Battlefield Earth (98 page)

     Jonnie and Angus were straight up against it.

They had their heads bent over the worktable in the console enclosure. Before them lay an open technical manual Angus had found in Terl’s recycler basket. Psychlo technical manuals were bad enough but this was exceptionally bad. There is nothing worse than a cloudy operator’s handbook produced for an already informed reader which omits basics and essentials.

It was ruining Jonnie’s half-formed plans and introducing a tactical dilemma. Entitled “Cautionary Examples for the instruction of Trained Transshipment Console Operators,” it, of course, made no mention of the essential switch position. But it did discuss what was called the “samespace” phenomena.

The manual warned against firing a transshipment item nearer than twenty-five thousand miles.

Jonnie had hoped he could somehow lay a tactical nuclear weapon inside each of those major war vessels and get rid of them.

The “samespace” phenomena informed them that space “considered itself” identical on the principle of nearness. By a law of squares, the farther another point in space was away, the more “different” it was from the point of origin. Total difference did not occur until one reached a point approximately twenty-five thousand miles away.

Teleportation motors used this to run and they were quite different from transshipment functions. A motor ran on the principle that “samespace” resisted distortion heavily. The shorter the distance, the more the distortion. Thus the motor thrived on the refusal of space to distort. But here one was not moving an object; one was moving merely the position of the motor housing. You could even run a dozen motors in the same room and though they would cross-distort, they would function.

But to move an object cleanly, without destruction of it or harm to the transshipment rig, one had to have two spaces to coincide with each other, and space would not do that so long as it “considered itself” “samespace.” You would just get a mangled mess.

It was all quite obtuse and Jonnie did not feel well. Every time he leaned over, he felt dizzy. Dr. Allen came out and insisted he take some more of this sulfa.

“We can’t bomb the ships with this,” said Jonnie. “And if we bomb their home planets with this rig, the attacking force won’t find out about it for months. They’re all just reaction drives and they’re months from home.” He sighed. “This rig won’t serve us offensively!”

The rig worked. They knew that because they had just proven it. They had taken a gyro-mounted camera from drone spares. It was the type of picture-regulating device which a drone used to look for things and it moved any kind of a recorder around through any degrees of a sphere according to how you set it. You could put any picto-recorder in it and they had done just that.

The rig could “cast” an object out and bring it back or it could “cast” one out and leave it. You moved “this space” out there and brought it back in order to just send out an object and recover it. Or you moved “this space” out to the coordinates of “that space” and “that space” now would hold the object and you brought this space back empty. Actually nothing moved through space at all. But “this space” and “that space” were made to coincide.

They had put a picto-recorder in the gyro-mounted camera and sent it to the moon’s surface, an easy one since the moon was up and in their line of sight. They had gotten back some very nice pictures of glaringly bright craters.

They had then “cast” the picto-recorder out to Mars, of which they had the path and coordinates, and had just looked at a huge valley that could be imagined to have a river in it.

The rig worked. They had had no doubts of that. But they weren’t here to take pretty pictures. They could hear the mutter from the nearby ops room and they knew their friends were being hammered mercilessly. There must be something they could do with this rig.

And it didn’t help to feel lightheaded and dizzy.

One might threaten the invaders by saying their planets would be destroyed but more than likely they would just attack this place again.

Suddenly the strung intercom from ops buzzed. Stormalong’s voice: “You better hold up firing. We have an unknown vessel about four hundred miles up and to the north. Stand by. Will advise.”

At the end of the line, Stormalong took his finger off the intercom and started to put the gun trace that had just come in through his playback resolver to get a picture from it.

His communicator, a young Buddhist woman on this shift, touched his shoulder. “Sir,” she said in Psychlo, “I’ve got a message on the battle line I can’t make out. It ’s in a monotone but it sounds sort of like the language I hear you and Sir Robert use to each other. I’ve got the recording of it, sir.”

Stormalong didn’t pay much attention. He was pulling the paper transfer out of the trace resolver. “Play it,” he said.

My vessel is not armed. You may train guns on it or on me’….”

Stormalong blinked. English? A funny kind of machine English?

He had the picture out of the resolver now. He looked at it, grabbed the recorder, and raced out to the console.

Jonnie and Angus looked up in alarm. “No, no,” said Stormalong. “I think it’s all right. Look!”

He put the picture in front of them urgently. It was a ship shaped like a ball with a ring around it. “Remember the ship I ran into that wasn’t there? And the old woman on the Scottish coast? This is the same ship!” He looked at them demandingly. “Do I let it through?”

“Might be a trick,” said Angus.

“Any way you can be sure?” said Jonnie. “You know, that it’s not a different ship?”

The Buddhist had followed Stormalong with a cable mike. He grabbed it away from her. “Hello. Hello up there. Do you read me?”

A metallic, monotone, “Yes.”

“What did the old woman serve you?” demanded Stormalong.

The monotone, metallic voice, “Yarb tea.”

Stormalong grinned. “Land in the open field north of this place where guns can be trained on you. Leave your ship by yourself and come unarmed. You will be met by sentries.”

Metallic voice, “Very good. Safe conduct accepted.”

Stormalong sent the needful orders to the guns and guards outside.

He played Jonnie the whole message.

“Who is this guy?” asked Angus. He spoke for them all.

The small gray man was escorted into the pagoda area by two polite, but alert, Scottish guards. He was about as high as Jonnie’s shoulder. He was dressed in a neat gray suit. He looked like a human being except that his skin was gray.

Angus looked at him. “That’s a Scottish-knit sweater,” said Angus suspiciously.

“I know, I know,” said the small gray man through his English speaking vocoder. “I am very sorry that we have no time for social amenities. We must conduct our business right now and rapidly!”

One of the guards said, “He has a white flashing light blinking on and off on top of his ship.”

Sir Robert’s communicator, the boy named Quong, whispered to Sir

Robert, “He has a radio signal going on the battle frequency that is saying, ‘Temporary local safe conduct.’ ” He said it, of course, in Psychlo.

The small gray man must have had very sharp ears for he promptly said, “Oh! You speak Psychlo!” He was speaking it and he took off the vocoder and put it in his pocket, saying, “We can dispense with this then. They are sometimes inaccurate- they misword critical clauses that lead to disputes.”

As he did this and before they could stop him he took a quick step up on the pedestal before the open console and looked in. “Ah! A standard transshipment console, I see. You have only one.”

Jonnie felt they were being criticized in some way. “We can build others.” He meant it to mean, don’t try to steal this one for we can replace it fast enough.

But the small gray man positively beamed with joy. He stepped down and looked quickly about. “We really must hurry. Is there an authorized representative of the planetary government here?”

“That would be Sir Robert,” said Jonnie, indicating him.

“Do you have the power to sign on behalf of your government?” asked the small gray man, crisply.

There was a delay. Sir Robert took his communicator out of their hearing and was quickly in communication with Chief of Clanfearghus in embattled Edinburgh. They were going through their communicators in Pali. Chief of Clanfearghus said he didn’t see why not since they were the original government and there was no other.

The small gray man called over, “Record his brief statement in clear, if you please. We must have nothing irregular. Nothing that won’t stand up in court or litigation.”

They didn’t like to put it out on the air so Chief of Clanfearghus said it in the Gaelic language and they recorded it.

The small gray man was all business. He took the recording and said, “Do you have any money? Galactic credits, I mean.”

Well, usually one or another of them had Galactic credits they had taken off dead Psychlos as souvenirs. But Jonnie’s pouch had been ruined and Angus was carrying only his tool kit and Robert the Fox had never bothered to pick any up. But the communicator Quong went tearing around to guards and came back in a moment with a one-hundred-credit bank note the guard said Sir Robert could have and welcome.

“Oh, dear,” said the small gray man. “We are so rushed I should have been more explicit. Five hundred credits is the minimum amount.”

Jonnie knew where there were probably several hundred thousand of them- in Ker’s baggage! But that was all the way up at Lake Victoria. There were about two million more in a safe but that wasn’t here either.

Quong went tearing around to the pilots. Bull’s-eye! They had been taking them off pilots they had shot down. One had a five-hundred-credit note, six one-hundred-credit notes…. Sir Robert could have them, yes indeed.

“Ah, twelve hundred credits!” said the small gray man. He had been making out a card form. “And what is your title?” he asked Sir Robert.

“War Chief of Scotland.”

“Ah, no. Shall we just put down here ‘Duly Authorized and Empowered Signatory.’ And here at the top we will put ‘Provisional Government of the Planet Earth.’ Date…. Address, Call Number…no, we can just leave those as they have no legal value. Please sign here at the bottom.”

Sir Robert signed.

The small gray man meanwhile had extracted a small pad from his pocket. He opened it and wrote “Provisional Government of the Planet Earth” inside the cover. And then he wrote on the top line of the next page: “C 1,200” and his initials, and handed it to Sir Robert. “Here is your passbook. Keep it in a safe place and do not lose it.” He shook hands.

The small gray man drew a long sigh. Then he became brisk again. He turned over the lapel of his gray jacket and said something into a button-sized radio.

The guard post outside said into the intercom to them, “The top lights on his ship just went blue.”

Quong said, “His radio signal is saying now, ‘Local conference. Do not interrupt.’

The small gray man beamed at them, rubbing his hands to get her in small quick motions. “Now that you are a customer, I can give you advice. And my first advice is act fast!’

He was hauling a book out of his inside pocket. It said “Address Book” on it in Psychlo. “Cast to these addresses as quickly as possible. We will give the belligerents priority. The first would be Hockner…home planet Hockner…coordinates…coordinates…yes: Fountain Garden in front of imperial Palace…. Basic coordinates are…” He rattled off a series of numbers and Angus hastily scribbled them down. They were in the same order as Terl’s huge book of planets.

Angus said, suspiciously, “Can you operate a console?”

The small gray man shook his head vigorously. “Oh, dear no. Good heavens no, much less build one! I just have the addresses!”

Then he noticed that Angus was about to bring the coordinates up to date with a pen and sheets of paper. “Goodness gracious! Don’t you have a coordinate computer? This would take forever by hand! We haven’t any time!”

He lifted the lapel but before he spoke he looked for permission to Sir Robert. “Can I have one of my crew bring in a computer? I’ll also need the red boxes. Could you send out a guard to escort him in and back out? It won’t explode and I’m here.”

Sir Robert nodded and the small gray man rattled off something into his lapel radio and a guard raced out. The small gray man waited quite impatiently. But he patted the side of the console housing and beamed. “Quite ornamental. Usually they are so plain, you know.”

A gray-uniformed crew member raced in with the guard and deposited a rather impressive computer in the small gray man’s hands, laid down a stack of what appeared to be red cardboard, and was escorted out.

With a deft, repeated flick of his hand, the small gray man was working a ratchet on the right side of the computer. They could see different keyboards appearing and disappearing. He overshot and came back one.

“Now here is a coordinate computer,” he said, laying it down before Angus. “You feed in the exact firing time on these keys here. It must be the actual moment you will press your firing switch. Then you feed it whether it is just ‘cast’ or ‘cast and recall’ or ‘exchange’ on these buttons here. And then you simply punch in the universe and the eight basic coordinates of time zero on the table on these keys here. Quite simple. You may have this one as a new-accounts gift. I have several. Now let’s see. I imagine we can begin firing by twenty-two hundred, sidereal, base universe.” He looked at his watch. “That is in eight minutes. A cast requires about two minutes. We have thirty casts to do. We will call in the basic civilized nations and omit Psychlo which makes twenty- nine, but we will add Lord Voraz-good gracious, I hope he is not in bed. That will take an hour. Then we will wait three hours and do a ‘cast and recall.’ That will take six minutes each- we will make it easy on them so they won’t arrive upset and cross- which is three hours. So in about seven hours, plus a little organizing time, you should be able to get them here.”

He was quite out of breath. He grabbed a stack of cards that sat on the red stack of cardboard and shoved them at Sir Robert. “Just sign each one at the bottom and I’ll fill in the rest. Let me have them as fast as you sign.”

Sir Robert looked at the form. It was all in Psychlo:

URGENT

     You are courteously requested to send an authorized

minister with powers plenipotentiary in all matters

relating to political and military relationships

with other races and with powers to negotiate and

arrange final and binding treaties. His person is

guaranteed and any effort to hold him as a hostage

shall result in his immediate revocation of all

agreements and his instant suicide.

     Appear _______ hours at place of arrival.

TO: __________________________________

CONFERENCE PLACE: _______________________________

DURATION OF CONFERENCE AT MINISTERIAL DISCRETION.

PLANET NAME: __________________________________

ATMOSPHERE OF PLANET: ____________________________

MEAN TEMPERATURES: ___ SUN TYPE: ____

GRAVITY OF PLANET: _____________________________

METABOLlSM OF RACE: _______________

FOOD SUPPLIES: Available for your race  _____________________

Not available _______________________________

     Return of emissary guaranteed, safe and in good condition,

     with copies of all relevant proceedings.

     Recommended _______________________________

     (initial and seal)

Authorized representative for the legal government of

this planet.

     _________________________________________(signed)

All relevant diplomatic costs will be borne by this

planet.

_________________________________________(signed)

     Sir Robert studied it a bit too long for the small gray man. “Sign it, sign it,” he said. “Twice. On the last two lines. I will initial and seal it and fill the rest in.”

The small gray man was popping together slabs of cardboard. He would hit them on two diagonal corners and they became a fairly large red box. An unignited smoke pot and flare were on the top of each box and a small gong which would keep sounding.

In a tearing hurry, the small gray man took the first card Sir Robert signed, filled it in with a flurry of entries, initialed it, banged a seal on it, and popped it into the box. “Hockner!” he said to Angus and trotted over to the center of the firing platform, dropped the box, and came back quickly and started to work on the next box.

Jonnie looked at his watch, took the coordinates and marks Angus had drawn out of the computer with a tape, punched them in. “Time!” He punched the firing button.

The first box shimmered an instant and vanished.

“Tolnep!” said the small gray man. “Front steps of their House of Plunder.”

Angus rattled the computer. Jonnie set the console. The small gray man raced over and put the second box on the platform. The moment he was off, Jonnie punched the firing button. That red box vanished.

Two Buddhist communicators saw the drill and relieved the small gray man putting the boxes out on the platform. The small gray man was getting quite out of breath. The boy, Quong, noticed the cards were the same except for the addresses and helped him fill those in so he just had to initial and seal them and pop them in a box. The small gray man caught up and everything was ready to fire forty minutes before the last one would go.

Panting a bit, the small gray man stood aside and let them get on with it.

Sir Robert said to him, “Are you going to conduct this conference too?”

The small gray man shook his head. “Oh dear, no. I’m just helping out. When they get here, it is all up to you!”

Jonnie and Sir Robert exchanged a look. They had better think of something fast! Six and a half hours from now authorized ministers of twenty-nine races, which apparently made up about five thousand separate planets, would be here!

The small gray man said something into his lapel.

A guard outside intercommed in, “The lights on his ship just changed. The blue one is flashing faster and now they have a big flashing red one going.”

A communicator said to Sir Robert, “The radio message that keeps going out just changed. It is saying ‘Local truce area. Security and safety of your own representatives would be endangered by gunfire, motors, or attack. Keep five hundred miles clear of zone.”’

Sir Robert said, “Can’t you just call a general truce for the planet?”

“Oh, my no. I couldn’t do that. It would be a protest producer- an usurpation of the powers of the state. I am sorry. Your people in other places will just have to hold out.”

Sir Robert went to ops to put messages on the command channel to tell them what was going on. They were encouraged. They reported there was no diminution of the attack’s ferocity. They were holding out, but just barely. For some foolish reason the enemy, per pilot reports, had set ancient ruined London on fire.