Then, it began to shrink and to drift towards the right of the viewplate. Then, it was gone. And he knew that he had 78 hours to go.
Five times during that period he decelerated to the point at which he could shut off stasis. At 1.2 G, he walked around the narrow confines of the cabin and even crawled around into the storage hold to give himself much-needed exercise. He did pushups and kneebends until he was panting and was so tired that he had no trouble falling asleep. He talked to himself and he listened to music and drama and poetry from the pocket player. At times, he felt he would go mad if he did not have a cigarette, but he did not. Endlessness. Loneliness. Insignificance.
Whatever the Axe reaction, Broward was curving out towards the nightside.
But he found himself reluctant to replace the scout in the programmed path. This, despite the fact that the longer he waited, the more chance he gave the Martians to locate him and send ships and missiles or both against him. He knew that he must launch the bomb and that the sooner he did it, the better for him and the success of his mission. Yet, he could not bring himself to start.
A buzzer sounded; a red light began flashing on the instrument panel. Startled, he looked at the various radar-scopes and saw that one had a blip. A piece of cosmic debris? An Axe ship? He pressed a button on the panel, and a piece of paper slid out of a narrow slot. On it was printed the distance, direction relative to the ship, speed, and
approximate size of the target. It was about four hundred and eighty kilometers away, was proceeding on a path parallel to his, was on the same heading, traveling at 45,000 kilometers per hour, and was about three times the size of his scout.
His first impulse was to throw his craft into full speed and then towards a ninety-degree angle from the stranger. But his hands remained poised before his. chest. Why was he waiting? He did not know. There was something emanating— if he could use the word in such an unscientific term—from the object. What? There was no defining it except as a call for help. Despite any evidence whatsoever, he felt that someone was crying out for aid. Although he had never considered himself to be in the least receptive to psychic phenomenon—if such indeed existed—he was now experiencing something akin to it. Whatever it was, it was reaching him through no ordinary channels of communication.
His third impulse was to continue with the first The long isolation and strain had unnerved him, might even be causing hallucinations. If he succumbed, he would not only die, but, eventually, Ingrid and all his comrades would. No. He would pay no attention to the voiceless shout
He reached down. Instead of pushing on the velocity stick, he pressed two controls. These activated the frequency-finders for the radio and laser receivers. Several seconds passed while he watched the scopes for evidence that the object had changed course, was increasing speed, or had released a second unknown object against him. None of these occurred, and then the radio receiver, having located and locked onto a certain continuing frequency, burst into life. A voice was speaking in Spanish, a man's voice. It had been some time since Broward had spoken Spanish. At first, he did not understand. But the man was obviously repeating the same phrases over and over. Within a minute, Broward understood him. He was calling for help. He was Lieutenant Pablo Quiroga, and he was in the communications section of what was left of the cruiser Juan Manuel de Rosas. The de Rosas, with two destroyers, had detected and then pursued the remnants of the fleeing South African fleet. (Though Quiroga did not say so, his words implied that Howards, the Argentinean dictator, had done to his allies what Scone had done to the Russians and Chinese. Except that in this case there was no doubt about Howards' treachery.)
The South Africans had turned around to fight or, perhaps, the Argentineans had intercepted them. Whatever had happened, the result of the battle had been the annihilation of the South African ships. But at a heavy cost. Both destroyers had been shattered by missiles. The de Rosas had finished off the African dreadnought but had been sliced through in several places by lasers. Quiroga had survived in the sealed-off section. He did not know if there were others also living in similar sections. But he was calling Mars or any ships that might be in the neighborhood. He could not last long. He was out of food and water, and the air would give out in another three hours or less.
Broward, having adjusted the transmitter to the frequency received, said in Spanish, "Lieutenant Quiroga. Lieutenant Quiroga. How long have you been broadcasting?"
There was a pause. Then, Quiroga answered in such a torrent that Broward could understand only a phrase and a word here and there. He waited until the man had finished speaking and said, "Speak more slowly."
"You are not an Argentinean," replied Quiroga. "I can tell by your pronunciation. What are you? A South African survivor? God help us, are you in the same situation as I am?"
"Not quite," said Broward. He hesitated to identify himself, because it was possible that Axe ships were even now on the way in response to Quiroga's call. He said, "Are your lasers working? If so, turn one on. I'll lock into it"
"Go ahead."
"Now," said Broward, "we can talk without anyone eavesdropping. I am Captain Broward of the lunar base of Clavius."
There was another silence, so long that Broward decided the other fellow was afraid to reply. He said. "I don't intend to harm you. In fact, I will take you aboard. But only as my prisoner."
"A Soviet prisoner?" said Quiroga. He began to laugh uncontrollably. Broward sat quietly until the man had started to sob. Then, he said, "I'm sure that we can find a place for you in our society, a quite agreeable place. If you're cooperative, that is."
"I don't understand," said Quiroga. "What are you doing out here? And where would you take me? I thought... I thought that..."
"That your fleet had annihilated those on the Moon and Ganymede?"
"Ganymede is untouched. El Macho intends to take the Ganymedans prisoners later; they don't have defenses worth considering. They're ripe..."
"For the plucking. Well, thanks for the information. As for the Moon, the less you know, the better for everybody. Do you want to come aboard?"
"If I stay here, I will surely die. If I become your prisoner... ? Why do you want me?"
Broward could not answer that to his own satisfaction. He intended to loose a weapon that would instantly slay anywhere from 500 to several thousand men, women, and children. Yet, he was risking all to save a single enemy from death.
"I can't come in after you," he said. "You'll have to enter willingly and unarmed into my ship. If you don't reply immediately, I will be forced to leave at once."
"I surrender. And I give you my word of honor as an Argentinean and a Christian that I will not bear arms or try force."
Broward smiled grimly on hearing that and began the steps that would result in automatic placing of his vessel near that of the wreck. After that, he would take over manually. The process required time, more time than he really thought he could afford. But he could not abandon Quiroga. Somehow, by rescuing him, he was compensating for what he would do to his fellows. The idea was not logical or even rational. One life for thousands was ridiculous. But he felt that he was making some slight payment and that was better than none at all.