The Butterfly Kiss Part 3

Out of the pursuer's range, he set an erratic course for the sun and called to Arna.

For three clock periods they hugged blazing, searing p.r.o.nuleon in an orbit that was almost too close for safety. Refrigeration units strained far beyond specified tolerances. Twice, tail toward the inferno for minimum radiation absorption, they barely fought clear of stupendous, surging tentacles of the shifting, agonized gravitational fields of p.r.o.nuleon. But they could not be detected so close to a raging sun.

Arna, wretched and exhausted, the thin fabric of a single garment clinging wetly to her body, leaned wearily against the throne. "Isn't it possible they think we took a fast course for Sol?" she sighed.

"Very probable," Sy whispered gauntly. Only an hour before he had revealed what the girl already suspected--that his code message had been the long-awaited signal for the entire Interstellar League fleet to ring the void about p.r.o.nuleon II. "But on this mission we can't take chances."

Arna laughed feebly. "Can't take chances!" she echoed, and shook her head.

Sy attempted a smile, sopped the streaming sweat from his eyes and studied a chronometer. He clamped a drinking tube, then let it fall from his mouth. "Get on some clothes and G-shoes, woman. We're going to keep an appointment."

The _Needle's_ rotation slowly died; the vessel turned, lined up with p.r.o.nuleon's...o...b..t, burst her bonds with a tangential spurt and then arced away from the seething fury behind.

Free of the obliterating sea of sun static, Sy threw open all detection and reception circuits and flung his detector field to its farthest reaches, dimming its accuracy but increasing its range. Immediately he stared in consternation at the activity in the three-dimensional depths of his screen. "Arna!" he called hoa.r.s.ely. "Arna!" The girl ran clinkingly to him on jointed shoe-plates. "We're d.a.m.n near too late," he groaned. "Look, the fleets are approaching each other!" The tiny red screen dot which indicated their position showed them to be on a course that would slice directly between both fleets. Sy leaped from the throne and fairly threw Arna into its confines. He braced his metal-shod feet on the deck and seized a ring cleat beside the control panel. "Steady as you go!" he gritted. "This is it--and we've got to make it!"

"Sy! Can you control the gadgets from this distance?"

"Yeah--but we've got to stay in planetary range. _Don't leave the p.r.o.nuleon system._" His fingers sped along a row of k.n.o.bs. "I've got to call our fleet."

"Contact the fleet _now_? But Sy--"

"Quiet, honey!" He glanced at her once, quickly. "I rigged those gadgets like I intended to."

"_Sy!_" It was almost a scream. "What have you--"

"Shut up!" he snapped. "And that's an order!" Ignoring secrecy, code and even special wavelength, he signaled the League flagship on an open channel. He arranged a three-way video hook-up between the _Needle_, Admiral Grimes on the _Forward Star_ and Dr. Horace Wilton on the _Mars Moon_. "No time," he ground out. "Operation set up as scheduled--_but you won't have to fire_. In five minutes all enemy crews will be flat under eight G's; when ships stop, grapple and board. Out!" He broke contact and turned to Arna. "Skitter and spit dust--use it all, but keep us clear for three minutes!" He locked both hands on the cleat and closed his eyes in concentration.

In the deep recesses of his mind, he created a clear picture of a typical, prototype b.u.t.terfly gimmick. He imagined it in the approximate position it would be to keep a ship spinning slowly on its longitudinal axis--to exert the mild centrifugal force permitted for battle alert and preliminary maneuver. Then he _willed_ the little wings to bend downward--slowly--past the null-G setting--to fold--down ... to kiss ...

to _close_....

After a seeming century, and from a great distance, Arna's voice reached him, dragged him up from autohypnotic depths. "Sy! Sy! They've stopped firing! The League's closing in! Sy!"

He straightened, relaxed his bloodless grip on the cleat, drew a deep, shuddering breath, shook his head to clear it. Throbbing pains began to course from his arms and shoulders, where they had been buffeted against the panel housing during Arna's wild, skillful gyrations. He looked at the screen, adjusted it for close range.

Mote beside mote, League ships had paired off with the furiously whirling Alliance craft, attending all the major vessels and as many smaller ones as their fewer numbers could cover. Sy smiled tiredly. He could almost see the Sur-Malic crewmen, unconscious, lying pinned to their decks by their own terrible weight. Briefly, he closed his eyes again....

"I couldn't actually test the gadget's reverse setting, of course," Sy explained to Dr. Wilton, "but I knew Arna's calc would check out to infinity." He glanced through a window at the celebrating throngs below, in the streets of Dirik. "And now, sir," he turned to the girl at his side, "I think she--uh--I mean we--or rather I have something to say to you, sir. Uh...." He flushed and hesitated.

Arna took over competently. "I guess I'll simply have to marry this b.u.mbling hero, Dad. Not that I want to," she added, with a mischievous glance at Sy, "though his psychokinetics aren't much of a problem--but I just can't do a thing against that darn Superior Celerity he's been using on me!"