“What do you mean, Dick?” Dorothy demanded. “How could he have?”
“Plain as the nose on… plainer! He got it from somewhere, the son of a—” Seaton bit the noun savagely off — “probably from Klazmon, that Galaxy DW-427-LU up ahead there that we were heading for is full of bad Indians. So he honeyed up to the Jelmi, got that fourth-dimensional gadget off of them and tried to kill us with it. And he would have succeeded, except for the pure luck of our having lowered our gravity so drastically on account of Dunark and Sitar.”
“I see,” Crane said. “And the Indians jumped us when he pulled the trigger — perhaps attracted by his use of the ‘gadget’.”
“That’s my guess, anyway,” Seaton admitted. “DuQuesne thought he was allowing plenty of leeway in both time and space for his operation. But he wasn’t. He had no more idea than we did, Mart, that any such forces as those could possibly be delivered at such extreme range. And one simple, easy lie — the coordinates of the Llurdan galaxy — was all he had to tell me and defend against my probe.”
DuQuesne’s attention was wrenched from his timer by a glare of light from a visiplate.
He glanced at it, his jaw dropping in surprise; then his hands flashed to the controls of his fourth-dimensional transmitter and his six men appeared — four of them gruesomely headless. For a moment all six stood stiffly upright; then, as the supporting forces vanished, all six bodies slumped bonelessly to the floor.
DuQuesne, after making quickly sure that the two were in fact as dead as were the four, shrugged his shoulders and flipped the bodies out into deep space. Then, donning practically opaque goggles, he studied the incandescently glaring plate — to see that the Skylark of Valeron now looked like a minor sun.
Involuntarily he caught his breath. The Valeron’s screens were failing — failing fast.
Course after course, including her mighty zones of force, her every defensive layer was flaring into and through the violet and going black.
DuQuesne clenched his fists; set his teeth so hard that his jaw-muscles stood out in bands and lumps. Anything to put out that much of that kind of stuff would have to be vast indeed. Incredibly vast. Nothing could be that big — nothing even pertaining, as far as DuQuesne knew, to any civilization or culture of the known universe.
Relaxing a little, he assembled a working projection, but before sending it out he paused in thought.
Seaton hadn’t attacked; he wasn’t the type to. He wouldn’t have, even if he could have done so at that range. So the strangers, whoever or whatever they might be, were the aggressors, with a capital “A.” Guilty of unprovoked and reasonless aggression; aggression in the first degree. So what Tammon had told him about that galaxy being dominated by “inimical life-forms” was the understatement of the year. And he, DuQuesne himself, had triggered the attack; the fact that it had followed his own attack so nearly instantly made that a certainty. How had he triggered it? Almost certainly by the use of the fourth-dimensional transmitter…
But how? He didn’t know and he couldn’t guess… and at the moment it didn’t make a lick of difference. He hadn’t used any sixth-order stuff since then and he sure wouldn’t use any now for a good while. If he did anything at all, he’d pussyfoot it, but good. He didn’t want any part of anything that could manhandle the Skylark of Valeron like that.
His Capital D was small enough and far enough back — he hoped! — to avoid detection. No he wouldn’t do a single damn thing except look on.
Fascinated, DuQuesne stared into the brilliance of his plate. All the Valeron’s screens were down now. Even the ultra-powerful innermost zone — the wall shield itself, the last line of defense of the bare synthetic of the worldlet’s outer skin — was going fast. Huge black areas appeared, but they were black only momentarily. Such was the power of that incredible assault that thousands of tons of inoson flared in an instant into ragingly incandescent vapor; literally exploding; exploding with such inconceivable violence as to blast huge masses of solid inoson out of the Valeron’s thick skin and hurl them at frightful speed out into space.
And the Valeron was not fighting back. She couldn’t.
This fact, more than anything else, rocked DuQuesne to the core and gave him the measure of the power at the disposal of the “inimical” entities of that galaxy. For he, knowing the Valeron’s strength, now knew starkly that she was being attacked by forces of a magnitude never even approximated by the wildest imaginings of man.
Scowling in concentration, he kept on watching the disaster. Watched while those utterly unbelievable forces peeled the Valeron down like an onion, layer after kilometer-thick layer. Watched until that for which he had almost ceased to hope finally took place. The Valeron, down now to the merest fraction of her original size burned and blasted down to the veriest core — struck back. And that counterstroke was no love-tap.
The ether and all the subethers seethed and roiled under the vehemence of that devastating bolt of energy.
The Skylark of Valeron vanished from DuQuesne’s plate; that plate went black; and DuQuesne stood up and stretched the kinks out of his muscles. Seaton could of course flit away on the sixth; but he, DuQuesne, couldn’t. Not without being detected and getting burned to a crisp. Against the forces that he had just seen in action against the Skylark of Valeron, DuQuesne’s own Capital D didn’t stand the proverbial chance of the nitrocellulose dog chasing the asbestos cat in hell.
If the Skylark of Valeron had been hurt, half-demolished and reduced to an irreducible core of fighting muscle before it could mount one successful counter-blow against this new and unexpected enemy, then the Capital D would be reduced to its primitive gases.
DuQuesne rapidly, soberly and accurately came to the conclusion that he simply did not own ship enough to play in this league. Not yet…
Wherefore he pussyfooted it away from there at an acceleration of only a few lights; and he put many parsecs of distance between himself and the scene of recent hostilities before he cut in his space-annihilating sixth-order drive and began really to travel. He did not know whether Seaton and his party were surviving; he did not care.
He did not know the identity of the race which had hurt them so badly, so fast.
What DuQuesne knew was that, as a bare minimum, he needed something as big as the Valeron, plus the fourth dimensional tricks he had learned from the Jelmi, plus a highly developed element of caution based on the scene he had just witnessed. And he knew what to do about it, and where to go to do it; wherefore his course was laid for the First Galaxy and Earth.
Hundreds of thousands of parsecs away from the scene of disaster, Seaton cut his drive and began gingerly to relax the terrific power of his defensive screens.
No young turtle, tentatively poking his head out of his shell to see if the marauding gulls had left, was more careful than Seaton. He had been caught off base twice. He did not propose to let it happen again.
Another man might have raged and sworn at DuQuesne for his treachery; or panicked at the fear inspired by the fourth-dimensional transmitter DuQuesne had come up with, or the massive blow that had fallen from nowhere. Seaton did not. The possibility — no, the virtual certainty of treachery from DuQuesne he had accepted and discounted in the first second of receiving DuQuesne’s distress call. He had accepted the risks, and grimly calculated that in any encounter, however treacherous, DuQuesne would fail; and he had been right. The sudden attack from out of nowhere, however, was something else again. What made it worse was not that Seaton had no idea of its source or reason. The thing that caused his eyes to narrow, his face to wear a hard, thoughtful scowl was that he in fact had a very good idea indeed — and he didn’t like it.