“What the hell is going on, Damon?” Beckhart’s
voice had a saw-toothed edge. “Storm and the Sangaree woman
were in that park. Storm called to say he was going in after her.
McClennon’s men admit he went in. You chased the Seiner woman
in there. Four people. Where the hell are they now?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the Major confessed.
“We went in as soon as we knew where to look. They
weren’t there anymore.”
“No shit? You’re aware that three of those people
are professionals, aren’t you?”
“Yes sir. And two of them are ours, with no reason to
run.”
“One of them. I’m not sure what McClennon thinks he
is. It’s not his fault, but he has his head on backwards and
it’s falling apart. He probably doesn’t know who he is
or who he’s working for half the time. He’s the one
I’m worried about. He needs psychiatric attention
fast.”
Beckhart massaged his forehead. He was growing a bitch of a
headache. Just when it looked like he had it nailed
down . . . He had to snag Thomas or his woman
before Gruber called his bluff. He had to show at the Yards before
the harvestfleets extricated themselves from the standoff at
Stars’ End. He had to move before the Sangaree raidfleet
learned about Homeworld.
“Why the hell did that idiot Kindervoort have to go and
kill himself?”
“He evidently had strong feelings.”
“They’re a stiff-necked mob. I’ve never
figured them out. That damned Payne is still up there making
nasty talk. With three squadrons sitting on his back.”
“Just pride talking, sir.”
“We screwed up, Damon. If we don’t find those
people, alive, we’re had. We. Do I make myself
clear?”
“Abundantly, Admiral. I’ve got all my men digging.
The local police don’t have any decent tracking gear, but
it’s still only a matter of time.”
“The shorter the time, the better, Major. High Command is
breathing down my neck. The CSN has a personal stake in what
we’re doing. He isn’t very fond of me. So don’t
forget that water and horseshit both go downhill.”
“Message received, Admiral.”
“Good. Get out there and find them. And don’t forget
that they’re professionals.”
The Marines did not turn up a trace all night. Beckhart spent
the time tossing, sharing his cot with a cruel dread.
He was afraid the Sangaree woman had gotten the drop on Storm
and McClennon and had spirited them out of the city. She had gotten
out once before.
Time trudged along. The tension built. He began snapping at
everyone around him. “Like a mad dog,” he overheard one
of his technical ratings say.
That hit him like ice water. It made him count ten before
speaking. He had an image of himself as a reasonable, fair, and
fatherly superior. His pride demanded that he treat his
subordinates well.
After thirty hours he locked himself in his tiny cubicle of an
office. He drank coffee, gobbled aspirin, and wondered if he was
too old to start praying.
“Admiral!” an excited voice called through the
closed door. “Comm call. Field channel three. It’s
McClennon, sir.”
Beckhart slapped his drab Navy comm unit, muffing the channel
selection twice. “Come on, you bastard.” A moment
later, “Thomas? Where the hell are you, son? What’s
going on? Where’s Mouse? You all right?”
“We’re fine. Mouse is tied up at the moment.”
McClennon giggled. “All three of them are.”
He’s gone, Beckhart thought. Cracked completely.
“Where are you, Thomas?”
“Around and about. Right now I’m here.”
“McClennon . . . Report to me
immediately. In person.”
“No sir.”
“What? Thomas, the whole damned thing is going
down . . . ” What was McClennon up
to?
“Give me one little thing, Admiral. That’s all
I’m asking. One thing, and I give you Stars’ End on a
platter.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? When did
Commanders start bargaining with Admirals?”
“Captain.”
“That can be rectified. McClennon, I’m tired and
I’m aggravated. Don’t give me any shit. Tell me where
you are so I can send somebody to pick you up.”
“No sir. Not till I get what I want. I’ve got
something you need. You give me something back. You want to talk
about it?”
“I’ll listen, Thomas. That’s all.”
That’s all. Had anyone had sense enough to try for a fix on
McClennon’s transceiver? Probably not. Too much to expect of
these people.
“It’s simple, Admiral. I’ll give you the
coordinates for the Yards after you execute some instrument
guaranteeing the Starfishers’ independence. Recognize them as
an independent political entity. Offer to exchange embassies. Offer
mutual non-aggression pacts. All those kinds of things that will
make it hard for Luna Command to subjugate them without a big
public outcry.”
“Holy shit. You’re out of your mind.”
“I know it.” Beckhart heard McClennon’s pain
and fear. The man was scared silly. He knew he was on the edge.
“It’s getting worse. I need help, Chief. But I’ve
got to do this first.”
“Thomas, the answer is no. You know damned well that I
couldn’t agree to something like that even if I wanted. Which
I don’t, I don’t have the power.”
“High Command does. I’ll listen on this channel. You
let me know when the treaties are ready.”
“Thomas, you’re committing suicide. You’re
throwing your career away.”
“Really? You mean you haven’t used me up
yet?”
“Thomas . . . You can’t hide
from me forever.”
“I can try, Admiral. I can sure as hell try.”
“Thomas, I’m going to have your balls for
breakfast . . . Shit!” He was talking to
himself. McClennon was gone.
He hurled a half-finished mug of coffee across his office. The
brown liquid dribbled down the wall, onto a stack of memos that had
accumulated while he worried.
Someone knocked.
“Enter.”
Major Damon stepped in. “We triangulated the call, sir. No
luck. He wired a standard Navy comm into a public box and made the
call from a public box somewhere else.”
“I told you we’re dealing with professionals. But
let’s consider the bright side. It’s a small city, and
he has three prisoners to watch, feed, and keep clean. He’ll
make a mistake. Storm will jump him. Or we’ll find him. Keep
looking.”
Damon left. Beckhart cleaned up his coffee mess, settled into
his chair. He felt better. Almost relaxed. The worst possibilities
were, for the moment, no more than ghosts of evil chance.
He made some elementary calculations. The lead time he had on
the Seiners if he and they started for the Yards together.
Stars’ End was eight days rimward of The Broken Wings. The
Yards were somewhere back toward the Inner Worlds. How long till a
Sangaree courier reached Stars’ End with the news about
Homeworld?
The Sangaree had no known shipboard instel capacity. They
communicated by courier exclusively. So his agents told him. So he
hoped. The scheme depended on a long news lag and Starfisher
stubbornness.
He smiled. If the fastest ship known had left Homeworld
immediately after von Drachau’s
attack . . . He should have fourteen more
days.
“Thomas, there’s no way you can stay ahead of me for
two weeks. Not in this burg.”
Confidence soon yielded to doubt. High Command withdrew his
Marines over his protest. The doubts grew stronger. On day seven
the CSN personally called. Beckhart could conceal the truth no
longer. He covered for McClennon by declining to name names.
He was loyal to his men. Thomas was no turncoat. He was a victim
of his occupation and faulty technical preparation. Sooner or later
every agent encountered the crisis. McClennon had had the
misfortune to hit his at an historically inopportune moment.
Heads were going to roll among the Psych crew! On day eleven
Beckhart came to the conclusion that the first head lost would be
his own. The CSN kept making sounds like a happy executioner
sharpening his axe.
“Come in, Major. I take it you’re going to tell me
the same old thing?”
“Unfortunately, sir. He’s just not leaving any
tracks. We did find a cellar this morning that someone had been
using, but they were long gone when we broke in. We’ve
covered sixty percent of the city now. We’re reasonably sure
he hasn’t slipped back into what we’ve
covered.”
“Reasonably sure? Damon, I don’t want reasonably
sure. I want absodamnposilutely sure.”
“And instead of sixty local police reservists, I want my
battalion of Marine MPs.”
“What could I do? They took them,” he said into
Beckhart’s scowl. “I see it taking seven or eight days
of searching with what we have, Major. We don’t have that
much time.”
“The probability of contact is going up faster now, sir.
He has less room to maneuver. The computers almost guarantee
we’ll find him within five days. The statistical profile is
against him. I’ve had my people stop using the regular comm
nets. He may have been monitoring our traffic.”
“Of course he was. He’s crazy, not stupid. All
right. Carry on.”
Beckhart leaned back, thought, Thomas, I’ve got to give
you credit. You’re good when you have to be. And, what the
hell is wrong with Storm? He should have done something by now. He
knows McClennon better than anybody else. He’s the best man
I’ve got.
Was the little bastard in on it? The possibility had not
occurred before. Mouse was the perfect agent. You did not suspect
his loyalty.
But Storm’s loyalty was to his dream of exterminating the
Sangaree, of avenging his family. He had no motive but habit for
taking a Bureau line in this. And he and McClennon had become close
friends. They had done too many missions together . . .
They might have cooked this whole thing up with that Seiner
bitch.
“Admiral. The CSN on instel, relay from
Assyrian.”
“Oh, Christ. Again?”
“He sounds upset.”
“He’s always upset. Switch him through.”
A moment later, “Good morning, sir.”
“You found that man yet?”
“No sir. We’re closing in. The computers say
we’ll have him any time now.”
“I’ve got computers too, Beckhart. And a lot more
input resources. I have the Sangaree raidmaster at Stars’ End
getting the word sometime day after tomorrow. We don’t know
what those people will do. Maybe go crazy. I’ve ordered the
attack squadrons back off courier intercept. That’s hopeless.
They’ll return to Carson’s and Sierra. Hittite
is moving up to Blackworld. Two Conqueror Class reserve attack
squadrons are moving into the Twenty-First Transverse in case they
break through the Twenty-Third. What concerns me more than the
Sangaree, though, is what Gruber is going to do when he’s
free to deploy. I’d guess he’d head for the Yards. From
what I’ve been told, if he gets there ahead of you, we lose.
There’s supposedly no way we can root them out, and no way to
get close enough to deliver the threatened nova bomb. This
isn’t news to you. I repeat it in case you’ve lost
sight of the facts. Your loyalty to your people is laudable,
but . . . ”
“I’m aware of the problem, sir. It was my intention
to calculate a most probable quadrant and send von Drachau to wait
there while I rooted this man out. That would give us a few extra
days, added to the lead time we have because of the additional
distance from Stars’ End to the Yards.”
“You’re dealing with a stubborn man, Beckhart. You
haven’t found him yet, let alone gotten him to talk. You
apparently know him. How long can he hold out after you take
him?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Beckhart did not like
admitting that. It was a question he had been trying to ignore. He
had not come out equipped for mind probing. He had not begun to
worry about possibly needing the equipment till lately.
“Why is he doing this?”
“You mean his motives? I don’t know. Faulty Psych
programming is what set him off. You might call it induced
schizophrenia. Even he’s not sure what he’s doing, or
why. Or even who he is a good part of the time.”
“I suppose you still insist on protecting him?”
“Yes sir. I don’t believe he’s responsible for
his own actions. I don’t want him punished because of
technical errors made by the people who prepared him for his
mission.”
“Okay, Beckhart. This is the word from High Command.
Prepare to meet his demands. If you haven’t got him in hand
by noon Tuesday, Luna Command time, you give him what he
wants.”
“Sir! . . . ”
“That’s the word. We’d rather have
Stars’ End and the Seiners if we can, but
Stars’ End is for sure. We won’t risk our shot at that
weapon technology.”
“Sir . . . ”
“It’s not subject to debate, Beckhart. It sounds
spineless to me, too, and it’s my idea. But that’s the
way it’s going to be. If you get hold of him before deadline,
we’ll reevaluate our position. But only if you get hold of
him.”
Beckhart tried several arguments. None made any impression.
High Command’s position was understandable. The very
existence of the race was on the line. But
still . . .
“Get me Major Damon,” he ordered after the CSN
secured. “Damon? Word from High Command. We find him by noon,
Tuesday, their time. Or he gets what he wants. Do the best you
can.”
Beckhart leaned back, closed his eyes. He felt tired and old. He
went over all the old ground. There must be a way of smoking Thomas
out. He just had to look at it from the right angle.
But, oh, was it an elusive angle.
“What the hell is going on, Damon?” Beckhart’s
voice had a saw-toothed edge. “Storm and the Sangaree woman
were in that park. Storm called to say he was going in after her.
McClennon’s men admit he went in. You chased the Seiner woman
in there. Four people. Where the hell are they now?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the Major confessed.
“We went in as soon as we knew where to look. They
weren’t there anymore.”
“No shit? You’re aware that three of those people
are professionals, aren’t you?”
“Yes sir. And two of them are ours, with no reason to
run.”
“One of them. I’m not sure what McClennon thinks he
is. It’s not his fault, but he has his head on backwards and
it’s falling apart. He probably doesn’t know who he is
or who he’s working for half the time. He’s the one
I’m worried about. He needs psychiatric attention
fast.”
Beckhart massaged his forehead. He was growing a bitch of a
headache. Just when it looked like he had it nailed
down . . . He had to snag Thomas or his woman
before Gruber called his bluff. He had to show at the Yards before
the harvestfleets extricated themselves from the standoff at
Stars’ End. He had to move before the Sangaree raidfleet
learned about Homeworld.
“Why the hell did that idiot Kindervoort have to go and
kill himself?”
“He evidently had strong feelings.”
“They’re a stiff-necked mob. I’ve never
figured them out. That damned Payne is still up there making
nasty talk. With three squadrons sitting on his back.”
“Just pride talking, sir.”
“We screwed up, Damon. If we don’t find those
people, alive, we’re had. We. Do I make myself
clear?”
“Abundantly, Admiral. I’ve got all my men digging.
The local police don’t have any decent tracking gear, but
it’s still only a matter of time.”
“The shorter the time, the better, Major. High Command is
breathing down my neck. The CSN has a personal stake in what
we’re doing. He isn’t very fond of me. So don’t
forget that water and horseshit both go downhill.”
“Message received, Admiral.”
“Good. Get out there and find them. And don’t forget
that they’re professionals.”
The Marines did not turn up a trace all night. Beckhart spent
the time tossing, sharing his cot with a cruel dread.
He was afraid the Sangaree woman had gotten the drop on Storm
and McClennon and had spirited them out of the city. She had gotten
out once before.
Time trudged along. The tension built. He began snapping at
everyone around him. “Like a mad dog,” he overheard one
of his technical ratings say.
That hit him like ice water. It made him count ten before
speaking. He had an image of himself as a reasonable, fair, and
fatherly superior. His pride demanded that he treat his
subordinates well.
After thirty hours he locked himself in his tiny cubicle of an
office. He drank coffee, gobbled aspirin, and wondered if he was
too old to start praying.
“Admiral!” an excited voice called through the
closed door. “Comm call. Field channel three. It’s
McClennon, sir.”
Beckhart slapped his drab Navy comm unit, muffing the channel
selection twice. “Come on, you bastard.” A moment
later, “Thomas? Where the hell are you, son? What’s
going on? Where’s Mouse? You all right?”
“We’re fine. Mouse is tied up at the moment.”
McClennon giggled. “All three of them are.”
He’s gone, Beckhart thought. Cracked completely.
“Where are you, Thomas?”
“Around and about. Right now I’m here.”
“McClennon . . . Report to me
immediately. In person.”
“No sir.”
“What? Thomas, the whole damned thing is going
down . . . ” What was McClennon up
to?
“Give me one little thing, Admiral. That’s all
I’m asking. One thing, and I give you Stars’ End on a
platter.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? When did
Commanders start bargaining with Admirals?”
“Captain.”
“That can be rectified. McClennon, I’m tired and
I’m aggravated. Don’t give me any shit. Tell me where
you are so I can send somebody to pick you up.”
“No sir. Not till I get what I want. I’ve got
something you need. You give me something back. You want to talk
about it?”
“I’ll listen, Thomas. That’s all.”
That’s all. Had anyone had sense enough to try for a fix on
McClennon’s transceiver? Probably not. Too much to expect of
these people.
“It’s simple, Admiral. I’ll give you the
coordinates for the Yards after you execute some instrument
guaranteeing the Starfishers’ independence. Recognize them as
an independent political entity. Offer to exchange embassies. Offer
mutual non-aggression pacts. All those kinds of things that will
make it hard for Luna Command to subjugate them without a big
public outcry.”
“Holy shit. You’re out of your mind.”
“I know it.” Beckhart heard McClennon’s pain
and fear. The man was scared silly. He knew he was on the edge.
“It’s getting worse. I need help, Chief. But I’ve
got to do this first.”
“Thomas, the answer is no. You know damned well that I
couldn’t agree to something like that even if I wanted. Which
I don’t, I don’t have the power.”
“High Command does. I’ll listen on this channel. You
let me know when the treaties are ready.”
“Thomas, you’re committing suicide. You’re
throwing your career away.”
“Really? You mean you haven’t used me up
yet?”
“Thomas . . . You can’t hide
from me forever.”
“I can try, Admiral. I can sure as hell try.”
“Thomas, I’m going to have your balls for
breakfast . . . Shit!” He was talking to
himself. McClennon was gone.
He hurled a half-finished mug of coffee across his office. The
brown liquid dribbled down the wall, onto a stack of memos that had
accumulated while he worried.
Someone knocked.
“Enter.”
Major Damon stepped in. “We triangulated the call, sir. No
luck. He wired a standard Navy comm into a public box and made the
call from a public box somewhere else.”
“I told you we’re dealing with professionals. But
let’s consider the bright side. It’s a small city, and
he has three prisoners to watch, feed, and keep clean. He’ll
make a mistake. Storm will jump him. Or we’ll find him. Keep
looking.”
Damon left. Beckhart cleaned up his coffee mess, settled into
his chair. He felt better. Almost relaxed. The worst possibilities
were, for the moment, no more than ghosts of evil chance.
He made some elementary calculations. The lead time he had on
the Seiners if he and they started for the Yards together.
Stars’ End was eight days rimward of The Broken Wings. The
Yards were somewhere back toward the Inner Worlds. How long till a
Sangaree courier reached Stars’ End with the news about
Homeworld?
The Sangaree had no known shipboard instel capacity. They
communicated by courier exclusively. So his agents told him. So he
hoped. The scheme depended on a long news lag and Starfisher
stubbornness.
He smiled. If the fastest ship known had left Homeworld
immediately after von Drachau’s
attack . . . He should have fourteen more
days.
“Thomas, there’s no way you can stay ahead of me for
two weeks. Not in this burg.”
Confidence soon yielded to doubt. High Command withdrew his
Marines over his protest. The doubts grew stronger. On day seven
the CSN personally called. Beckhart could conceal the truth no
longer. He covered for McClennon by declining to name names.
He was loyal to his men. Thomas was no turncoat. He was a victim
of his occupation and faulty technical preparation. Sooner or later
every agent encountered the crisis. McClennon had had the
misfortune to hit his at an historically inopportune moment.
Heads were going to roll among the Psych crew! On day eleven
Beckhart came to the conclusion that the first head lost would be
his own. The CSN kept making sounds like a happy executioner
sharpening his axe.
“Come in, Major. I take it you’re going to tell me
the same old thing?”
“Unfortunately, sir. He’s just not leaving any
tracks. We did find a cellar this morning that someone had been
using, but they were long gone when we broke in. We’ve
covered sixty percent of the city now. We’re reasonably sure
he hasn’t slipped back into what we’ve
covered.”
“Reasonably sure? Damon, I don’t want reasonably
sure. I want absodamnposilutely sure.”
“And instead of sixty local police reservists, I want my
battalion of Marine MPs.”
“What could I do? They took them,” he said into
Beckhart’s scowl. “I see it taking seven or eight days
of searching with what we have, Major. We don’t have that
much time.”
“The probability of contact is going up faster now, sir.
He has less room to maneuver. The computers almost guarantee
we’ll find him within five days. The statistical profile is
against him. I’ve had my people stop using the regular comm
nets. He may have been monitoring our traffic.”
“Of course he was. He’s crazy, not stupid. All
right. Carry on.”
Beckhart leaned back, thought, Thomas, I’ve got to give
you credit. You’re good when you have to be. And, what the
hell is wrong with Storm? He should have done something by now. He
knows McClennon better than anybody else. He’s the best man
I’ve got.
Was the little bastard in on it? The possibility had not
occurred before. Mouse was the perfect agent. You did not suspect
his loyalty.
But Storm’s loyalty was to his dream of exterminating the
Sangaree, of avenging his family. He had no motive but habit for
taking a Bureau line in this. And he and McClennon had become close
friends. They had done too many missions together . . .
They might have cooked this whole thing up with that Seiner
bitch.
“Admiral. The CSN on instel, relay from
Assyrian.”
“Oh, Christ. Again?”
“He sounds upset.”
“He’s always upset. Switch him through.”
A moment later, “Good morning, sir.”
“You found that man yet?”
“No sir. We’re closing in. The computers say
we’ll have him any time now.”
“I’ve got computers too, Beckhart. And a lot more
input resources. I have the Sangaree raidmaster at Stars’ End
getting the word sometime day after tomorrow. We don’t know
what those people will do. Maybe go crazy. I’ve ordered the
attack squadrons back off courier intercept. That’s hopeless.
They’ll return to Carson’s and Sierra. Hittite
is moving up to Blackworld. Two Conqueror Class reserve attack
squadrons are moving into the Twenty-First Transverse in case they
break through the Twenty-Third. What concerns me more than the
Sangaree, though, is what Gruber is going to do when he’s
free to deploy. I’d guess he’d head for the Yards. From
what I’ve been told, if he gets there ahead of you, we lose.
There’s supposedly no way we can root them out, and no way to
get close enough to deliver the threatened nova bomb. This
isn’t news to you. I repeat it in case you’ve lost
sight of the facts. Your loyalty to your people is laudable,
but . . . ”
“I’m aware of the problem, sir. It was my intention
to calculate a most probable quadrant and send von Drachau to wait
there while I rooted this man out. That would give us a few extra
days, added to the lead time we have because of the additional
distance from Stars’ End to the Yards.”
“You’re dealing with a stubborn man, Beckhart. You
haven’t found him yet, let alone gotten him to talk. You
apparently know him. How long can he hold out after you take
him?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Beckhart did not like
admitting that. It was a question he had been trying to ignore. He
had not come out equipped for mind probing. He had not begun to
worry about possibly needing the equipment till lately.
“Why is he doing this?”
“You mean his motives? I don’t know. Faulty Psych
programming is what set him off. You might call it induced
schizophrenia. Even he’s not sure what he’s doing, or
why. Or even who he is a good part of the time.”
“I suppose you still insist on protecting him?”
“Yes sir. I don’t believe he’s responsible for
his own actions. I don’t want him punished because of
technical errors made by the people who prepared him for his
mission.”
“Okay, Beckhart. This is the word from High Command.
Prepare to meet his demands. If you haven’t got him in hand
by noon Tuesday, Luna Command time, you give him what he
wants.”
“Sir! . . . ”
“That’s the word. We’d rather have
Stars’ End and the Seiners if we can, but
Stars’ End is for sure. We won’t risk our shot at that
weapon technology.”
“Sir . . . ”
“It’s not subject to debate, Beckhart. It sounds
spineless to me, too, and it’s my idea. But that’s the
way it’s going to be. If you get hold of him before deadline,
we’ll reevaluate our position. But only if you get hold of
him.”
Beckhart tried several arguments. None made any impression.
High Command’s position was understandable. The very
existence of the race was on the line. But
still . . .
“Get me Major Damon,” he ordered after the CSN
secured. “Damon? Word from High Command. We find him by noon,
Tuesday, their time. Or he gets what he wants. Do the best you
can.”
Beckhart leaned back, closed his eyes. He felt tired and old. He
went over all the old ground. There must be a way of smoking Thomas
out. He just had to look at it from the right angle.
But, oh, was it an elusive angle.