IV.
"It was all sort of whirligig, like," explained Patricia. "We didn't get home until along toward the not-so-wee large hours of the morning."
"I know," responded her father dryly. "The whole gang of you were raiding the icebox at five."
"The rest of them left shortly afterward."
"All of them?"
"No, Stellor outsat them and lingered to say goodnight."
"What do you think of Stellor?"
"I've always thought highly of Stellor. He's got everything. He knows what he wants and he knows how to get it."
"And Cliff Lane?"
"Cliff is strictly on the impulse."
"I wouldn't say that," objected her father. "After all, both of them got where they are because of their ability."
"Well, Cliff gives the impression that he just thought of it."
"Of what?"
"Of whatever he was going to do next."
"A good thing nobody ever asked you to decide between them."
"It would be difficult."
"Well, it won't be necessary. They're leaving after the next change of watch."
"So soon?"
"The Little Man gave the impression that all of us were fighting for time."
"I see. You do believe that this is important?"
"I can see no other reason for it."
"Um-m-m. Well, I'll be down to see them off."
"All of us will."
"I was worried, last night. I could see a beautiful shindy in the offing."
"And it didn't get bad at all?"
"No," answered Patricia in surprise. "I think Cliff saved the day by showing up with a couple of women. I wouldn't have wanted to sit between the two of them all by myself. That would have been strictly murder. And I wouldn't have wanted to see Stellor off without saying farewell to Cliff. Stellor got here first with the plans—I was strictly a fence. I didn't know what to do. So I did it. And everything turned out fine."
"You can hope that it will always turn out fine. What'll you do if one of them turns to some other woman?"
Patricia laughed wryly. "I'd lose both of them, Dad. Believe me, I would. The other would barge in and set sail for the woman just as sure as I'm a foot high."
"But ... but ... but—"
"I don't really know—nor do I care too much."
"Anticipating me? You mean you don't know which one really wants you and which other is just here for sheer rivalry?"
Patricia nodded. "They don't, either," she said sagely. "It is a good thing that we have time. Time will out, as you've always said. Time will get us the answer. Right now I'm neither worried about time, or even not having my mind made up on a future. I've got a number of years of fun ahead before then."
"Bright girl," laughed Kennebec. "Now let's get going. We want to see them off, don't we?"
Two hours later, seventy-five of the Solar Guard's finest ships arrowed into the sky above Mojave. In the lead, determined by a toss of the coin, was Stellor Downing's command. Thompson's outfit, running to his own taste, encircled the Downing cone at the base in a short cylinder, while bringing up the rear was Cliff Lane's long spiral. An hour out of Mojave, the flight went into superdrive and left the Solar Combine far behind in a matter of minutes.
By the clock, it was weeks later that the Solar Guard's flight dropped down out of superdrive and took a look around. The Little Man, in Thompson's ship, used his own instruments and indicated that the yellow star—it was more than a star at their distance—dead ahead was the one they sought.
"Downing," called Lane. "How's your power reserve?"
"Like yours, probably."
"We'd better find a close-in, hotter-than-the-hinges planet where they won't be populating and charge up, what say?"
"Good idea. Better than the original plan of charging in flight. If it's close in, it'll have ceased revolution, probably. We can hit the twilight zone and rest our feet a bit."
"O.K. I'll put the searchers on it."
"We'd better take it by relays, though. A fleet that's planeted for charging isn't in the most admirable position for attack."
"Reasonable. You charge, Thompson'll guard, and I'll scout around."
"You'll do nothing of the sort," growled Downing. "You and Thompson will both guard."
"Afraid?"
"No, you idiot. I'm jealous as hell. I don't want you to take all the glory."
"And that's probably the truth," laughed Lane.
"Take it or leave it."
Thompson interrupted. "This sounds like the leading edge of a fight. Stop it. We'll play it safe—Downing's way."
"O.K.," assented Lane cheerfully enough.
"Thing that bothers me," muttered Downing, "is the fact that if this bunch have any stuff, we're being recorded on the tapes right now."
"So?"
"And if they're as nasty as the Little Man claims, they'll be here with all of their nastiness."
"All right," snapped Lane. "We've got detectors and analyzers, haven't we?"
"Uh-huh. But we're a long way from home base. What we've got we've got to keep—and use. They can toss the book at us and go home for another library. Follow?"
"Yup. Located a planet yet?"
"Haven't you been paying attention?"
"No. You're in the lead. I'm merely following as best I can."
"Then sharp up. We're heading for the innermost planet now."
"Go ahead—we'll go in to see. Then Lane and I will scout the sky above to keep off the incoming bunch, if any," said Thompson.
It was an armed watch. Downing's flight landed and set up the solar collectors. From the ships there came a group of planet-mounted modines which had little to offer over the turrets in the ships save adding to their numbers.
The other two flights dropped off their planet-mounts, too, since they were of no use a-flight and might even become a detriment if trouble demanded swift maneuver.
Then a regular patrol schedule was set up and alternately Lane and Thompson took to the sky to cover the area. The detectors were overhauled and stepped up to the theoretical limit of their efficiency, and couplers and fire-control systems were hooked in and calibrated.
It took nine days by the clock to get the camp set up, and Downing's flight was almost recharged by the end of that time.
As Thompson's flight went in for re-charge, Downing and Lane discussed the camp.
"I say leave it here," said Lane. "Might be handy."
"When?"
"I don't have any real idea. But we've got one hundred and fifty extra dymodines planet-mounted down there. I say leave it there until we get this problem off our chest."
"Expect trouble?" scoffed Downing.
Lane nodded. "I expect this to end in a running fight with one of the two of us making a blind but accurate stab in the dark and getting that machine the Little Man talks about. If the going gets tough, we can hole out here for some time with the solar collectors running the planet mounts."
"Wonder why the cat race hasn't come up," mused Downing. "It isn't sensible to permit any alien to establish a planethead in your system."
"They might not even know."
"Unlikely."
"Look, though," offered Lane, "we came in sunward, almost scorching our tails. The solar centroid of interference might make any flight detection undistinguishable from background noise."
"Yeah? Remember that we came in over the edge of the sun from somewhere. We were out in space mostly."
"Then you answer it—you asked it!"
The catmen came as Thompson's flight left the camp and Lane's ships dropped into the charging positions. They came in a horde, they came and they swarmed over the two flights that were patrolling.
In a wide circle, the Solarians raced just outside of the camp. The planet mounts covered the sky above, and a veritable arched roof of death-dealing energy covered the twenty-five ships of Lane's flight. The space between the Solar circle and the catman circle was ablaze with energy, and the ether was filled with interference. Even the subether carried its share of crackle, and the orders went on the tone-modulated code instead of voice.
Solid ordnance dropped, and exploded through the crisscrossing of the planet mounts, and the planeted ships ran their charges down instead of up by adding to the fury over their heads. They were sitting ducks and they knew it.
But unlike the sitting duck, these could shoot back. And they took their toll.
Then without apparent reason, the flight of catmen left their whirling circle on a tangent and streaked for space.
Behind them lay nine smoking ships—prey to the Solar Guard.
But they had not gone in vain. There were seven of the Solar Guard that would fly no more—seven ships and a total of one hundred and seventy-five men.
"Whew. They haven't any sense at all," snarled Downing.
"Either that or they value their lives rather poorly."
"Must be. I wouldn't know. But usually a vicious mind doesn't value life too highly."
"I wouldn't be too certain of that."
"All right. I won't belabor the point. I don't know. It just seems—"
The next ten days was under rigid rule. Lane's ships charged, and the last day was spent in replenishing the charges lost in the short but torrid fight.
"Now," said Lane, "what's with this hell-machine that the Little Man mentions?"
"The detectors do not detect," objected Downing.
They confronted the Little Man with the nonoperating detector. He shook his tiny head and worried visibly. He puzzled over it, juggled the circuit controls, and then threw up his hands in bafflement. He spoke to Hotang Lu:
"The field must be so great that the detector is paralyzed."
"It is more than likely. Remember, it was working on Tlembo. It was working on ... on ... I have not the word for their star. Many many light-years away it is good. Close by—it must be paralyzed."
"Then we must make it less sensitive."
"Do you know how?"
"I did once, long ago. But I have forgotten my techniques and my ability lags because of lack of practice."
"And I devoted myself to the arts instead of technology. A revered master at the problem of mental culture; I cannot invade this gadget with tools."
Hotang Lu smiled. "You might try psychoanalyzing it."
"Yes, if it contained but one memory-pattern," laughed Toralen Ki.
"They'd have done better to have sent a plumber and an electrician than we two failures."
"At this point, we must attempt to convey the idea of a search for the master machine."
"It will not be hard. This race will search rather than return home with an incomplete mission. The rivalry that exists between the leaders insures the success of our plan despite any set-back."
Toralen Ki and Hotang Lu faced Lane and Downing. All four shook their heads in complete misunderstanding. Then Hotang Lu sketched a crude diagram of the catmen's star-system. He indicated the master machine and also indicated their search for it and its ultimate destruction.
Lane gritted his teeth. "How big?" he asked aloud, and pointed from the machine to several bits of equipment in the ship.
Toralen Ki said: "Don't know."
Hotang Lu nodded in agreement and tried to convey their ignorance of the size.
"I gather that they've never seen it."
"Chances are if they'd seen it they'd have bopped it themselves," observed Downing.
"Reasonable attitude."
"Well, we have about ten to the twenty-seventh power square miles of blank and utter nothing to curry-comb for a dingus of some sort."
"Blank and utter nothing—hell! I wouldn't mind blank and utter nothing. We could comb it if it weren't for sun, planets, asteroids, meteors, noise-impulses from nowhere-in-particular, just plain hell, and a crew of wild-personalized catmen." Lane paused to take a deep breath. "As it is, the latter is the most complicated of the bunch mentioned. We can't spread out in a space-lattice and comb. We've got to do one of two things. Either we enlist the help—or get freedom of search—of or from the catmen or we comb in a large and armed body."
"That's a nice problem. Either way."
"As has been mentioned before—'Take it or leave it!'"
"Mind explaining how you go about getting chummy with a race that took a swing without asking questions first?"
"That's partly our fault. We just invaded."
"We couldn't spend a few months getting chummy first. We needed power—and bad."
"All right," agreed Lane. "But they didn't know that. And it's all right with me because I'm leery of letting anyone know that I'm vulnerable. Especially people I don't know and therefore cannot trust."
"Have we got what it takes to barge in there and settle down? Can we hold them off until we can make it clear that we don't want their stinking planet?"
"Have we?"
"If we do right now, there'll be a lot of us that stay there for good."
"How many of us are expendable?"
"All of us as long as that dingbat is destroyed."
Lane grimaced. "And how important is it?"
Downing gave an "I don't know" wave of his hands. "We might go looking for trouble, Lane."
"Meaning catch us a single shipload of catmen and let 'em go, well filled with cream and a fine explanation?"
"Might even get a rat or two for them."
"Meaning?"
Downing grinned maliciously. "Guilty conscience?" he taunted. "Forget it, hothead."
"Don't make cracks, Iceberg. O.K., forget it. It's probably the best idea yet. How do we bait a cat trap?"
"Cream—or catnip."
"Very funny," interrupted Thompson. "Exceedingly amusing. You make me laugh, haha," he added in a flat, disgusted tone.
"Shut up," chorused Lane and Downing.
"All right. Then stop making light of this. Bait a cat trap. You'll just have to pirate the planet lanes and catch you one."
"The trouble with you, Thompson, is that you have no sense of humor."
Thompson subsided. He realized that this light banter was a cover-up for a deeper feeling. Deprive them of niggling at one another in a light way and they might take to it in a more serious vein.
"It is agreed, then, that we grab us a boatload of catmen and indoctrinate them with Solarian good will and propaganda."
"It is," said Downing. "Time's a-wasting. Let's grab.”