No World of Their Own (19 page)

“What in all space—”

“Hurry!
There is more at stake than you know. Chanthavar may come any instant, and we have much to do yet.”

Brannoch wavered. Given a moment to think, he would remember Saris' abilities, notice the sudden slight accent of his Thrymans. But he had just been roused from sleep, he was used to obeying their orders—

Valti shoved him. Relief was obvious on the florid countenance. “They're right, my lord. It'd be devilish hard to get their tank out inconspicuously, and it would take minutes to collect all your men. Let us be gone!”

Brannoch nodded, kicked his feet into a pair of shoes, and went out the door between his supposed guards. Langley stole a glance at Marin, her face was white with strain. He hoped the crazy thunder of his own heart didn't show.

So far, so good. Stopping at the embassy had been unavoidable, but the extra opposition picked up there had been kept down to one man—and a man who Langley's conscience required should be told the truth.

Saris had not only meant to take control of the Thryman microphones, but to short out the circuits of their anti-gravity sled, leave them sitting helplessly behind. Had he done that? Was he strong enough? Perhaps!

It would be strange, though, if those shrewd and suspicious intelligences were content with an arrangement which would leave them the prisoners of any accident. There must be means for repairing the apparatus, robot tools controllable from inside the tank. There were surely means of calling up the entire ring of Centaurian spies and saboteurs, throwing them all away just to break through Chanthavar's men and get into a concealed spaceship and flee.

The Thrymans were going to escape. There was no way of preventing that. They were probably going to pursue. And Chanthavar wouldn't be peacefully asleep much longer, either. The question was whether Valti's group could get out of tracer range before one or the other party was in action.

It'll be interesting to find out,
thought Langley.

XVIII

In his own forgotten world, they would never have accomplished this much. Somewhere along the line, there would have been a man with enough independence of mind to hold up the proceedings while he checked with his superiors. But a slave is not bred or trained to think for himself. This may be one reason why freedom, unstable, inefficient, stamped to oblivion again and again, still rises new through all history.

The van slipped swiftly across a darkened planet. Lora became a bright star cluster on the horizon, and then it was lost. Only night could be seen. Langley doubted that he would ever look on that city again. It had flashed over his experience for a few weeks, but now it was as if it and all its millions had never been. It gave him some understanding of Valti's philosophy, his acceptance of the impermanent and the doomed as essential to the scheme of things.

Brannoch's sinewy face was etched against shadow by the dim light of the instrument panel. “Do you know why the Society has decided to help us?” he asked.

“No, I don't, my lord,” said the trader.

“There's money in it somewhere. Big money. Unless you plan some treachery—” For a moment, teeth gleamed white; then the Thorian laughed. “No. Why should you bother with me at all, if not for the purpose you stated?”

“Of course, my lord, the League will not be ungrateful for all my exertions?”

“Oh, yes, yes, you'll have your squeeze, never fear. I'll get it back from Earth. This does mean war, you know. There's no stopping the war now. But if I know these fat-gutted Ministers, they'll keep their fleet in this system to protect their own precious hides—long enough to give us a chance at the nullifier. We'll make a couple of heavy raids just to throw a scare into them.” Brannoch stared darkly ahead of him. “I wonder what Thrymka wanted to stay for. I wonder how big their web really is. Someday I hope to do something about them too … the damned spiders!”

The van slanted toward a small clump of forest. When it grounded, Valti tumbled out. “I've got the flitter here. If you please, sirs!”

A blaster cut the lock on Saris' box. The Holatan emerged in one supple bound, and the party groped forward between trees.

“They iss all wit' energy weaponss here,” murmured the alien in English. “All but one, the tall fellow there. Can you handle him?”

“I'd better be able to,” said Langley between clenched jaws.

The flitter loomed huge in the grove, like a pillar of night. “Where are the rest of your gang?” asked Brannoch as he went up the ladder to the airlock.

“Snugly in bed, my lord,” said Valti. His voice sounded loud and flat in the immense hush. Somewhere, far off, crickets were chirping. It would probably be the last time he heard crickets, thought Langley. There were twenty men to capture.

This spaceboat was meant for velocity rather than comfort. A single long room held passenger chairs and the pilot's seat. Valti sloughed off his armor, planted his large bottom in the control chair, and moved thick fingers in an astonishingly graceful dance over the panel. The boat shivered, roared and leaped for the sky.

Atmosphere fell behind. Earth rolled huge and lovely against a curtain of incandescent stars. Langley looked at her with a wrenching of farewell.
Goodbye, Earth. Goodbye, hill and forest, tall mountains, windy plains, great march of seas under the moon. Goodbye, Peggy.

A computer chattered quietly to itself. Lights blinked on the panel. Valti locked a switch in place, sighed gustily and turned around. “All right,” he said. “She's on automatic, a high-acceleration path. We'll reach our ship in half an hour. You may as well relax.”

“Easier said than done,” grunted Brannoch.

It grew very still in the narrow metal chamber.

Langley threw a glance at Saris. The Holatan nodded, ever so faintly. Marin saw the gesture, and her own head bobbed. It was time.

Langley put his back to the wall near the controls. He drew his blaster. “Don't move,” he said.

Someone cursed. A gun jumped up with blinding speed. It didn't fire.

“Saris has a grip on every weapon in here except mine and Marin's,” said Langley. “You'd better sit still and listen—No, you don't!” He sent a beam roaring at the tall man with the old-style weapon. The trader howled as it fell from seared fingers.

“Sorry to do that.” Langley spoke low. There was sweat trickling down his face. “I don't want to hurt anybody. But there are some pretty big issues involved. Will you give me a chance to explain?”

“Captain—” Valti shuffled closer. Marin waved him back with a ferocious gesture. Saris crouched in the after end of the room, shivering with effort.

“Listen to me.” Langley felt a vague annoyance that his tone should be pleading. Wasn't the man with the gun supposed to be unquestioned boss? But Valti's little eyes were shifting back and forth, watching for any chance at all. Brannoch's legs were gathered under his chair, ready to leap. The trader spacemen were snarling, building up courage for a rush to overwhelm him.

“I just want to tell you some facts,” said Langley. “You've all been the dupes of one of the biggest, brassiest swindles in history. You think you're working for your own good—Valti, Brannoch—but I'm going to show you otherwise. You've got half an hour to wait in any event, so you might as well listen to me.”

“Go ahead,” said Brannoch thickly.

The American drew a shaky breath and launched into his account: the subversion of League and Technate and Society by a foreign and hostile power working for its own ends. He gave Valti the spool he had along, and the man put it in a scanner and studied it with maddening deliberation. A clock spun off lazy minutes, and Earth receded in the boat's wake. The room was hot and silent.

Valti looked up. “What are you going to do if I don't cooperate?” he asked.

“Make you.” Langley waved his gun.

The bushy red head shook, and there was a curious dignity over the pot-bellied form. “No. I'm sorry, Captain, but it won't go. You can't operate a modern spaceship. You don't know how, and my old carcass isn't worth so much that I'll do it for you.”

Brannoch said nothing, but his eyes were chips of blue stone.

“Can't you see, man?” shouted Langley. “Can't you
think?”

“Your evidence is very slender, Captain. All the facts are susceptible of other interpretations.”

“When two hypotheses conflict, choose the simpler one,” said Marin unexpectedly.

Valti sat down. He rested his chin on one fist, closed his eyes, and looked suddenly old.

“You may be right,” said Brannoch. “I've had my suspicions of those animated pancakes for a long time. But we'll deal with them later—after Thor is in a stronger position.”

“No!” cried Langley. “You blind, bloody fool, can't you see? This whole war is being engineered by them. They must regard men as dangerous vermin. They can't conquer us by themselves, but they can get us to bleed each other white. Then
they
can mop up!”

A bell rang. Langley turned his head, and brought it around at Marin's scream. Brannoch was almost on him. He waved the Centaurian back, who grinned impudently, but he let Valti go up to look at the instruments.

The trader faced them all and announced flatly: “Someone has slapped a tracer beam on us. We're being followed.”

“Who? How far? How fast?” Brannoch snapped the questions out like an angry dog.

“I don't know. It may be your friends from Thrym, it may be Chanthavar.” Valti fiddled with some knobs and considered the reading of meters. “Good-sized ship. Overhauling us, but we'll get to ours about ten minutes ahead of them. It takes a while to warm up the generators for an interstellar jump, so we may have to fight during that time.” His eyes were steady on Langley. “If the good captain will permit that.”

The American drew a shuddering breath. “No. I'll let them blow us all up first.”

Valti chuckled. “Do you know, Captain, I believe you …
and
your somewhat fantastic hypothesis.

“That you'll have to prove,” said Langley.

“I shall. Men, please toss all your guns over here. The captain can mount guard on us if he won't find it boring.”

“Wait a minute!” A nomad stood up. “Are you going against the orders of the chiefs?”

“I am—for the good of the Society.”

“I won't!”

Valti's answer cracked like a pistol shot. “You will, sir, or I'll personally break your back across my knee. I'm your skipper this trip. Shall I read you the articles concerning obedience to the skipper?”

“I—yes, sir. But I'll file a complaint at—”

“Do so by all means,” agreed Valti cheerfully. “I'll be right there in the office with you, filing my own.”

The blasters clattered at Langley's feet. Saris lay down, trembling with exhaustion.

“Tie up Brannoch,” said the American.

“Of course.… You'll pardon the liberty, my lord? We'll leave you in the flitter, you can free yourself and scoot away.”

Brannoch glared murder, but submitted.

“Are you satisfied, Captain?” asked Valti.

“Perhaps. Why do you believe me now?”

“Partly the evidence you showed, partly your own sincerity. I respect your intelligence.”

Langley shoved his blaster back into its sheath. “Okay!”

It had seemed a chancy thing to do, but Valti only nodded and resumed the pilot's “chair. “We've almost arrived,” he said. “Time to put on the brakes and match velocities.”

The spaceship grew enormously. She was a long black cylinder, floating through a wilderness of stars. Langley saw her gun turrets stark against the Milky Way. There was a slight shock, a noise of metal making contact, and the boat had joined airlocks.

“Battle stations!” snapped Valti. “You may come with me, Captain.” He plunged toward the exit.

Langley stopped by Brannoch. The giant met his eyes and gave him a savage grin. “Good work,” he said.

“Look,” answered the spaceman, “when you get loose, flit away from here but not too far. Listen in on any radio conversation. Think over what I've told you. Then, if you're wise, you'll get in touch with Chanthavar.”

“I … may.”

“God help you if you don't. Goodbye, Brannoch.”

Langley went through the airlock. He was the last man, and the ship's outer door clashed to behind him. He didn't know the layout of this cruiser, but followed his hunches as he ran down the corridors. There was a roaring of machines about him; the ship was making ready to fight.

He located the main control chamber in a few minutes. Valti sat there, with Marin and Saris hovering in the background. The vessel must be almost entirely automatic, a robot in her own right, for one man to guide her thus.

A stellar globe gave a simulacrum of the cold star-spattered dark outside. Valti located a moving speck on it and adjusted a telescreen for an enlarged view. The approaching ship was a steel sphere.

“Thryman make,” said Valti. “I'd know those lines anywhere. Let's see what they have to say.” He punched the radio keys.

Thryman! Then they must have escaped almost as soon as the others were gone, bulling through with the guns they doubtless had somewhere on their tank, reaching a hidden warship and taking it into space with nearly impossible speed. They would have known the orbit of Valti's craft from the Technon. Langley shivered, and Marin huddled close to him.

“Hello, Thrymka.” Valti spoke almost casually into hisset. Eyes and hands were still moving, punching buttons, adjusting dials, observing the ready lights which flashed on for one compartment after another through his vessel.

The machine voice crackled back: “You have been followed. If you are wise, you will surrender to us at once. The Solar patrols got a tracer on us. They are following close behind, and rather than let them have you, we will destroy everything.”