"Impossible," Orofan said. "We don't have the fuel to stop."
"Certainly we do. A large proportion of this spacecraft's equipment could be done without for a short time. Converting all of that to fusion material and reaction mass would give us all that we need, even considering that we would overshoot and have to come back."
"No!" The exclamation burst involuntarily from Orofan. His beloved Dawnsent broken up haphazardly and fed to a fusion drive?
"Why not?"
His emotional response, Orofan knew, wouldn't impress the other, and he fumbled for logical reasons. "We don't know if there's a planet here we could live on, for one thing. Even if there is, the natives may already be living there. We are hardly in a position to bargain for territory."
"We are not entirely helpless, however," Lassarr said. "Our starshield's a formidable defense, and our meteor-destroyer could be adapted to offense. Our magnetic scoop itself is deadly to most known forms of life." His tentacles took on a sardonic expression. "And if they're too advanced to be subjugated, we'll simply ask for their help in rebuilding and refueling our ship and continue on our way."
Orofan could hardly believe what he was hearing.
"Are you serious? You'd start a war for the sake of only a million Sk'cee—a million, out of our eight hundred billions?"
Suddenly, Lassarr looked very tired. "I'll say this one more time, Shipmaster. The voyage, and those million Sk'cee, are my prime responsibility. I don't have the luxury of taking a broader view. By both nature and training I am highly protective toward my charges—if I were otherwise I wouldn't have been made Voyagemaster. Racial selfishness is sometimes necessary for survival, a fact those who sent us knew well. This is one of those times. I will do what I must, and will face the ancestors without shame."
There was nothing Orofan could say—the struggle to follow the honorable path was vital to him as well. But what did honor demand here?
Lassarr gazed at the blackness outside the viewport. "You have one-half aarn to choose between our current course and ending the voyage here," he said. "If you won't choose, I'll do so for you."
Heart pounding painfully, Orofan signed assent. "Very well."
—
One of the nicest traditions still remaining from the days of the old seagoing luxury ships, Chandra Carey thought, was that of the officers eating dinner with their passengers. She delighted in choosing who would join her at the captain's table, always making certain someone interesting sat at her side. She was therefore annoyed when First Officer Goode interrupted a lively discussion on genetics with a call suggesting she join him on the bridge.
"Mechanical trouble?" she asked softly into the intercom. No sense alarming the passengers.
"No, Captain. But you'll want to get up here right away." Goode's voice was casual—far too casual.
Chandra's annoyance evaporated. "On my way."
She made her apologies and reached the bridge in ninety seconds. Goode was waiting, a message flimsy in his hand. "Get a grip on your guyline," he advised, handing her the paper.
A frown creased Chandra's forehead; it deepened as she read. "This is ridiculous. Drop my passengers and fireball it way the hell off the ecliptic? What for?"
"The explanation's still coming in—tight beam, with the line's own security code," Goode told her. "And it's under your father's name, no less." He took the flimsy back and headed toward the navigator.
"Dad?" Chandra stepped to the communications console and peered at the paper sliding slowly from the slot. Sure enough: PEACEKEEPER HEADQUARTERS, EARTH—TO P.L. ORIGAMI: FROM GEN. SANFORD CAREY. Beneath the heading the message was nearly complete, and Chandra read it with a mixture of fascination and horror.
"Well?" Goode asked.
She tore off the paper and thrust it into his hands even as she groped for the main intercom board. For a moment she paused, organizing the thoughts that whirled like Martian winds through her mind. Then she stabbed the "general" button.
"Attention, attention," she said in her most authorative voice. "This is Captain Carey. All passengers and non-essential crewmembers are to report to the lifeboats immediately. There is no immediate danger to the Origami, but this is not a drill. Repeating: all passengers and nonessential crew report immediately to lifeboats. This is not a drill."
The "abandon ship" alarm sounded even as she keyed a different circuit. "Bridge to Power. I want the drive up to full ergs in twenty minutes. Start tying in for full remote to the bridge, too." She waited for an acknowledgment and switched off. "Navigator!" she called across the bridge. "Get me a course to the vector on that paper—" she stabbed a finger at the flimsy Goode had shown her. "I want a minimum-time path to the earliest possible intercept point that leaves us stationary. Any acceleration she can handle, and you can run the tanks. Everyone else: if you're not on flight prep, help get the passengers off. We fireball in twenty minutes. Move!" The bridge erupted with activity. Chandra sank into her chair, rereading the message carefully. It was hard to believe that the long search was ending like this, with a kill-or-die confrontation that made less sense even than shooting a deadly snake. And yet, despite the danger and irony, she felt a small surge of excitement. The safety of the entire solar system had unexpectedly fallen into her hands—and her father himself was counting on her. She wouldn't let him down.
Glancing up at the chrono, she keyed the intercom. "Captain to lifeboat bays—status report?"
—
Lassarr returned to the bridge at precisely the appointed time. "The half-aarn is past, Shipmaster," he announced.
Orofan looked up from the sensor monitor he and Pliij were seated at. "One moment, Voyagemaster," he said distractedly. "A new factor has entered the situation."
"I have it now, Orofan," Pliij muttered, both long and short tentacles dancing over the instruments. "Medium-frequency electromagnetic radiation, with severe shifting and aberration. I have a recording."
"Good. Get to work on it at once. And keep the sensors watching for more." Orofan stood and went to where Lassarr waited.
"What is it?" the Voyagemaster asked.
"Signals of some sort, beamed at us every few aarmis. The natives are trying to communicate."
Lassarr frowned. "Interesting. Any known language?"
"Unfortunately, no. But there's a great deal of information in each pulse. We may have a preliminary translation in a few aarns."
"Good. That'll help us if we need to negotiate for the Dawnsent's repair."
Orofan blinked. "What do you mean? Whether or not we're stopping here is still my decision."
"Not any more. I've reconsidered and have decided this is our best course. Further planetary data is coming in, and it now seems likely that there are one or two planets here we could colonize."
Orofan forced calmness into his voice. "You can't do that, Lassarr. You can't commit us to an uncertain war; certainly not one of conquest. Even if they were primitives—which they're clearly not—we would have no right to take their worlds. This is not honorable—"
"Peace, Shipmaster." Lassarr favored him with a hard, speculative glare. "You protest far too much. Tell me, if the Dawnsent didn't need to be cannibalized for the required fuel mass, would you be nearly as opposed to stopping here?"
"Your insinuations are slanderous," Orofan said stiffly. "The ship is my responsibility, yes, but I've not been blinded to all else. My overall duty is still to the Sk'cee in our sleep tanks."