got on him, and watch closely for anything that might be a missile,” I said. 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 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. 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 staccato 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 “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:
“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:”
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 “Joyce, I suggest you let me forget you’re around,” I said. The Mancji whine was added to my message, and it went out. Moments later this came back:
“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 “crystallization” 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:
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 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 “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. 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 “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. 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. 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. 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 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.” 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 was none too quick. A needler flashed at the end of the corridor just as the lift door closed. I heard the tiny projectile ricochet 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 target, 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. 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. 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 “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 ricocheting 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.” Behind me, at the far end of the corridor, men appeared 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. 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 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. 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 |
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