Contraband From Otherspace

XV

Sonya asked sharply, "And what else have you to report?"

"I… I have been listening."

"That’s what you’re paid for. And what have you picked up?"

"There’s a general alarm out. To all ships, and to Faraway Ultimo and Thule, and to the garrisons on Tharn, Mellise and Grollor…"

"And to Stree?"

"No. Nothing at all to Stree."

"It makes sense," murmured the woman. "It makes sense. Tharn, with its humanoids living in the equivalent of Earth’s Middle Ages. Grollor, with just the beginnings of an industrial culture. Mellise, with its intelligent amphibians and no industries, no technology at all. Our mutant friends must have found the peoples of all those worlds a push-over."

"But Stree… We don’t know just what powers-psychic? psionic?—those philosophical lizards can muster, and we’re on friendly terms with them. So…"

"So we might get help there," said Grimes. "It’s worth considering. Meanwhile, Mr. Mayhew, has there been any communication with the anti-matter worlds to the Galactic West?"

"No, sir."

"And any messages to our next door neighbors—the Shakespearian Sector, the Empire of Waverly?"

"No, sir."

Grimes smiled—but it was a cold smile. "Then this is, without doubt, a matter for the Confederacy. The legalities of it all are rather fascinating…"

"The illegalities, Skipper," said Williams. "But I don’t mind being a pirate in a good cause."

"You don’t mind being a pirate. Period," said Sonya.

"Too bloody right I don’t. It makes a change."

"Shall we regard ourselves as liberators?" asked Grimes, but it was more an order than a question. "Meanwhile, Commander Williams, I suggest that we set course for Stree. And you, Mr. Mayhew, maintain your listening watch. Let me know at once if there are any other vessels in our vicinity—even though they haven’t Mass Proximity Indicators they can still pick up our temporal precession field, and synchronize."

"And what are your intentions when you get to Stree, sir?" asked the Major.

"As I told the Admiral, I play by ear." He unstrapped himself from his chair and, closely followed by Sonya, led the way to the control room. He secured himself in his seat and watched Williams as the Commander went through the familiar routine of setting course—Mannschenn Drive off, directional gyroscopes brought into play to swing the ship to her new heading, the target star steadied in the cartwheel sight, the brief burst of power from the reaction drive. Mannschenn Drive cut in again. The routine was familiar, and the surroundings in which it was carried out were familiar, but he still found it hard to adjust to the near nudity of himself and his officers. But Williams, with only three bands of indigo dye on each thick, hairy wrist to make his rank, was doing the job as efficiently as he would have done had those bands been gold braid on black cloth.

"On course, Skipper," he announced.

"Thank you, Commander Williams. All off duty personnel may stand down. Maintain normal deep space watches." Accompanied by his wife, he returned to his quarters.

It was, at first and in some respects, just another voyage.

In the Mannschenn Drive Room the complexity of spinning gyroscopes precessed, tumbled, quivered on the very edge of invisibility, pulling the ship and all her people with them down the dark dimensions, through the warped continuum, down and along the empty immensities of the rim of space.

But, reported Mayhew, they were not alone. There were other ships, fortunately distant, too far away for Freedom’s wake through Space-Time to register on their instruments.

It was more than just another voyage. There was the hate and the fear with which they were surrounded, said Mayhew. He, of course, was listening only—the other operators were sending. There were warships in orbit about Lorn, Faraway, Ultimo and Thule; there were squadrons hastening to take up positions off Tharn, Mellise, Grollor and Stree. And the orders to single vessels and to fleets were brutally simple: Destroy on sight.

"What else did you expect?" said Sonya, when she was told.

"I thought," said Grimes, "that they might try to capture us."

"Why should they? As far as they know we’re just a bunch of escaped slaves who’ve already tried their hand at piracy. In any case, I should hate to be captured by those… things."

"Xenophobia—from you, of all people?"

"No… not Xenophobia. Real aliens one can make allowances for. But these aren’t real aliens. They’re a familiar but dangerous pest, a feared and hated pest that’s suddenly started fighting us with our own weapons. We have never had any cause to love them—human beings have gotten, at times, quite sentimental over mice, but never rats—and they’ve never had any cause to love us. A strong, mutual antipathy… ." Absently she rubbed the fading scar between her breasts with her strong fingers.

"What do you make of this squadron dispatched to Stree?"

"A precautionary measure. They think that we might be making for there, and that they might be able to intercept us when we emerge into normal Space-Time. But according to Mayhew, there have been no psionic messages to planetary authorities, as there have been to the military governments on Tharn, Mellise and Grollor." She said, a note of query in her voice, "We shall make it before they do?"

"I think so. I hope so. Our Mannschenn Drive unit is running flat out. It’s pushed to the safety limits. And you know what will happen if the governor packs up."

"I don’t know," she told him. "Nobody knows. I do know most of the spacemen’s fairy stories about what might happen."

"Once you start playing around with Time, anything might happen," he said. "The most important thing is to be able to take advantage of what happens."

She grinned. "I think I can guess what’s flitting through your apology for a mind."

"Just an idea," he said. "Just an idea. But I’d like to have a talk with those saurian philosophers before I try to do anything about it."

"If we get there before that squadron," she said.

"If we don’t, we may try out the idea before we’re ready to. But I think we’re still leading the field."

"What’s that?" she demanded suddenly.

That was not a noise. That was something that is even more disturbing in any powered ship traversing any medium—a sudden cessation of noise.

The buzzer that broke the tense silence was no proper substitute for the thin, high keening of the Mannschenn Drive.

It was the officer of the watch, calling from Control. "Commodore, sir, O.O.W. here. Reporting breakdown of interstellar drive."

Grimes did not need to be told. He had experienced the uncanny sensation of temporal disorientation when the precessing gyroscopes slowed, ceased to precess. He said, "Don’t bother the engineers—every second spent answering the telephone means delay in effecting repairs. I’ll be right up."

"Looks as though our friends might beat us to Stree after all," remarked Sonya quietly.

"That’s what I’m afraid of," said Grimes.