"Isn't any." He punched com again, hoping for someone to relay to Saber. "Got two bogeys here. Does anybody read?
The pulse in his ear increased, nearing. He whipped off at an angle that wrung a shriek from Averson, climbing for very life, trying at the same time to get an image on his screen. The sky turned pink and indigo, the pulses died, went offscreen. In a little more the indigo deepened and they were still accelerating, running for what speed and altitude they could attain; the sound of the engines changed as systems began to convert.
Averson was sick. Harris reached over and ripped a bag out of storage and gave it to him. For some little time there was the quiet sound of retching, which did no kindness to his own stomach.
"Water in the bottle there," Harris said. And fervently; "Don't spill anything. We're going null before long." He devoted his attention the while to the vacant scan, to making sure all the recorders were in order. He heard Averson scrabbling about after the water, the spasm seeming to have passed. His own stomach kept heaving in sympathy. "Disposal to your right.
Dayside was under them, and Saber was over the horizon. The instruments had nothing, not a flicker. Harris calculated. Somewhere on this side of the world lay regul Shirug, beyond their scan; and somewhere downworld were cities with weapons which could strike at craft in orbit, if they once obtained a fix on so small a vessel as themselves.
Or if they had it already.
Averson snatched at another bag, dry-heaved for a time. They were in a queasy wallowing at the moment. Harris gave them visual stability with the world, wiped at the sweat that coursed his face, trying to reckon where Shirug might be. He had a dread of her coming up in forward scan, and die bogeys coming up under him again.
"Going to go back on course," he said to no one in particular. "At least that way downworld isn't so likely to have a shot at us.
Averson said nothing. Harris reoriented and Kutath's angry surface swung under their forward scan.
There was no reaction anywhere. A slow tremor came into Harris's muscles, a knee that wanted to jerk against his will. He reckoned that somewhere over the horizon Saber would grow concerned when they failed schedule, that somewhere near them Santiago must be on the prowl over dayside, regul-watching.
Then a tone sounded in his ear and a blip appeared on the edge of the screen, on and off. He kept his eye on it, his pulse pounding so that it almost obscured his audio. He did not tell Averson. It was of no use yet. He considered another dive into atmosphere. Maybe, he thought, that was what he was being encouraged to do. There had been two of them.
The sweat ran, the single blip grew no closer, and he wiped at his lip and tried to reckon his chances of being allowed to go his way. He could find himself up against some outrunner for Shirug, against which he was a gnat-sized irritant.
"How much longer?" Averson asked him.
"Don't know, sir. Just stay quiet Got a problem here to recalculate.
There was no way it avoided having him in scan, traveling so neatly at the edge of his own.
Suddenly it disappeared out of range.
That gave him no feeling of safety. It was back there; there could be any number back there.
The ruddy surface of the world slipped under their bow and whitened to polar frost. Ahead was the terminator.
Be there, he entreated. Saber, Saber, for the love of God, be there.
Averson fumbled after something in his pocket, a bottle of pills. He shook one out and put it into his mouth. He was looking gray.
"Things are going all right," Harris lied. "Relax, sir.
"We're alive," Averson muttered.
"Yes, sir, we are.
And a blip appeared at three o'clock of the scope, coming up fast. The pulse erupted in his ear, faster and faster, deepening as the instruments gauged size; it was big.
A screen flared, a computer flashing demands to his comp. Hasty pulses flurried across, coded; he punched in, braced for recognition or for fire.
"Shuttle NAS-6," a human voice said, "this is Santiago.
He punched com, weak with relief. "This is NAS-6. Two bogeys downworld, fire on their side, coming in with a bogey on my tail.
"Affirmative, NAS-6, we copy. Correct course our heading. Proceed to Saber.
He made the adjustments, recalled Averson, looked into the round-eyed face and nodded confirmation of the hope he saw there.
They crept farther into night, within the protective cloak of Santiago's scan. He had Santiago's scope on-screen now; it showed reassuringly clear, all but human shuttles and a friendly blip that was Saber.
Harris shifted footing uncomfortably, received the nod that sent him into the admiral's office stood there, staring down at the hero of Elag, Haven and of Adavan, at the balding visage which up till now he had never had to face alone.
The formalities were short and on his own part unsteady. "Averson?" the admiral asked him, and his voice was grim.
"Meds have him, sir. A little shaken up.
"Close?
"Close, sir.
"Security will have your tapes running now. Sit down, lieutenant. Did you get a clear image on your attackers?
Harris sank into the offered chair, looked up again into that lean, ruddy face. "No, sir. I never managed it Tried, sir. Not big, not quick on high gee maneuvers; had me, if they could or wanted,. . . harassment or just too slow, maybe.
"You're suggesting by that remark that they could have been regul?
Harris said nothing for the moment. A mistake, a mistake in that opinion; he reckoned where that led; and swallowed bile. "I couldn't be a hundred percent sure of anything. They were about that size; they shied off from high gee turns and climbs. I've flown against mri. Mri feel different. Fast. Apt to outguess you and crosscut your moves." He silenced himself, embarrassed before a man who had been in it before he was born, who sat regarding him with cold calculation. Koch would know, all the same. The impression would make sense to a man who had flown against both.
"I'll view the tapes," Koch said. Harris reassured himself with that, desperately relieved to believe someone else would be counter-checking his observations. "Did you," Koch asked, "have your armscomp engaged?
"Yes, sir.
"Maneuver to fire?
"No, sir; they came up at my belly and I zigged and got out without firing.
Koch nodded. It might be approval of his actions or simply introspection. Koch leaned aside to key something into the desk console. There was delay; finally a response lit the screen, but Harris could not read it at his angle.
"Dr. Averson's under process in sick bay," Koch said; and Harris reckoned that hereafter would be complaints. He was caught in the vise, civs and military. Someone gave the orders and the complaints ended up on his record. "Meds indicate he came through in good shape," Koch said, "but they're going to keep him a little while. We'll be talking with him. Did he have any comment on the scanning pass?
"Said nothing, sir. Wasn't much to see.
"And the ships?
"Don't think he observed much, sir.
"Point of origin?"
"From my view, east and low, veered to my heading and tailed.
Koch nodded slowly, leaned back. "I appreciate the job, lieutenant. That will be all. Dismissed.
"Sir." He rose, saluted, left, his knees still wobbling in carrying him past the secretary in the front office and down the corridor outside. There would be other flights, he suspected so; backup or not, there would be use found for him. He had beaten the odds in the war, and the war was supposed to be over. He had believed so. Every human alive had believed so.