Chapter IV

Faren Twill looked across the table at Regin Naylo. They were alone, and finally Twill voiced the thought uppermost in both of their minds:

"This waiting is ridiculous, Regin."

"I agree. In fact, the only point upon which we disagree is the method. I say hit them hard, and with finality. You want to make an equal-to-equal alliance with them."

Faren shook his head. "Not really," he said. "No real alliance can ever be possible between stellar races. The alliance I had in mind would be patterned on the relationship between mother state and protectorate. We supervise their laws, control their commerce, and apply a small but adequate taxation to pay us for our service to them. Tariffs and duties to be set up for a beneficial economy in our favor, and yet low enough so that they can continue operating, only mildly limited. That sound sensible to you?"

"I think it can be carried out more efficiently than that," Regin Naylo objected thoughtfully. "First we collect the lifeship nearest us, maybe both of them. We sweep down along the line of search and wait in battle pattern. Why, we can probably collect their entire fleet without firing more than a couple of batteries. Then we have the survivors broadcast on the blanketing infrawave that we are applying the rules of space salvage and that redemption of their fleet is to cost some nominal fee--er--say ten metric tons of uranium, nine-nines pure. After which we take their captured fleet to the seat of their government and take over. Then we are in a real position to make demands. None of this simple taxation and commerce control. None of this mother state and protectorate. This will be conqueror and vanquished."

"Suppose they fight back?"

"With what?" asked Naylo sarcastically. "Guided torpedoes and A-heads? Faugh!"

"They may have--"

"Bet you a hat. If they haven't been able to use the infrawave bands for space locating and detecting, they wouldn't get to first base discovering the magnus forces."

"You realize," said Twill, "that you're setting up a pattern of violence that may never be resolved?"

"No matter how you set up the meeting of cultures, you've started a pattern of violence that can never be resolved. I say make 'em realize right now that they are clobbered. And if they want fight, we'll give it to 'em."

Twill growled, "Not too long ago you were cautiously admitting that elephants can be beaten by a pack of determined rats."

"Until they put out more than that squadron of twenty-five spacecraft, they're no real pack, compared to our task force."

"You may be.... Hush!"

The door opened. Viggon Sarri looking refreshed and alert, greeted, "Good morning. You've heard the latest?"

"What latest?"

"We've probably located the destination-star. From one of the large stars along the flight path of the original spacecraft there has formed a second search squadron of twenty-five spacecraft. The infrawaves are filled with calls back and forth, coordinating the search pattern."

"How are they doing?"

"Depends," replied Viggon Sarri, with a grin. "Poorly, if you mean that their success looks imminent. But excellently, if you mean their technique. They're really covering space like a blanket, slice by slice. But they started on the wrong slice."

Viggon's armlet buzzed tinnily and he said, "Yes? Go ahead."

"This is Linus Brein. We have more of their language analogued."

"I'll be right over." To his second officers Viggon said, "Want to come along? This may be interesting."

Naylo shook his head. "We've a bit of a problem to haggle over. We'll be over to Brein's bailiwick later."

"You might be missing something, but it's your decision."

* * * * *

As soon as the door was closed behind Viggon, Naylo said, "I wonder if he is getting chicken."

"Don't let him hear you say that."

"I won't. But haven't you wondered?"

"Maybe," said Twill. "But it figures. Viggon Sarri has had a long and successful career. He has expanded our realm more than any other one man in history. He will go down in history as a valiant hero. He does not care to spoil a good record."

"Hah! You agree, then."

Twill nodded soberly. He sneered, "Valiant! Hero! Sarri, the Victorious! Eyewash. What's so glorious about conquering races that fight back with slings and spears? What's so heroic about mowing down a flight of airplanes or turning A-heads back on the senders? But now that we have come upon a race that really has space travel developed to a fine art--even though they have not exploited it much--Viggon wants to wait. He's been pushing over children. Now that he's come up against a half-baked adolescent, he's afraid."

"What do you suggest?"

Twill eyed Naylo soberly. "One of us is due to succeed the great Viggon Sarri," he said flatly. "It may be you and it may be me. It will, however, be the one who decides properly how to handle this race."

"All right, then," Naylo grunted. "But it may be neither of us." He scowled. "Unless you or I can talk the venerable gentleman into action at once."

"Right. Let's get started."

Naylo grinned. "I hope you won't mind working as my second officer, Faren."

"You should see the day, Regin. I'll have you reporting to me before we get home."

But beneath the banter was an undertone of dead seriousness....

Commodore Ted Wilson eyed the search grid unhappily. Out of the center one thin hexagonal hole had been taken. It left such a lot of space to be combed.

The infrawave receiver in the Information Center was alive, and chattering with data and information and orders. Finally came a call for Wilson, from Flight Commander Hugh Weston from Castor.

"Weston here, Ted. How's it coming?"

"We've completed our first crossing. Nothing but a comet and a rather insignificant gas cloud."

"We're approaching you. Any suggestions?"

"Let's make contact and carry this out together instead of running at cross-purposes."

"Meaning?"

"No independent searching."

"I think you're wrong," said Weston.

"But we can do a better job of coverage if we combine all forces into one big comb."

"We could," replied Weston. "But do you realize that you'll probably leave huge holes in your search grid?"

"That's the point. I know we will. After about the fourth pass, we'll not be too sure of where we are. God, how I wish we had some method of pinpointing this absolute nothing! I wish the infrawave could be used as detecting and ranging."

"Make that double. But since we haven't got it, I suggest that we form behind you. There'll be a third squadron from Pollux as soon as Wally Wainright can get into space with his gang. I expect there'll be more, too. We'll need 'em all. Out in this featureless void, we don't really know where we are to any degree of accuracy. At least not the kind of accuracy needed to find a thing as small as a spacecraft."

"Lifeship."

"Lifeship, spacecraft, both Godawful minute when lost in a few cubic light years of space."

"I still say we should combine."

"I still think you should clean out one channel and let us take the next."

"Can't see it, Weston."

"Okay, Ted. You're running this exercise. You're the boss. We combine. We'll meet you where you are and reform before we make the return pass. Right?"

"Right, Hugh. I don't want to argue, but our master computer feels we've a better chance at the laws of probability if we all comb along the same line than if each takes a different course and we try to correlate our positions by sheer stellar astrogation."

* * * * *

Poised in space, Wilson and his squadron waited. While they waited, the astro-techs made star sightings and the computer mulled over their readings and delivered opinions of several probable enclosures of position. These volumes were horribly vast compared with the mote of a spacecraft. They were spherical, indicating the margin of error in precision-pinpointing their position in deep space. And as the astro-techs delivered more and more angle sightings on the known stars, the computer delivered smaller and smaller enclosures as their true position.

The problem was a matter of parallax, a matter of angular measurement against the more distant, or "fixed" stars. Now, it may seem an easy job to measure the angle of a star with respect to another star. But it must be remembered that the parallax of the nearer stars, as measured across the orbit of the earth, is a matter of seconds of arc.

Parallax is not measured directly with a protractor. It is measured by comparing the position of the star on a plate against a similar photograph taken six months ago, using the fixed stars as the frame of reference.

In deep space, position is pinpointed by solid triangulation. This can be represented by a pyramid suspended in space, the corners of which end at the fixed stars. Take a pyramid of certain solid angles, depended by points in space, and the apex can be satisfied for only one spacial position. Repeat these solid-angle measurements and there are several pyramids pointing their apexes toward the true position.

But if the orbit of the Earth produces only a second or so of parallax-arc, any error in angular measurement of such magnitude produces an error of a thousand light seconds. And the greater the error in measurement, the larger is the volume of uncertain position.

This, then, was their problem. To cover, like a blanket, a volume of space so vast as completely to defy description. All that can be said of it is in comparison with a number of cubic light years. And who can grasp the fathomless distance of a light year? It is just a meaningless statement.

Eventually the second squadron came up and the ships milled around until a larger space pattern was formed. Then the two squadrons began to return along the search grid, on a line overlapping that area covered in the first pass along the computed line of flight....

Alice Hemingway woke up from a fitful doze at the noise of the infrawave receiver. Charles Andrews was listening to the rapid chatter back and forth from one squadron to the next. He looked around, and when he caught her eyes, he said cheerfully, "They're really out looking for us."

"I heard," she murmured.

"Three squadrons, now. And a fourth is just heading out from Procyon. We'll be picked up--"

Jock Norton came awake with a cry. "Shut that damned thing off!" he roared.

"Why?" demanded Andrews belligerently.

"It's a waste of power."

"This thing?" sneered Andrews.

"That thing. It draws one point three kilowatts. That's plenty important for a lifeship."

"Look," suggested Andrews, "why don't we call back and have 'em pick us up?"

"Because nobody has ever found any directional quality about the infrawaves. That's why we can't use 'em for detecting, ranging, and locating. If they echoed, we might be able to use 'em somehow. But they're not even directional, let alone echoing. Not only that, but they are instantaneous in transmission, so even if they did echo they couldn't be used for ranging. So we'll not waste power howling for more help. We spend a bit every hour, because we want to let 'em know we're still alive. But let's not waste any more than we have to."

Andrews shut off the infrawave receiver. "It was interesting," he said. "But I suppose we can always assume that they are on the search." He shivered. "Is it getting cold in here, or am I getting exhausted?"

* * * * *

Norton smiled thinly. "Probably both. This space can isn't collecting any heat. We're too far from any sun. And there aren't enough people in it to keep it hot."

"Huh?"

"The average human puts out an average of about a thousand B.T.U. per hour over a twenty-four hour day. It rises in activity and falls with relaxing. But this can needs about five people to keep up the heat against the black body radiation from the hull."

"What do we do? Freeze?"

"One thing we can do. We can use the pedal generator."

"For what?"

"Two things. One is to charge up the energy cells. The other is that a human body in vigorous work can deliver as high as two thousand B.T.U. per hour. Although I doubt if any human body can keep up that kind of vigor for a full hour. If you're cold, you can easily warm up, Andrews."

"Why doesn't this tin can have a small pile?"

"Why doesn't a steamship lifeboat have a turbine?"

"I've seen some very small piles and generating gear."

Norton shook his head. "A lifeship is aimed at providing the maximum protection for a maximum number of people, under a minimum of luxury. Stop whining. We're still alive, I keep telling you."

"At," sneered Andrews, "a hundred bucks an hour."

"Are you going to argue, or do you want to try some vigor for that bad temper of yours?"

"We've got some power left over from the bank," suggested Andrews. "Let's use that."

"Not on your life. That's reserve. Sooner or later we're going to use it for radio pulses."

"Radio pulses?"

"For fine control direction-finding and locating."

Andrews snorted. "How are they going to pick up radio pulses when they're going thirty or forty parsecs an hour?"

"They use gravitic mass detectors. As soon as someone gets a register, they send one of the scouts out to drop below light and listen for radio pulses. If he hears any, then the whole search squadron stops and starts really to comb the neighborhood with radar."

Andrews shivered again. "I'll try that generator," he said. "Could we pedal enough juice to run the drivers?"

Norton laughed. "Sure. Like you could row a battleship with a rusty broom handle. Have you got the remotest idea of how far we are from anything?"

"No."

"Neither have I."

"All right. Where's your damned exercising machine?"

"Below. I'll show you. I want to cut the paragrav generator by half, anyway."

"Paragrav?"

"Pseudo-gravity," said Norton crisply. "You've noticed there's still an up and down? That's it. But the damned thing radiates heat like mad, along with producing its gravitic field. I want to conserve all the heat we can. With a full complement of survivors, this space can stay more than comfortably warm. But with only three, it radiates more than is comfortable. Come on, Andrews. I'll show you this crate, too."

Alice felt the gravitic pull diminish, and then Norton was back in the main room of the lifeship. He came over and sat down beside her.

"Cold, kid?"

Alice shivered. "Just a little. Is this going to get worse?"

"Probably, but not too much. If we all exercise heavily, keep the pedal generator going, and eat heartily, we'll not fight too losing a battle against radiation."

She shivered again. Jock put a large but gentle hand on her shoulder. "Let me warm you a bit," he said softly.

* * * * *

Alice looked at him cynically. "I'm not that cold," she told him. She did not move, but the tone of her voice made him remove his hand from her shoulder.

He smiled at her. "You're likely to be eventually."

"Maybe. But there are blankets, and I'm not above taking a turn on that pedal generator myself, you know."

"It's no job for a woman, Alice."

She sniffed contemptuously. "This is no place for woman or man," she said. "But I can pull my own weight, Mr. Norton."

"You're a solid character," he said.

"I've always thought so."

"This is going to get rougher, Alice. Can't we be a little more friendly?"

"Meaning what?" she snapped icily.

"Meaning only that you deserve better than that Napoleon type down there."

Alice laughed in a brittle tone. "And you're it?"

"I'll be a lot more fun."

"No doubt. And nothing but fun. What do you expect to do when the fun becomes hollow?"

"It hasn't yet."

"It will some day. You can't go on being a slightly irresponsible loafer all your life."

"Who is?"

"You are."

"Look," said Jock Norton angrily, "I'm still running this lifeship the way it's supposed to be run."

"At a hundred an hour."

"Maybe so. But let me ask you, which one of us would you rather have around right now? The trained spaceman or the captain of industry?"

"That's a fool question," said Alice. "Loaded to the gills. You know the answer to that. But once we get back home, then?"

"You're not hoping to marry that dried-up little--"

Alice laughed, almost hysterically.

"This will kill you, but until you assumed that I was sleeping with him as well as taking his dictation, I hadn't really looked upon Charles Andrews as anything but an employer. Sure, he's male. So is my Uncle Ned, my brother, and my nephew. Not to mention my father and grandfather. But Mr. Andrews is not my idea of a lover."

Jock Norton nodded soberly. He took a deep breath of satisfaction. Alice underwent a swift revision in his mental classification of her. She changed from a luxury-bought mistress to be seduced by the offer of real fun and passion into a woman with no emotional connections, to be seduced for the fun of it. Both, in Norton's mind, were fair game.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked.

"Nothing much, Jock Norton, except that you're essentially lazy."

"Lazy?"

"Lazy," she repeated. "Want it both barrels, or will you take it with sugar?"

"Hard. What's wrong with me?"

"You're educated. You know a lot. You've explained things that neither Mr. Andrews nor I had ever dreamed of, let alone understood. You know your way around spacecraft, know a lot of the basic sciences. Not that you'd ever be a scientist, but you're bright enough to grasp the idea and make it work. But what do you do about it? You jockey a spacer, instead of digging in and making it pay off. You look for the easy way out instead of working for it." Alice looked up at him sharply to see how he was taking it, and then she added, "You have the only brain present that has the mental right to stand up and direct operations. Instead, you argue and backstep."

Harshly he said, "What would you have me do--take a swing at Napoleon when he sits on those short hind legs of his and objects or demands?"

"I don't know. I'm not a spaceman, responsible for the lives of three people--at a hundred clams an hour."

"Some day I'm going to shove those hundred fish down your throat."

"Do. And I'll spit 'em back at you!"

Norton roughly took her shoulders in his hands. He twisted her to face him, clamped down on her soft shoulders until she turned her face up to complain with welling eyes. He put his lips on hers and tried to force some warmth into them. She submitted calmly, and when he found no response and opened his eyes, she was staring at him vacantly.

Abruptly he let her go. She relaxed in the seat.

"I'm not afraid to work," he said in a hollow voice.

"Prove it," she replied flatly.

He got up, left her there, and went below.