He stared at his big knobbly hands. “We’ll send more spies to Ardazir,” he rumbled. “Of course some’ll get caught, and then Ardazir will know we know, and they’ll really exert themselves against us … By God, maybe the one thing to do is smash them here at Vixen, immediately, and then go straight to Ardazir and hope enough of our ships survive long enough to sterilize the whole hell-planet!”
Kit leaped to her feet. “No!” she screamed.
Flandry forced her down again. Walton looked at her with eyes full of anguish. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I know it would be the end of Vixen. I don’t want to be a butcher at Ardazir either … all their little cubs, who never heard about war — But what can I do?”
“Wait,” said Flandry. “I have a hunch.”
Silence fell, layer by layer, until the cabin grew thick with it. Finally Walton asked, most softly: “What is it, Captain?”
Flandry stared past them all. “Maybe nothing,” he said. “Maybe much. An expression some of the Ardazirho use: the Sky Cave . It’s some kind of black hole. Certain of their religions make it the entrance to hell. Could it be — I remember my friend Svantozik too. I surprised him, and he let out an oath which was not stock. Great unborn planets. Svantozik ranks high. He knows more than any other Ardazirho we’ve met. It’s little enough to go on, but … can you spare me a flotilla, Admiral?”
“Probably not,” said Walton. “And it couldn’t sneak off. One ship at a time, yes, we can get that out secretly. But several … The enemy would detect their wake, notice which way they were headed, and wonder. Or wouldn’t that matter in this case?”
“I’m afraid it would.” Flandry paused. “Well, sir, can you lend me a few men? I’ll take my own flitter. If I’m not back soon, do whatever seems best.”
He didn’t want to go. It seemed all too likely that the myth was right and the Sky Cave led to hell. But Walton sat watching him, Walton who was one of the last brave and wholly honorable men in all Terra’s Empire. And Kit watched him too.
XVI
He would have departed at once, but a stroke of luck — about time, he thought ungratefully — made him decide to wait another couple of days. He spent them on the Hooligan, not telling Kit he was still with the fleet. If she knew he had leisure, he would never catch up on some badly needed sleep.
The fact was that the Ardazirho remained unaware that any human knew their language, except a few prisoners and the late Dominic Flandry. So they were sending all messages in clear. By now Walton had agents on Vixen, working with the underground, equipped to communicate undetected with his fleet. Enemy transmissions were being monitored with growing thoroughness. Flandry remembered that Svantozik had been about to leave, and requested a special lookout for any information on this subject. A scanner was adjusted to spot that name on a recording tape. It did so; the contents of the tape were immediately relayed into space; and Flandry listened with sharp interest to a playback.
It was a normal enough order, relating to certain preparations. Mindhunter Svantozik of the Janneer Ya was departing for home as per command. He would not risk being spotted and traced back to Ardazir by some Terran, so would employ only a small ultra-fast flitter. (Flandry admired his nerve. Most humans would have taken at least a Meteor class boat.) The hour and date of his departure were given, in Urdahu terms.
“Rally ’round,” said Flandry. The Hooligan glided into action.
He did not come near Vixen. That was the risky business of the liaison craft. He could predict the exact manner of Svantozik’s takeoff: there was only one logical way. The flitter would be in the middle of a squadron, which would roar spaceward on a foray. At the right time, Svantozik would give his own little boat a powerful jolt of primary drive; then, orbiting with cold engines away from the others, let distance accumulate. When he felt sure no Terran had spied him, he would go cautiously on gravs until well clear — then switch over into secondary and exceed the velocity of light. So small a craft, so far away from Walton’s bases, would not be detected: especially with enemy attention diverted by the raiding squadron.
Unless, to be sure, the enemy had planted himself out in that region, with foreknowledge of Svantozik’s goal and sensitive pulse-detectors running wide open.
When the alarm buzzed and the needles began to waver, Flandry allowed himself a yell. “That’s our boy!” His finger stabbed a button. The Hooligan went into secondary with a wail of abused converters. When the viewscreens had steadied, Cerulia was visibly dimming to stern. Ahead, outlined in diamond constellations, the nebula roiled ragged black. Flandry stared at his instruments. “He’s not as big as we are,” he said, “but traveling like goosed lightning. Think we can overhaul short of Ardazir?”
“Yes, sir,” said Chives. “In this immediate volume of space, which is dustier than average, and at these pseudo-speeds, friction becomes significant. We are more aerodynamic than he. I estimate twenty hours. Now, if I may be excused, I shall prepare supper.”
“Uh-uh,” said Flandry emphatically. “Even if he isn’t aware of us yet, he may try evasive tactics on general principles. An autopilot has a randomizing predictor for such cases, but no poetry.”
“Sir?” Chives raised the eyebrows he didn’t have.
“No feel … intuition … whatever you want to call it. Svantozik is an artist of Intelligence. He may also be an artist at the pilot panel. So are you, little chum. You and I will stand watch and watch here. I’ve assigned a hairy great CPO to cook.”
“Sir!” bleated Chives.
Flandry winced. “I know. Navy cuisine. The sacrifices we unsung heroes make for Terra’s cause—!”
He wandered aft to get acquainted with his crew. Walton had personally chosen a dozen for this mission: eight humans; a Scothanian, nearly human-looking but for the horns in his yellow hair; a pair of big four-armed gray-furred shaggy-muzzled Gorzuni; a purple-and-blue giant from Donarr, vaguely like a gorilla torso centauroid on a rhinoceros body. All had Terran citizenship, all were career personnel, all had fought with every weapon from ax to operations analyzer. They were as good a crew as could be found anywhere in the known galaxy. And far down underneath, it saddened Flandry that not one of the humans, except himself, came from Terra.
The hours passed. He ate, napped, stood piloting tricks. Eventually he was close upon the Ardazirho boat, and ordered combat armor all around. He himself went into the turret with Chives.
His quarry was a squat, ugly shape, dark against the distant star-clouds. The viewscreen showed a slim blast cannon and a torpedo launcher heavier than most boats that size would carry. The missiles it sent must have power enough to penetrate the Hooligan’s potential screens, make contact, and vaporize the target in a single nuclear burst.
Flandry touched a firing stud. A tracer shell flashed out, drawing a line of fire through Svantozik’s boat. Or, rather, through the space where shell and boat coexisted with differing frequencies. The conventional signal to halt, was not obeyed.
“Close in,” said Flandry. “Can you phase us?”
“Yes, sir.” Chives danced lean triple-jointed fingers over the board. The Hooligan plunged like a stooping osprey. She interpenetrated the enemy craft, so that Flandry looked for a moment straight through its turret. He recognized Svantozik at the controls, in person, and laughed his delight. The Ardazirho slammed on pseudo-deceleration. A less skillful pilot would have shot past him and been a million kilometers away before realizing what had happened. Flandry and Chives, acting as one, matched the maneuver. For a few minutes they followed every twist and dodge. Then, grimly, Svantozik continued in a straight line. The Hooligan edged sideways until she steered a parallel course, twenty meters off.