V.
Ben Williamson sat bolt upright in his chair and listened to the faint piping whistle that came through the communicator along with the sounds from the communications office. He snapped the button calling for silence in order to hear better, and then scratched his head in wonder.
"Executive to Communications and Pilot: Tune in that signal better and get a fix on it. Prepare to follow the fix."
"Received," came the laconic reply, and then the less formal: "What's in the sky, Ben?"
"Whether you know it or not, that signal was Guy Maynard's private sign."
"I thought so," said the communications officer. "I wasn't certain."
"We'll not court-martial you for that," laughed Ben. "After all, you didn't know Maynard personally."
"Right. I didn't know him at all. But this fix—I've got it."
"Can you get range and possible track?"
"Fairly well." There was silence for several minutes and then the communications officer announced the figures concerning the distance and probable course constants of the emitting source.
"Executive to Technician: Jimmy, have you got the cards on the Mardinex or did we put them in the morgue after we slipped her the slug?"
"Still got 'em. BuSI thought we should keep 'em a bit just in case. After all, the Mardinex was a secret proposition and to remove her cards from the Terran cardexes would be like the guy in that story."
"Which guy in what story."
"The fellow who suspected his neighbor of stealing his chickens just because he found the neighbor garbaging chicken feathers and chicken carcasses. They've made no announcement of the Mardinex's failure to return. To have Terra toss away the information that we have so painstakingly gathered concerning her most intimate features would be almost an open admission that Terra is not longer concerned about the Mardinex."
"They couldn't prove a thing."
"No, but as the Chinese say: 'A wise man does not stoop to secure his shoes in a melon patch nor adjust his hat under a cherry tree.' They could trump up enough evidence to arouse their people if they could prove our disinterest in some concrete manner. As it is, the whole system knows that Terra still carries the cards of the Mardinex. That's the one thing they've ascertained. We've got 'em all right."
"Good. Then as soon as we get close enough to that source, and the spotters take hold, run the constants through the cardex."
"Good Sol, Ben. What do you expect?"
"Dunno. Couldn't be the Mardinex, of course. That couldn't possibly be here and now. But—that was Maynard's sign and he may have survived in some queer manner. We know that the Mardinex carried lifeships."
Time passed as the destroyer accelerated constantly, reached turnover, and began to decelerate toward the suspected position of the signal-emitting object. Just after turnover the spotters took hold and announced that the object was capable of being scanned and analyzed.
The whirr of the file as the cardex ran through the thousands of minute cards filled the technician's office and came through the open communicator. Then the attention bell tingled once, and the card that matched the constants of the emitting object was slid from the file into a projector. The micro-printing above the cardex pattern was projected on the ground glass above the instrument and the technician read it off in a flat voice.
"Fore lifeship—standard type from Martian space craft of the Mardinex class. One of six similar models placed in the upper quadrant of the ship. These ships are capable of four gravities, Terran, and are capable of making the one hundred million mile trip. No armament as per agreements under the Eros Conference. Will accommodate thirty passengers for a period of ninety days, Terran without discomfort other than atmosphobia and the possibility of avoirduphobia if the distance demands free flight for any period of time. Equipped with spotter equipment and signaling equipment capable of reaching interested searchers but not raising those whose equipment is nondirective or whose directive equipment is pointed away from the emitting source. Also equipped with complete spares for signaling equipment—"
"That's enough," said Ben. "Executive to Turretman: Trim your autoMacs and load the torpedo tubes. This may be a trap."
"Right," said Tim. "And according to Jimmy, they may be trying to see how we react after a sign of the Mardinex's lifeship pattern. They're capable of duplicating that pattern, you know."
"We're going in there to win or lose," said Ben soberly. "No matter how they take it, we're ready. Tim, put a remote arming fuse in one torp and launch it right now. If this is trouble, we'll butter our chances. If this is not trouble, we'll keep the arming signal running and retrieve the torpedo. Right?"
"Received. Want it set to remain inert as long as the arming signal is on?"
"That's the order."
The destroyer bucked slightly and Tim said: "She's off. Any time anybody thinks we should let her roar, poke the arming button on the panels."
Instinctively, Ben Williamson glanced at the minute pilot light that gleamed faintly just above a button on the ordnance panel. It was the left-most button of a row of twenty. By reaching out of his chair with the right hand and leaning back so that his spine was arched deeply, Williamson could touch the arming control. He nodded, and as he watched, the panel below winked on, indicating that the turret was ready for action. Beside it, the winking lights indicated that his orders to load up the torpedo tubes had been conveyed to the tube crew. A string of varicolored lights indicated a series of interferers and space bombs that were being armed in the bomb bay. Williamson smiled. Tim Monahan was an excellent ordnance officer; one who rode the turret himself and directed the fire controls from there.
"Executive to Pilot: What's our position?"
"Twenty minutes from object."
"Ring the Action Alarm. Who knows—we may see action!"
"Turretman to Executive: Object sighted. Definitely a lifeship. Doesn't look dangerous. Shall we take a chance?"
"Executive to Communications: Answer 'em on their band."
"Received. Ben, they went off the air as soon as I opened my transmitter." There was some period of silence. "Communications to Executive: Identifies himself as Guy Maynard. Says alone and safe. Cut emitter to prevent curiosity on the part of Martian observers who may be listening."
"Good fellow. He should be an Intelligence Officer. Tell him to prepare for transshipping."
"He says that after a year in that sardine can, it can't be too quick. Want him to jump?"
"Can he put on any speed?"
"His suit is still in partial operation. He can rev up about a G."
"Tell him to dive. We'll scoop him without trying to match speed."
Guy smiled vaguely. He made one last prayer that he could look as starved for company as a man would after a year in that tiny ship. He didn't stop to wonder why they'd asked him to dive. He merely prayed that his story would be acted as convincingly as his forged diary read. He'd partially committed that to memory; certain lapses would be expected. It was good and it contained several references to ideas for equipment which would help explain his sudden inventive streak. He hugged the volume to him and dived out of the open space lock. Once free of the ship, Guy turned the tiny driving fin on and he stood upright on the soles of the spacesuit shoes.
And minutes later the destroyer arrowed silently past and a silent, invisible tractor reached out and caught him in the focal area. It stretched like a thin elastomer cord, invisible, and it accelerated him gently as the destroyed sped on. He caught up with the destroyer and was taken aboard just as the soundless gout of flame far below marked the end of the lifeship.
"Why?" he asked patiently, shortly and tersely.
"Didn't care to leave any evidence for the Marties."
"Sort of got attached to it," said Guy.
"Could be, but one sight of that anywhere in the Solar System would mean trouble. Evidence from the Mardinex, you know. Forget it, Maynard. You're far more important. What happened, and how, and why?"
Maynard looked pained.
"Forget it, Guy. Obviously you had a tough time. Take your time about telling us. What do you want most?"
Guy smiled shyly. "I thought about that a lot," he said slowly. "I wanted steak and potatoes. I wanted cigarettes. I even thought of Laura Greggor. I wanted.... Ben, I want everything, and in mass-production lots."
"Steak and potatoes we can give you. Cigarettes we have in plenty. A shower and a shave and a soft, well-made man-sized bed. Books and pictures and a dollop of liquor, too. Candy, cigars, chewing gum, et cetera. But the only female we have on board is cooky's pet hen. Like a fresh egg?"
"Anything as long as it is not lonely," said Guy. "My throat is slightly lame."
"I can imagine. Well, it's sick bay for you and we'll wait on you. And—Guy, there'll be plenty of company." Ben snapped the general communicator button and said: "Executive to crew: Junior Executive Guy Maynard is aboard. He is to be shown every consideration, and it is directed that each watch appoint three roving spacemen whose duties will be to replace crew members who will visit Maynard. His stay in sick bay is not quarantine."
"Williamson, I'll take that shower now. And then the steak. Got a cigarette?"
As Maynard ignited the cigarette, he thought: Carefully prepared evidence! How painstaking they were! Even the scratches on the wall made so that the earlier ones would be made first. The millions of fingerprints. And destroyed because it would be bad evidence against us. Ironic. And yet—they might have missed something. And supposing Williamson hadn't armed that torpedo but had taken the crate in to Terra instead? Then Ertene's evidence would have been needed. We couldn't have known—
"Now for that shower," he said to Ben. There was no use in deliberately thinking of Ertene now. Forget it. To Ben he added: "Might run through that log of mine. Gives you the story pretty well, and my voice-box is still unused to talking much. I'm going, but I'll be back."
"Good thing you kept a log," said Ben. "It'll be most valuable evidence for the investigation."
Investigation! Guy hadn't thought of that factor. Naturally he must give his evidence before a court-martial, though he would by no means be on trial. Yet, they were thorough and he prayed that he wouldn't make the most unnoticed slip. They'd ply him with questions and watch his answers. He was glad that he hadn't memorized the log by rote. To repeat word for word certain parts would be expected, and to miss completely other parts would be expected. There would even be parts he had forgotten and parts too doleful for the mind to keep fresh.
Then Guy Maynard put it all aside. He forgot his troubles and his worries, and gave himself up to the luxuries of civilization once more. His act was most convincing. He ate with relish and smoked until his throat was sore. He was reticent at the right time, and he made it appear as though it had become habit with him to remain silent; and also brought out the fact that his larynx was slightly unused to exercise. He was glad to be home, though he deplored the destruction of his lifeship—he spoke of it affectionately sometimes, other times he outwardly hated the thought of it—because there were some experiments uncompleted on it. They could be duplicated from the log, of course, but the originals were priceless in his estimation—
And then the reaction really set in. Guy Maynard was home again. Home, to Guy, was the ever-changing orientation of the starry sky and the never constant gravity. He fingered the ordnance controls on the destroyer with affection and realized that Ertene was long ago and far away, and that his place was here, and that his life was geared to the quick life of a spaceman in the Terran Space Patrol.
Peace was wonderful, of course, and at the time he wanted it desperately. But now he realized that the excitement of living in a system of planets offered more than the placid existence of Ertene with its one moon and the occasional space trip.
In spite of the treaties and acceptance of peaceful measures made on the part of the Martians, there was always the chance that some underhanded move might be made. There was that edge to life; that fine, razor-sharp edge of excitement and danger. Mars might make untoward moves, but it was not all Mars' party. Terra made her own espionage and operations tended to display her might to the Red Planet. Brushes that never reached notice were always going on.
He permitted himself to wax enthusiastic over his being home again. They never knew that it was not merely the release from space loneliness but a return from a too long, too uneventful vacation.
He considered himself objectively one day after he found himself looking forward to the return to Terra. The investigation did not bother him; it was the question of whether his year of absence from the service would cause him a year's loss in advancement. If it caused him no loss, he would become a Senior Executive within a month or so after his return. That would give him the right to captain a destroyer like this one.
His interest and anxiousness to return to Terra had become honest. On Ertene he had argued against it. Now he knew his mind and also knew that Charalas had done the proper thing. He would not have remained on Ertene. Some day the everlasting peace and quiet would get him, and then there would have been trouble.
He owed them his life, and if some of the things in his log worked to his own satisfaction, he owed them more than that. He'd keep their secret; denying Terra the right to exploit Ertene was hard, but better deny them that than to deny them the knowledge he had gained. Terra would hold dominance over the Solar System without Ertene's presence; though it was not without Ertene's help.
Poor Ertene. A sterile, placid life that was beginning to look pale and uninteresting against the rugged, boisterous existence of men who roamed the Solar System.
Let them have their stability. What was their history? A few thousand years since the dawn of their written lore? Far greater than Sol's though he had been loath to tell them that. At that time such an admission was like admitting that one was but an adolescent. But it was true. But in those thousands of years, had their science come a comparable distance with Terra's?
And Guy knew why. With nothing to strive against, progress ceases.
He wondered whether the investigating committee would make an issue of the fact that a junior executive had been so oblivious to his duty as to permit capture by Martians. That was the only fly in his ointment, the only point over which he worried. He felt that his capture could have happened to anyone, and secretly he admired the bold stroke in the light of how daring it had been for Mars to storm the very ramparts of Sahara Base.
But investigating committees are strange things and their decisions are often based on theory instead of action with no regard to circumstances.
That one minor point continued to worry him at times.
And then the destroyer dropped out of the sky onto Sahara Base, and Guy Maynard stooped to pick up a handful of the soil of Terra. He shook it in the sky and rubbed it into his hands. He smelled of it and exhaled deeply. Then, still holding a bit of it, he faced the sector commander who was waiting for him in the command car.
The commander smiled curtly and said: "Junior Executive Maynard, you are to speak to no one. You are technically not under arrest, nor are you to be placed in that light. However a violation of the order to discuss nothing with anyone will lead to arrest."
"How long is this quarantine going to last, sir?"
"Not too long. The Board of Investigation will convene tomorrow. At that time we will decide your future."
Maynard entered the command car and they drove off silently. He was thinking: One more hurdle. If I can make it—
His dreams were troubled that night. There was nothing definite about them; they were kaleidoscopic in nature and Charalas whirled in and out of them along with Greggor of the Bureau of Exploration and Laura Greggor. In these dreams he was the central figure; a pitiful, unarmed being that could not strike back against the pointed questions that they hurled at him. He was mired in a black mess of intrigue that would follow him forever. And only by living in constant guardedness would he be safe.
For once the hurdle of the investigation was passed, there would be no recanting.
God help him if after he perjured himself they found out that his tale had been designed to cover a definite breach of his own oath.
It was the price he would pay for the success that Ertene's science would bring him.
Yet he knew that if he continued as he had started, he would be all right. To be convincing in a lie, he knew that the first problem was to convince himself.
And so Guy Maynard went into the Board of Investigation almost self-convinced that his year of loneliness was a fact.
He didn't dare consider the future if he failed to convince the Board. Not only for himself, but for Ertene and Terra both. They—he dropped the awful possibility there. He stiffened his resolve and thrust the thought from his mind. There must be no slip.
So with a part of his mind fighting to keep from viewing utter chaos, and another part of his mind telling him that he was hiding his head in the sand like an ostrich, Guy Maynard entered the large room with the silent, waiting men.
He swallowed deeply as he noted the weight of the platinum braid and he took his appointed position with a qualm of misgiving.