The Greatest Works of E. E. Smith. E. E. Smith
in vain—he could not get another sound.
“What are you trying to get, Kim?” asked Thorndyke. “Wasn’t that enough?”
“No, that’s only half of it,” Kinnison returned. “Helmuth’s nobody’s fool. He’s certainly trying to plot the boundaries of our interference, and I want to see how he’s coming out with it. But no dice. He’s so far away and his beam’s so hard I can’t work him unless he happens to be talking almost directly toward us. Well, it won’t be long now until we’ll give him some real interference to plot. Now let’s see what we can do about those two other ships that are heading this way.”
Carefully as those two ships investigated, and sedulously as they sought to obey Helmuth’s instructions, all their precautions amounted to exactly nothing. As ordered, they began to spy-ray survey at extreme range; but even at that range Kinnison’s tracers were effective and those pirates also ceased communicating in a blaze of interference. Then recent history repeated itself. The details were changed somewhat, since there were two vessels instead of one; but the pit was of ample size to accommodate two ships, and the tractors could hold two as well and as rigidly as one. The conflict was a little longer, the beaming a little hotter and more coruscant, but the ending was the same. Scramblers and other special apparatus were installed and Kinnison called his men together.
“We’re about ready to shove off again. Running away has worked twice so far and should work once more, if we can ring in enough variations on the theme to keep Helmuth guessing a while longer. Maybe, if the supply of pirate ships holds up, we can make Helmuth furnish us transportation clear back to Prime Base!
“Here’s the idea. We’ve got six ships, and enough Velantians have volunteered to man them—in spite of the fact that they probably won’t get back. Six ships, of course, isn’t enough of a task force to fight its way through Helmuth’s fleets; so we’ll spread out, covering plenty of parsecs and broadcasting every watt of interference we can put out, in as many different shapes and sizes as our generators can figure. We won’t be able to talk to each other, but nobody else can talk, either, anywhere near us, and that ought to give us a chance. Each ship will be on its own, like we were before, in the boats; the big difference being that we’ll be in superdreadnaughts.
“Question—should we split up again or stick together? We’d better all go in one ship, I think—with spools aboard the others, of course. What do you think?”
They agreed with him to a man and he directed a thought at the Velantian.
“Now, Worsel, about you fellows here—you probably won’t have it so easy, either. Sooner or later—and sooner would be my guess—Helmuth’s boys will be coming to see you. In force and cocked and primed and with blood in their eyes. It’ll be a battle, not a slaughter.”
“Let them come, in whatever force they care to bring. The more who attack here, the less there will be to halt your progress. This armament represents the best of that possessed by both your Patrol and the pirates, with improvements developed by your scientists and ours in full cooperation. We understand thoroughly its construction, operation, and maintenance. You may rest assured that the pirates will never levy tribute upon us, and that any pirate visiting this system will remain in it—permanently!”
“At-a-snake, Worsel—long may you wiggle!” Kinnison exclaimed. Then, more seriously, “Maybe, after this is all over, I’ll see you again sometime. If not, goodbye. Goodbye, all Velantia. All set, everybody? Clear ether—blast off!”
Six ships, one pirate craft, now vessels of the Galactic Patrol, hurled themselves into and through Velantian air; into and through interplanetary space; out into the larger, wider, opener emptiness of the interstellar void. Six ships, each broadcasting with prodigious power and volume an all-inclusive interference through which not even a CRX tracer could be driven.
CHAPTER 9
Breakdown
Kimball Kinnison sat at the controls, smoking a rare festive cigarette and smiling; at peace with the entire universe. For this new picture was in every element a different one from the old. Instead of being in a pitifully weak and defenseless lifeboat, skulking and hiding, he was in one of the most powerful battleships afloat, driving boldly at full blast almost directly toward home. While the Patrolmen were so terribly few in number that most of them had to work double shifts—Kinnison and Henderson had to do all the piloting and navigating—they had under them a full crew of alert and highly-trained Velantians. And the enemy, instead of being a close-knit group, keeping Helmuth informed moment by moment of the situation and instantly responsive to his orders, were now entirely out of communication with each other and with their headquarters; groping helplessly. Literally as well as figuratively the pirates were in the dark; the absolute blackness of interstellar space.
Thorndyke entered the room, frowning slightly. “You look like the fabled Cheshire cat, Kim. I hate to spoil such perfect bliss, but I’m here to tell you that we ain’t out of the woods yet, by seven thousand rows of big, green, peppermint trees.”
“Maybe not,” the Lensman returned blithely, “but compared to the jam we were in a little while back we’re not only sitting on top of the world; we’re perched right on the exact apex of the universe. They can’t send or receive reports or orders, and they can’t communicate. Even their detectors are mighty lame—you know how far they can get on electromagnetics and visual apparatus. Furthermore, there isn’t an identification number, symbol, or name on the outside of this buzz-buggy. If it ever had one the friction and attrition have worn it off, clear down to the armor. What can happen that we can’t cope with?”
“These engines can happen,” the technician responded, bluntly. “The Bergenholm is developing a meter-jump that I don’t like a little bit.”
“Does she knock? Or even tick?” demanded Kinnison.
“Not yet,” Thorndyke confessed, reluctantly.
“How big a jump?”
“Pretty near two thousandths maximum. Average a thousandth and a half.”
“That’s hardly a wiggle on the recorder line. Drivers run for months with bigger jumps than that.”
“Yeah—drivers. But of all the troubles anybody ever had with Bergenholms, a meter-kick was never one of them, and that’s what’s got me guessing as to the whichness of the why. I’m not trying to scare you—yet. I’m just telling you.”
The machine referred to was the neutralizer of inertia, the sine qua non of interstellar speed, and it was not to be wondered at that the slightest irregularity in its performance was to the technician a matter of grave concern. Day after day passed, however, and the huge converter continued to function; taking in and sending out its wonted torrents of power. It developed not even a tick, and the meter-jump did not grow worse. And during those days they put an inconceivable distance behind them.
During all this time their visual instruments remained blank; to all optical apparatus space was empty save for the normal tenancy of celestial bodies. From time to time something invisible or beyond the range of vision registered upon one of the electromagnet detectors, but so slow were these instruments that nothing came of their signals. In fact, by the time the warnings were recorded, the objects causing the disturbance were probably far astern.
One day, however, the Bergenholm quit—cold. There was no laboring, no knocking, no heating up, no warning at all. One instant the ship was speeding along in free flight, the next she was lying inert in space. Practically motionless, for any possible velocity built up by inert acceleration is scarcely a crawl, as free space-speeds go.
Then the whole crew labored like mad. As soon as they had the massive covers off, Thorndyke scanned the interior of the machine and turned to Kinnison.
“I think we can patch her up, but it’ll take quite a while. Maybe you’d be of more