Battlefield Earth Part 77

For a moment Jonnie did not recognize the rider and he stepped nearer to him, questioningly. Then he saw it was the third "duplicate" of him, a man they called Stormalong. His real name was Stam Stavenger, member of a Norwegian group who had emigrated to Scotland from Norway in ages past and who had preserved their names and lineage but not their customs. They looked and acted like Scots.

He was Jonnie's height and build and had eyes like Jonnie's, but his hair was a shade darker and his skin very much more tanned. Since the lode days he had not bothered to keep up the resemblance and had cut his beard square at the bottom.

Stormalong had stayed at the Academy. A skilled pilot, he enjoyed teaching the new cadets to fly. He had found an ancient flying coat, a white scarf, and a huge pair of goggles from a bygone age and he affected these. They gave him a bit of dash.

They swatted each other on the back and grinned at each other.

"They told me I'd find you down here throwing rocks at the crocs," said Stormalong. "How's the arm?"

"You must have seen the last one I threw," said Jonnie. "It might not have knocked down one of these elephants but it's getting there." He guided him over to a big, flat rock overlooking the lake and they sat down. The storm was building up but it was an easy run back.

Stormalong was seldom very talkative but right now he was full of news. It had taken some ferreting out, real badger digging, to find where Jonnie was. n.o.body knew in America, so he had gone to Scotland to find him or some trace of him.

Chrissie sent her love. He'd already given Pattie's to Bittie. The Chief of Clanfearghus had sent his respects, mind you, not his regards but his respects. His Aunt Ellen sent her love; she was married to the parson now and in Scotland.

He'd gotten on Jonnie's trail through the two Coordinators who had gone back to Scotland, the ones sent out to bring in some tribe or other...the Brigades?... the Brigantes. Oh, that mob was up in Denver now. Horrible people. He'd seen some. Anyway, they'd brought Allison's body home for burial and Scotland was in an uproar over the murder of Allison.

But that wasn't what he wanted to tell Jonnie. The craziest thing had happened on his flight over.

"You know," said Stormalong, "how you said we could get invaded again here on Earth? Well, it does seem possible."

He'd been coming over to Scotland on the North Great Circle, flying an ordinary battle plane, making good time, and just as he reached the northern tip of Scotland, right there on his viewscreen and visual as well he had seen the biggest, most enormous craft he ever hoped to see. For a moment he thought he was running into it and would crash right then. There it was on his screens and through his windshield! But bang! He hit it but it wasn't there.

"Not there?" asked Jonnie.

Well, that was exactly it. He'd run into a solid object that wasn't there. Right in the sky, mind you. Big as all the sky but not there. Here, he had the screen pictures in this pack.

Jonnie looked at it. It was a sphere with a ring around it. Nothing like any ship he had ever heard of. And it looked huge. In fact, at the corner, the Orkney Islands were visible. It looked like it reached from mid-Scotland to the Orkneys. The next consecutive picture showed it enveloping the battle plane taking the shot, and the third one showed it was "The ship that wasn't there," said Stormalong.

"Light," said Jonnie, suddenly recalling some man-theories. "This thing could have been going faster than light. It left its image behind. That's a guess, you know, but I read that they thought that things that went faster than light could look as big as the whole universe. It 's in some texts on nuclear physics we had. I didn't understand most of it."

"Well, that just could be," said Stormalong. "Because the old woman said it wasn't that big!"

The old woman?

Well, it's like this. When he had gotten over his scare, he had backtracked his screen recorders. He hadn't noticed it in approaching Scotland- you know how it is, you get groggy on a long flight, not alert, and he hadn't had much sleep lately, cadets being what they were, slow to graduate when desperately needed by the overloaded pilots.

The backtrack of the screens showed this little trace coming up from a farm west of Kinlochbervie. You know, on the northwest coast of Scotland-that little place? Well, he cranked down his speed and went in to that spot, expecting maybe the place had been raided or shot up.

But there was just a burned spot in the rocks- a farm raises mostly rocks around there- and he didn't see any other damage or hostile force so he landed near the house.

An old woman came out, all fluttery about two callers from the sky in one day when she didn't usually see anybody for months on end. And he was made to sit down and have some yarb tea and she showed him this new, shiny pocketknife.

"A pocketknife?" said Jonnie. This ordinarily very quiet Norwegian-Scot was taking his time about getting down to it.

Well, yes. They'd seen some in ruined cities, remember? They folded in on themselves. Only this one was shiny as could be. Yes, I am getting on with it.

So anyway, according to what the old woman told him, there she was combing her dog that often got burrs in him and it almost startled her witless. Standing right behind her was a small gray man. And right behind him was a big gray sphere with a ring around it parked right where the cow was usually staked out. Like to have frightened her silly daft, she said. There hadn't been a sound. Maybe only a bit of wind.

So she asked the small gray man in for a cup of yarb tea just like she asked me, except that I'd had the manners to come down roaring and announcing myself.

But the small gray man was very pleasant. He looked a bit smaller than most men. His skin was gray, his hair was gray and his suit gray. The only thing odd about him was he had a box he wore on a strap around his neck and hung on his chest. He'd say something to this box and then, presently, the box would speak English. The small gray man's voice was quiet and had different tones and the box only had one tone, a monotone.

"A vocoder," said Jonnie. "A portable translation device. A Psychlo text describes them but the Psychlos don't use them."

Well, all right. But anyway this small gray man asked her whether she had any newspapers. And no, because of course she'd never seen a newspaper; few people have. And then he asked her whether she had any history books. And she was disappointed to have to tell him she had heard of a book but didn't have any.

Well, apparently he thought she didn't understand, so the small gray man made a lot of motions to indicate something printed on paper was what he wanted.

So she got very helpful. Seems like somebody had bought some wool from her and given her a couple of those new credits in exchange. And explained what they were.

"What credits?"

"Oh, you haven't seen them?" And Stormalong fished in his pockets and found one. "They pay us now. With these." It was a one-credit note from the new Planetary Bank and Jonnie looked at it with casual interest. Then his attention riveted on the picture. A picture of him him. Waving a gun. He didn't think it was all that good a likeness and also it embarra.s.sed him a bit.

So anyway, Stormalong went on, the old woman had accepted them because of the picture of you. And she had one of them on the wall. And she sold it to the small gray man for the pocketknife because she had another one she could put on the wall.

"I should think that was a cheap price for the pocketknife, if it was as fancy as you say," said Jonnie.

Well, Stormalong hadn't thought about that. But anyway the small gray man finished his yarb tea and put the bank note away very carefully between two pieces of metal and put them in an inside pocket, and then he thanked her and went back to the ship and said something to somebody inside and got in. He called back for the old woman not to come close and shut the door. And then there was a curl of flame and it rose up, and then all of a sudden it got as big as the whole sky and vanished. Yes, as Jonnie said, probably a phenomenon of light. But it didn't fly like our ships and it didn't teleport. It didn't seem to be Psychlo what with the man being a small small gray man. gray man.

Jonnie had become very quiet. Some other alien race? interested in Earth now that the Psychlos weren't here?

He looked across the lake, puzzling about it. The storm was building even higher.

Well, be that as it may, continued Stormalong, that wasn't why he was here. He fumbled in a flat case he carried for maps.

"It's a letter from Ker," said Stormalong. "And he said I had to bring it personally and not let it get out of my hands. I owe him favors and he said if you didn't get it the whole shaft would fall in. Here it is."

Chapter 4.

Jonnie regarded the envelope. It was the paper cover used to package antiheat shields. The only writing on it was "AWFUL SECRET." He held it up to the light, darkening now as the storm drew nearer. It had no explosive in it that he could detect. He ripped it open. Ah, it was Ker's writing all right. The semiliterate curved hooks and loops might not spell correctly but they spelled Ker's idea of a Psychlo alphabet. He opened it up all the way to read it. It said: AWFUL SECRET.

To You Know Who.

As you know, Personal letters are forbidden by company policy and if I was caught writing and sending one it would cost me three months' pay. Ha. Ha. But you said before you left I should write you if a certain thing happened and give it to a pilot like you know who to bring to you fast. So no names as names is out-security. But it is going to happen so I am writing you even if the company docks me three months' pay. Notice this handwriting is disguised too. Yesterday that flunked-out ex-pilot knothead Lars the one who thought he was the world's greatest combat acrobactic pilot from talking to a party I won't mention because of out-security (security, get it?) and broke his silly neck and got promoted to a.s.sistant to you know who (no names) come down and asked all the Psychlos they got in stir to fix up the breathe-gas pumps and ventilators in you know who's old office. Well, they won't cooperate as I knew and you knew they wouldn't. They believe and I am sure they are drilling straight in that you know who killed old you know who by murder. Another one that was murdered afterward had figured it out and told them just before the semiannual firing and then he got missing down the shaft so they believe it. They ain't going to do a thing for you know who or have anything to do with you know who's old quarters because the Psychlos are sure you know who would blow them up. So anyway the breathe-gas pumps and circulators in that section are all blown to bits as we both know and before anybody can go work in there without a mask they have to be fixed but they are broke. So this crazy idiot the universe's greatest combat pilot that never was in combat and broke his neck and we couldn't train come over to see me and I said yes I could fix up the offices of you know who but I would need certain parts maybe even from other minesites because the breathe-gas pump is so broke. And he said it was a Council order and he could make sure I got what I needed. So I am drawing up a very fancy repair design that needs lots of parts and I am delaying as long as I can. They said you know who on the Council said it was secret and urgent and they're going to ride me to get it done and pay me extra pay. Ha. Ha. So I am stalling and like you said you better get over here as I told them I needed a.s.sistants, but don't use your name as anything to do with you know who and you know who is poison gas in the drift. So there, you know now and I have about wore my paw out writing this and my ears out listening to how rush it is but I will delay and look for unnecessary parts as long as I can for the breathe-gas circulator that sure was broke and is now even more broke. Ha. Ha. This personal letter could cost me three months' pay. Ha. Ha. So you owe me if I'm caught at it. Ha. Ha.

-You know who Addition: Claw this letter up so it don't cost me three months' pay-or my furry neck. No ha, ha.

Jonnie read the letter again and then, as required, tore it into bits. "When was this given to you?" he asked Stormalong.

"Yesterday morning. I had to trace you."

Jonnie looked out across the lake. The storm was huge now, towering with black turmoil. It was almost upon them.

Jonnie pushed Stormalong onto the tri-wheeler and started it up. Without another word he tore across the savannah to the minesite.

The growl of thunder sounded and the first stinging slashes of rain lanced the air.

Jonnie knew he had to get to America now. At once!

Chapter 5.

It's a trap!" said Robert the Fox.

Jonnie had returned. He rapidly told them what Ker had said. He had given orders for the immediate refueling, check-over, and cleaning of Stormalong's plane to be ready within the hour. He had the copilot who had come with Stormalong in front of him now with Angus standing nearby, and he was comparing the two.

"Can you trust Ker?" demanded Sir Robert.

Jonnie didn't answer. He was satisfied Angus could be mistaken for the copilot if he darkened his beard, put on a bit of walnut stain, and changed clothes.

"Answer me! I canna think ye've got all yer wits!" Robert was so agitated he was pacing back and forth in the underground room Jonnie had been using. He was even lapsing into his colloquial Scot dialect.

"I must go. Now and fast," Jonnie shot at them.

"No!" said Dunneldeen. "No!" said Robert the Fox.

There was a flurry of translations with his Coordinator and then Colonel Ivan shouted, "Nyet!"

Jonnie had Angus changing clothes with the copilot. "You don't have to go, Angus," he said. "You said 'yes' too hastily."

Angus said, "I'll go. I'll say my prayers and make my will but I'll go with you, Jonnie."

Stormalong was standing there and Jonnie pulled him over to a huge Psychlo mirror and stood beside him. Tropic sun had tanned Jonnie lately: their skin tone difference was not so great now. Stormalong's beard was a little darker: some walnut stain would fix that. There was the new facial scar, well healed now, that Jonnie had gotten: nothing could be done about that, and he hoped people would think Stormalong had had an accident; yes, wait, he could put a bandage on it. Ah, the square cut of the bottom of the beard: that was what was making the difference. He reached for the tool kit Angus always carried, got out some sharp wire snips, and began to make his beard exactly the same as Stormalong's. That done, he changed clothes with him. Now a little walnut stain in the beard...good. He looked at himself in the mirror. Ah, yes. The piece of bandage. He got that and put in on. Now? Good. He could pa.s.s for Stormalong. The huge, old- fashioned goggles, white scarf, and leather flying coat: yes, they did it. Unless he was looked at too closely or their slight difference in accent was heard....

He made Stormalong talk, then he talked. No Scot burr in Stormalong's accent. Scot university? A little soft in p.r.o.nunciation? He tried it. Yes, he could also sound like Stormalong.

The others were very agitated. The big Russian was cracking the knuckles of his huge hands. Bittie MacLeod was peering into the room. He came forward, his eyes bright with pleading.

"No," said Jonnie. Pride or no pride, this mission had death in it. "You cannot come with me!" Then he softened. "Take good care of Colonel Ivan."

Bittie swallowed and backed up.

Angus had finished and run out. The clang of cartridges being changed and the whir of a drill sounded from the hangar where they were readying the plane.

Jonnie beckoned to Colonel Ivan. He and his Coordinator came forward. "Get the American underground base closed, Colonel. Every door. So no one can enter but us. Close it so hard they'll never get into it. Do the same thing with the tactical and nuclear weapons area thirty miles to the north. Seal it. Secure every a.s.sault rifle not in use by Scots. Have you got it?"

The colonel had a group there now.

Yes, he got it.

Jonnie beckoned to Dunneldeen and Sir Robert and they kept pace with him as he went toward their commissary. Jonnie, in terse, brief statements, told them exactly what to do to carry on, if he were killed. They were very sober, worried for him. The hairbreadth daring of his plan left an awful lot of room for slip- ups. But they got it. They said they would carry on.

"And Dunneldeen," concluded Jonnie, "I want you over at the Academy in America in about twenty-four hours, coming in from Scotland to take over the pilot training duties of Stormalong who by then, with luck, will be on 'other a.s.signment.'

For once Dunneldeen just nodded a.s.sent.

The old woman who had come down from the Mountains of the Moon tribe- with her whole family- to run their commissary must have heard rumors in the wind. She had a food package gathered up for two, some gourds full of sweet water, and a big sandwich of roasted African buffalo meat and millet bread, and she stood right there in front of Jonnie until he began eating it.

Sir Robert picked up the food package and Dunneldeen the gourds and they walked past the old Psychlo operations office. There was hammering and drill whirring still coming from the plane area, where Angus was making sure it was all operational. Jonnie picked up a few yards of radio printer paper and glanced at current traffic, looking for any unusual weather in the pilot cross talk.

Well, well! One...two...yes, two mentions of the craft that got as big as the sky. Stories similar to the one Stormalong had told him. The small gray man mentioned in both, India and South America.

"The small gray man gets around," murmured Jonnie. Dunneldeen and Sir Robert craned around to the printout to see what he was talking about. "Stormalong will tell you," said Jonnie. Earth certainly was of interest to some other civilization in s.p.a.ce. But the small gray man didn't seem hostile. At least not yet. "Keep this or any other base you go to defended on a twenty-four-hour basis," said Jonnie.

The whirring and hammering had stopped and they went to the plane. It was being dollied to just inside the open hangar door.

Stormalong was standing there with his copilot. "You stay here," said Jonnie. "Both of you. You," he jabbed a finger into Stormalong's chest, "be me. Go on that same route every day in my clothes and throw rocks. And you," he pointed a finger at the copilot, a Scot they called Darf, "be Angus!"

"I'm na good at a' the things bonnie Angus kens!" wailed the copilot.

"You do them," said Jonnie.

A Russian came running in from outside and told them it was all clear, no drones coming. Not on screens or eyeball. His new English had a colloquial Scotch accent.

Jonnie and Angus got in the plane; Sir Robert and Dunneldeen threw the food and water in. Then they both stood there looking up at Jonnie. They were trying to think of something to say but both of them were unable to talk.

Bittie stood back. He waved a timid hand.

Jonnie shut the plane door. Angus gave him a thumbs-up. Jonnie signaled the dolly crew to shove them out and pushed the heavy starter b.u.t.tons with his fists. He looked back. The crews and people in the hangar door weren't waving. Jonnie's fingers shoved into the console b.u.t.tons.

Stormalong watched breathlessly in the door. He had known Jonnie was a flier unequaled, but he had never seen a battle plane vault upward so fast and sharply and rush into hypersonic so quickly. The bottom of the broken sound barrier rocketed back at them as it echoed against the African peaks. Or was that the boom of the storm that engulfed the speeding ship?

A roll of thunder and a lightning flash.