The news that he intended going up with them gave a tremendous boost to the morale of the assault groups, although when Fielding heard about it her anger towards him became overlaid with a quality which Warren suspected was clinical appraisal…
On Minus Seven the assault groups went gradually onto a low residue diet, so far as was possible with locally grown food, and they went off alcohol completely. Warren had let them know in no uncertain language that he didn’t want to go storming any ramparts with officers who were blind drunk or hung over. Six and Five he spent chiefly in reassuring officers of various ranks and specialties that he did know how to handle himself in one of Hutton’s wastebaskets, that, having listened to the same lectures as they had, he was familiar with Bug physiology and the layout of their guardship, and that he was not contemplating any stupid heroics because he was getting too old and stiff. In short, he told them, he did not intent taking any risks and he was simply going along for the ride.
When they heard that, some of them tried to tell him how they felt. Awkwardly—even Kelso stumbled at it and Sloan was actually shy—they told him that he had done some highly peculiar things, almost suspicious things, in the past, but they knew now that he was with them and they were with him, no matter what. But the way they looked at him while they were talking made Warren feel even worse, because he had never been completely honest with any of them at any time.
In the late evening of Minus Four a top priority signal arrived from one of the observation posts on the eastern tip of the continent, which was already in darkness, saying that a Bug ship of the cruiser or small transport class was locked onto the guardship. It had arrived during daylight when the guardship was above the horizon and hence visible from the ground. Then four hours later, although both ships were by then well within the planetary shadow, the tail-flare of the cruiser illuminated the scene as it pulled away from the guardship preparatory to going into hyperdrive.
There could be no doubt as to what it meant.
“What a blasted inconvenient time for them to land prisoners!” said Kelso, considerably understating Warren’s own feelings in the matter. He added, “If they follow the usual procedure, sir, we can expect the shuttle early tomorrow morning.”
Warren said, “It would help to have some up-to-date intelligence about the crew and organization of the guardship, and the war, too, of course—but not if it means a Hold to get it. See that the prisoners are rounded up and interrogated as soon as possible. Lieutenant.”
The Bug shuttle landed on Minus Three at the time but not in the place expected. It used exactly the same landing spot as had been used on its previous visit, and it delayed several minutes so that the new prisoners could get clear of the tail-flare before it took off—a clear indication that the Bugs were growing careless or else feeling less nervous about the possibility of an ambush by prisoners. Either way it was to Warren’s advantage. The new arrivals were contacted and the position explained to them in double quick time—all except one.
Hynds, back from the other continent and somewhat happier now that he had Intelligence work to do instead of acting like a glorified school inspector, made the report.
“It’s difficult to process the men properly in the time allowed, sir,” he said briskly, “but it seems clear that they are no great shakes mentally, unobservant to an amazing degree and shockingly uninformed regarding the overall tactical position. The forty-three prisoners landed represent the survivors of thirteen ships and actions fought over a period of three years, and many of them have spent this time being moved about from ship to ship as if the Bugs did not quite know what to do with them. From this we might infer that the Bug military organization is beginning to go rapidly to pieces, and I’m sure the missing officer would corroborate this if we could find him.”
“Fleet Commander Peters,” said Kelso suddenly, “has his farm in that area.”
In spite of himself, Warren laughed. “I don’t think the Commander could do much to stop us, Lieutenant. Not with one convert, in three days…” He turned abruptly to Hynds. “Better call in the search parties and gliders, Major. If he hasn’t heard all that whistling and running or seen a plane and made a signal to it, a stray Battler must have got him. And would you pass the word to Major Hutton—I think he’s in Number Two Attack Point—to meet me at the grenade store in forty-five minutes…”
Three. Two. One…
Ponderous, faultless and by now unstoppable, the vast machinery of the Escape rolled on. Holding as it did a thirty-two-and-a-half hour orbit, which was the rotational period of the Bug home world, the guardship was below the horizon for just over sixteen hours. But in actual fact the Committeemen had closer to nineteen hours freedom from observation because they had been careful to choose for their surface transport routes which were well-sheltered by natural features—nearby hills and mountains, dense forest and the concealment afforded by the guardship’s acute angle of observation through the atmospheric haze. At the present time, four hours after sunrise on E minus one, the Bug ship was due to set in a little over three hours. In a very short time—Warren had to allow for possible delays in transmission—he could signal the final Go.
From Nicholson’s post, which was almost deserted now since it too was due for destruction, the town and bay looked peacefully and unremarkably busy in the early sunlight. But there was a growing commotion outside his office, with voices raised so loudly in argument that two of them were recognizable. So he was not completely surprised when Sloan conducted Fleet Commander Peters and a stranger into his presence.
“I expected to find you at the Escape site,” said Peters breathlessly, while Sloan was still opening his mouth. “We’ve wasted far too much time. I’ve got to speak to you, sir. Alone.”
Warren didn’t reply at once. Instead he examined the stranger from head to toe, seeing a small, overweight individual with a furiously sweating face whose expression reflected anxiety and confusion. Remembering his own feelings on being first pitchforked into the Committee-Civilian ideological conflict Warren felt a touch of sympathy for the man, but it was a very slight and fleeting touch. He nodded to Sloan to wait outside, then turned to Peters.
“Go ahead, Commander,” he said.
Peters had recovered his breath but for some reason seemed to be finding it difficult to speak, and his eyes as they met Warren’s held an expression which was very close to pity.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to call it off, sir,” he said finally. “You’ve no choice. The war is over…”