Where I Wasn't Going Part 23

Making his way about in the open vacuum in free-fall conditions of the observatory, Mike carefully checked the lock at the main axis to make sure that he could get into it without arousing an alarm for any guards that might be nearby.

The lock showed vacant, and empty. Just as he was about to enter it, he saw another figure in a s.p.a.cesuit come drifting through the open shutter where he had entered.

Mike stepped into the lock, closed the door behind him as though he had not noticed, and cycled the lock. But he did not remove his suit and did not leave.

As the lock showed clear, the observatory door opened again, and the two s.p.a.cesuited figures stood face to face. Mike with needle gun raised checked himself in surprise. Then he motioned the other figure into the lock.

"And just what are you doing here?" he inquired as the air around them became sufficient to carry his voice.

"You might have needed help," answered Dr. Millie Williams in a small, scared voice as she took off her helmet and shook out her long hair.

"And just _what_," Mike inquired, "were you planning to do about it besides having me shoot you by mistake?"

Millie held up an oversize pair of calipers. "The Security people,"

she said, "are not the only ones with weapons. I borrowed this from the machine shop."

Mike stared down at the odd-looking "weapon."

"It's hard," Millie continued, "to look at more than one thing at a time through a s.p.a.cesuit helmet. I could've got 'em in the air hose while you held their attention."

Mike's chuckle was just a trifle ragged, and his mutter about blood-thirsty panthers didn't really go unheard as he began shucking his s.p.a.cesuit.

This was the most dangerous point, Mike knew. The axis tube went from the observatory straight through to the south polar lock, with nothing to block sight or sound from traveling its length. They'd have to simply chance it. The s.p.a.cesuits shucked, he opened the lock.

Their luck held. No Security man was stationed opposite the mouth of the axis tube at the south polar lock.

Halfway to the engineering quarters, Mike stopped, used a special key to open an inspection plate, and they dropped lightly into the huge shielding tank that now held only air. From there the pair back-tracked Mike's original path to the inspection plate in the engineering quarters, and so into his own bailiwick, where they found Ishie standing on catlike guard, a wrench in one hand, waiting for whatever might come up.

"Confusion say," the grinning Chinese physicist declared, "two for one is good luck."

General Steve Elbertson made his way wearily in through the south lock and on to the bridge where he found the communications officer in complete charge with two Security men for a.s.sistants. The captain and Bessie were effectively bound, and placed in spare console seats.

General Elbertson made his way to the captain's console and seated himself.

Hot Rod was dead, but their control was by no means lessened.

That he himself had not been shot dead on the way from Hot Rod was, to him, a confirmation of the weakness of his enemies.

The satellite was under his control. The scientists would repair Hot Rod--and well he knew how to see to it that they did so.

U.N. Security Forces were in complete, dictatorial command of Earth.

He had only to eliminate the renegade Indian, and long before the Security scuttlebug, now on its way from Earth loaded with crack troops, should arrive, Security would be in complete command not only of the s.p.a.ce Lab, but of the weapon, which would by then be in repair.

As a final test of its operation, it would be amusing to use the Indian, Blackhawk, as a target; and perhaps the captain as well, though he might have to use them as examples sooner--the captain and some others.

The fortuitous accident that had put Hot Rod in operation ahead of schedule had also stepped many plans months ahead. No violence had actually been planned until the weapon had been thoroughly tested; but now things looked to be working in orderly fashion; working with the well-oiled precision of a master-plan, properly designed and properly executed in the proper military manner.

Only one small difficulty marred the current smoothness of the operation. The Security men were attempting to instruct the computer to precess the wheel back to its original position.

In reply, for every figure of any type sent over the keyboard, the Cow sent back a half-yard of confused, rambling figures and would do nothing else.

General Elbertson snapped a single command. "Turn the thing off. We'll get to that later."

Busily the men switched the keys to the "off" position. Just as busily the Cow continued to pour out figures, interspersed with rambling pages of physics covering such odd subjects as the yak population of the Andes, the number of buffalo that were purported to be able to dance on the rim of the Grand Canyon--a fantastic figure--some confused statement about the birth rate in Indo-China, and an equally confused statement about the learning rate in schools in Haddock.

Eventually, if one cared to sort it out, the Cow might produce the entire Encyclopedia Britannica for the year 1911; and then again, possibly for the year 33,310. Actually, it only depended on what you wished to select. It was a vast ma.s.s of material that was being happily upchucked into the lap of the confused communications officer and his two, unhelpful a.s.sistants.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Not a single one of the view panels, either those at the computer's console or the ones at the captain's console, were presenting a readable picture. Hodgepodges and flickerings, yes. Sc.r.a.ps of star-lit sky--perhaps. Or vaguely wavy electronic patterns that would have been familiar to anyone who ever looked at a broken TV set.

The Cow was really wild.

Leaning back in the captain's chair, watching the screen casually, General Elbertson chuckled.

He didn't, he noticed, feel nearly so weary.

The position actually was good, even if those idiots didn't know what they were doing with the computer. That could be straightened out.

Somewhere, he was sure, there was cause for great pride in his actions.

The peaceful glow of victory seemed to settle about him.

He HAD won. He was in the captain's chair of the only s.p.a.ce station that man had ever put in orbit.

His worst enemy was tied to a chair only a few feet away.

At times like this a man could glow, could feel expansive even towards his enemies.

Naylor wasn't such a bad chap. If he hadn't thrown in with the scientists he might even now be a fellow officer, ent.i.tled to full respect and honor.

General Elbertson did not consider it odd that his face was suddenly flushed with triumph. There was a glow of energy. Why, he could even get up and dance a jig--and this he proceeded to do.

Around him, the two Security men joined in, followed by the communications officer--and then, realizing that their friends couldn't dance with them, they undid the ropes and invited the captain and Bessie to join them.

Soon they were all whirling giddily, though there was hardly the s.p.a.ce for it. Maybe they should go next door, into the large clear area that was the ship's gymnasium when not being used as a morgue.

Surprisingly, amidst these dancing figures, a head emerged from the floor. All of them leaned over to laugh at it; and even the needle gun failed to frighten them.

Bessie had a hangover. She groaned and stretched. There certainly must have been lots of vodka at that party last night.

Party? What party?