IN THE FIRST few minutes after the mysterious intruder vanished, Ben had plenty of routine navigational work to do to keep his mind off the strange encounter. The course of the little S-80 had to be rectified and a new course plotted, since the maneuverings had involved both movement through space and loss of time on the previous plotting. But the work was largely automatic once the computations were complete; Ben’s hands went through the motions as his mind worked feverishly to make some sense out of the phantom ship and the things its visit implied.
The truth was that the encounter had shaken him up badly. Tom and Joyce Barron appeared to have shrugged the incident off without much concern and began busying themselves among the ship’s music tapes. It seemed obvious that the real significance of the encounter simply had not dawned on them.
Which was just as well for the moment, Ben thought wryly. It kept them from asking him a lot of unanswerable questions, and gave him time to search out some answers for himself … answers that had to be found and found quickly. With the ship’s course returned to its original direction, Ben sat back at the controls, trying to push confusion and bafflement out of his mind and make sense out of nonsense.
Certain things, he knew, were beyond argument. The ship had been there. Nothing but a manned craft could have behaved the way the phantom had behaved. Crude as his computations had been, he was certain that they had given him at least a rough estimate of its size. And there was no question but that it had been concealed most effectively from observation. These were things he would testify to. But put them together and they spelled nothing but nonsense.
There simply could not be any such ship. He knew, of course, that the Spacer military council did not make public all the weapons in the arsenal on Asteroid Central, but Spacers were too small and close-knit a group for secrets to keep long. The discovery of null-gravity had been common knowledge among Spacers before the first prototype engine had been completed. Whenever new defensive missiles had been developed, the whole Spacer clan knew about them in a matter of weeks. And even if the phantom had been a Spacer ship developed in secrecy, it surely would have recognized the S-80 as a Spacer ship and at least exchanged recognition signals.
But the other alternative — that it was an Earth ship — was even more ridiculous. Suppose Earth science could have developed such a craft, what could explain its strange behavior after contact? It too would have been able to recognize a Spacer scout. Then why had Ben’s ship not been attacked? Even if a crew of Earthmen aboard had known of Ben’s prisoners, they certainly would have made an effort to grapple his ship and unload his hostages. And for that matter, where could Earthmen have learned such skill in maneuvering, especially in maneuvering such a huge ship?
Either way it made no sense, and it was this very senselessness that sent a cold chill up Ben Trefon’s back and brought sweat out on the palms of his hands. The phantom ship had not behaved like an aggressor, or like a friend either. Its behavior had seemed more curious than warlike, as though it had been trying to observe him without being observed, and then had zoomed off again as soon as it knew it was detected.
But zoomed off to where? That, of course, was the big question. If the intruder had been curious, perhaps he was still curious enough to follow Ben’s ship from some point beyond effective radar range. That in itself was a disquieting thought. If Ben were to pursue his original plans to reach one of the outpost asteroids near Asteroid Central he did not care to bring unexpected company with him.
Carefully, he turned other possibilities over in his mind. He could, of course, change course and make his way directly to Asteroid Central. And if his encounter had been with an orthodox ship, he might well have done that. He knew the kind of ingenious fortification that surrounded Asteroid Central; prior to his encounter with the phantom ship he had been supremely confident that no enemy ship could follow him through the Maze to the surface of Central and survive, no matter how hard they tried. But this ship might be a different kind of pursuer altogether, a pursuer with totally unexpected capabilities in space.
Ben scratched his jaw and glanced back at the Barrons who were now entranced by some tapes of mauki songs. Whatever else it did, the encounter changed his mind about trying to go it alone to Asteroid Central. For a moment he seemed to hear his father’s voice in his ear: “Never insist on doing it alone if you can’t handle it. Admit your limitation! and don’t be ashamed to get help. Remember, a whole army of men have died in space just because they were too stiff-necked to ask for help, or too stupid to tell when they needed it in the first place.”
Ben was certain now that he needed help, needed it badly enough to take chances to get it. Other Spacer ships would be converging on Outpost 5, his immediate target destination, a medium-sized asteroid moving in its orbit some two hundred thousand miles in from Asteroid Central. Outpost 5 was a Spacer utility station: a fuel and ammunition dump, orbit-ship drydock, laying-over station for Spacers in transit and repair station for the Spacer fleet. Ben had originally intended to move into contact with Outpost 5 as silently as possible. Now it was imperative that he establish contact with other Spacer ships before the outpost was reached.
This meant breaking radio silence in order to flag the attention of other ships which might be in the same segment of space. A risky business, for Earth ships also would be traveling in this sector, but at least Earth ships could be understood and dealt with.
And Ben Trefon was not at all too certain about the phantom ship he had encountered.
• • •
He made contact with another Spacer some six hours later, as the little S-80 moved closer and closer to contact orbit with the Outpost 5 asteroid.
With every passing hour Ben’s tension had been growing. He had not dared to throw open his radio with a standard distress signal. Instead, he had beamed out five-minute periods of signaling, trying to cover all quadrants briefly with a signal that would be identifiable to any Spacer craft without continuing long enough for an enemy ship to fix his position and acceleration in space. After each signal period he had waited, straining to catch even the weakest response signal. It had been a long and weary vigil. Over eighteen hours had passed since the sleep period on Mars, and the Barrons had finally grown bored and retired; Ben’s body ached with fatigue, and he longed for a few moments’ rest, but knew that those few moments could lose him his chance for contact.
So he stuck it out in the silence of the little ship’s cabin. The view screen showed an unchanging panorama of pinpoint stars on a velvet black canopy; Ben felt utterly alone and abandoned as his repeated efforts to raise a friendly signal failed.
Then, unexpectedly, there was a tiny blip on the radar scanner. As he drew closer the blip resolved into two, and then into a dozen. With the telescope he scanned the area of the contact, and decelerated the ship as rapidly as the null-gravs would permit. Moments later he saw the objects his radar had picked up, and drew in his breath sharply.
It was no wonder there had been no radio response from Outpost 5.
He had wandered into a cosmic battlefield. Far and wide over a four-hundred-mile radius the debris of shattered space ships was spread. A great Spacer cruiser was reeling end-overend, its side split open like a pea-pod with bits and pieces strewn around it like a halo. Looking more closely, he spotted an Earth ship, also of cruiser size, literally torn into shreds. Fragments of other ships, fuel tanks, oxygen bottles and bombarded lifeboats came into view as he approached. At least half a dozen ships had been involved in the battle. Now there was no sign of life anywhere in the vicinity.
But a demand signal from Ben’s transmitter brought a feeble response. Scanning the area again, Ben saw another Spacer ship well beyond the debris-scattered area. It was a small, three-man ship, one of the SD-7’s that Spacers so often used as family craft, and it was under power in spite of the gaping hole torn in the engine-room hull and the drunken roll that signified that its stabilizing gyros were no longer functioning properly. As Ben moved closer, he recognized the brilliant black-and-white decoration and insignia of a ship that he had seen many times in the hangar of the House of Trefon. It was the ship owned by Roger Petro, one of the men in the Spacer Council and one of Ivan Trefon’s closest friends.
Now the response to Ben’s signal was stronger as he moved into orbit alongside the Spacer ship. He could see movement on the hull; two or three men were working there with welding torches, obviously trying to repair the hole in the ship’s skin. Locking his ship’s controls in parallel with the SD-7, Ben checked to be certain the Barrons were still sleeping. Then he donned a pressure suit, climbed aboard the little scooter that served as the S-80’s lifeboat, and piloted himself across the intervening space to Petro’s ship.
The men on the hull greeted him with waves. Moments later he was aboard to find Petro himself in a bunk in the ship’s cabin, one arm in a sling, and one leg splinted and wrapped with a red-stained bandage. Petro looked pale and haggard, but his eyes lit up when he saw his visitor.
“Come in, boy!” he bellowed. “This old crate hasn’t much to offer right now, but I guess Ivan Trefon’s boy won’t mind greeting an old soldier on the battlefield, eh?”
“What happened?” Ben wanted to know.
“Get yourself some coffee, boy, and sit down; let me look at you.”
Ben poured a cup of vile-looking black stuff. It was as strong as it looked. “What happened?” he repeated.
“I caught one broadside, that’s what happened,” Petro said. “Too many of them and too few of us, at first. We ran into a nest of them heading out toward Outpost 5, and they buried me in fire power. Too many shells to stop too quickly. Seven of them blasting away at the same time.”
“Seven! How many got away?”
Petro chuckled. “You should have counted the nose cones on the way in,” he said. “Any time old Petro can’t handle seven Earth ships at a time and bring them to heel, it’ll be time he turns his ship over to a better man.”
“Any survivors?”
“That’s why we’re standing by, to make sure there aren’t any,” Petro said. “Treacherous dogs! One of them actually rode a shell right into this ship. Used a hand gun to detonate our defense shells. He hit us right in the guts, and blooey!” The Spacer shook his head. “Of course he didn’t know where to aim, so all he did was to get our stabilizing gyros. Except for that we’d have gotten to Outpost 5 already. But enough of this — how are things on Mars?”
Ben told him how things were on Mars. Petro sat silent, clenching his fist as he heard about the raid, the ruin of the House of Trefon and the loss of his old friend. “I knew I should have headed there first after the raid,” he muttered finally. “And I was afraid there was trouble when there was no word from Mars on any of the ships I’ve contacted out here.”
“You mean none got completely away?” Ben said.
“I mean I haven’t been in touch with any.” The old man crashed his fist down on the bunk bitterly. “The treacherous dogs! They know where Asteroid Central is, all right, and this part of the Rings is full of them, regular nests of them. But they won’t hit us openly, out in space where we can fight them! They hide until they find one of us alone — ” He broke off with a sigh. “At least a couple were stupid enough to try to run the Maze into Asteroid Central itself, but now I’ve heard they’ve pulled back and started sniping.”
“But where are our own ships?”
“Mostly back at Central. Then, as far as I’ve heard, all the outpost stations are manned; four were attacked and held off the enemy without half trying. I was on my way to check in at Outpost 5 and try to organize a drive to break the siege at Asteroid Central.”
Ben nodded. “We were headed for 5 too.” He hesitated. “Have you seen anything funny out here, except standard Earth ships?”
Petro looked up at him sharply. His leg was obviously paining him; for a moment he set his teeth until the spasm eased up. “What do you mean, anything funny?”
“Well … anything that didn’t seem right to you,” Ben said.
Petro shrugged. “Nothing much. We had a false contact a day or so back, but nothing we could pin down.”
“You mean a ship you couldn’t identify?”
“Thought it was a ship, but it couldn’t have been. The radar picked up something for a couple of minutes, but we couldn’t see it in the ‘scope, and then it was gone.”
“But it was close enough so that your ‘scope should have picked it up,” Ben said.
Petro chewed his lip for a moment. “What are you getting at, boy?”
Ben hesitated. Faced with the keen eyes and the long experience of the old Spacer, he realized how foolish the story of a giant invisible ship would sound. But it had been there, whether Petro chose to believe him or not. Ben told the councilman about his own encounter, and the maneuver that allowed him to see the ship and take a gross measurement. He expected a guffaw from the old soldier, but Petro didn’t even smile. “It’s happened before,” he said. “Usually been chalked up to too much red-eye and a bored pilot, but there’s never been a report of anyone actually seeing it.”
“It was there,” Ben said. “I saw it.”
“But these reports were long before this blow-up started,” Petro said.
“Maybe they’ve had a spy ship out here that we haven’t known about. They knew the location of every house on Mars; they didn’t waste any shells.”
They talked it over for a few more moments, but neither of them came up with any answer. Finally Ben said, “What are you planning now?”
“I’m going to limp on out to Outpost 5, if the boys ever get the gyros fixed. Most of the Earth ships are clustered around Asteroid Central, maybe five hundred of them, trying to figure out a way to get ships or shells through the Maze. And that’s fine for now, but Central can’t stand a prolonged siege. Sooner or later they’ll get a shell through by sheer chance; we’ve got to break them apart before they do it. And they’re out to annihilate every Spacer alive, man, woman and child.”
“Why travel with this ship?” Ben said. “You and your crew could come aboard with me.”
Petro shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. As long as this ship still has power, I’ll stay aboard her.”
“Suppose you run across another crowd of Earth ships?”
The old Spacer shrugged. “We’re going to run across a lot of Earth ships before this war is over,” he said slowly. “Your father didn’t have a chance to fight. I’ve got fighting to do for both of us, and I’m going to do it in my own ship.”
“Then at least team up with me,” Ben Trefon said. “I can hold my own in a fight.”
For a moment Petro looked him over. Then he chuckled. “Yes, I think you probably can. But you said you had a couple of captives. What about them?”
“There’s nothing they can do. In fact, this jaunt has been an eye-opener for them. They aren’t so sure that this war even makes sense any more.”
Petro grunted. “That’s all very well, but don’t trust them. Don’t trust them for a minute. Earthmen are Earthmen, and you can’t change that overnight.”
Quickly then they made plans. Petro would follow Ben’s course on toward Outpost 5; in the event of an encounter, they would work as a combat team. Because of Ben’s greater maneuverability until Petro got his ship to drydock, it was decided that Ben should assume command. With the details agreed upon, Ben donned his pressure suit again. The firm pressure of the black web belt around his waist reminded him of a final question. “Do you happen to remember a black belt that Dad used to wear?” he asked Petro.
“A web belt with a capsule in it?” Petro nodded. “Some kind of a keepsake, wasn’t it?”
“I guess so,” Ben said. “Did Dad ever say anything about it to you?”
“Not that I can remember.” Petro frowned. “Though it seems to me he once said he wanted you to have it when he died. Didn’t you find it on Mars?”
“Oh, I found it, all right,” Ben replied. “But it’s an odd kind of belt.”
Petro shrugged. “Your father seemed to like it. Said it might bring him good luck, and you too. Maybe it will. I’ve a hunch you’re going to need it.”
And on that, at least, Ben Trefon was ready to agree.
• • •
The next few hours were tense as the two ships began accelerating together toward the rendezvous point with Outpost 5 asteroid, Ben Trefon’s little S-80 in the lead, followed closely by the crippled cruiser manned by Petro’s crew. The ships kept close contact by means of tight-beam transmitter in order to minimize the chances of ships beyond them picking up the signals. Working together, they set the course that would intersect the orbit of the outpost at the precise point in space and time necessary for contact.
And then they sat back and waited.
They knew, of course, that the course would not be a hundred per cent accurate, no matter how carefully it was plotted. Precise as their calculations were, they could not take into account every one of the minor variables in an asteroid’s orbit. Theoretically it was possible to calculate such an orbit down to inches for any given instant in time; but on board a ship it just wasn’t practical. Asteroids followed elliptical orbits around the sun, just like all other planetary bodies, and their speed in orbit varied from moment to moment, gradually increasing as they moved in toward perihelion and slowing down bit by bit as they moved out toward aphelion. In addition, the asteroids affected each other’s orbital velocities slightly, exerting weak but significant gravitational attraction for one another as they passed. Finally there was mighty Jupiter to take into account; in the Asteroid Belt, Jupiter was king, its powerful gravitational field pulling and tugging at the asteroids in its titanic effort to bring them under control.
Astronomers had their pet theories. Some insisted that at some time in the distant future mighty Jupiter would win the struggle and ultimately capture many of the asteroidal fragments. Others would destroy themselves in collisions with each other and still others would be kept from wandering by gravitational forces until each asteroid had a completely predictable orbit. But other scientists insisted that the turbulence of movement in the Asteroid Belt would never cease; that any effort to pinpoint exactly where a given asteroid was going to be at a given time would be doomed to failure to the end of time.
These things did not disturb Ben Trefon. Space navigators had long since discovered that their targets were never precisely where they were supposed to be, no matter how fine the course was calculated. Ben knew that he would have to rely upon visual sighting, radar contact and radio guideposts when he reached the near vicinity of the outpost. But outpost asteroids were well equipped with powerful transmitters to guide in any approaching Spacer ship.
After Ben returned from Petro’s ship, he found the Barrons burning with curiosity. Ben set the course and started acceleration; then he reviewed for them what he and Petro had discussed. He told them about Petro’s encounter with the Earth ships, and the outline of the plan they were following.
Tom Barron’s forehead creased with worry. “I don’t understand,” he said. “If our ships have actually located your Asteroid Central, then you must be under attack there right now. Why aren’t you going there?”
“Because we need organization first,” Ben said. “Anyway, there’s no way Earth ships can be attacking, even if they’re on all sides of Central. That’s what the Maze is there for.”
“What maze?” Tom Barron said.
“The maze of asteroids surrounding Asteroid Central,” Ben said. “When Earth started sending out pirates against us a century or so ago, our Council realized that a couple of well-placed nuclear bombs could blow Central to pieces, so they built a maze of small rocks around Central to detonate any shells that might strike home. Quite a feat of planetary engineering, hauling in mile-wide rocks and launching them in orbit around Central with Central as the primary. But now Central is surrounded by a regular swarm of satellites, moving in all directions and angles, at a dozen or more rates of speed. Any ship that tries to approach Central now without knowing the safe navigation key doesn’t stand a chance in three billion of actually reaching target. It would have fifteen or twenty collisions with smaller asteroids first, and when a space ship collides with an asteroid, believe me, the asteroid wins.”
Tom thought that over. “How many asteroids are there in the Maze?”
“About three thousand, spread out in a hundred-mile radius.”
“But how do you get through it?”
“Well, we know the safe navigation key, for one thing. It’s taped into our ships’ computers. Even so it’s a tricky navigational problem, since the key is never one hundred per cent right. We have to know how to handle our ships. In fact, approach to Asteroid Central is required navigation training for any Spacer who wants to operate a ship, sort of a graduation exercise. As for a ship that doesn’t know the key, or one with a poor navigator, the Maze is doubly treacherous. It’s a one-way road; once a ship starts in, it’s certain death to try to back out again, and just as deadly to try to sit still. Once you start in, you keep going or you get smashed. It doesn’t pay to get cold feet halfway through.”
Tom was still puzzled. “And you mean to say you went to all that trouble just because of the patrol ships we sent up?”
“What else could we do if one ship could carry one bomb that would split Central into fragments if it were launched without warning?”
Joyce, who had been following the conversation silently, joined in now. “I just can’t believe that an Earth captain would fire on a city without warning,” she said.
“Mars didn’t get much warning,” Ben said.
“But that was in war.”
“Do you think we were at peace before?” Ben asked. “Did you ever hear the things your pirate ships did when they came out here looking for us?”
Joyce shook her head. “Just that they’d recovered food stores that had been stolen. Of course, before we had radiation shielding on our ships, those crews had to be interned for months, and sometimes reports were slow.”
Ben nodded grimly. “And incomplete, I’ll bet. You never heard about the time Outpost 7 was bombed to rubble a few years ago, women, children, and all? They never told you about the maukis that were kidnaped? About the two-year-old baby they took back to Earth and kept in a completely black room for fourteen years without contact with another human being? Or about the children they jettisoned into space through the rocket tubes without space suits?”
Tom and Joyce Barron just stared at him. “There never were any such stories.”
“I don’t imagine there were,” Ben said bitterly. “Don’t you see that you’ve only been told what your government wanted you to know? But the truth is the truth. Your expeditionary ships would murder every Spacer child they came across; there was no limit to the torment they spread before they could be driven back. We knew we couldn’t barricade all space, but maybe you can understand why we barricaded Asteroid Central with the Maze.”
Under their feet they could feel the throbbing hum of the null-gravity generators; on the control panel the computer clucked occasionally like a worried hen, and the radio beam to Petro’s ship chattered its contact signal at periodic intervals. The Barrons were silent for a moment, and Ben realized that once again they were at loggerheads; they could not believe him, yet neither could they believe that he was lying to them. Finally Joyce Barron sighed. “You make us sound beastly,” she said. “But you just ignore our side of the picture. You don’t pay any attention to how we felt, never knowing when another raid would come. You don’t understand how our people dreaded those raids, knowing they were coming and knowing that sisters or daughters would be stolen away and disappear forever. And you don’t say anything about the murder and mayhem your own raiders were responsible for on Earth.”
Ben nodded. “I know people were killed in the raids,” he said. “But it was never murder for the sake of murder. And that was why we developed the tangle-guns, so we could defend ourselves on Earth raids without hurting people. As for the kidnapings, if Earth had let us come down in peace to find our wives, there wouldn’t have been any kidnapings, and no kidnaped girl was every forced into marriage against her will. None of the girls liked the idea at first, but when they heard the songs and stories and saw the way we lived — ” He spread his hands. “You would have to look far and wide today to find a disloyal mauki.”
The conversation lagged as Ben corrected course and then broke radio silence to check with Petro. The periodic recognition signal beamed ahead toward Outpost 5 still failed to raise a response, even though the two ships were now approaching rendezvous point very rapidly.
“Any sign of life?” Petro asked in the earphones.
“Not a peep. I wonder what’s wrong?”
“They’re probably afraid to break silence until we’re close enough for a tight beam to hit us without hitting a dozen Earth ships too.”
“But we’re already close enough for that,” Ben protested.
“Well, keep trying. And don’t get nervous. The boys on 5 know what’s up there better than we do. If they think a signal will draw a wolf pack, they may make us home in without a signal.”
Ben kept trying, but he couldn’t hide his growing apprehension. With the ship now decelerating again, he watched the dials turn as the distance to contact point diminished. Tom and Joyce watched the radar screen over his shoulder. A half hour passed, and then another, with no answer to Ben’s signal.
Then the radar screen picked up a response, the faintest suggestion of a blip where Outpost 5 should be located. Excitedly, Ben activated the tracking screen, superimposed the calculated orbit of Outpost 5 on the same screen, and saw that they coincided exactly. He tapped the signal button to Petro’s ship. “We’re there,” he said. “I should have a sighting in a minute.”
“Well, hang onto it,” Petro said. “I just had another generator go. I haven’t even got radar.”
“Then stick close. I’ll guide you in.”
After the hours of tension, the contact was an almost unbelievable relief. Jubilantly Ben tightened down his signal arc and beamed his recognition signal toward the outpost. After the long hours of going it alone, here was a safe haven, a port in this storm of space invaders, a place to rest and contact other Spacers and make plans to fight back the foe that was threatening their very existence. Until now Ben had not realized how much alone and helpless he had felt since his first look at the ruined House of Trefon. Now at least he would have an effective way to fight back.
Suddenly the outpost asteroid appeared in the telescope, growing from a flicker of light to a distinct disk as they approached. But once again Ben saw the ship’s guard screens flaring as bits of rubble and debris floating in space were contacted. The rubble thickened, and some of the larger fragments became visible as they drew nearer the asteroid.
Outpost 5 had not escaped attack, after all. There had been a battle here, probably only a few hours before, judging from the density of the debris. Ben strained for an answering signal from the outpost but still there was no response. Something stirred in his mind as he stared at the asteroid. He could make out some of the surface detail now. The outpost had an empty, abandoned look about it. There were no surrounding Spacer ships, no signs of life. He beamed his signal again, waiting uneasily for an answer. By now there should have been a response; the powerful transmitters on the outpost could not have been destroyed completely, and his ship was close enough for clear recognition.
After a moment’s hesitation Ben rapped out the Spacer’s distress signal, an imperative demand for response. For a long moment there was silence. Then, feebly, a response came back on a tight beam. But it was not an identification signal. It was an SOS, repeated over and over as though being transmitted by tape in a feeble stream from the outpost radios.
Ben signaled Petro. “Are you getting that?” he asked.
“Yes,” Petro said. “They’re in trouble.”
“I can’t get an ID from them.’’
“That’s an automatic response,” Petro replied. “And look at that rock! They must have taken a pounding.”
It was true. As they moved closer Ben could see the pock-marks and craters in the surface of the rock, telltale evidence of a terrific bombardment. Now Ben could see that the asteroid was listing and wobbling slightly as it moved in its orbit. The entrance locks to the great interior drydocks were gaping open and one of the locks was half blocked off with heaps of rubble.
Ben signaled Petro again. “I don’t like this,” he said. “Do you see any ships?”
“Not a one. But they may be inside.”
“But there ought to be dozens here by now.”
Petro grunted. “Let’s move in closer,” he said.
The Barrons were at the control panel now, staring at the image of destruction in the view screen. Cautiously Ben inched the little S-80 closer, searching the surface of the rock for signs of life. The SOS continued coming in, weakly but steadily.
“What are you waiting for?” Tom Barron asked. “Aren’t you going to land?”
It was exactly the question Ben had been debating. It seemed the obvious thing to do, but a sharp edge of apprehension was holding him back. He looked up at Tom suddenly. “I don’t know,” he said. “Would you?”
“I’d certainly answer an SOS.”
Ben grunted, studying the view screen again. It would be easy enough. A few deft maneuvers would bring the S-80 into alignment with the main entry lock. Then the standard grappling maneuvers would draw the little ship down with practically no impact onto the conveyor belt leading into the heart of the hollowed-out asteroid. A crew of Spacers ought to be on the alert to help grapple the ship and draw it in, closing down the pressure locks behind it. A simple matter, landing a ship on an outpost asteroid.
But Ben didn’t start the maneuvers. Instead, he ran down the signal lights on the control panel, checking out his missile tubes and launching apparatus to see that they were operating.
“What’s the matter?” Tom Barron asked.
“I don’t like this,” Ben said. “It’s just too quiet down there.”
“But it’s obviously been attacked,” Tom protested “There could be men dying down there.”
“I know.” For a moment Ben thought of the phantom ship that could not be seen, moving in with subtle menace to study his ship and course and then moving away again like a wraith. “Why are you so eager?” he asked Tom Barron suddenly. “What makes you so sure there’s anybody in there at all? Why the rush to go down there?”
Tom look chagrined. “I just thought you might be able to help, if — if somebody’s been hurt.”
Suspicion crystallized in Ben’s mind. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you already know what’s happened down there. Spies have been known to carry homing devices, hidden on their bodies. Maybe you’ve been in contact somehow with that ship we couldn’t see.”
“I never heard of that ship before,” Tom cried angrily. “Use your head! Would I be calling in a ship that might blow us all to flinders? Including my sister and me?”
“Maybe you’re just looking for a rescue,” Ben countered. “Or maybe you figure it would be worth getting blown up just to put a Spacer ship out of commission. Maybe your own military would figure that was a worthwhile sacrifice, if they could wipe out a Spacer ship.”
“You’re crazy. Our pilots aren’t bloodthirsty monsters.” Tom looked at the view screen. “As far as I know, nobody at home even knew for sure that I was aboard your ship when you pulled away from the raid. And I haven’t had any contact with anyone but you since.”
Ben looked at the sandy-haired Earthman, and came to a decision. “Maybe not,” he said. “But there’s one way to be sure.” He signaled Petro’s ship. “I’m going down,” he told the older Spacer. “Pull your ship back, well back, and cover me.”
He waited while Petro’s crippled ship drifted back away from him, then took the controls of the S-80 and nosed down toward the gaping hole of the outpost entry lock. The asteroid loomed larger in the view screen as Ben edged his ship closer; the SOS signal came through stronger by the moment.
And then, with his ship less than a thousand yards from the lock, the SOS stopped as abruptly as it had begun. A moment later Ben heard a cry from Petro as three cruiser-size Earth ships slid out from behind the asteroid, one on either side of him and one below.
He had walked straight into a ambush.
• • •
In the next few seconds Ben Trefon followed his reflexes with a swiftness he could never have copied by reason. He recognized the trap instantly; he was in a crossfire between the ships, with one avenue of escape cut off by the bulk of the asteroid. Landing, he knew, would be suicide. With a snarl he wrenched at the controls, twisting the little ship out of its smooth landing arc. Rockets flared from the belly of one of the Earth ships, and another turned a barrage of homing missiles out toward Petro’s crippled cruiser.
“Run for it, Petro!” Ben shouted. “It’s a trap!” In the same breath he turned to bring the nearest Earth ship into his hairline sights and fired three of his air-to-air missiles. Then without hesitation he fired his rear jets, nosing the S-80 down to follow the shells straight for the Earth ship’s hull. Somewhere near the ship he saw two bright flares as his defensive missiles detonated the Earth ship’s first barrage; moments later he was at close range with the hulking craft, firing off a swarm of wasps, the close-combat weapon that moved so swiftly and in such numbers that big defensive missiles could not stop them readily.
Two of the wasps struck the hull of the Earth ship, leaving a great gaping hole. Then two more struck, and then three more as Ben’s ship jerked with the recoil. Suddenly something in the Earth ship exploded. Great billows of flame poured out of the ship as it began rolling end-over-end away from him.
“One down,” Ben grated. “That leaves two to go.”
He was swinging his ship around when another flare of light caught his eye, off in the distance where Petro’s ship had been waiting. Frantically Ben signaled. There was no answer. Two more fireballs exploded from the crippled cruiser, major missile strikes, and the Spacer ship opened at the seams in dreadful slow motion. Fragments of hull flew out in all directions, only to be sucked back into the vortex of the fireball.
Numbly, Ben knew that Petro was gone, and the two remaining Earth ships were turning to converge their fire on him. “Strap down!” he shouted to the Barrons as he braced himself and seized the controls. Joyce went reeling back to the cots as Ben turned the ship in toward the flank of the closest Earth ship. But Tom Barron grabbed a shock bar and leaped into the weapon-control seat beside Ben.
“Get away from those guns,” Ben snarled.
“Shut up and move this tub,” Tom shot back at him. “Get it out of the crossfire. I’ll handle these things.”
Ben hesitated only an instant. Then he turned his full attention to the controls. The Earth ships were moving apart, trying to keep him in crossfire, and just as stubbornly he was moving out on the flank of the nearest one. If he could get one of the ships between him and the other, he would have only one ship to fight; homing missiles had no minds, and could not distinguish a friendly ship from a foe. The big Earth ship he was flanking seemed to recognize his intent. It started a lumbering turn, moving in toward its sister ship and holding its fire as it maneuvered. But the S-80 was lighter and faster. As the second ship emptied its missile tubes in a broadside barrage, Ben changed his plan. Swiftly, almost recklessly, he reversed direction, hurling himself and Tom up against the control panel as the null-grav units screamed in protest, and then dropped the S-80’s nose sharply down between the two Earth ships.
Tom had been waiting for an opening. Now, with his hairline sights centered on the most distant Earth ship, he began triggering the forward shells. Ben edged the ship in toward the other, staying in a direct line between the two. A moment later a dozen wasps moved out from their tubes at the rear, wavered at the confusion of target signals, and turned sharply on the nearer Earth ship. A shell full of scrap metal burst from the Earth ship’s tubes, scattering a wall of debris between them, and the S-80’s wasps began detonating like firecrackers, out of contact range.
Tom reached for the switch to launch another barrage of wasps, but Ben stopped him.
“Hold onto those,” he said. “Concentrate your fire on the farthest one.”
“But you’re getting too close to this one.”
“I know what I’m doing. Get set to let the other one have a barrage.”
The S-80 was close to the first Earth ship now, and closing in fast. But it was approaching on a side away from the missile tubes. Twice the great cruiser fired homing missiles, but the Spacer ship was too close, and the shells moved harmlessly out into space, finally homing on fragments of debris. Tom Barron was staring at the view screen now as the cruiser loomed up alarmingly. “Ben! You’re going to ram him!”
“Not quite.” Poised for the right instant, Ben slammed down the null-grav switches when the ship was just a few feet from the cruiser. Grappling plates shot out on cables from the S-80’s hull and clanged down on the hull of the Earth ship. “Get that other one, now! He can’t fire on us without blowing his pal here to pieces.”
Tom worked the weapon controls in a kind of frenzy, firing wasps, one at a time to break through the cruiser’s defenses. The Earth ship saw its predicament: it couldn’t fire back, and soon the wasps would exhaust its defensive missiles. For a moment the cruiser lay immobile and vulnerable; then as Tom fired three waves of heavy warhead missiles it seemed to gather its wits and tried to scurry clumsily out of the way of the oncoming shells. But it was too late. With defensive shells exhausted, two of the S-80’s missiles took the ship broadside. There was a mighty orange flare in the center of the ship; it seemed to split down the middle, the fragments breaking into still smaller fragments as the cruiser disintegrated.
“Good boy,” Ben said. “That evens the odds a little. Now let’s see what we can do with our friends here.”
He released the grappling plates. With a burst of side jets the Spacer craft jumped away from the cruiser’s hull. The Earth ship was waiting; with the S-80 so close she was helpless to attack, but the instant the Spacer ship cast off the cruiser moved around with amazing agility.
“They’re centering on us,” Tom cried out. “You’d better move this thing.”
“Hold on.” Ben hit the forward power, trying to slip in behind the asteroid for cover. But the Earth ship was already moving to block the maneuver. Missiles broke free from half a dozen forward tubes and sped toward the Spacer craft, keeping Tom busy launching counter missiles. Once again Ben tried to move so that the asteroid lay between him and the enemy, but the Earth ship was too nimble.
Ben glanced at Tom nervously. “How are our shells holding up?”
“They’re going fast. We’ll be in trouble pretty soon,” Tom said, checking the storage dials.
“Then use the wasps as much as you can. And the forward tubes have a couple of loads of scrap.”
As he talked, Ben was watching the movement of the Earth ship. This craft was not maneuvering clumsily like the other two. The pilot seemed to know his ship’s capabilities. More important, his thinking was uncomfortably in line with Ben’s, for he was anticipating every move Ben made. The two ships were circling the outpost asteroid now, with Ben trying desperately to get the great rock between him and the cruiser, while the Earth ship was equally determined not to let the Spacer craft out of its sights.
Ben worked the controls frantically as move was matched by counter-move. At every opportunity the cruiser was firing; sooner or later, Ben knew, a shell would get past the wasps, or the S-80’s supply of defensive weapons would be exhausted. He ducked the ship down close to the asteroid surface, watched as a warhead from the cruiser was caught by the magnetic bulk of the rock, deflected out of its homing course to detonate harmlessly on the surface.
It gave Ben an idea. For all of its pilot’s skill, the Earth ship was bigger, its reaction time slower than the little S-80. Ben fired his forward jets, moving his ship out in a great arc away from the asteroid. As he anticipated, the Earth ship moved out on his tail, following him doggedly as if waiting for the kill that was certain to come. Away from the rock, the Earth ship accelerated, moving in swiftly. Then, with side jets roaring, Ben cut his arc short and dropped the S-80’s nose back down to skim the surface of the asteroid.
This move took the cruiser by surprise. The Earth ship had been following him move for move; once again it followed suit. Intent on its prey, the pilot had momentarily forgotten the asteroid itself and cut his ship’s arc too short as he curved in to follow the Spacer. The cruiser’s pilot saw his error too late. Without the deft maneuverability of the Spacer craft, the Earth ship crashed broadside into the jagged rock surface of the asteroid, turned a great end-over-end flip and crashed down again, crumbling its main power jets. Ponderously the ship began to ricochet; grappling plates shot out toward the surface of the rock and the wounded vessel crunched down once again, raising a shower of dust and rock fragments in a halo around it.
Ben crowed in triumph, moving his little ship back for a better view. As he balanced the ship’s power at a distance of eight hundred yards, the Barrons crowded around him at the view screen.
“Got his tubes,” Ben said. “That’s why he grappled. He knew he’d be a helpless cripple off the surface.”
“You don’t think he can move?” Joyce asked.
“I think he would if he could. He knows we’ve still got fire power. If he could be running for it, he would be.” Ben stared in silence at the wreck below. “That was quite a trap,” he said finally. “They must have knocked out the outpost early in the game, and then just sucked in every Spacer ship that came along.”
“Well, it was a trap that didn’t work,” Tom said shakily. “He’s not going to chase you, and the other two ships are done for. You might as well get out of here before he calls for help.”
Ben scratched his jaw and continued to stare at the view screen. “Somebody must have survived the crash in order to throw out the grapplers.”
“Okay, why not let them alone?” Tom said. ‘They’re not going to hurt another Spacer ship. You could smash them to pieces with one shell, but what’s the use? That ship isn’t going to ambush anybody again.”
Ben shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking of firing on them,” he said. “I just don’t like leaving them. Seems to me you Earthmen once had a law of the woods, back when you had forests full of game. The law said that when you wound an animal, you go in after him.” He sat down at the controls, and began easing the ship down toward the wreckage of the Earth ship.
Tom and Joyce exchanged glances. “You’ve got room enough for a few survivors on this ship,” Joyce said. “They won’t give you any trouble.”
“I hope not.” Ben altered his course a little, peering at the view screen. He beamed a recognition signal, but there was no answer from the wrecked ship. He dropped lower, to within two hundred yards, and then began settling the S-80 gently down toward the battered hull.
He was within fifty yards of the surface when Tom let out a cry, and Ben saw the blunt muzzles of two missile tubes near the front of the wounded ship swivel upward. Ben’s hand shot out to the braking controls, reversing direction as the missile tubes coughed flame and two shells snaked up toward the Spacer ship like deadly arrows. The reverse slammed them against the control panel; frantically Ben triggered defensive shells from the rear tubes, but he knew as he did so that it was too late. Even if they stopped the cruiser’s shells before contact, they would take the full force of the concussion wave.
“Down!” he shouted. “Fast!” Leaping to his feet he caught Joyce Barron by the shoulders and hurled her to the deck beneath the acceleration cots. Tom dove for the deck on the other side of the cabin, arms covering his head. Ben hesitated just long enough to throw off the ship’s main power switch and then himself turned to hit the deck.
But his last move had taken a split second too long. Even as he turned he heard the deafening crash of the detonation. The rear bulkhead of the cabin bulged inward like a metal bubble and burst along its seams; something struck him a blow on the head as he fell forward to the deck. In that last second he saw an orange inferno behind the split bulkhead, felt himself picked up and hurled backward by the concussion wave and dumped in a heap against the control panel. There was pain and searing heat and blinding light as he lost consciousness.
But the greatest pain of all in that instant was the bitter realization that he had allowed himself to be trapped again.