Fantastic Stories Presents the Poul Anderson Super Pack. Poul Anderson
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other words, mama knows best. Believe, obey, anything put out by some bureaucrat who never set foot beyond Luna. Is that your idea of citizenship?”
“You’re putting a mighty fine gloss on bailing yourself out!” Janichevski flared.
“Sure, I’m no idealist. But neither am I a slave,” Blades hesitated. “We’ve been friends too long, Adam, for me to try bribing you. But if worst comes to worst, we’ll cover for you . . . somehow . . . and if contrariwise we win, then we’ll soon be hiring captains for our own ships and you’ll get the best offer any spaceman ever got.”
“No. Scram. I’ve work to do.”
Blades braced himself. “I didn’t want to say this. But I’ve already informed a number of my men. They’re as mad as I am. They’re waiting in the terminal. A monkey wrench or a laser torch makes a pretty fair weapon. We can take over by force. That’ll leave you legally in the clear. But with so many witnesses around, you’ll have to prefer charges against us later on.”
Janichevski began to sweat.
“We’ll be sent up,” said Blades. “But it will still have been worth it.”
“Is it really that important to you?”
“Yes. I admit I’m no crusader. But this is a matter of principle.”
Janichevski stared at the big red-haired man for a long while. Suddenly he stiffened. “O.K. On that account, and no other, I’ll go along with you.”
Blades wobbled on his feet, near collapse with relief. “Good man!” he croaked.
“But I will not have any of my officers or crew involved.”
Blades rallied and answered briskly, “You needn’t. Just issue orders that my boys are to have access to the scoopships. They can install the equipment, jockey the boats over to the full balloons, and even couple them on.”
Janichevski’s fears had vanished once he made his decision, but now a certain doubt registered. “That’s a pretty skilled job.”
“These are pretty skilled men. It isn’t much of a maneuver, not like making a Jovian sky dive.”
“Well, O.K., I’ll take your word for their ability. But suppose the Altair spots those boats moving around?”
“She’s already several hundred kilometers off, and getting farther away, running a search curve which I’m betting my liberty—and my honor; I certainly don’t want to hurt my own country’s Navy—I’m betting that search curve is guaranteed not to find the missile in time. They’ll spot the Pallas as you depart—oh, yes, our people will be aboard as per orders—but no finer detail will show in so casual an observation.”
“Again, I’ll take your word. What else can I do to help?”
“Nothing you weren’t doing before. Leave the piratics to us. I’d better get back.” Blades extended his hand. “I haven’t got the words to thank you, Adam.”
Janichevski accepted the shake. “No reason for thanks. You dragooned me.” A grin crossed his face. “I must confess though, I’m not sorry you did.”
*
Blades left. He found his gang in the terminal, two dozen engineers and rockjacks clumped tautly together.
“What’s the word?” Carlos Odonaju shouted.
“Clear track,” Blades said. “Go right aboard.”
“Good. Fine. I always wanted to do something vicious and destructive,” Odonaju laughed.
“The idea is to prevent destruction,” Blades reminded him, and proceeded toward the office.
Avis met him in Corridor Four. Her freckled countenance was distorted by a scowl. “Hey, Mike, wait a minute,” she said, low and hurriedly. “Have you seen La Ziska?”
“The leftenant? Why, no. I left her with you, remember, hoping you could calm her down.”
“Uh-huh. She was incandescent mad. Called us a pack of bandits and—But then she started crying. Seemed to break down completely. I took her to your cabin and went back to help Jimmy. Only, when I checked there a minute ago, she was gone.”
“What? Where?”
“How should I know? But that she-devil’s capable of anything to wreck our chances.”
“You’re not being fair to her. She’s got an oath to keep.”
“All right,” said Avis sweetly. “Far be it from me to prevent her fulfilling her obligations. Afterward she may even write you an occasional letter. I’m sure that’ll brighten your Rehab cell no end.”
“What can she do?” Blades argued, with an uneasy sense of whistling in the dark. “She can’t get off the asteroid without a scooter, and I’ve already got Sam’s gang working on all the scooters.”
“Is there no other possibility? The radio shack?”
“With a man on duty there. That’s out.” Blades patted the girl’s arm.
“O.K., I’ll get back to work. But . . . I’ll be so glad when this is over, Mike!”
Looking into the desperate brown eyes, Blades felt a sudden impulse to kiss their owner. But no, there was too much else to do. Later, perhaps. He cocked a thumb upward. “Carry on.”
Too bad about Ellen, he thought as he continued toward his office. What an awful waste, to make a permanent enemy of someone with her kind of looks. And personality—Come off that stick, you clabberhead! She’s probably the marryin’ type anyway.
In her shoes, though, what would I do? Not much; they’d pinch my feet. But—damnation, Avis is right. She’s not safe to have running around loose. The radio shack? Sparks is not one of the few who’ve been told the whole story and co-opted into the plan. She could—
Blades cursed, whirled, and ran.
His way was clear. Most of the men were still in their dorms, preparing to leave. He traveled in huge low-gravity leaps.
The radio shack rose out of the surface near the verandah. Blades tried the door. It didn’t budge. A chill went through him. He backed across the corridor and charged. The door was only plastiboard—
He hit with a thud and a grunt, and rebounded with a numbed shoulder. But it looked so easy for the cops on 3V!
No time to figure out the delicate art of forcible entry. He hurled himself against the panel, again and again, heedless of the pain that struck in flesh and bone. When the door finally, splinteringly gave way, he stumbled clear across the room beyond, fetched up against an instrument console, recovered his balance, and gaped.
The operator lay on the floor, swearing in a steady monotone. He had been efficiently bound with his own blouse and trousers, which revealed his predilection for maroon shorts with zebra stripes. There was a lump on the back of his head, and a hammer lay close by. Ellen must have stolen the tool and come in here with the thing behind her back. The operator would have had no reason to suspect her.
She had not left the sender’s chair, not even while the door was under attack. Only a carrier beam connected the Sword with the Altair. She continued doggedly to fumble with dials and switches, trying to modulate it and raise the ship.
“Praises be . . . you haven’t had advanced training . . . in radio,” Blades choked. “That’s . . . a long-range set . . . pretty special system—” He weaved toward her. “Come along, now.”
She spat an unladylike refusal.
Theoretically, Blades should have enjoyed the tussle that followed. But he was in poor shape at the outset. And he was a good deal worse off by the time he got her pinioned.
“O.K.,”