Galactic Patrol

2: In Command

Barely a month after his graduation, even before he had entirely completed the postgraduate tours of duty mentioned by von Hohendorff, Kinnison was summoned to Prime Base by no less a personage than Port Admiral Haynes himself. There, in the Admiral's private aero, whose flaring lights cut a right–of–way through the swarming traffic, the novice and the veteran flew slowly over the vast establishment of the Base.

Shops and factories, city–like barracks, landing–fields stretching beyond the far horizon, flying craft ranging from tiny one–man helicopters through small and large scouts, patrol–ships and cruisers up to the immense, globular superdreadnaughts of space—all these were observed and commented upon. Finally the aero landed beside a long, comparatively low building—a structure heavily guarded, inside Base although it was—within which Kinnison saw a thing that fairly snatched away his breath.

A space–ship it was—but what a ship! In bulk it was vastly larger even than the superdreadnaughts of the Patrol, but, unlike them, it was .in shape a perfect teardrop, streamlined to the ultimate possible degree.

"What do you think of her?" the Port Admiral asked.

'Think of her!" The young officer gulped twice before he attained coherence. "I can't put it in words, sir, but some day, if I live long enough and develop enough force, I hope to command a ship like that."

"Sooner than you think, Kinnison," Haynes told him, flatly. "You are in command of her beginning tomorrow morning"

"Huh? Me?" Kinnison exclaimed, but sobered quickly. "Oh, I see, sir. It takes ten years of proved accomplishment to rate command of a first–class vessel, and I have no rating at all. You have already intimated that this ship is experimental. There is, then, something about her that is new and untried, and so dangerous that you do not want to risk an experienced commander in her. I am to give her a work–out, and if I can bring her back in one piece I turn her over to her real captain. But that's all right with me, Port Admiral—thanks a lot for picking me out. What a chance—What a chance!" and Kinnison's eyes gleamed at the prospect of even a brief command of such a creation.

"Right—and wrong," the old Admiral made surprising answer. "It is true that she is new, untried, and dangerous, so much so that we are unwilling to give her to any of our present captains. No, she is not really new, either. Rather, her basic idea is so old that it has been abandoned for centuries. She uses explosives, of a type that cannot be tried out fully except in actual combat. Her primary weapon is what we have called the 'Q–gun'. The propellant is heptadetonite, the shell carries a charge of twenty metric tons of duodecaplylatomate."

'But, sir…" Kinnison began.

"Just a minute, I'll go into that later. While your premises were correct, your conclusion is not. You graduated Number One, and in every respect save experience you are as well qualified to command as is any captain of, the Fleet, and since the Brittania is such a radical departure from any conventional type, battle experience is not a prerequisite. Therefore if she holds together through one engagement she is yours for good. In other words, to make up for the possibility of having yourself scattered all over space, you have a chance to win that ten years' rating you mentioned a minute ago, all in one trip. Fair enough?"

"Fair? It's fine—wonderful! And thanks a…"

"Never mind the thanks until you get back. You were about to comment, I believe, upon the impossibility of using explosives against a free opponent?"

"It can't be impossible, of course, since the Brittania has

been built. I just don't quite see how it could have been made effective."

"You lock to the pirate with tractors, screen to screen—about ten kilometers. You blast a hole through his screens to his wall–shield. The muzzle of the Q– gun mounts as annular multiplex projector which puts out a Q–type tube of force—Q47SM9, to be exact. As you can see from the type formula, this helix extends the gun–barrel from ship to ship and confines the propellent gases behind the projectile, where they belong. When the shell strikes the wall– shield of the pirate and detonates, something will have to give wayall the Brains agree that twenty tons of duodec, attaining a temperature of about forty million degrees absolute in less than one micro– second, simply cannot be confined.

"The tube and tractors, being pure force and computed for this particular combination of explosions, will hold, and our physicists have calculated that the tenkilometer column of inert propellent gases will offer so much inertia and resistance that any possible wall–shield will have to go down. That is the point that cannot be tried out experimentally—it is quite within the bounds of possibility that the pirates may have been able to develop wall–screens as powerful as our Q–type helices, even though we have not.

"It should not be necessary to point out to you that if they have been able to develop a wall–shield that will stand up under those conditions, the back–blast through the breech of the Q–gun will blow the Brittania apart as though she were so much matchwood. That is only one of the chances—and perhaps not the greatest one—that you and your crew will have to take. They are all volunteers, by the way, and will get plenty of extra rating if they come through alive. Do you want the job?"

"You don't have to ask me that, Chief—you know I want it!"

"Of course, but I had to go through the formality of asking, sometime. But to get on with the discussion, this pirate situation is entirely out of control, as you already know. We doe t even know whether Boskone is a reality, a figurehead, a symbol, or simply a figment of an old–time Lensman's imagination. But whoever or whatever Boskone really is, some being or some group of beings has perfected a mighty efficient organization of outlaws, so efficient that we haven't even been able to locate their main base.

"And you may as well know now a fact that is not yet public property— that even conveyed vessels are no longer safe. The pirates have developed ships of a new and extraordinary type, ships that are much faster than our heavy battleships, and yet vastly more heavily armed than our fast cruisers. Thus, they can outfight any Patrol vessel that can catch them, and can out–run anything of ours armed heavily enough to stand up against their beams."

"That accounts for the recent heavy losses," Kinnison mused.

"Yes," Haynes went on, grimly. "Ship after ship of our best has been blasted out of the ether, doomed before it pointed a beam, and more will be. We cannot force an engagement on our terms, we must fight them where and when they please.

"That is the present intolerable situation. We must learn what the pirates' new power–system is. Our scientists say that it may be anything, from cosmic– energy receptors and converters down to a controlled space–warp—whatever that may be. Anyway, they haven't been able to duplicate it, so it is up to us to find out what it is. The Brittania is the tool our engineers have designed to get that information. She is the fastest thing in space, developing at full blast an inert acceleration of ten gravities. Figure out for yourself what velocity that means free in open space!"

"You have just said that we can't have everything in one ship," Kinnison said, thoughtfully. "What did they sacrifice to get that speed?"

"All the conventional offensive armament," Haynes replied frankly. "She has no long–range beams at all, and only enough short–range stuff to help drive the Q– helix through the enemy's screens. Practically her only offense is the Qgun. But she has plenty of defensive screens, she has speed enough to catch anything afloat, and she has the Q–gun—which we hope will be enough.

"Now well go over the general plan of action. The engineers will go into all the technical details with you, during a test flight that will last as long as you like. When you and your crew'are thoroughly familiar with every phase of her operation, bring the engineers back here to Base and go out on patrol.

"Now we'll go over the general plan of action. Then engineers will go into all the technical details with you, during a test flight that will last as long as you like. When you and your crew are thoroughly familiar with every phase of her operation, bring the engineers back here to Base and go out on patrol.

"Somewhere in the galaxy you will find a pirate vessel of the new type. You lock to him, as I said before. You attach the Q–gun well forward, being sure that the point of attachment is far enough away from the power–rooms so that the essential mechanisms will not be destroyed. You board and storm— another revival of the technique of older time. Specialists in your crew, who will have done nothing much up to that time, will then find out what our scientists want to know. If at all possible they will send it in instantly via tight–beam communicator. If for any reason it should be impossible for them to communicate, the whole thing is again up to you."

The Port Admiral paused, his eyes boring into those of the younger man, then went on impressively.

"That information MUST get back to Base. If it does not, the Brittania is a failure, we will be back right where we started from, the slaughter of our men and the destruction of our ships will continue unchecked. As to how you are to do it we cannot give even general instructions. All I can say is that you have the most important assignment in the Universe today, and repeat—that information MUST GET BACK TO BASE. Now come aboard and meet your crew and the engineers."

Under the expert tutelage of the designers and builders of the Brittania Lieutenant Kinnison drove her hither and thither through the trackless wastes of the galaxy. Inert and free, under every possible degree of power he maneuvered her, attacking imaginary foes and actual meteorites with equal zeal. Maneuvered and attacked until he and his ship were one, until he reacted automatically to her slightest demand until he and every man of his eager and highly trained crew knew to the final volt and to the ultimate ampere her gargantuan capacity both to give it and to take it.

Then and only then did he return to Base, unload the engineers, and set out upon the quest. Trail after trail he followed, but all were cold. Alarm after alarm he answered, but always he arrived too late, arrived to find gutted merchantman and riddled Patrol vessel, with no life in either and with nothing to indicate in which direction the marauders might have gone.

Finally, however.

"QBT! Calling QBT!" The Britannia's code call blared from the sealed–band speaker, and a string of numbers followed—the spatial coordinates of the luckless vessel's position.

Chief Pilot Henry Henderson punched the figures upon his locator, and in the "tank"—the enormous, minutely cubed model of the galaxy—there appeared a redly brilliant point of light. Kinnison rocketed out of his narrow bunk, digging sleep out of his eyes, and shot himself into place beside the pilot.

"Right in our laps!" he exulted. "Scarcely ten light–years away! Start scrambling the ether(" and as the vengeful cruiser darted toward the scene of depredation all space became filled with blast after blast of static interference through which, it was hoped, the pirate could not summon the help he was so soon to need.

But that howling static gave the pirate commander pause. Surely this was something new? Before him lay a richlyladen freighter, its two convoying ships already practically out of action. A few more minutes and the prize would be his. Nevertheless he darted away, swept the ether with his detectors, saw the Britannia, and turned in headlong flight. For if this streamlined fighter was sufficiently convinced of its prowess to try to blanket the ether against hint, that information was something that Boskone would value far above one shipload of material wealth.

But the pirate craft was now upon the visiplates of the Britannia, and, entirely ignoring the crippled space–ships, Henderson flung his vessel after the other. Manipulating his incredibly complex controls purely by touch, the while staring into his plate not only with his eyes, but with every fiber of his being as well, he hurled his huge mount hither

and thither in frantic leaps. After what seemed an age he snapped down a toggle switch and relaxed long enough to grin at Kinnison.

"Holding 'em?" the young commander demanded.

"Got 'em, Skipper," the pilot replied, positively. "It was touch and go for ninety seconds, but I've got a CRX tracer on him now at full pull. He cant put out enough jets to get away from that—I can hold him forever!"

"Fine work, Hen!" Kinnison strapped himself into his seat and donned his headset. "General call! Attention! Battle stations! By stations, report!"

"Station One, tractor beams—hot!"

"Station Two, repellors—hot!"

"Station Three, projector One—hot!"

Thus station after station of the warship of the void reported, until.

"Station Fifty–Eight, the Q–gun—hot!" Kinnison himself reported, then gave to the pilot the words which throughout the spaceways of the galaxy had come to mean complete readiness to face any emergency.

"Hot and tight, Hen—let's take 'em!"

The pilot shoved his blast–lever, already almost at maximum, clear out against its atop and hunched himself even more intently over his instruments, varying by infinitesimals the direction of the thrust that was driving the Britannia toward the enemy at the unimaginable velocity of ninety parsecs an hour—a velocity possible only to inertialess matter being urged through an almost perfect vacuum by a driving blast capable of lifting the stupendous normal tonnage of the immense sky–rover against a gravity ten times that of her native Earth.

Unimaginable? Completely so—the ship of the Galactic Patrol was hurling herself through space at a pace in comparison with which any speed that the mind can grasp would be the merest crawl, a pace to make light itself seem stationary.

Ordinary vision would have been useless, but the observers of that day used no antiquated optical systems. Their detector beams, converted into light only at their plates, were heterodyned upon and were carried by subetheral ultra–waves, vibrations residing far below the level of the ether and thus possessing a velocity and a range infinitely greater than those of any possible ether–borne wave.

Although stars moved across the visiplates in flaming, zig–zag lines of light as pursued and pursuer passed solar system after solar system in fantastic, light–years–long hops, yet Henderson kept his cruiser upon the pirate's tail and steadily cut down the distance between them. Soon a tractor beam licked out from the Patrol ship, touched the fleeing marauder lightly, and the two space– ships flashed toward each other.

Nor was the enemy unprepared for combat. One of the crack raiders of Boskone, master pirate of the known Universe, she had never before found difficulty in conquering any vessel fleet enough to catch her. Therefore, her commander made no attempt to cut the beans. Or rather, since the two inertialess vessels flashed together to repellor–zone contact in such a minute fraction of a second that any human action within that time was impossible, it would be more correct to say that the pirate captain changed his tactics instantly from those of flight to those of combat.

He thrust out tractor beams of his own, and from the already white–hot refractors throats of his projectors there raved out horribly potent beams of annihilation, beams of dreadful power which tore madly at the straining defensive screens of the Patrol ship. Screens flared vividly, radiating all the colors of the spectrum. Space itself seemed a rainbow gone mad, for there were being exerted there forces of a magnitude to stagger the imagination, forces to be yielded only by the atomic might from which they sprang, forces whose neutralization set up visible strains in the very fabric of the ether itself.

The young commander clenched his fists and swore a startled deep–space oath as red lights flashed and alarmbells clanged. His screens were leaking like sieves—practically down—needle after needle of force incredible stabbing at and through his wall–shield—four stations gone already and more going l

"Scrap the plan!" he yelled into his microphone. "Open everything to absolute top—short out all resistors—give 'em everything you can put through the bare bus–bars. Dalhousie, cut all your repellors, bung us right up to their zone. All you beamers, concentrate on Area Five. Break down those screens!' Kinnison was hunched rigidly over his panel, his voice came grittily through locked teeth. "Get through to that wallshield so I can use this Q–gun!"

Under the redoubled force of the Britannia's attack the defenses of the enemy began to fail. Kinnison's hands flew over his controls. A port opened in the Patrol–ship's armored side and an ugly snout protruded—the projector–ringed muzzle of a squat and monstrous cannon. From its projector bands there leaped out with the velocity of light a tube of quasi–solid force which was in effect a continuation of the gun's grim barrel, a tube which crashed through the weakened third screen of the enemy with a spacewracking shock and struck savagely, with writhing, twisting thrusts, at the second. Aided by the massed concentration of the Britannia's every battery of short–range beams, it went through. And through the first. Now it struck the very wall–shield of the outlaw—that impregnable screen which, designed to bear the brunt of any possible inert collision, had never been pierced or ruptured by any material substance, however applied.

To this inner defense the immaterial gun–barrel clung. Simultaneously the tractor beams, hitherto exerting only a few dynes of force, stiffened into unbreakable, inflexible rods of energy, binding the two ships of apace into one rigid system, each, relative to the other, immovable.

Then Kinnison's flying finger tip touched a button and the Q–gun spoke. From its sullen throat there erupted a huge torpedo. Slowly the giant projectile crept along, watched in awe and amazement by the officers of both vessels. For to those spacehardened veterans the velocity of light was a veritable crawl, and here was a thing that would require four or five whole seconds to cover a mere ten kilometers of distance.

But, although slow, this bomb weight prove dangerous, therefore the pirate commander threw his every resource into attempts to cut the tube of force, to blast away from the tractor beams, to explode the sluggish missile before it could reach his wall–shield. In vain, for the Britannia's every beam was set to protect the torpedo and the mighty rods of energy without whose grip the inertialess mass of the enemy vessel would offer no resistance whatever to the force of the proposed explosion.

Slowly, so slowly, as the age–long seconds crawled into eternity, there extended from Patrol ship almost to pirate wall a raging, white–hot pillar— the gases of combustion of the propellant heptadetonite—ahead of which there rushed the Q–gun's tremendous shell with its horridly destructive freight. What would happen? Could even the almost immeasurable force of that frightful charge of atomic explosive break down a wall–shield designed to withstand the cosmic assaults of meteoric missiles? And what would happen if that wall–screen held?

In spite of himself Kinnison's mind insisted upon painting the ghastly picture, the awful explosion, the pirate's screen still intact, the forward– rushing gases driven backward along the tube of force. The bare metal of the Q– gun's breech, he knew, was not and could not be reenforced by the infinitely stronger, although immaterial shields of pure energy which protected the hull, and no conceivable substance, however resistant, could impede save momentarily the unimaginable forces about to be unleashed.

Nor would there be time to release the Q–tube after the explosion but before the Brittania's own destruction, for if the enemy's shield stayed up for even a fraction of a second the unthinkable pressure of the blast would propagate backward through the already densely compressed gases in the tube, would sweep away as though it were nothing the immensely thick metallic barrier of the gun– breech, and would wreak within the bowels of the Patrol vessel a destruction even more complete than that intended for the foe.

Nor were his men in better case. Each knew that this was the climactic instant of his existence, that life itself hung poised upon the issue of the next split second. Hurry it up! Snap into it! Will that crawling, creeping thing never strike?

Some prayed briefly, some swore bitterly, but prayers and curses were alike unconscious and had precisely the same meaning—each—each man, white of face and grim of jaw, clenched his hands and waited, tense and straining, for the impact.