Space Viking Part 15

"No, we did not," Trask told them. "If we're going to make anything out of Tanith, we're going to need power, and I don't mean windmills and waterwheels. As you've remarked, Beowulf has nuclear energy.

That's where we get our plutonium and our power units."

So they went to Beowulf. They came out of hypers.p.a.ce eight light-hours from the F-7 star of which Beowulf was the fourth planet, and twenty light-minutes apart. Guatt Kirbey made a microjump that brought the s.h.i.+ps within practical communicating distance, and they began making plans in an inters.h.i.+p screen conference.

"There are, or were, three chief sources of fissionable ores,"

Harkaman said. "The last s.h.i.+p to raid here and get away was Stefan Kintour's _Princess of Lyonesse_, sixty years ago. He hit one on the Antarctic continent; according to his account, everything there was fairly new. He didn't mess things up too badly, and it ought to be still operating. We'll go in from the south pole, and we'll have to go in fast."

They s.h.i.+fted personnel and equipment. They would go in bunched, the pinnaces ahead; they and the _s.p.a.ce Scourge_ would go down to the ground, while the better-armed _Nemesis_ would hover above to fight off local contragravity, shoot down missiles, and generally provide overhead cover. Trask transferred to the _s.p.a.ce Scourge_, taking with him Morland and two hundred of the _Nemesis_ ground-fighters.

Most of the single-mounts, landing craft and manipulators and heavy-duty lifters went with him, jamming the decks around the vehicle ports of Valkanhayn's s.h.i.+p.

They jumped in to six light-minutes, and while Valkanhayn's astrogator was still fiddling with his controls they began sensing radar and microray detection. When they came out again, they were two light-seconds off the south pole, and half a dozen s.h.i.+ps were either in orbit or coming up from the planet. All normal-s.p.a.ce craft, of course, but some were almost as big as the _Nemesis_.

From there on, it was a nightmare.

s.h.i.+ps pounded at them with guns, and they pounded back. Missiles went out, and counter-missiles stopped them in rapidly expanding and quickly vanis.h.i.+ng globes of light. Red lights flashed on the damage board, and sirens howled and klaxons squawked. In the outside-view screens, they saw the _Nemesis_ vanish in a blaze of radiance, and then, while their hearts were still in their throats, come out of it again. Red lights went off on the board as damage-control crews and their robots sealed the breaches in the hull and pumped air back into evacuated areas, and then more red lights came on.

Occasionally, he would glance toward Boake Valkanhayn, who sat motionless in his chair, chewing a cigar that had gone out long ago.

He wasn't enjoying it, but he wasn't showing fear. Once a Beowulfer vanished in a supernova flash, and when the ball of incandescence widened to nothing the s.h.i.+p was gone. All Valkanhayn said was: "Hope one of our boys did that."

They fought their way in and down, toward the atmosphere. Another Beowulf s.h.i.+p blew up, a craft about the size of Spa.s.so's _Lamia_.

A moment later, another; Valkanhayn was pounding the desk in front of him with his fist and yelling: "That was one of ours! Find out who launched it; get his name!"

Missiles were coming up from the planet, now. Valkanhayn's detection officer was trying to locate the source. While he was trying, a big melon-shaped thing fell away from the _Nemesis_, and in the jiggling, radiation-distorted inters.h.i.+p screen Harkaman's image was laughing.

"h.e.l.lburner just went off; target about 50 south, 25 east of the sunrise line. That's where those missiles are coming from."

Counter-missiles sped toward the big metal melon; defense missiles, robot-launched, met them. The h.e.l.lburner's track was marked first by expanding red and orange globes in airless s.p.a.ce and then by fire-puffs after it entered atmosphere. It vanished into the darkness beyond the sunset, and then made sunlight of its own. It _was_ sunlight; a Bethe solar-phoenix reaction, and it would sustain itself for hours.

He hoped it hadn't landed within a thousand miles of their objective.

The ground operation was a nightmare of a different sort. He went down in a command car, with Paytrik Morland and a couple of others. There were missiles and gun batteries. There were darting patterns of flights of combat vehicles, blazing gunfire, and single vehicles that shot past or blew up in front of them. Robots on contragravity--military robots, with missiles to launch, and working robots with only their own ma.s.s to hurl, flung themselves mindlessly at them. Screens that went crazy from radiation; speakers that jabbered contradictory orders. Finally, the battle, which had raged in the air over two thousand square miles of mines and refineries and reaction plants, became two distinct and concentrated battles, one at the packing plant and storage vaults and one at the power-unit cartridge factory.

Three pinnaces came down to form a triangle over each; the _s.p.a.ce Scourge_ hung midway between, poured out a swarm of vehicles and big claw-armed manipulators; armored lighters and landing craft shuttled back and forth. The command car looped and dodged from one target to the other; at one, keg-like canisters of plutonium, collapsium-plated and weighing tons apiece, were coming out of the vaults, and at the other lifters were bringing out loads of nuclear-electric power-unit cartridges, some as big as a ten liter jar, to power a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p engine, and some small as a round of pistol ammunition, for things like flashlights.

Every hour or so, he looked at his watch, and it would be three or four minutes later.

At last, when he was completely convinced that he had really been killed, and was d.a.m.ned and would spend all eternity in this fire-riven chaos, the _Nemesis_ began firing red flares and the speakers in all the vehicles were signaling recall. He got aboard the _s.p.a.ce Scourge_ somehow, after a.s.suring himself that n.o.body who was alive was left behind.

There were twenty-odd who weren't, and the sick bay was full of wounded who had gone up with cargo, and more were being helped off the vehicles as they were berthed. The car in which he had been riding had been hit several times, and one of the gunners was bleeding under his helmet and didn't seem aware of it. When he got to the command room, he found Boake Valkanhayn, his face drawn and weary, getting coffee from a robot and lacing it with brandy.

"That's it," he said, blowing on the steaming cup. It was the battered silver one that had been in front of him when he had first appeared in the _Nemesis'_ screen. He nodded toward the damage screen; everything had been patched up, or the outer decks around breached portions of the hull sealed. "s.h.i.+p secure." He set down the silver mug and lit a cigar. "To quote Garvan Spa.s.so, 'n.o.body can call that chicken-stealing.'"

"No. Not even if you count Tizona giraffe-birds as chickens. That Gram gum-pear brandy you're putting in that coffee? I'll have the same. Just leave out the coffee."

XIV

The _Lamia_'s detection picked them up as soon as they were out of the last microjump; Trask's gnawing fear that Dunnan might attack in their absence had been groundless. Incredibly, he realized, they had been gone only thirty-odd Galactic Standard days, and in that time Alvyn Karffard had done an incredible amount of work.

He had gotten the s.p.a.ceport completely cleared of rubble and debris, and he had the woods cleared away from around it and the two tall buildings. The locals called the city Rivvin; a few inscriptions found here and there in it indicated that the original name had been Rivington. He had done considerable mapping, in some detail of the continent on which it was located and, in general, of the rest of the planet. And he had established friendly relations with the people of Tradetown and made friends with their king.

n.o.body, not even those who had collected it, quite believed their eyes when the loot was unloaded. The little herd of long haired unicorns--the Khepera locals had called them kreggs, probably a corruption of the name of some naturalist who had first studied them--had come through the voyage and even the Battle of Beowulf in good shape. Trask and a few of his former cattlemen from Traskon watched them anxiously, and the s.h.i.+p's doctor, acting veterinarian, made elaborate tests of vegetation they would be likely to eat.

Three of the cows proved to be with calf; these were isolated and watched over with especial solicitude.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The locals were inclined to take a poor view of the kreggs, at first. Cattle ought to have two horns, one on either side, curved back. It wasn't right for cattle to have only one horn, in the middle, slanting forward.

Both s.h.i.+ps had taken heavy damage. The _Nemesis_ had one pinnace berth knocked open, and everybody was glad the Beowulfers hadn't noticed that and gotten a missile inside. The _s.p.a.ce Scourge_ had taken a hit directly on her south pole while lifting out from the planet, and a good deal of the southern part of the s.h.i.+p was sealed off when she came in. The _Nemesis_ was repaired as far as possible and put on off-planet patrol, then they went to work on the _s.p.a.ce Scourge_, transferring much of her armament to ground defense, clearing out all the available cargo s.p.a.ce, and repairing her hull as far as possible. To repair her completely was a job for a regular s.h.i.+pyard, like Alex Gorram's on Gram. And that was where the work would be done.

Boake Valkanhayn would command her on the voyage to and from Gram.

Since Beowulf, Trask had not only ceased to dislike the man, but was beginning to admire him. He had been a good man once, before ill fortune which had been only partly of his own making had overtaken him. He'd just let himself go and stopped caring. Now he had taken hold of himself again. It had started showing after they had landed on Amaterasu. He had begun to dress more neatly and speak more grammatically; to look and act more like a s.p.a.ceman and less like a barfly. His men had begun to jump to obey when he gave an order. He had opposed the raid on Beowulf, but that had been the dying struggle of the chicken-thief he had been. He had been scared, going in; well, who hadn't been, except a few greenhorns brave with the valor of ignorance. But he had gone in, and fought his s.h.i.+p well, and had held his station over the fissionables plant in a h.e.l.l of bombs and missile, and he had made sure everybody who had gone down and who was still alive was aboard before he lifted out.

He was a s.p.a.ce Viking again.

Garvan Spa.s.so wasn't, and never would be. He was outraged when he heard that Valkanhayn would take his s.h.i.+p, loaded with much of the loot of the three planets, to Gram. He came to Trask, fairly spluttering about it.

"You know what'll happen?" he demanded. "He'll s.p.a.ce out with that cargo, and that'll be the last any of us'll hear of him again. He'll probably take it to Joyeuse or Excalibur and buy himself a lords.h.i.+p with it."

"Oh, I doubt that, Garvan. A number of our people are going along--Guatt Kirbey will be the astrogator; you'd trust him, wouldn't you? And Sir Paytrik Morland, and Baron Rathmore, and Lord Valpry, and Rolve Hemmerding...." He was silent for a moment, struck by an idea. "Would you be willing to make the trip in the _s.p.a.ce Scourge_, too?"

Spa.s.so would, very decidedly. Trask nodded.

"Good. Then we'll be sure nothing crooked is pulled," he said seriously.

After Spa.s.so was gone, he got in touch with Baron Rathmore.

"See to it that he gets as much money that's due him as possible, when you get to Gram. And ask Duke Angus, as a favor to give him some meaningless position with a suitably impressive t.i.tle, Lord Chamberlain of the Ducal Washroom, or something. Then he can prime him with misinformation and give him an opportunity to sell it to Omfray of Glaspyth. Then, of course, he could be contacted to sell Omfray out to Angus. A couple of times around and somebody'll stick a knife in him, and then we'll be rid of him for good."

They loaded the _s.p.a.ce Scourge_ with gold from Stolgoland, and paintings and statues from the art museums and fabrics and furs and jewels and porcelains and plate from the markets of Eglonsby. They loaded sacks and kegs of specie from Khepera. Most of the Khepera loot wasn't worth hauling to Gram, but it was far enough in advance of their own technologies to be priceless to the Tanith locals.

Some of these were learning simple machine operations, and a few were able to handle contragravity vehicles that had been fitted with adequate safety devices. The former slave guards had all become sergeants and lieutenants in an infantry regiment that had been formed, and the King of Tradetown borrowed some to train his own army. Some genius in the machine shop altered a matchlock musket to flintlock and showed the local gunsmiths how to do it.

The kreggs continued to thrive, after the _s.p.a.ce Scourge_ departed.

Several calves were born, and seemed to be doing well; the biochemistry of Tanith and Khepera were safely alike. Trask had hopes for them.

Every Viking s.h.i.+p had its own carniculture vats, but men tired of carniculture meat, and fresh meat was always in demand. Some day, he hoped, kregg-beef would be an item of sale to s.h.i.+ps putting in on Tanith, and the long-haired hides might even find a market in the Sword-Worlds. They had contragravity scows plying between Rivington and Tradetown regularly, now, and air-lorries were linking the villages. The boatmen of Tradetown rioted occasionally against this unfair compet.i.tion. And in Rivington itself, bulldozers and power shovels and manipulators labored, and there was always a rising cloud of dust over the city.

There was so much to do, and only a trifle under twenty-five Galactic Standard hours in a day to do it. There were whole days in which he never thought once of Andray Dunnan.

A hundred and twenty-five days to Gram, and a hundred and twenty-five days back. They had long ago pa.s.sed. Of course, there would be the work of repairing the _s.p.a.ce Scourge_, the conferences with the investors in the original Tanith Adventure, the business of gathering the needed equipment for the new base. Even so, he was beginning to worry a little. Worry about something as far out of his control as the _s.p.a.ce Scourge_ was useless, he knew. He couldn't help it, though. Even Harkaman, usually imperturbable, began to be fretful, after two hundred and seventy days had pa.s.sed.

They were relaxing in the living quarters they had fitted out at the top of the s.p.a.ceport building before retiring, both sprawled wearily in chairs that had come from one of the better hotels of Eglonsby, their drinks between them on a low table, the top of which was inlaid with something that looked like ivory but wasn't. On the floor beside it lay the plans for a reaction-plant and ma.s.s-energy converter they would build as soon as the _s.p.a.ce Scourge_ returned with equipment for producing collapsium-plated s.h.i.+elding.