Poul Anderson - The Long Way Home

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 readings 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. “In God we trust, but I don’t think he’s God.”

“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. “O. K. !”

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 air locks.

“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. Good-bye, Brannoch.”

Langley went through the air lock. 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 his set. 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.”

Solar! Langley whistled. Chanthavar had been pretty quick on the draw too, it seemed. But, of course, the Thryman getaway would have alerted him if nothing else did.

“Party’s getting sort of crowded,” he muttered.

Valti threw down a switch. The celestial globe reflected tiny splotches of fire which must be earthshaking explosions.

“The ships fight themselves,” he remarked calmly. “Our crew has little to do but stand by the emergency manual controls in case we take a hit.”

The two craft maneuvered for position, hurling their own tonnage through the sky as lightly as a fencer dances. Nuclear missiles flashed out, to be hunted down and exploded by counter-missiles. Long-range energy beams probed heaven with lightning. All that Langley sensed was the howl of generators, the crazy dance of sparks in the globe, and the busy clicking of the ship’s robot brain.

Saris snarled hungrily. “Could I be out there myself!” he raged. “Could I get my teeth in them!”

Langley drew Marin to him. “We may be rubbed out before we can break free,” he said. “I feel awfully helpless.”

“You did wonderfully, Edwy,” she answered.

“Well... I tried. I love you, Marin.”

She sighed with a great happiness. “That is enough.”

The walls trembled, and the air was filled with anger. A voice choked from the intercom: “Near miss at Seven, sir. Outer plates holed, radiation blast, no air loss yet.”

“Carry on,” said Valti.

Even a nuclear explosion had to be very close to do much damage in vacuum. But a single shell which did touch the ship before going off would make molten rain of her.

“Here comes Chanthavar,” said Valti. “I have an idea. He’ll be listening in on the radio, so—” He flipped the keys. “Hello, Thrymka. Hello, there. The Solarians are going to be on us in a minute. I like them even less than you, so let’s settle our own differences later, shall we?”

There was no reply. The Thrymans never wasted speech, and they must see through such a transparent fraud.

But two Solar cruisers were sweeping in, and they had heard. The nearest turned in a graceful arc which would have been impossible without the gravity drive, and opened fire on the Thryman ship. Valti whooped and sent his vessel surging forward. One craft could not withstand the assault of two.

The screens did not show that eye-searing detonation. They refused the load, went blank, and when they functioned again a few seconds later the Thrymans were a rapidly expanding cloud of gas.

The two Solar warcraft circled cautiously, probing at the nomad with a few shells and beams. A siren hooted, Valti laughed aloud. “The superdrive is ready. We can pull out of here now.”

“Wait,” said Langley. “Call them up. I want to speak to them.”

“But they may fall on us together while we parley and—”

“Man, Earth has got to know too! Call them!”

But it was Chanthavar who came in first. His voice snapped crisply from the communicator: “Hello, there, Society. Stand by to be boarded.”