Tongues Of The Moon Part 9

"That you will, if I have anything to do with it Get somebody to take your place. I'll wait for you outside."

He left and stood outside the entrance for a minute. Ingrid came then, saying, "I told Miller that my orders were to be with you during the little time left before you took off."

"Now to find the guard before he reports to Scone. I'll brazen it out with him. He can't be so hard-hearted he'd refuse to let you stay with me."

So it was. The guard was so relieved that he had not lost Broward that he was very receptive. His orders had been to conduct Broward to a certain room and then stand at the door, to let no one in after Broward had entered.

However, the order had said nothing about anyone who might enter at the same time he did or who went in before him.

Thus, Broward paused a second to give Ingrid precedence and followed. The guard closed the port, and they were alone.

Four hours later, the port opened. The guard said, "The Colonel wants to see you in the briefing room."

Broward kissed Ingrid. "It's good-bye now. Or, as the Axe says, hasta la vista. Give me another kiss."

"Hasta la vista, sweetheart. I'll do what you said while you're gone."

He looked back once at the branching of the corridor and waved. She smiled and waved back, but he was sure that, as soon as he was out of sight, she would run weeping back into the room. He felt tears forming over his own eyes.

In the briefing room, Scone and the officers concerned with the business of getting him to Mars were examining the map projected on the wall by a wrist.w.a.tch-sized box. Scone turned from it and said, "You don't look very rested." Broward saluted and said, "I didn't feel like sleeping."

"Your briefing will not be so brief. About one and a half hours."

He seemed jubilant; he was even smiling. Could he be so happy at the possibility of getting rid of his compet.i.tion with Ingrid? No, it would take something more than the chance of winning a woman to unthaw that glacier of a man. "While you were supposed to be resting," said Scone, "I have been working. And you'll be pleased to know that, when you take off, there'll be something to divert the Axe, to take their minds off chasing you."

Broward looked puzzled. Scone grinned exultantly and said, "When the neutron bomb was detonated at Clavius, the ports of the vessels that had landed there were still open after releasing the inspection teams. I took note of that and also of the fact that the landings of the other parts of the fleet at Eratosthenes and Fracastorius were synchronized with those at Clavius. So, the ports of the other s.h.i.+ps should also be opened. After we subdued the Chinese, I made arrangements with my men before I left for this place.

"I have just received a report from them. They have gained entrance to the s.h.i.+ps at Clavius. They have familiarized themselves with the controls of the vessels and are ready to move against the s.h.i.+ps now in orbit above theMoon. The small s.h.i.+ps will carry some men to Eratosthenes and Fracastorius; these will try to enter the craft there."

A captain said, "How do you like that? Using their own s.h.i.+ps against them? And it'll be a complete surprise to them!"

"So, we're not going to hide like rats in a hole, waiting for word from you before we dare scuttle out," said Scone. "We're going out to battle the Axe. And you will have a much better chance of getting away undetected during the fight. Even if a s.h.i.+p spots you, it's going to be too busy with our battlebirds to get involved with an insignificant scout."

He sobered and said, "Unfortunately, an enemy detected the scout that reported to me. It called in three other s.h.i.+ps, and they are now cruising around this area. Undoubtedly, they're using magnetometers and will find this bubble.

But, at the rate they're going, they won't be near here for another two and a half hours. Plenty of time to get you prepared and for the birds to get ready for battle. Every s.h.i.+p we have, except the Zemlya, of course, is in this."

"And so we go forth," said Broward. "We may return behind our s.h.i.+elds, but, if we lose, there will be no one to carry us back on our s.h.i.+elds."

"What?" said Scone. "What did you say? Sometimes Broward..."

"Never mind. What is the plan?"

Two hours later, Broward sat at the controls of his s.h.i.+p. It lay in line behind three battlebirds. Behind him the other vessels of the fleet were arranged in order.

Outside was darkness and the blazing many-colored eyes of the sky, most of them blotted out by the towering bulk of the cruiser in front of him. The floor of the bubble sloped away downwards from its mouth so that the noses of the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps on the floor pointed upwards. But the entrance was set halfway up the side of an immense mountain, and, on the ledge outside, a TV camera, hidden inside a pseudo-boulder, transmitted a picture of the three enemy vessels. These were separated by a distance of two kilometers each and were proceeding parallel to each other at a very slow pace towards the bubble.

"One minute to go," said Scone's voice from a transmitter set in the arm of Broward's chair. "When the buzzer is activated, the Was.h.i.+ngton, Jefferson, and Roosevelt will proceed as directed.

"Broward, five seconds after the Roosevelt has launched, you will launch at an initial velocity of 1000 kilometers per hour and will hold down the full-acceleration b.u.t.ton until you think you are safe. The second sounding of the buzzer will be your signal to go into action."

He thought, "Ingrid, will I ever see you again?" and then the first buzz sounded. Suddenly, the three great bulks were gone.

He counted so slowly that the buzzer came again before he had voiced the "four." At the command of his fingers, which were operating the controls on a small swinging panel at chest-height, the scout rose. He pushed the velocity stick forward to the designated mark. No sensation of the cavern's rock walls sliding by or of the mouth flying at him. Suddenly, he was out above the moon, or, at least, he supposed he was, for he could not see it. Without thinking about the move, still slightly bewildered by the change, he depressed the FA b.u.t.ton. And, as quickly as he had left the bubble, he was out of the shadow and in the sunlight. In the plates showing him the view from 'behind' and 'below,' the Moon was dwindling fast, shooting away from him. And there was nothing on the radar to indicate that any objects were in pursuit of him.

He began to activate the various controls needed to initiate the program for sending him Marsward. The equipment in the s.h.i.+p was already determining its approximate location by radar and by light: the relative positions and angles of the Moon, Earth, Sun, and several stars. Though he was not aware of it, except by observation of the panel indicators, the s.h.i.+p had changed course and was on the path that would take it to its destination. Broward remained in the chair. He could not leave it until he turned off the stasis field, and he could not do that, without committing suicide, until he had slowed the scout down to an acceleration he could endure. There was no need for that now; the best policy was to allow the s.h.i.+p to travel at top speed until he had to shut off stasis. If he must perform natural functions such as eating, and excreting, he had the facilities for those in various compartments in the chair. Sleeping was also done there. He wished that he could have been in a larger vessel, for these provided for complete facilities. Some of the higher officers in the big s.h.i.+ps even had small cabins enclosed in stasis during the dangerous speeds. The only drawback was that the larger the stasis, the more power was required, and all objects within the field were in free fall.

Scouts.h.i.+ps, to conserve fuel, restricted stasis to as small an area as possible. He sat in the chair, ate a little when he felt hungry, slept, did some exercising, making sure that during it his body did not come into contact with the field. In the viewplate, polarized to dim the full glory, the sun grew larger. It raved and ravened; tongues of flame shot upwards, blazing globs large as the continent of America were hurled outwards, then fell back, aborted worlds. Fascinated and fearful despite his knowledge that the s.h.i.+p's speed was greater than the escape velocity required, Broward watched the sun for hours. It was so inconceivably huge and violent that he felt an awe approaching that which the primitive sun-wors.h.i.+ppers must have experienced. Perhaps, his exceeded theirs, for he was closer to the terribleness of it.

Then, it began to shrink and to drift towards the right of the viewplate. Then, it was gone. And he knew that he had 78 hours to go.

Five times during that period he decelerated to the point at which he could shut off stasis. At 1.2 G, he walked around the narrow confines of the cabin and even crawled around into the storage hold to give himself much-needed exercise. He did pushups and kneebends until he was panting and was so tired that he had no trouble falling asleep.

He talked to himself and he listened to music and drama and poetry from the pocket player. At times, he felt he would go mad if he did not have a cigarette, but he did not.Endlessness. Loneliness. Insignificance.

But these came to an end as the globe of Mars merged from a bright star into a tiny planet. Before then, he had again begun to decelerate. Not because he was supposed to, for that was not the plan. It was intended that he should approach in a great curve and come in at a tangent towards the nightside of Mars. Although the Axe would undoubtedly have detection stations on that side, they would not expect attackers to be coming from that direction.

Actually, they should not expect any, for they must believe by now that, if there were any Soviet survivors, approach to Mars would be the last thing in their minds. Unless, of course, the Axe had destroyed the Ganymedan base and might think that this object contained Soviets who had been away on an expedition. Returning and finding the base gone, they might have come to Mars to surrender. Or, conceivably though not probably, the Soviet s.h.i.+p was making a kamikaze run with the hopes of destroying at least one Martian colony.

Whatever the Axe reaction, Broward was curving out towards the nightside.

But he found himself reluctant to replace the scout in the programmed path. This, despite the fact that the longer he waited, the more chance he gave the Martians to locate him and send s.h.i.+ps and missiles or both against him.

He knew that he must launch the bomb and that the sooner he did it, the better for him and the success of his mission.

Yet, he could not bring himself to start.

A buzzer sounded; a red light began flas.h.i.+ng on the instrument panel. Startled, he looked at the various radar-scopes and saw that one had a blip. A piece of cosmic debris? An Axe s.h.i.+p? He pressed a b.u.t.ton on the panel, and a piece of paper slid out of a narrow slot. On it was printed the distance, direction relative to the s.h.i.+p, speed, and approximate size of the target. It was about four hundred and eighty kilometers away, was proceeding on a path parallel to his, was on the same heading, traveling at 45,000 kilometers per hour, and was about three times the size of his scout.

His first impulse was to throw his craft into full speed and then towards a ninety-degree angle from the stranger. But his hands remained poised before his. chest. Why was he waiting? He did not know. There was something emanating- if he could use the word in such an unscientific term-from the object. What? There was no defining it except as a call for help. Despite any evidence whatsoever, he felt that someone was crying out for aid.

Although he had never considered himself to be in the least receptive to psychic phenomenon-if such indeed existed-he was now experiencing something akin to it. Whatever it was, it was reaching him through no ordinary channels of communication.

His third impulse was to continue with the first The long isolation and strain had unnerved him, might even be causing hallucinations. If he succ.u.mbed, he would not only die, but, eventually, Ingrid and all his comrades would.

No. He would pay no attention to the voiceless shout He reached down. Instead of pus.h.i.+ng on the velocity stick, he pressed two controls. These activated the frequency-finders for the radio and laser receivers. Several seconds pa.s.sed while he watched the scopes for evidence that the object had changed course, was increasing speed, or had released a second unknown object against him.

None of these occurred, and then the radio receiver, having located and locked onto a certain continuing frequency, burst into life. A voice was speaking in Spanish, a man's voice. It had been some time since Broward had spoken Spanish. At first, he did not understand. But the man was obviously repeating the same phrases over and over. Within a minute, Broward understood him. He was calling for help. He was Lieutenant Pablo Quiroga, and he was in the communications section of what was left of the cruiser Juan Manuel de Rosas. The de Rosas, with two destroyers, had detected and then pursued the remnants of the fleeing South African fleet. (Though Quiroga did not say so, his words implied that Howards, the Argentinean dictator, had done to his allies what Scone had done to the Russians and Chinese. Except that in this case there was no doubt about Howards' treachery.) The South Africans had turned around to fight or, perhaps, the Argentineans had intercepted them.

Whatever had happened, the result of the battle had been the annihilation of the South African s.h.i.+ps. But at a heavy cost. Both destroyers had been shattered by missiles. The de Rosas had finished off the African dreadnought but had been sliced through in several places by lasers. Quiroga had survived in the sealed-off section. He did not know if there were others also living in similar sections. But he was calling Mars or any s.h.i.+ps that might be in the neighborhood. He could not last long. He was out of food and water, and the air would give out in another three hours or less.

Broward, having adjusted the transmitter to the frequency received, said in Spanish, "Lieutenant Quiroga.

Lieutenant Quiroga. How long have you been broadcasting?"

There was a pause. Then, Quiroga answered in such a torrent that Broward could understand only a phrase and a word here and there. He waited until the man had finished speaking and said, "Speak more slowly."

"You are not an Argentinean," replied Quiroga. "I can tell by your p.r.o.nunciation. What are you? A South African survivor? G.o.d help us, are you in the same situation as I am?"

"Not quite," said Broward. He hesitated to identify himself, because it was possible that Axe s.h.i.+ps were even now on the way in response to Quiroga's call. He said, "Are your lasers working? If so, turn one on. I'll lock into it"

"Go ahead."

"Now," said Broward, "we can talk without anyone eavesdropping. I am Captain Broward of the lunar base of Clavius."

There was another silence, so long that Broward decided the other fellow was afraid to reply. He said. "I don't intend to harm you. In fact, I will take you aboard. But only as my prisoner."

"A Soviet prisoner?" said Quiroga. He began to laugh uncontrollably. Broward sat quietly until the man had started to sob. Then, he said, "I'm sure that we can find a place for you in our society, a quite agreeable place. If you'recooperative, that is."

He did not say anything about the necessary period of suspended animation into which Quiroga would be placed nor that it might be years before he would be 'unfrozen.'

"I don't understand," said Quiroga. "What are you doing out here? And where would you take me? I thought... I thought that..."

"That your fleet had annihilated those on the Moon and Ganymede?"

"Ganymede is untouched. El Macho intends to take the Ganymedans prisoners later; they don't have defenses worth considering. They're ripe..."

"For the plucking. Well, thanks for the information. As for the Moon, the less you know, the better for everybody. Do you want to come aboard?"

"If I stay here, I will surely die. If I become your prisoner... ? Why do you want me?"

Broward could not answer that to his own satisfaction. He intended to loose a weapon that would instantly slay anywhere from 500 to several thousand men, women, and children. Yet, he was risking all to save a single enemy from death.

"I can't come in after you," he said. "You'll have to enter willingly and unarmed into my s.h.i.+p. If you don't reply immediately, I will be forced to leave at once."

"I surrender. And I give you my word of honor as an Argentinean and a Christian that I will not bear arms or try force."

Broward smiled grimly on hearing that and began the steps that would result in automatic placing of his vessel near that of the wreck. After that, he would take over manually. The process required time, more time than he really thought he could afford. But he could not abandon Quiroga. Somehow, by rescuing him, he was compensating for what he would do to his fellows. The idea was not logical or even rational. One life for thousands was ridiculous.

But he felt that he was making some slight payment and that was better than none at all.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending upon which way he cared to look at it, there was a port in the section in which Quiroga was trapped. It was not difficult to match the course and speed of his s.h.i.+p with the section.

The wreck looked like a huge drum, for the lasers of the South Africans had neatly carved on both sides, as if a section of a sausage had been cut out. The drumshape was not revolving, and this was the reason that Quiroga had been able to make the tight laser-beam contact with Broward. The lack of spin made it relatively easy to jockey the scout next to the gigantic port, which was designed to admit even larger s.h.i.+ps than his.

For a moment, watching the big door shut, Broward was uneasy. But he knew that his own beams could melt a hole through the walls for an avenue of escape, and it did not seem likely that Quiroga would want to try anything.

Not at this time, anyway.

The inner port opened, and a man in a s.p.a.cesuit walked through. By this, Broward knew that the means for flooding the landing-port with air were not available. He opened his own port, gave the Argentinean enough time, and closed it After filling the little chamber with air, he said over the speaker, "Take off your suit. Then come in with your hands over your head."

Without waiting for the man to finish unsuiting, Broward took the scout out of the port and away towards Mars. He accelerated slowly to one G so that Quiroga would not have difficulty maneuvering. Then, after placing the controls in automatic, he picked up a pistol, and opened the inner port. Lieutenant Pablo Quiroga entered. He was dressed in silver coveralls with scarlet crossed axes on the right chest and silver bars on the shoulders. He was tall, well-built, about thirty, had a ruddy skin, handsome face, greenish-brown eyes, and wavy deep-brown hair.

He spoke a pa.s.sable American English. "Where do you intend to take me?"

"Right now you're just going along on the ride," his captor replied. "Sit down in the chair to my left. Here's some stikt.i.te. Wrap it around your ankles so they'll be bound together. Then place your hands behind you, and I'll tape your wrists."

The prisoner did as he was told and presently was bound and seated to Broward's satisfaction. The American then got a flask of water, which Quiroga drank eagerly. After he had enough, he ate the food which Broward spooned from a can and gave to him.

"n.o.body's fed me like that since I was a child," remarked Quiroga. "Just now, I feel as helpless as a baby."

"But you're not a baby. I'll remember that. O.K. I'm going to sit down in a moment. When I do, I'll place a stasis field around both our chairs. You know what 'stasis' means in English?"

Quiroga nodded.

"O.K. Watch yourself."

Quirgoa watched the forward visual plate for a while. As if he could not believe it was happening, he said, "You are heading for Mars?"

"I don't plan to land there."

"Then what... ? You plan to missile one of the bases? That will be suicide! Or do you plan on that, too?"

"Do you think I would have bothered to rescue you then?"

"Not unless you are a s.a.d.i.s.t," Quiroga said, "But you don't act like one."

Broward debated whether or not he should tell the Argentinean what type of bomb he was carrying. After a little thought, he decided against it. The fellow might go mad and do something wild, something to disturb the smooth progress of the s.h.i.+p. If he touched the field, he would be sucked through and spread like a red film all over the interior of the cabin.

"You might as well have left me back there," Quiroga said after a silence. "But I am happy that you did not. Atleast, I had a drink of water and food. And somebody to talk to, even if he is a Soviet. Death, when it comes, will not find me alone."

Broward glanced at him and said, "I think that if we had met under different circ.u.mstances, in a different world, we might have liked each other."

"Who knows? It is very possible. I do not hate Americans. My mother was half-American. But the Soviets...

"I am a Soviet citizen. Outwardly, at least. Listen! I want to tell you some things, some true things."

Many times, Quiroga opened his mouth to protest, but each time Broward told him harshly to shut up, to wait until he, Broward, was finished. If he did not obey, then he would have his mouth taped.

After half an hour, Broward was through with his narration. Then, he quit talking, fully expecting a rage of denial. But Quiroga, strangely, was silent for some time. When he did speak, his voice had a thoughtful tone and sounded very unsure.

"Howards told us that it was the South Africans who set off the cobalt bombs. At first, he said that they could not really be blamed, that the Axis was too small and too weak to fight the whole world. That the only reason we had not been overrun before was the threat to use the C-bomb if war was waged against us.

"But, once the South Africans had exploded them, we could do nothing but make the best of a very bad situation. There was still hope for us. Though Earth was dead, it would not always be so. Meanwhile, we could rid the solar system of the evil ones who had started this, exterminate those responsible for this monstrous evil, this sin against man and G.o.d. And we could establish a new society on Mars unhindered by enemies without or within."

Broward winced at the latter sentence. It sounded so much like his own words.

"But there was some very carefully guarded talk, hints, that Howards himself had given the order to use the bombs. Also, there were things here and there that one picked up. These didn't mean much when each item was isolated. However, if you put them together, an ugly picture began to form.

"I knew this, but I rejected the idea. Then, we officers and later the noncoms were called into conferences. We were told there was evidence that the Africans were plotting treachery. If they were to get rid of us, then they'd have the solar system all to themselves. It would become a black world or, at least, a brown one. The Africans would, of course, spare the women and have children by them. These lectures, of course, were to prepare us for the attack against our allies. Howards reasoned that we must jump first And we did.

"He also revealed to us what you just related. That is, that he decided to strike the Soviets first. Why?

Because he knew definitely from his spies and Soviet traitors that the Soviets were going to smash us. He could not afford to wait It wasn't his fault that the Africans used the C-bomb."

Broward said, slowly, "I never thought of it that way. Perhaps our leaders had planned to crush you Axe. But I doubt it They knew of Howards' threat to take everybody down with him.