The Spectre General

II

Conrad Krogson, Supreme Commander of War Base Three of Sector Seven of the Galactic Protectorate, stood at quaking attention before the visiscreen of his space communicator. It was an unusual position for the commander. He was accustomed to having people quake while he talked.

“The Lord Protector’s got another hot tip that General Carr is still alive!” said the sector commander. “He’s yelling for blood, and if it’s a choice between yours and mine, you know who will do the donating!”

“But, sir,” quavered Krogson to the figure on the screen, “I can’t do anything more than I am doing. I’ve had double security checks running since the last time there was an alert, and they haven’t turned up a thing. And I’m so shorthanded now that if I pull another random purge, I won’t have enough techs left to work the base.”

“That’s your problem, not mine,” said the sector commander coldly. “All I know is that rumors have got to the Protector that an organized underground is being built up and that Carr is behind it. The Protector wants action now. If he doesn’t get it, heads are going to roll!”

“I’ll do what I can, sir,” promised Krogson.

“I’m sure you will,” said the sector commander viciously, “because I’m giving you exactly ten days to produce something that is big enough to take the heat off me. If you don’t, I’ll break you, Krogson. If I’m sent to the mines, you’ll be sweating right alongside me. That’s a promise!”

Krogson’s face blanched.

“Any questions?” snapped the sector commander.

“Yes,” said Krogson.

“Well, don’t bother me with them. I’ve got troubles of my own!” The screen went dark.

Krogson slumped into his chair and sat staring dully at the blank screen. Finally he roused himself with an effort and let out a bellow that rattled the windows of his dusty office.

“Schninkle! Get in here!”

A gnomelike little figure scuttled in through the door and bobbed obsequiously before him.

“Yes, commander?”

“Switch on your think tank,” said Krogson. “The Lord Protector has the shakes again and the heat’s on!”

“What is it this time?” asked Schninkle.

“General Carr!” said the commander gloomily, “the ex-Number Two.”

“I thought he’d been liquidated.”

“So did I,” said Krogson, “but he must have slipped out some way. The Protector thinks he’s started up an underground.”

“He’d be a fool if he didn’t,” said the little man. “The Lord Protector isn’t as young as he once was and his grip is getting a little shaky.”

“Maybe so, but he’s still strong enough to get us before General Carr gets him. The Sector Commander just passed the buck down to me. We produce or else!”

“We?” said Schninkle unhappily.

“Of course,” snapped Krogson, “we’re in this together. Now let’s get to work! If you were Carr, where would be the logical place for you to hide out?”

“Well,” said Schninkle thoughtfully, “if I were as smart as Carr is supposed to be, I’d find myself a hideout right on Prime Base. Everything’s so fouled up there that they’d never find me.”

“That’s out for us,” said Krogson. “We can’t go rooting around in the Lord Protector’s own back yard. What would Carr’s next best bet be?”

Schninkle thought for a moment. “He might go out to one of the deserted systems,” he said slowly. “There must be half a hundred stars in our own base area that haven’t been visited since the old empire broke up. Our ships don’t get around the way they used to and the chances are mighty slim that anybody would stumble on to him accidentally.”

“It’s a possibility,” said the commander thoughtfully, “a bare possibility.” His right fist slapped into his left palm in a gesture of sudden resolution. “But by the Planets! at least it’s something! Alert all section heads for a staff meeting in half an hour. I want every scout out on a quick check of every system in our area!”

“Beg pardon, commander,” said Schninkle, “but half our light ships are red-lined for essential maintenance and the other half should be. Anyway it would take months to check every possible hideout in this area even if we used the whole fleet.”

“I know,” said Krogson, “but we’ll have to do what we can with what we have. At least I’ll be able to report to sector that we’re doing something! Tell Astrogation to set up a series of search patterns. We won’t have to check every planet. A single quick sweep through each system will do the trick. Even Carr can’t run a base without power. Where there’s power, there’s radiation, and radiation can be detected a long way off. Put all electronic techs on double shifts and have all detection gear double-checked.”

“Can’t do that either,” said Schninkle. “There aren’t more than a dozen electronic techs left. Most of them were transferred to Prime Base last week.”

Commander Krogson blew up. “How in the name of the Bloody Blue Pleiades am I supposed to keep a war base going without technicians? You tell me, Schninkle, you always seem to know all the answers.”

Schninkle coughed modestly. “Well, sir,” he said, “as long as you have a situation where technicians are sent to the uranium mines for making mistakes, it’s going to be an unpopular vocation. And, as long as the Lord Protector of the moment is afraid that Number Two, Number Three, and so on have ideas about grabbing his job—which they generally do—he’s going to keep his fleet as strong as possible and their fleets so weak they aren’t dangerous. The best way to do that is to grab techs. If most of the base’s ships are sitting around waiting repair, the commander won’t be able to do much about any ambitions he may happen to have. Add that to the obvious fact that our whole technology has been on a downward spiral for the last three hundred years and you have your answer.”

Krogson nodded gloomy agreement. “Sometimes I feel as if we were all on a dead ship falling into a dying sun,” he said. His voice suddenly altered. “But in the meantime we have our necks to save. Get going, Schninkle!”

Schninkle bobbed and darted out of the office.