II.
The Little Man had a name. Once in his own tiny spacecraft and surrounded by his cohorts, he was addressed in his own semi-speech, semimental means of communications.
"You have succeeded, Toralen Ki?"
"As best I can."
"Not perfect?" asked Hotang Lu.
"As long as the lack of communications exists, there can be no transfer of real detailed intelligence between the two races. They have no mental power of communication at all, of course, and since we use our mental power when we wish to carry over a plan or abstract thought, we fail when we are confronted as we are now. There are no words in our audible tongue that have the proper semantic meaning."
"But you did succeed in part?"
"I have succeeded so far as gaining their co-operation. They will assign to me or to us, rather, the necessary personnel and material to complete the task."
"Then we have succeeded."
"In a sense. To carry this concept over was most difficult. As long as we have their consent, everything will work out in time."
"You have succeeded in convincing them that the Opposites must be used?"
Toralen Ki smiled. "The Opposites we picked are violent enemies."
"Good!"
"It could be better. I'd hoped that they would be mere opposing personalities. It is not necessary that people of opposite personality be bitter rivals for everything."
"But the greater the opposing forces, the greater the strength of the mental field."
"In this case," said Toralen Ki thoughtfully, "they insist upon including a third party, of equal rank, to act as referee, or mediator. It will be his task to keep the Opposites from fighting one another."
"They were quite concerned?"
"Definitely. It was most difficult to convey to them the fact that the future of their—and all, for that matter—race depends upon absolute co-operation between the mental opposites we have picked."
"Once the suppressor is destroyed, communication with this race will be easy. Then they can be told."
Toralen Ki shook his head. "Fate is like that. To carry out the plan properly, they must co-operate. In order to tell them what they must do, the suppressor must first be destroyed. And were it not for the suppressor in the first place, the mental capability of this race would require no assistance from the like of you and I or any other member of any other race. The Loard-vogh were very brilliant, Hotang Lu. To hurl suppressors of mental energy through the Galaxy was a stroke of genius."
Hotang Lu smiled sourly. "I suppose it is a strange trick of fate to have the fate of the entire Galaxy hanging upon an act of co-operation between two bitter rivals. Especially when the means to explain fully also hangs upon the outcome of their co-operation. I am reminded of an incident in my boyhood. I sought work. I had no experience. They wanted men with experience. In order to get the experience I must work—but they wouldn't put me to work without experience. But it will be easier once the initial step is taken," said Hotang Lu.
"I know it will. It will be so much easier once they understand our motives, at least. Had they proved non-co-operative, we would have been completely stopped. As it is now, we can foresee the proper culmination of all of our plans. We will win, yet!"
"To our ultimate victory," said Hotang Lu, taking a sip from the tall tube before him. Toralen Ki followed the other, echoing the words.
"It is fortunate that they have evolved as far as they have," said Toralen Ki, after the toast. "Dealing with a completely ignorant race is more difficult. These people have a proper evaluation of technical ideas. Therefore they will understand the proper course without having it forced down their collective throats."
"With their already available knowledge of the super drive, it indicates their ability. Have they colonized any of the nearer stellar systems yet?"
"Several. But the urge is not quite universal, yet. Only the adventurers and the malcontents seem to go. They will spread though, if they're not stopped within a reasonable time."
"Time.... Time—" muttered Hotang Lu. "Always time. Must we fight time forever?"
"Fighting time is most difficult when you are behind," remarked Toralen Ki. "When you are ahead, it is no longer a fight."
"We must move swiftly and yet we can do nothing to cause haste. Confound it, must a man always be pinched between the urgency and the impossible?"
"Certainly. It makes one feel the ease of life during the times of no-stress."
"Some day I hope to see a period of no-stress that is longer than one tenth the duration of the trouble before and after it."
"You may," smiled Toralen Ki. "But there will be no after."
"Gloomy thought. I'll forget it, thank you. But to change the gloomy subject, I suggest that we contact Tlembo and let our ruler know that we have, in part, been successful."
"Right. I wish we were artists. So much can be conveyed to others by mere pictures."
Hotang Lu shook his head. "How could you possibly sketch the operation of a suppressor? Perhaps they could do it, for they seem to have advanced the art of thought-conveyance through pictures to a high degree. But recall that no Tlemban ever considered the art a necessary one and so we lack the technique."
"I know."
"After we contact Tlembo, when can we say we are to start?"
"I think they convey something about two days. We await the arrival of the contingents from the other planets."
"More time wasted."
"Think of the eons before this and the eons that will follow. And then think of how utterly minute your two days are. They will arrive, but quickly enough."
Flight Commander Cliff Lane heard the recognition gear tick off, and he whirled to look at the scanning plate. "The devil," he growled.
"Sir?
"What is he doing here?"
"I don't understand, sir."
Cliff smiled wryly. "Sorry. I thought this would be more or less pleasant."
"Isn't it?"
"That trace," he said, pointing to the squiggle on the scanning plate, "happens to be the recognition trace of no one other than Stellor Downing."
"Oh," said the orderly. "I didn't know."
Lane grinned. "Then you're the only one that doesn't. Any of the rest of this outfit know it on sight. Take a good look at it, Timmy, and the next time you see it, do your best to do whatever that is doing, but do it quicker, neater, and with more flourish. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Lane strode into the operations room, and looked over the plotter's shoulder. "What's he doing, Link?"
Lincoln made some calculations on a paper, plunked the keys on his computer for a moment and then came up with an equation. He showed it to Lane with a grimace.
"Landing," said Lane cryptically.
Lincoln nodded.
"Can we beat him in?"
"I think so—if we get the jump on him."
"There are just two landing circles on Mojave that aren't dusty," said Lane. "One of them is not far from the field office building. The other takes a full hour of travel before you can check in. I don't like to walk."
"Right. I'll see what we can do."
"Good."
One-tenth of a light-second away, an aide entered Stellor Downing's cabin. "Recognition, sir," he said. "Flight Commander Lane, from Venus. I thought you'd like to know."
"What's his course?" clipped Downing.
"Mojave."
"Tell the tech to drop interferers. Tell navigator to correct course for blitz-landing, and tell pilot to streak for landing Circle One. Also broadcast crash-warning."
"Right. We're going in if we have to collide to do it, sir?"
"We'll have no collision. Lane wouldn't care to scrape any of his nicely painted little toys."
"On the roger," said the aide, leaving immediately.
Two flights of ships changed course.
Down on Mojave, in the control and operations tower, signal officer Clancey's face popped with beads of cold sweat. He sat down heavily in a chair and:
"Tony! Get me the chief!"
"What's wrong, sir?" asked Tony.
"This desert ain't a big enough landing field to take on Lane and Downing. Not all at once."
"Lane and Downing!" Tony streaked for the telephone. He called, and handed the phone to Clancey, who plugged it into his switchboard, putting it on his own headset so that he could hear both the chief and the operations.
"Chief. Look, this is too hot to handle. Lane and Downing are both heading for Mojave."
"I know."
"Do you?" asked Clancey sarcastically. "They're heading for Mojave. They're racing for Number One. And they're due to arrive within three or four milliseconds of one another!"
"Hell's Rockets!" exploded the chief. "Get 'em on the air and tell 'em they're under orders."
"There isn't any air. One of 'em dropped interferers."
"Official?"
"Unofficial."
"O.K. Record the fact and then go out and watch. It's out of your hands if they can't hear you. As long as you have a record of interference it's not your cookie. It belongs to them."
"Mind if I head for a bomb-shelter?" grinned Clancey.
"Oh, they're both smart. That's one fight that never hit an innocent bystander."
"—yet," added Clancey.
"Well—?"
"It might be the first time I died, too," objected Clancey.
"You don't want to live forever, do you?"
"Wouldn't mind."
"Nuts. There must be something good about dying. Everybody does it."
"But only one; never again."
"Well, play it your way. I sort of wish I could be there to watch, too."
"Just tell mother I died game. So long, chief. I hear music in the air right now, and hell will pop directly."
Like twin, high-velocity jets of water, the two space flights came together, rebounded off of their individual barrier-layers and mingled in a jarring maze of whirling ships. In a shapeless pattern they whirled, and they might have whirled shapelessly all the way to Mojave, except for one item.
From Downing's lead ship there stabbed one of the heavy dymodine beams, its danger area marked with the characteristic heterodyne of light. It thrust a pale green finger into the sky before it, and as it came around, the other ships moved aside. That was the breaker. The flights reformed into twin interlocked spirals that thrust against one another with pressors and tore at one another with tractors in an effort to break up the other's flight.
Lane snapped: "That's a stinking trick."
"He's warning—"
"Oh, nice of him to heterodyne it. I wish I had a roboship. I'd drive it into his beam and tell him that he clipped my men—"
Stellor Downing grinned at his unit commander. "I told you he'd duck," he said loftily.
"Wouldn't you?"
"Nope. I'd drive into it and see if he'd shut it off before I hit it."
"Supposing he didn't shut it off?"
"Don't ask me," said Downing. "If he did, it would be to spare the men with me. If I ducked at the last minute, it would be for the same reason. If we were alone, I wouldn't dive into a beam—but we might try a bit of rivet-cutting."
The unit commander's face whitened a bit. That was an idea he disliked. And yet some day he knew they'd get to it. Just as practically everybody knew it.
The hard ground of Mojave whirled up at them, and the twin spirals flattened out. Like a whirling nebula, they spun, slowing as they dropped.
Clancey groaned from the top of the tower: "There ain't room for fifty ships in Circle One. There ain't room for six ships fighting one another. Holy—"
The spattering of force-beams, tractor and pressor, died as the last hundred feet of altitude closed in. The ships, still wabbling slightly, slowed their spinning around and curved to drop vertically for fifty feet.
The ground shook—
And there was left but one dustless landing circle at Mojave—the other one.
Windows in the control tower cracked, a fuse alarm rang furiously, and somewhere a taut cable snapped, shutting off the fuse alarm for lack of juice. The lights went out all over the Administration Building, and every ceiling dropped a fine shower of plaster freckles.
They landed on empty desks and open chairs.
Seven thousand employees of Mojave were crammed out on the view-area, wiping the dust from their eyes and shaking their heads.
And through the dust, weaving their way between the ships of either command. Cliff Lane and Stellor Downing advanced upon one another.
Out of a cloud of dust came Lane. Downing emerged from the other side and faced the Venusite.
"You fouled me," snarled Downing.
"Who, me?" asked Lane saucily.
"I broadcast a crash-warning."
"You should have done it before you dropped interferers. All I know is that you disputed my course."
"So I did. So what?"
Lane reached for a cigarette. He did it with his left hand, though he knew that Downing wouldn't draw his modines while either hand was occupied. Downing was fair, anyway. "So you didn't get what you wanted—again."
"Neither did you."
"All right. Are you happy? Got to have the best, don't you?" growled Lane. "Can't stand to see anybody take even a toothpick that you can't have two of."
"If you were more than a drug-store cowboy ... brother, what a get-up."
Lane flushed. "My clothing is my own business."
"It's very fetching. Chic, even."
"Shut up, dough-head. I'm not forced to wear an iceman's uniform so people won't think—"
"What's the matter with me?" gritted Downing.
"You might at least put on a clean shirt," drawled Lane, tossing his cigarette at Downing.
"Oh, swish—"
That did it. Lane's right hand streaked for his hip after a warning gesture. Downing's two hands dropped and came up with the twin modines.
Only a microtime film record would ever tell the quicker man. Their weapons came up and forward and the dust of landing Circle One was shocked with a sharp electrical splat.