Part 8

Stan Norman said: "Technician to Executive: May I enter this encounter in the log?"

"Go ahead," said Guy. "They'll never believe us, though."

"Wouldn't a definite statement of their course and velocity be evidence?"

"Nope. I happen to know it. It was part of the maneuver secret that I was kidnaped for, remember."

"They'd just accuse you of telling tall tales that couldn't be substantiated," agreed Kane. "The crew and myself would be considered biased witnesses. I'd sure like to cinch the argument, though."

"So would I," said Guy thoughtfully.

"Do you trust this dingbat of yours? The barrier, I mean."

"Naturally."

"Then couldn't we really do something about it?"

"I don't know what--unless we splashed them with a bucket of paint. We have a gallon of bright red, wire-impregnating varnish. Executive to Pilot, Astrogator, Technician, and Observer: Get the course of the _Orionad_ to the last millimeter. Both the intrinsic course and the course with respect to the _Asterite_. Then plot a free flight across their path to intercept within a thousand feet at thirty degrees angle. You know the standard attack problem as we have designed it; this is an applied problem, fellows. We're going to label the _Orionad_! And when they land, they're going to bear the _Asterite_'s trademark, and they'll not know it until we make Terra. Like?"

"We're on it now," said Stan.

"And working in nine decimals," added Astrogator Cummins.

* * * * *

Technician Norman stretched his back, and started to gather his tools. "So far," he told Maynard, "every instrument we need has been checked and corrected to the last micron. Turretman Hastings and Machinist Trenton have converted one of the mounts to a spring-loaded gadget to propel a gallon-sized cannister of plastic material. Adkins has just cemented such a cylinder together and filled it with the wire gluck. I hope we hit the main personnel lock; it'll stay glucky until they land, and that wire-impregnating googoo ranks high among the things I wouldn't care to bathe in."

"It ranks top with me," said Maynard.

"To me, it is outranked only by chewing gum and rubber cement. But anyway, we're ready, all of us."

"That correct?" asked Maynard of the crew.

A series of "Check" shouts came in ragged confusion.

"O.K. Start going!"

With the instruments under personal supervision, the _Asterite_ accelerated in a wide circle, and then corrected the side-vector component of her course.

Then for an hour solid, the _Asterite_ accelerated on a die-true course. The components of the intersection were complex because the _Orionad_ was in deceleration all the time, while the _Asterite_ was in acceleration, and would be picking up speed until the barrier established; then the little destroyer would coast free, crossing the _Orionad_'s course at the precise instant that the super ship came to the course of the free-flying _Asterite_.

The last driving moments of the _Asterite_'s maneuver passed. The barrier went on, and the tiny ship went free. Time passed, and eventually the _Orionad_, long beyond detector range, came into the scope of the _Asterite_'s souped-up finder.

Furious and extensive checking on the part of the crew resulted in the information that everything was going according to plan.

More time passed, and now within sight, the two ships were converging. They became tense, a single moment of failure would be death for all. But the barrier held, as they expected it to, and with lightning velocity, the two ships crossed at thirty degrees angle.

"Fire!" called the technician.

"Stick to your meters," drawled Turretman Hastings. "This is a job for an eyepiece and fingertip man. A man, may I say, with eyes in his fingertips. A man, may I add ... Ughh. There she goes, fellers!... who is capable of doing things based upon the excellency of his coordination."

"What a line of baloney," snorted Norman. "Did he follow through on that malarkey?"

"And, may I add," drawled Hastings, "a man who never claims ability beyond his capability? Who never claims that which he is unable to produce. The _Orionad_ is now bearing a great, ugly, irregular circle of bright red, gooey paint."

"Are they aware?"

"Apparently not," said Technician Norman. "Also, the projectile we tossed at them is nondetectable and nonradiating, and was in the separation-space too briefly for observation. Another thing, we hit 'em in a blind spot."

"Blind spot?" asked Kane. "I didn't know she had any."

"She hasn't. What I meant was that we hit 'em in a bald spot. They'll not see the mess until they land. Pilot, how're we doing?"

"Fine. We're coasting away at a great rate."

"Well, get this barrier down as soon as you get out of range. Wait until you are out of operating range, but don't worry about extreme range unless you think they smell a crate full of mice."

"Right-o."

"You know, Kane, that was fun, sort of. But I hate to think of what they will say back home. I'm liable to get busted right down to a junior aide again."

"They can't break you for that kind of demonstration," said Kane.

"Yes they can. I'm still at the mercy of my superiors."

Kane smiled. "No, you're not. I forgot to tell you--or you didn't let me get to the point of my coming. But, Guy Maynard, since the successful establishment of the Plutonian shield, you are now a sector commander. That gives you--"

"I'm what?" asked Maynard.

"A sector commander. Here, if you don't believe me," and Kane handed Guy a tiny box. Guy opened it, and found lapel-insignia; the circling comet of the sector commander. In Kane's other hand was an envelope stamped "Official" which contained official notice of his advance in rank.

"That puts you in the upper bracket," said Kane. "You are now on your own, Guy. Any demonstrations you may give will be viewed officially, and this is no longer a prank, but a self-assertion; a very definite evidence of your ability to accomplish the difficult."

The barrier dropped, and the celestial globe traced the last indication of the receding _Orionad_ to the surface of the clear, glassite sphere.

Maynard touched his hat in salute to the _Orionad's_ last glimmer and said: "Hi!"

IX.

The _Asterite_ beat the _Orionad_ to Terra by a few hours, and in sufficient time for the report of Maynard's trip to be reviewed by the Bureau of Ordnance. When they came to the incident of the painting, they laughed first, and then called Malcolm Greggor to ascertain the moment of the _Orionad_'s landing. Armed with the information they went to the big landing area at Sahara Base, and waited for the big ship to touch.

Greggor was there; he arrived almost as they did.

"What's the meaning of this?" he stormed.

Patrol Marshal Mantley grinned at the irate man and answered: "Your erstwhile employee has demonstrated his sub-screen to excellent effect, Greggor. He hung a gallon of red paint on the _Orionad_ without their notice."

"This is preposterous!" exploded Greggor.

"Not at all," said Mantley. "Sector Commander Maynard was merely bringing home the effectiveness of his own invention. If he can do that to the _Orionad_, no Martie can hope to best us. You must admit that he has something good."

"That I admit. But to play such a prank--"

"No prank, Greggor. This was a very convincing demonstration. How can you possibly classify such an epoch-making act as a prank? It is deplorable that your pride and joy should be thus decorated by a mere ... he was but Senior Executive Maynard at the time ... destroyer, a spacecraft one tenth the tonnage of the _Orionad_. But I insist that it does not detract from the pride of the _Orionad_ to have been bested by such a weapon."

"I feel as though I've been made a fool of."

"Ridiculous! It is not an admission of defeat to acknowledge a minor defeat at the hands of a man who is responsible for making Pluto inhabitable. After all, Greggor, Maynard is one in fifty billion."

Greggor smiled wryly. "When you put it that way, I must admit," he said. "Any man who can bring the means of warming a planet to human climates certainly must be capable of decorating the _Orionad_. Maybe I should grow angry again; why should such a genius stoop to tamper with my ship?"

"It was available and the best thing we have to boot."

Maynard interrupted. "Surely you would not believe me capable of bringing ridicule upon you, Marshal Greggor. It was but a splendid opportunity to demonstrate what could have been done to an enemy with a torpedo. What if I had been a Martian?"

"I agree," said Greggor. Then he laughed uproariously. "We'll pink Patrol Marshal Inkland with the idea," he said. "Tell him that his ship was destroyed in space by a real destroyer; that he must have been asleep. Roast him good, and see what happens. Here she comes--and Maynard, that splotch of red paint sticks out like a miniature sun. What a mal-beautiful job of decoration."

The _Orionad_ landed, and Inkland came across the sand toward the little group as soon as he saw who it was. He shook hands all around and smiled until Greggor told him of the decoration.

Inkland turned red and blustered. "Nothing was within detector range of me!" he insisted.

"That slab of red paint says you're wrong," said Greggor sternly.

Inkland inspected the red paint from where they stood and was forced to admit that _something_ had been close enough to do it while in space. "Who did that?" he stormed.

Mantley indicated Maynard, and Inkland strode over to Guy with murder in his eye. "You insolent young puppy--I'll see that you lose your rank, senior executive." He whirled to the assembly and said: "No matter what was done, the fact that a mere senior executive did it is good enough to prove that it was a prank--"

"Just a moment," snapped Maynard. "First, I resent being called a puppy. I dislike being called insolent. And third, I defy your intent to deprive me of my rank!"

"Why you--"

"For your troubles, Patrol Marshal Inkland, I shall consider my success complete upon the day that I command the _Orionad_ myself!"

"Ridiculous."

"Inkland," said Mantley softly, "I would speak more even. You are at fault, and the fact that Sector Commander Maynard has decorated your ship in a complex space maneuver of his own device should bring praise from you instead of hatred."

"Sector Commander?" asked Inkland.

"His insignia has not been properly installed," said Space Marshal Greggor with a fatherly smile. "But his rank has. And if young Guy Maynard puts his aim at commanding the _Orionad_, I'm beginning to believe that I would start looking for another job, if I were you."

* * * * *

Inkland turned upon his heel and left, with no further word.

The group of high-ranking officers followed him at length, leaving Maynard to watch the mighty _Orionad_ being serviced and unloaded. He stood there for some time, relaxing and enjoying the fresh air and watching the operations. He found a comfortable spot, and seated himself lazily.

He did not sleep, though he did drowse a bit, and a sparse circle of cigarette butts began to surround him. He did not care; his last sojourn into space had made him appreciative of the comforts of just being on Earth where he could watch the sky and the ground meeting at the horizon.

He was not molested; though many people came to see the monster _Orionad_, none bothered him until the day wore into late afternoon. His first visitor was Laura Greggor.

"Guy," she said. Her voice was neither sharp nor inviting, but rather a flat tone of greeting.

Guy leaped to his feet and reached for her hands. "Laura!" he breathed. "It's good to see you!"

"I thank you for that," she said coldly.

"Why," he asked her, "what's the matter?"

"Guy, before I go any further, I want to know something. Did you, or did you not decorate father's ship?"

"Why," he answered proudly, "I most certainly did."

"I didn't believe it of you," she said sharply.

"There was nothing wrong with it," he said. "It was the best thing that happened to me."

"You believe that?" asked Laura.

"I certainly do. After all, it proved the worth of my invention. And," he added eagerly, "it gave me another set of insignia to have installed."

"If the worth of your invention is more interesting to you than the interest of my father's office," said Laura sharply, "your latest rise in power--made by using father's finest ship as a stepping stone--is of little interest to me."

"But Laura. I'm a sector commander now. And you may have my senior executive's stars."

"I have a fair collection," said Laura coldly. "You may bring me your patrol marshal's nebula when you're raised to sector marshal. Good day!"

She stamped off angrily, and Maynard searched his mind for the answer to the question, and gave it up as one of the unanswerable mysteries of life. If Malcolm Greggor could look upon the incident without rancor, why should she turn upon him? Any reasoning he did made no sense.

And as he stood there, footsteps made him aware of another visitor. He turned to see Joan Forbes.

"Hello," she said brightly. "I was on my way to the lunchroom and passed by to see the Big Fellow." She indicated the _Orionad_ now being illuminated by mighty floodlights in the dusk. "I found you instead."

"Hi," he said to her. "What's new?"

"Nothing in my life," she said with a broad smile. Her eye caught the boxed insignia in Guy's clenched hand. "I see that something is new in yours. May I salute you, Sector Commander?"

Guy looked at her with a half-smile as she stepped back and cast him a womanly salute. "Congratulations," she said, offering her hand.

Guy looked first at her face, and then at her outstretched hand. Instead of taking it in his for a handshake in friendship, which was the manner of its offering, Guy placed the opened box in the outstretched fingers.

Joan blinked, and looked down at the box in surprise for a moment. Then she brightened.

She stepped forward and removed the rayed stars from Guy's lapel and replaced them with the circularly tailed comets. She stepped back, saluted him silently, and then came forward and kissed him on the lips. Her caress was affectionate, but brief.

"You're properly installed, commander," she told him. "But if I don't hurry, I'll be un-installed by my boss. I've got to run along. Keep rising, Guy!"

And with that she was gone.

Guy looked at the empty box, and then at the comets on his lapels.

And from them, across to the _Orionad_.

And a challenge arose to confront him. He would be sector marshal one day, and whether he took his patrol marshal's insignia to Laura Greggor depended only upon her. And he would also command the _Orionad_.

He clenched his fist upon the empty box, crushing it. His question was not: Would he command the _Orionad_? It was: How long would it take?

* * * * *

It took five years. Five long, toilsome years.

But five years of constantly increasing, constantly expanding, constantly improving. He never forgot the day of the _Orionad_'s landing in all that five years, though there was evidence that Laura Greggor had been reprimanded by Malcolm Greggor for her actions. But Maynard remembered, and it was Joan Forbes that pinned the silver nebula on his lapels--in public as befitted a Patrol Marshal--just before he stepped aboard the _Orionad_ to take his first major command.

He hoped that Laura Greggor remembered.

Then the _Orionad_ sped into the sky above Sahara Base on the way to Pluto.

Guy Maynard was on his way to the top. Ertene was a dim remembrance by now, and though he could almost pick out the spot of the nomad planet's present position, it occurred to him only at odd intervals. Ertene was gone. But the strength of Ertene's knowledge was serving both him and Terra, and her brief visit was not wasted.

Maynard lost himself in reverie for a half hour, relaxing in the luxury of the master's office aboard the mighty _Orionad_. Then Guy's active mind asserted itself, and he called the chief technician for a conference.

Senior Executive Martin Carrington entered the office and stood at attention, and Guy recalled briefly that on his first command, he had been of the same rank as his chief technician now. Then he asked Carrington to be seated.

"Carrington, I've been worrying."

"Worrying, sir?"

"Suppose we are attacked by a sub-ship? How may we detect him?"

"You are supposing that the Martians gain the secret."

"I fear they will, some day. We haven't all the brains, you know."

"But a Martie, sir?"

"They may capture one of ours by a fluke. Then we'd all be bear-meat."

"Hardly possible, sir."

"Then accept it as hypothetical, Carrington. Take off from there and answer my question."

"That I cannot do, sir. Frankly, I do not know."

"Then listen. I have an idea; I want you to pass on its value."

"I shall try, sir."

"Carrington, is it possible to establish a celestial globe that is capable of giving a negative action? No, wait, I'll explain. Our present celestial globe is positive; it operates by three-dimensional fluorescence in the sphere, glowing when a positive radiation comes in from a spaceship. What I want is a negative indication: one that will glow in any location from which there comes absolutely zero radiation. Is that possible?"

"Hm-m-m," mused Carrington. "Our present level of detection is based upon the maximum level of celestial radiation, which is fairly constant in all directions save Solward. Your supposed sphere would operate on the celestial radiation--with the normal globe the entire sphere would glow--and be dark everywhere except in a place where all radiation were absorbed. It would be devilishly ticklish, sir."

"You follow my reasoning?"

"Oh certainly. Your idea is to prepare a sphere that glows with no signal. That can be done with a local signal, which is cut when no-radiation enters. Hard to say in words, isn't it?"

Maynard laughed cheerfully. "As long as you get my thought, I don't care how you say it. The barrier-screen absorbs all radiation. Therefore any position holding a sub-ship would produce zero radiation. It would then show on the negative sphere. Right?"

"I think that's about it," said Carrington.

"Good. We agree on that. Want to work on it?"

"Absolutely."

"It's yours, then. Go ahead and make it tick."

"That I'll do, sir. We'll have it by the time we hit Pluto."

"One more thing, Carrington. Keep it under your hat. It's a military secret, you know."

"I'll say nothing."

"Check. I'll be down and see you later."

Carrington left, and as he went back to his quarters, he told several of his contemporaries that the new commander was everything that they had ever heard of him.

* * * * *

Finding Pluto was a good job of work for the combined efforts of the astrogator and the chief pilot. Pluto was completely hidden just as Ertene was, and Maynard knew the completeness of that shield. It was done gropingly, by sheer hit and miss effort, but finally a black circle in the starry sky established above them. And as the pilot announced his success, it began to spread from a minute spot to mightiness. Then they passed through the barrier, and Pluto was a warm, greenish planet above them, much the same as Terra as seen from Luna.

The _Orionad_ dropped onto the Spaceport; the entire trip without incident.

Maynard signed his command into the base marshal's office and ordered his chief executive officer to grant planet liberty as he saw fit. Space Marshal Lincoln smiled at the younger man and told him: "I think you'll be interested in the experiments going on in the radiation laboratory."

"Yes?"

"They're having a bit of trouble on one of your gadgets."

"Which one?"

"The stellar light-filter. Somehow, it doesn't work as you predicted."

"Why didn't they ask for me sooner?" wondered Maynard. "It's been six years since I thought that one up--they've had plenty of time."

"It's possible," admitted Lincoln. "But you forget that it was extremely complex and highly theoretical. Also, no good use has ever been found for it. Unlike your other inventions, this seems to be an experiment in pure research. So we didn't start on it until last, and it's been three years in the building."

"So long?"

"Oh yes. Some of the parts were entirely unheard of before, and many of the major components had to be built of parts that were designed for the job. When you design the minor components to assemble the major components--which also require design--you pyramid the time and difficulty."

"I hadn't thought of it that well."

"I wish you'd go over and tell them what's wrong. Kane, the publisher came in for the unveiling of the thing, and we'd hate to present him with a complete failure, in spite of its uselessness."

"Kane's here? Good, I'll go right over."

Maynard was youthful enough to be amazed that the weight of his rank opened a path through the grouped technicians to the complex instrument that lined the entire wall of the huge laboratory. Kane was near the center, and the only one in the group that knew Guy Maynard well enough to call him by his first name: therefore he was the first to speak.

"You invented this thing, Guy. Can you make it work?"

Guy blushed. "I didn't invent it--" he started and then saw Kane's puzzled look, which caused him to pause; then he nodded and finished: "--I merely worked on it theoretically. I did not have enough equipment in the lifeship to build any more than a few of the more complex circuits."

"Good enough," laughed Kane. "Well you may know more than we do at that. After all," he said in defense of his statement, "these men have been working on it for a couple of years."

A man with the rayed stars of a senior executive offered: "That's not strictly true, Mr. Kane. We started to work on it about three days ago--if you consider the instrument as a whole. There have been many groups working on the components separately, building them up. We assembled the whole last week."

"Take a swing at it, Guy."

"It's a maze to me," admitted Guy. "Let me see the circuits."

* * * * *

It took Maynard some time to figure them out. He was working from memory now, and it was none too good, plus the fact that he had memorized the complex circuit in Ertinian symbols and in Ertinian constants, and they all required conversion to Terran terms. He called for the group leaders of the various components, and asked them to report on the functions of their parts.

Together, they pinned the error down, and corrected it. Then Maynard turned the thing on himself.

The broad plate took on a gray-green background, mottled with huge circular blotches of white. He turned the focusing knob, and the mottling contracted into individual circles of intense, flaming white. He reduced the intensity control, and the eye-searing brightness dimmed to a more comfortable level. More fiddling with the focus, with alternate adjustment of the intensity, for they were inter-reacting, and the plate took on the appearance of the sky.

"So far so good. Now for the shaping control," said Maynard. He drove the left hand end swirling upward on the plate with one knob, stretched the stars across the top of the plate, and compressed them along the right side. He caused them to whirl circularly, and gradually the distortion dropped until the constellations appeared.

"There you are," he told the chief technician.

"Fine. Now what can we do?"

"Well, there aren't too many planets," said Maynard. "We can decrease the response of celestial bodies that shine by reflected light. That one," he said needlessly, since they all knew it well, "is Jupiter. Watch him fade!" and Maynard turned the knob. After the demonstration, he returned it to its original position again.