Space Service Page 12

  “Sure thing,” said Kurt.

  A moment later the flashing of a green light on the control panel signaled that the pressure in the lock had reached normal.

  “Back in a minute,” said Ozaki. “You wait here.”

  There was a muted hum as the exit hatch swung slowly open. Two guards entered and stood silently beside Kurt as Ozaki left to report to Commander Krogson.

  XIII

  The battle fleet of War Base Three of Sector Seven of the Galactic Protectorate hung motionless in space twenty thousand kilometers out from Kurt’s home planet. A hundred tired detection techs sat tensely before their screens, sweeping the globe for some sign of energy radiation. Aside from the occasional light spatters caused by space static, their scopes remained dark. As their reports filtered in to Commander Krogson he became more and more exasperated.

  “Are you positive this is the right planet?” he demanded of Ozaki.

  “No question about it, sir.”

  “Seems funny there’s nothing running down there at all,” said Krogson. “Maybe they spotted us on the way in and cut off power.

  I’ve got a hunch that—” He broke off in mid sentence as the red top-priority light on the communication panel began to flash. “Get that,” he said. “Maybe they’ve spotted something at last.”

  The executive officer flipped on the vision screen and the interior of the flagship’s communication room was revealed.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir,” said the tech whose image appeared on the screen, “but a message just came through on the emergency band.”

  “What does it say?”

  The tech looked unhappy. “It’s coded, sir.”

  “Well, decode it!” barked the executive.

  “We can’t,” said the technician diffidently. “Something’s gone wrong with the decoder. The printer is pounding out random groups that don’t make any sense at all.”

  The executive grunted his disgust. “Any idea where the call’s coming from?”

  “Yes, sir; it’s coming in on a tight beam from the direction of Base. Must be from a ship emergency rig, though. Regular hyperspace transmission isn’t directional. Either the ship’s regular rig broke down or the operator is using the beam to keep anybody else from picking up his signal.”

  “Get to work on that decoder. Call back as soon as you get any results.” The tech saluted and the screen went black.

  “Whatever it is, it’s probably trouble,” said Krogson morosely. “Well, we’d better get on with this job. Take the fleet into atmosphere. It looks as if we are going to have to make a visual check.”

  “Maybe the prisoner can give us a lead,” suggested the executive officer.

  “Good idea. Have him brought in.”

  A moment later Kurt was ushered into the master control room. Krogson’s eyes widened at the sight of his scalp lock and paint.

  “Where in the name of the Galactic Spirit,” he demanded, “did you get that rig?”

  “Don’t you recognize an Imperial Space Marine when you see one?” Kurt answered coldly.

  The guard that had escorted Kurt in made a little twirling motion at his temple with one finger. Krogson took another look and nodded agreement.

  “Sit down, son,” he said in a fatherly tone. “We’re trying to get you home, but you’re going to have to give us a little help before we can do it. You see, we’re not quite sure just where your base is.”

  “I’ll help all I can,” said Kurt.

  “Fine!” said the commander, rubbing his palms together. “Now just where down there do you come from?” He pointed out the vision port to the curving globe that stretched out below.

  Kurt looked down helplessly. “Nothing makes sense, seeing it from up here,” he said apologetically.

  Krogson thought for a moment. “What’s the country like around your base?” he asked.

  “Mostly jungle,” said Kurt. “The garrison is on a plateau though, and there are mountains to the north.”

  Krogson turned quickly to his exec. “Did you get that description?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Get all scouts out for a close sweep. As soon as the base is spotted, move the fleet in and hover at forty thousand!”

  Forty minutes later a scout came streaking back.

  “Found it, sir!” said the exec. “Plateau with jungle all around and mountains to the north. There’s a settlement at one end. The pilot saw movement down there but they must have spotted us on our way in. There’s still no evidence of energy radiation. They must have everything shut down.”

  “That’s not good!” said Krogson. “They’ve probably got all their heavy stuff set up waiting for us to sweep over. We’ll have to hit them hard and fast. Did they spot the scout?”

  “Can’t tell, sir.”

  “We’d better assume that they did. Notify all gunnery officers to switch their batteries over to central control. If we come in fast and high and hit them with simultaneous fleet concentration, we can vaporize the whole base before they can take a crack at us.”

  “I’ll send the order out at once, sir,” said the executive officer.

  The fleet pulled into tight formation and headed toward the Imperial base. They were halfway there when the fleet gunnery officer entered the control room and said apologetically to Commander Krogson, “Excuse me, sir, but I’d like to suggest a trial run. Fleet concentration is a tricky thing and if something went haywire—we’d be sitting ducks for the ground batteries.”

  “Good idea,” said Krogson thoughtfully. “There’s too much at stake to have anything go wrong. Select an equivalent target and we’ll make a pass.”

  The fleet was now passing over a towering mountain chain.

  “How about that bald spot down there?” said the exec, pointing to a rocky expanse that jutted out from the side of one of the towering peaks.

  “Good enough,” said Krogson.

  “All ships on central control!” reported the gunnery officer.

  “On target!” reported the tech on the tracking screen. “One. Two. Three. Four—”

  Kurt stood by the front observation port watching the ground far below sweep by. He had been listening intently but what had been said didn’t make sense. There had been something about batteries—the term was alien to him—and something about the garrison. He decided to ask the commander what it was all about but the intentness with which Krogson was watching the tracking screen deterred him. Instead he gazed moodily down at the mountains below him.

  “Five. Six. Seven. Ready. FIRE!”

  A savage shudder ran through the great ship as her ground-pointed batteries blasted in unison. Seconds went by and then suddenly the rocky expanse on the shoulder of the mountain directly below twinkled as blinding flashes of actinic light danced across it. Then as Kurt watched, great masses of rock and earth moved slowly skyward from the center of the spurting nests of tangled flame. Still slowly, as if buoyed up by the thin mountain air, the debris began to fall back again until it was lost from sight in quick-rising mushrooms of jet-black smoke. Kurt turned and looked back toward

  Commander Krogson. Batteries must be the things that had torn the mountains below apart. And garrison—there was only one garrison!

  “I ordered fleet fire,” barked Krogson. “This ship was the only one that cut loose. What happened?”

  “Just a second, sir,” said the executive officer, “I’ll try and find out.” He was busy for a minute on the intercom system. “The other ships were ready, sir,” he reported finally. “Their guns were all switched over to our control but no impulse came through. Central fire control must be on the blink!” He gestured toward a complex bank of equipment that occupied one entire corner of the control room.

  Commander Krogson said a few appropriate words. When he reached the point where he was beginning to repeat himself, he paused and stood in frozen silence for a good thirty seconds.

  “Would you mind getting a fire-control tech in here to fix that obscenity ba
nk?” he asked in a voice that put everyone’s teeth on edge.

  The other seemed to have something to say but he was having trouble getting it out.

  “Well?” said Krogson.

  “Prime Base grabbed our last one two weeks ago. There isn’t another left with the fleet.”

  “Doesn’t look like much to me,” said Kurt as he strolled over to examine the bank of equipment.

  “Get away from there!” roared the commander. “We’ve got enough trouble without you making things worse.”

  Kurt ignored him and began to open inspection ports.

  “Guard!” yelled Krogson. “Throw that man out of here!”

  Ozaki interrupted timidly. “Beg pardon, commander, but he can fix it if anybody can.”

  Krogson whirled on the flight officer. “How do you know?” Ozaki caught himself just in time. If he talked too much he was likely to lose the scout that Kurt had fixed up for him.

  “Because he . . . eh . . . talks like a tech,” he concluded lamely. Krogson looked at Kurt dubiously. “I guess there’s no harm in giving it a trial,” he said finally. “Give him a set of tools and turn him loose. Maybe for once a miracle will happen.”

  “First,” said Kurt, “I’ll need the wiring diagrams for this thing.”

  “Get them!” barked the commander and an orderly scuttled out of the control, headed aft.

  “Next you’ll have to give me a general idea of what it’s supposed to do,” continued Kurt.

  Krogson turned to the gunnery officer. “You’d better handle this.” When the orderly returned with the circuit diagrams, they were spread out on the plotting table and the two men bent over them.

  “Got it!” said Kurt at last and sauntered over to the control bank. Twenty minutes later he sauntered back again.

  “She’s all right now,” he said pleasantly.

  The gunnery officer quickly scanned his testing board. Not a single red trouble light was on. He turned to Commander Krogson in amazement.

  “I don’t know how he did it, sir, but the circuits are all clear now.”

  Krogson stared at Kurt with a look of new respect in his eyes. “What were you down there, chief maintenance tech?”

  Kurt laughed. “Me? I was never chief anything. I spent most of my time on hunting detail.”

  The commander digested that in silence for a moment. “Then how did you become so familiar with fire-control gear?”

  “Studied it in school like everyone else does. There wasn’t anything much wrong with that thing anyway except a couple of sticking relays.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” interrupted the executive officer, “but should we make another trial run?”

  “Are you sure the bank is in working order?”

  “Positive, sir!”

  “Then we’d better make straight for that base. If this boy here is a fair example of what they have down there, their defenses may be too tough for us to crack if we give them a chance to get set up!”

  Kurt gave a slight start which he quickly controlled. Then he had guessed right! Slowly and casually he began to sidle toward the semicircular bank of controls that stood before the great tracking screen.

  “Where do you think you’re going!” barked Krogson.

  Kurt froze. His pulses were pounding within him but he kept his voice light and casual.

  “No place,” he said innocently.

  “Get over against the bulkhead and keep out of the way!” snapped the commander. “We’ve got a job of work coming up.”

  Kurt injected a note of bewilderment into his voice.

  “What kind of work?”

  Krogson’s voice softened and a look approaching pity came into his eyes. “It’s just as well you don’t know about it until it’s over,” he said gruffly.

  “There she is!” sang out the navigator, pointing to a tiny brown projection that jutted up out of the green jungle in the far distance. “We’re about three minutes out, sir. You can take over at any time now.”

  The fleet gunnery officer’s fingers moved quickly over the keys that welded the fleet into a single instrument of destruction, keyed and ready to blast a barrage of ravening thunderbolts of molecular disruption down at the defenseless garrison at a single touch on the master fire-control button.

  “Whenever you’re ready, sir,” he said deferentially to Krogson as he vacated the controls. A hush fell over the control room as the great tracking screen brightened and showed the compact bundle of white dots that marked the fleet crawling slowly toward the green triangle of the target area.

  “Get the prisoner out of here,” said Krogson. “There’s no reason why he should have to watch what’s about to happen.”

  The guard that stood beside Kurt grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the door.

  There was a sudden explosion of fists as Kurt erupted into action. In a blur of continuous movement he streaked toward the gunnery control panel. He was halfway across the control room before the pole-axed guard hit the floor. There was a second of stunned amazement, and then before anyone could move to stop him, he stood beside the controls, one hand poised tensely above the master stud that controlled the combined fire of the fleet.

  “Hold it!” he shouted as the moment of paralysis broke and several of the officers started toward him menacingly. “One move and I’ll blast the whole fleet into scrap!”

  They stopped in shocked silence, looking to Commander Krogson for guidance.

  “Almost on target, sir,” called the tech on the tracking screen. Krogson stalked menacingly toward Kurt. “Get away from those controls!” he snarled. “You aren’t going to blow anything to anything. All that you can do is let off a premature blast. If you are trying to alert your base, it’s no use. We can be on a return sweep before they have time to get ready for us.”

  Kurt shook his head calmly. “Wouldn’t do you any good,” he said. “Take a look at the gun ports on the other ships. I made a couple of minor changes while I was working on the control bank.”

  “Quit bluffing,” said Krogson.

  “I’m not bluffing,” said Kurt quietly. “Take a look. It won’t cost you anything.”

  “On target!” called the tracking tech.

  “Order the fleet to circle for another sweep,” snapped Krogson over his shoulder as he stalked toward the forward observation port. There was something in Kurt’s tone that had impressed him more than he liked to admit. He squinted out toward the nearest ship. Suddenly his face blanched!

  “The gun ports! They’re still closed!”

  Kurt gave a whistle of relief. “I had my fingers crossed,” he said pleasantly. “You didn’t give me enough time with the wiring diagrams for me to be sure that cutting out that circuit would do the trick. Now . . . guess what the results would be if I should happen to push down on this stud.”

  Krogson had a momentary vision of several hundred shells ramming their sensitive noses against the thick chrome steel of the closed gun ports.

  “Don’t bother trying to talk,” said Kurt, noticing the violent contractions of the commander’s Adam’s apple. “You’d better save your breath for my colonel.”

  “Who?” demanded Krogson.

  “My colonel,” repeated Kurt. “We’d better head back and pick him up. Can you make these ships hang in one place or do they have to keep moving fast to stay up?”

  The commander clamped his jaws together sullenly and said nothing.

  Kurt made a tentative move toward the firing stud.

  “Easy!” yelled the gunnery officer in alarm. “That thing has hair-trigger action!”

  “Well?” said Kurt to Krogson.

  “We can hover,” grunted the other.

  “Then take up a position a little to one side of the plateau.” Kurt brushed the surface of the firing stud with a casual finger. “If you make me push this, I don’t want a lot of scrap iron falling down on the battalion. Somebody might get hurt.”

  As the fleet came to rest above the plateau, the call light o
n the communication panel began to flash again.

  “Answer it,” ordered Kurt, “but watch what you say.”

  Krogson walked over and snapped on the screen.

  “Communications, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s that message we called you about earlier. We’ve finally got the decoder working—sort of, that is.” His voice faltered and then stopped.

  “What does it say?” demanded Krogson impatiently.

  “We still don’t know,” admitted the tech miserably. “It’s being decoded all right but it’s coming out in a North Vegan dialect that nobody down here can understand. I guess there’s still something wrong with the selector. All that we can figure out is that the message has something to do with General Carr and the Lord Protector.”

  “Want me to go down and fix it?” interrupted Kurt in an innocent voice.

  Krogson whirled toward him, his hamlike hands clinching and unclinching in impotent rage.

  “Anything wrong, sir?” asked the technician on the screen.

  Kurt raised a significant eyebrow to the commander.

  “Of course not,” growled Krogson. “Go find somebody to translate that message and don’t bother me until it’s done.”

  A new face appeared on the screen.

  “Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but translation won’t be necessary. We just got a flash from Detection that they’ve spotted the ship that sent it. It’s a small scout heading in on emergency drive. She should be here in a matter of minutes.”

  Krogson flipped off the screen impatiently. “Whatever it is, it’s sure to be more trouble,” he said to nobody in particular. Suddenly he became aware that the fleet was no longer in motion. “Well,” he said sourly to Kurt, “we’re here. What now?”

  “Send a ship down to the garrison and bring Colonel Harris back up here so that you and he can work this thing out between you. Tell him that Dixon is up here and has everything under control.” Krogson turned to the executive officer. “All right,” he said, “do what he says.” The other saluted and started toward the door.