He imagined that Maximilian Rostoff had warped the space yacht up against the alien craft and had then donned a spacesuit and crossed over to explore it. Don wasn’t going to be able to do the equivalent. His One Man Scout boasted no spacesuit nor was there any manner of exit and entry, once in space. He would have liked to explore the interior, as Rostoff had done, but there was simply no way.
In actuality, until this point he had made no decisions. He was still in a position to report in to the base, to reveal that he had located a derelict Kraden cruiser. Undoubtedly, it would do him a lot of good. The engineers would fall all over themselves. It might even win him a promotion. Eric Hansen had been bounced up to full lieutenant just on the strength of having seen a Kraden—and he wasn’t even positive of that.
Surely, this discovery would take the commodore off his neck, at least for the time. It would also mean that as soon as he had made the report he would be ordered to return to base. They’d want to question him in detail. He wouldn’t have to stay out the full three weeks, which he dreaded.
But that wasn’t all of it. Once the initial excitement was over, and he had been a several week news item, he’d be back in the same spot as before. He’d be sent out again, and when he panicked, under cafard, sooner or later the commodore would lower the boom on him. Psych.
That’s what decided him. If he was psyched, it would come out that it hadn’t really been him who had discovered the Kraden but Demming and Rostoff. If he lived to be psyched. He had no doubts at all but that the two interplanetary tycoons would put musclemen after him the moment he revealed the Miro Class cruiser to Space Command as a drifting derelict. They’d have to take steps to eliminate him, or they’d be in the soup when their scheme came out.
He dropped back into the exact position he had decided upon, took another long swig out of his vacuum bottle, then flicked the switch on his screen.
A base lieutenant’s face illuminated it. He yawned and looked questioningly at Don Mathers. He said, “Mathers, your routine report isn’t due for another six hours. Don’t tell me you’re having engine trouble again. The commodore told me—”
Don said, allowing a touch of excitement in his voice, “Mathers, Scout V-102, Sector A22-K223——”
“Yeah, yeah,” the other said, still yawning. “I know who the hell you are and where you are.”
Don said excitedly, “I’ve spotted a Kraden cruiser, Miro Class, I think.”
The lieutenant flashed into movement. He slapped a button before him. The screen in Don’s One Man Scout blinked a moment and then Commodore Walt Bernklau was there.
He snapped, “Mathers, you aren’t in space cafard, are you?”
“No, sir! It’s a Kraden all right!”
The screen flickered again. Then it was halved. Besides the commodore, a gray haired fleet admiral looked up from the papers on his desk.
“Yes?” he said impatiently.
Don Mathers rapped, “Miro Class Kraden in section A22-K223, sir. I’m lying about two hundred kilometers off. Undetected thus far—I think. Otherwise he would have blasted me out of space. He hasn’t fired on me… yet, at least.”
The admiral was already doing things with his hands. Two subalterns came within range of his screen, took orders, dashed off. The admiral was rapidly firing commands into two other screens. After a moment, he looked up at Don Mathers again.
“Hang on, Lieutenant. Keep him under observation as long as you can. Don’t get any closer. We don’t want him to spot you. What are your exact coordinates?”
Don gave them to him and waited.
The commodore, still on his half of the screen, said, suspiciously, “You’re sure about this, Mathers?”
“Yes, sir!”
Within a minute, the Admiral returned to him. “Let’s take a look at it, Lieutenant.”
Don Mathers adjusted the screen to relay the Kraden cruiser. His palms were moist now, but everything was going to plan. He wished the hell he could have another drink.
The admiral said in excitement, “Miro Class, all right. Don’t get too close, Lieutenant. You’re well within range. They’ll blast you to hell and gone. We’re sending up three full squadrons of Monitors. The first one should be there within an hour. Just hang on.”
“Yes, sir,” Don said. An hour. He was glad to know that. He didn’t have much time in which to operate.
He let it go another five minutes, then he said, “Sir, they’re increasing speed.” He had flicked off the scanning of the Kraden. He couldn’t afford to have them spot any of the damage, though that was unlikely at this angle.
“Damn,” the admiral said, then rapidly fired some more into his other screens, barking one order after another.
Don said, letting his voice go very flat, “I’m going in, sir. They’re putting on speed. In another five minutes they’ll be underway to the point where I won’t be able to follow, and neither will anybody else. They’ll get completely clear, and the Almighty Ultimate only knows where they’re headed. Possibly to hit Earth itself.”
The admiral looked up, startled. The commodore’s eyes widened.
The admiral rasped, “Don’t be a fool.”
“They’ll get away, sir,” Don said, trying to make his face look determined. Knowing that the others could see his every motion, Don Mathers hit the cocking handle of his flakflak gun with the heel of his right hand.
The admiral snapped, “Let it go, you ass. You wouldn’t last a second.” Then, his voice higher, “That’s an order, Lieutenant!”
“Yes, sir,” Don Mathers said.
He flicked off his screen and grimaced sourly. He took up his vacuum bottle and finished the contents, then descended on the Kraden ship, his flakflak gun beaming it. He was going to have to expend every erg of energy in his One Man Scout to burn the other ship to the point where his attack would look authentic, and to eliminate all signs of previous action.
He swept it from prow to stern, taking particular care to fire all over the area where the extraterrestrial spaceship had taken its original hits. He raked it up and down until it was little more than a molten hulk.
And then, his offensive powers exhausted, he snapped his communications back on. The face of the commodore of the first squadron of his supposed reinforcements faded onto his screen.
The other, his face young, considering his rank, snapped, “Commodore Franco, Officer Commanding Task Force Three. How do things stand, Lieutenant? Is he still under observation?”
Don said, calmly, clearly, “Yes, sir. I think I’ve finished him, but perhaps you’d better approach with care.”
“You’ve what!”
“Yes, sir.”
VI
Don Mathers wasn’t acquainted with the Lindbergh story. Had he been he could have been aware of the similarities to his landing at the space base and Lindbergh’s coming down in Paris. Not only were all personnel of the base on hand, but the population of Center City and a dozen other nearby communities had erupted to greet him.
He was taken aback by the magnitude of the mob and a little apprehensive about setting down. There seemed to be police, or, more likely, soldiers, shoulder to shoulder to hold back the crowd so that it couldn’t swarm out over the runway. If they broke through the cordon the fat was going to be in the fire. The V-102 had no power usable here within the atmosphere. He had to glide in to a landing. If the mob of cheering citizens broke through to the runway, he’d plow into them.