An inarticulate sound vibrated in Storrs’ throat. Golescu said bad words. West spoke with complete calm:

  “You can’t forbid it, or issue any order except for us to do our best. Please read the texts you’ve been citing to me. If Beltline is responsible for this operation, Beltline’s agents have to have authority to decide how it shall be carried out. And our decision is to go for broke, as I believe you Americans say. Without your cooperation, we are bound to fail. And what excuse will you offer then? I respectfully suggest, Mr. Bailey, that you get cracking.”

  Stillness hummed, except for the noise of the crowding, flashing stars. Earth rolled tremendous against an ultimate dark. The sail began to bend at the edges as centrifugal force waned. Had it not faced the sun head on, it could have buckled into a hopeless tangle. As matters stood, when rotation ended it would approximate a section of a sphere.

  Bailey’s gulp gurgled in earplugs. “You win. I’ll get several crews to you within a couple of hours, and meanwhile tell Captain Villegas to put his men under your direction. What equipment will be needed?”

  “Torches, mainly,” West said. “Quickest way of slicing up that stuff. We have metal rods aboard, so I can construct a frame to hold the whole mess in position myself, rather fast. Your gang will also want—”

  Golescu signaled Storrs to switch bands. “Whew!” he said. “That was a nasty-minute. I didn’t think old Ed had it in him.”

  “Ed’s a good fellow,” Storrs said. “Uh, we’ll still only require one man aboard Merlin, but—”

  “Hell with that bleat. We’re in this together. I’m sticking with him when the time comes.”

  “Right. Me, too.”

  It was necessary for the herdship to grapple and apply power, lest spin expose the bag to the radiation storm. Golescu should have been at the pilot board then, but he and Storrs were too exhausted. The work had been brutal. They sat in the saloon with untasted mugs of coffee, staring emptily at the bulkheads, while West rode the controls.

  Outside, Lucifer ran free. Coughed from the sun, ions with energies in the millions of electron volts flooded all space. Down on Earth, tourists in the Antarctic lodges crowded into the observation domes to watch the winter sky come alive with vast flapping curtains of aurora. Elsewhere, men who had heard the news huddled near their television screens, waiting for word. Reception was poor. The nuclear generators of ships beyond the atmosphere poured power into screen fields, deflecting that murderous torrent from their hulls. The engineers’ eyes never left the gauges.

  Merlin throbbed. Now and then, as she moved to keep the load at the end of her grapnel on an even keel, her members groaned with stress. That was the only token granted the men in the saloon. They dared not interrupt the pilot with questions.

  “It’s got to work,” Storrs said stupidly, for the dozenth time. He rubbed his chin. The bristles of beard made an audible scratching.

  “Sure it will,” Golescu said. “My idea, wasn’t it?” The cockiness had left his voice.

  “Well,” Storrs said, “If it doesn’t…if that cargo explodes…we’ll never know.” He laid his fist on the table and regarded the knobby knuckles. “I’d like to know, though. How I’d laugh at those fat Earthlings.”

  Golescu reached for his coffee. It had gone cold. “They aren’t that bad. And if you’ve got to be such a hot-bottomed patriot, don’t forget that trouble on Earth would affect the Republic. We need them, same as they need us.”

  “Bull. I can show you economic statistics…Damn and double damn! It isn’t right! How many men’s lives is it proper to risk, to save ten billion or so lousy dollars?”

  “That dinero represents a lot more man-years than we three will rack up, even if I achieve my ambition to become a dirty old man.”

  “Work years. Not deaths.”

  “Scared?”

  Storrs spat in the ashcatcher. “No. Tired and angry. This means one thing to Ed. Economic breakdown on Earth would hurt him directly. But you and me—”

  “You didn’t have to be aboard.”

  “I sure did.”

  “Oh, fork all those fancy moral issues,” Golescu said. “This is what we get paid for.”

  “Hm-m-m…yeah…Another half hour to go, by the clock, if the prediction is right. I hope Ed can stand the strain.”

  “He’d better. That’s the real chance we take. We knew right along the shield would be more than ample. Well, I saw him swallow a whole medicine chest full of anti-fatigue pills and psychodrugs.” Golescu stirred in his seat. “Feel like a game of rummy?”

  “No.”

  The sun’s arrows rushed on through vacuum. Where they encountered Merlin’s screen, they swerved, with a spiteful gout of X-radiation that her internal shielding drank up. Where they struck at the cargo section—

  They hit a barrier of plastic and aluminum: the sail, cut into fifteen-yard squares that were layered within a welded framework. The shielding factor came to about fifty grams per square centimeter. Light metals and hydrogen-rich carbon compounds are highly effective stoppers of stripped small atoms like the hydrogen and helium ions which make up nearly the whole of flare emission. For example, 32.7 grams per square centimeter of aluminum will halt protons of two hundred million electron volts. The recoil characteristics are such that secondary radiation is not a serious problem—at least, not to isonitrate, which is only touched off by a nucleus plowing into its giant molecule.

  But the whole clumsy ensemble of shield, cargo section, and herdship must be kept facing directly into the blast. And gravitation kept trying to swing it into orbit, which brought gyroscopic forces into play. Control was exercised at the end of a long arm; the mass had considerable turning moment, nor was it perfectly balanced. Compensation could become over-compensation with gruesome ease.

  “If we ride this one out,” Golescu said, “we really will get that bonus Ed was faunching for.”

  “Uh-huh.” Storrs raised dark-rimmed eyes. “Andy, you’re a good oscar and I hope we can ship out together again, but right now I’ve got some thinking to do. Keep quiet, huh?”

  “O.K.” Golescu said. “Though thinking’s the last thing I want to do.”

  He prowled aft to have a look at the engine-room meters. Not that he could improve matters much if anything was going awry in his present condition. Why had not one single man, out of the scores who divided the sail, volunteered to ride along and help? Earthlings, of course, had no great cause to love asterites. Golescu caught himself wondering if the Revolution had really been justified—if anything ever was that raised such bitterness between men. Now stow that! Break out the guitar and—No, it’d bother Ed. Sam too, I guess.

  I should’a taken a sleeping pill…Uh-uh, none o’ that either.

  His bleared vision focused on the bank of indicators. Everything operating smoothly—good ship—wait a second! The external radiation count—

  “Yi-yi-yip!” he screamed. “She’s going down! The flare’s dying!” And he did a war dance around the workshop and up the length of the corridor beyond.

  Slowly, slowly, the storm faded. Until at last West said from the intercom, “It’s over with. We’re alive, boys.”

  Storrs began to dance, too.

  After a while West reported, “Earth called in. Congratulations and so forth. They’ll send a tug at once for this cargo, and hold it in the Moon’s shadow while they unload. We’re invited groundside for a celebration.” Wistfulness tinged his voice. “D’you think the company would mind if we accepted?”

  “They better not,” Storrs said.

  “We need a checkout anyway, after putting the ship to so much stress,” Golescu added. “And they’ll have to compute a new orbit for the rest of our mission. We’re bound to have a few days’ layover.” Exhaustion dropped from him. “Fleshpots, here I come!”

  He snatched up his guitar and bellowed forth:

  Ol’ Einstein was a transporteer, he was, he was

  Ol’ Einstein was a transporteer, he was, he was.

  His racing car used too much gas;

  It shrank the time but it raised the mass,

  Bravo, bravo, hurrah for the transporteers!

  Now he had a story to embroider for the girls in Pallas town.

  ARSENAL PORT

  -1-

  When the Earth ship came, Gunnar Heim was bargaining with a devil-winged messenger from a nuclear smithy. The Aerie of Trebogir, for which Ro spoke, had weapons to sell; but there were conditions. Non-human words hissed and whistled into the man’s helmet pickup. Gregorios Koumanoudes translated into English. “—missile gets so large an initial velocity by drawing on the ship’s own gravitrons for a launch impetus.”

  Heim wished he could show horse trader reluctance, as by thoughtfully scratching his head. But it would look silly under present circumstances. Damn this need to wear air-suits! Even on the lift platform where he stood, which kept his weight Earth normal, and even with the strength of a two-meter-tall body which he had gotten back into first-class condition on the voyage hither, the mass of equipment he must carry was tiring. Originally he had planned to stay inboard, put a 3V two-way outside Connie Girl, and thus meet with the Staurni; but Koumanoudes warned him against it. “They’ll respect you more, Captain, for coming out into their own environment,” the Greek had said. “Irrational, sure, but they make a big thing of physical toughness. And they’ll give a better deal to someone they respect.”

  So—Heim scowled into harsh blue sunlight. “I see the advantage,” he answered. “However, with my own maneuvering handicapped, I’d be a sitting duck.”

  Koumanoudes put his objection into the language that prevails between Kimreth Heights and the Iron Sea. Ro spread his taloned hands, a startlingly humanlike gesture. “The loss of maneuverability is negligible,” he said, “as only a fractional second is needed for launch. Thereafter one immediately has full accelerative power available again. To be sure, the system must be synchronized with the engine complex, but it should not take long to make the necessary modifications on your ship.”

  Unconsciously, Heim glanced skyward. Somewhere beyond that deep purple vault, those icily blue-tinged clouds, Fox II swung in orbit around Staurn; tenders flitted back and forth with cargoes of hell, men and not-men swarmed over the cruiser, working together to fit her for war. There was not much left to do. And every nerve in him throbbed to be away. Each day he spent here, Alerion grew stronger, the cause of men on New Europe more hopeless.

  Still, he was going to be dreadfully alone when he got there; one commerce raider, whose letters of marque depended on a legal technicality, bound off to harass an enemy whom most of Earths politicians would rather placate. He could not hope for others to follow him. Ultimately, the liberation of that colony planet which Alerion had seized must depend on Earth herself setting the regular Navy in motion. And that would not happen soon, if ever.

  Fox needed any microscopic advantage he could find for her. Like this missile sling which Ro claimed they could make in the Aerie of Trebogir. It did sound promising…“How long to install?” Heim asked.

  Again four claw fingers, set around the entire palm of the hand, gestured. “Some days. One cannot tell exactly without more knowledge than my kin-father’s technologists possess about vessels of your particular class. May I suggest that the captain send his honored chief engineer to discuss such matters with our folk?”

  “Um-m-m.” Heim considered. His gaze went past Ro, to Galveth, who waited impassively for something to be said that might concern the Lodge. But the blast gun remained idly cradled in the observer’s arms. If Galveth had any expression, it was of sleepiness, his yellow eyes drooping. A human could never be sure, though, what went on in the narrow Staurni skulls.

  It was even hard to tell individuals apart. A common alienness outweighed variable details. Ro and Galveth were each about three meters long; but half that was in the thick, rudder-tipped tail, on whose coil the legless torso sat. The keelbone jutted like a prow. The face was sharp-muzzled, with wolfishly fanged mouth and small round ears. Its mask appearance came less from the dark band across the eyes than from the nostrils being hidden under the chin. A gray growth, neither hair nor feathers but something in between, covered the entire hide. No clothes were worn except two pouched belts crossing from shoulder to waist. All was overshadowed by the immense chiropteran wings, seven meters in span.

  When you looked closely, you saw differences, mainly that Galveth had grown lean and frosty-tinged while Ro was still in the fierceness of youth. And Galveth wore the gold-ornamented harness reserved for Lodge members, Ro the red and black geometry of Trebogir’s pattern.

  Heim turned to Koumanoudes. “What do you think?” he asked.

  The stocky man shrugged. “I’m no engineer.”

  “But damnation, you and Wong have spent a couple of months here. You must have some notion who’s honest and competent, who isn’t.”

  “Oh, that. Sure. Trebogir isn’t one of the robber barons. He has a good name. You can deal with him.”

  “Okay.” Heim reached a decision. “Tell this messenger, then, that I am interested. I’ll call C.E. down from Fox as soon as possible—right now he’s got to help the contractor from the Hurst of Wenilwain install our fire-control computers—and we’ll come to the Aerie and talk further about the proposal.”

  “You can’t be that blunt,” Koumanoudes said. “Lodge members are, but they’re different. A Nester is worse than an Arab or a Japanese for wanting flowery language.” He turned and began to form syllables.

  Through the wind that rustled the low red-leaved forest surrounding the spaceport, through the beat of surf a kilometer distant, a sudden whine smote. It grew, became thunderous, the heavy air was split and a shadow fell across concrete field and lava-block buildings. Every head swung up.

  A blunt-nosed cylinder was descending. The blue-white radiance was savage off its metal, spots danced before Heim’s eyes when he turned them away. But he recognized the make. The heart jumped in his breast. “A spaceship! Human built—What’s going on?”

  “I…don’t…know.” Behind the dark faceplate, Koumanoudes’ big-nosed countenance harshened. “Nobody said a word. Galveth!” He rattled off a question.

  The Lodge agent made a bland reply. “He says he didn’t think it mattered,” Koumanoudes said.

  “Blaze,” Heim said in anger, “he knows about the Aleriona crisis! He must have at least some inkling of our trouble with our own government. The Lodge must’ve stopped that ship for inspection no later than yesterday. Why haven’t we been warned?”

  “I’m not sure how much the Staurni ever understood,” Koumanoudes said. “To them it’s ridiculous that we couldn’t arm ourselves at home and take off whenever we wanted. Besides, those people can’t have any real weapons along, or they wouldn’t’ve been allowed to land.”

  “They can have small arms,” Heim snapped. “We do. Get rid of these bucks as fast as you can, Greg, and come inboard. I’ve got to alert the boys.”

  He strode rapidly across the platform to the landing ramp and up to the airlock. There he must fume while pumps replaced the atmosphere of Staurn with something he could breathe, and he himself was decompressed. The baffled rage that he had thought was left behind on Earth came back to possess him. So much could have happened in the couple of weeks that Fox II had needed to cross the hundred-odd light-years to this star, or in the three weeks that followed while she was being refitted. If the appeasement party had won out, if his privateering venture had been declared illegal—

  Of course, he told himself, over and over, that’s not a Federation Navy ship. She’s a small civilian ranger. But then, the Staurni don’t let any warcraft but their own near this planet. If she’s simply bringing an official order for me to come home… Well, all right, face the question: what then? Do I go on anyway—as a pirate?

  Sickly: Wouldn’t be much use. The hope was to create a situation that Earth could take advantage of. If Earth refuses the chance and disowns us, we can only be troublemakers to Alerion, until at last we’re cornered and killed. I’ll never see Lisa again. It was as if once more he could feel a small body pressed against him in farewell. They’ll tell her, the whole rest of her life, her father was a criminal.

  But maybe, maybe even a pirate could accomplish something. There was Drake of the Golden Hind—He sailed in another day, when men weren’t afraid.

  The inner door opened. He moved on into his yacht, that was now an auxiliary for the starship, and opened his helmet.

  Endre Vadász had the bridge. Technically he was no more than the steward; the life of a troubadour tramping the starways had not equipped him to be anything else. But in practice he was the captain’s right hand, and had been since he came back with his eyewitness account of what really happened on New Europe and thus planted the seed of this expedition. His thin dark face was turned outward, staring through the viewport as the other vessel neared in a gravitron-distorted shimmer of light. When Heim’s boots rang on the deck, he didn’t look around, but said tonelessly, “I have ordered the crew into battle gear, and brought your own rifle from your cabin.”

  “Good man.” Heim took the weapon in the crook of an arm. There was assurance in that weight and solidity and beautiful deadly shape. It was a .30-caliber Browning cyclic, able to send forty rounds a minute through any atmosphere or none, the pride of his collection. Vadász, also in a collapsed airsuit with faceplate unlocked, had settled for a laser pistol.

  “I am not certain,” the Hungarian remarked, “what six men can do if they try to storm us. Yonder ship can easily hold five times as many.”

  “We can stand ’em off till the boys arrive from Fox,” Heim said, “and they total almost a hundred. Assuming the Lodge doesn’t stop the fight.”

  “Oh, that I doubt,” Vadász murmured with a slight smile. “We aren’t likely to damage their nice spaceport, and from everything I hear, they have no rules against bloodshed.” He pointed to several winged shapes, wheeling black against the clouds over the western end of Orling Island. “They will come enjoy the spectacle.”