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place apart.
Wes was in agony.
It was Coffey's department -- Coffey's thuktun, and the Stud
Bull had him dead to rights there. But Coffey would take the offer.
Coffey would give away the solar system!
Or Dawson was about to give away the Earth. Could that weird
device smash Message Bearer? Or was it only coming close enough
to die? Would the fithp honor a conditional surrender? We taught
them conditional surrender. Have we also taught them to break
their parole?
"Wes, look!"
Not now, dammit died in his throat.
He'd never seen this room before, but it had that look.
Machinery took its orders from here. Screens, dials, keyboards with
keys the size of a child's fist; and flthp corpses, and blood,
amazingly red, hemoglobin for sure, like some madman had
bombed a Red Cross blood bank. Nikolai was dead, suit and man
shredded by the huge fithp bullets.
Arvid was in a pressure suit. His faceplate was open, showing
a Cossack's grin that would have frightened children. He had braced
a fithp rifle against a console and was firing bullets into randi
controls.
Dmitri wandered about, examining the paraphernalia that made
the ship go, shying minimally when Arvid blasted something, as if
Arvid were a child at play, and Dmitri, the adult, were trying to learn
something. He stopped, examined a console; pried the cover off
with a piece of steel bar. He began tearing at wiring.
Arvid's rifle ran empty. Arvid grimaced, then smiled toothily
into the camera.
Jeri Wilson studied the scene judiciously. Wes wondered if she
was in shock. She climbed onto a console to bring her face close to
a camera. She shouted soundlessly.
"Put the sound on," the Defensemaster commanded.
"Negative," said the Herdmaster. "Dawson, your response?"
What was the Herdmaster afraid of hearing?. . . Afraid that
Dawson might hear? It didn't matter. Wes grinned at the fi'. "They
were in the ducts, weren't they? And they'll be there again,
wandering through your air supply. There's a great gaping hole in
Thuktun Flishithy, isn't there? Maybe they can open more locks.
Random death in the life support system!"
The ship hummed like a smashed banjo, twice in quick
succesion.
The Herdmaster said, "Dawson. We will leave Africa, we will
leave your Earth. You will have your solar system. We will go
another star."
"You can't."
"With time and your aid, of course we can. We will repair
Message Bearer and build a new siskyissputh. You will assist. When
we depart your system, you will have your own."
"That word ...?"
"The siskyissputh is the device we used to cross from
Homeworld to Saturn. It takes energy from the main drive and uses
that energy to push against interstellar matter. The siskyissputh is
the door, not to your own planets, but to the worlds of other
stars. Dawson, why did you think we discarded it?"
Dawson, staring, got his lips working. "Too massive. You could
not have reached Saturn."
"No. Dawson, we came knowing that you might be more
powerful than the Traveler Fithp. We came to conquer or to
surrender. If we came to surrender, we had the siskyissputh to
offer our new fithp. We let the siskyissputh hurl itself at the stars
so that you cannot examine it."
"I had it wrong. That never, never crossed my mind. But you
have tapes of thuktunthp--"
"We have the Podo Thuktun itself, rogue! That is the
siskyissputh, and the Podo Thuktun's supports are explosive. But if
we are to leave your star, we must have another siskyissputh, and
you must build it with us. When we leave, you will know how to
make another. Dawson, I know that you want more than the
planets. Take our negotiated loss of status or you will never leave
your star."
"Wes, he's crazy! We'll have it in ten years! Wes, once we
know something is possible -- like the atomic bomb, as soon as
they knew it was possible, everyone started working on how to
build one."
The screens flickered. Dmitri jerked backward. One foot was
missing. There were holes in the walls. The humans moved to one
corner. Jeri Wilson continued to shout soundlessly at the cameras.
Irrelevant. We're all irrelevant. The Herdmaster said, "The
Predecessors developed the siskyissputh. It took more than eight-
cubed years. Dawson, humans are a herd under siege by their own
rogues! You will not survive sixty-four years! And we might yet win
this battle."
Alice was strangling his arm. "Wes, it's the same thing all over
again! They'll come back!"
I wanted to be President! Why? "Alice, if they win -- can they
win?"
Her grip slowly relaxed. "I don't know."
"I don't either." I can't decide this. "Give me your microphone.
I'll speak to the President."
45 TERMS OF SURRENDER
For a promise made is a debt unpaid.
-- ROBERT W. SERVICE
The screens had not changed for more than an hour.
General Toland set down his coffee cup. "How many snouts
does it take to change a light bulb?"
The President wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. "None. They've
invented torches."
"No--"
"I have something," Jenny said.
"Gimlet, this is Michael."
They're alive!
Down below all the crews were cheering.
"Michael, this is Gimlet. No new orders. Report if you can."
"Gimlet, this is Michael. Reporting. We have inflicted heavy
damage on the invader mother ship. We have taken severe
damage. We have fifty percent casualties. They are definitely
running away. We continue in pursuit. Stand by for digital data."
A picture emerged on the screen below: Michael with his whole
portside kicked in. One spurt bomb rack had vanished, and the
portside propulsion tower was dented and holed.
"Holy shit," General Toland muttered. No wonder Ed sounds
tired.
More data. A blurred image of the enemy ship. It looked
scarred. "Estimate one hour to interception," Gillespie said. "Jenny,
is that you?"
"Michael, this is Gimlet, Colonel Crichton here."
"Jenny, tell Linda I love her."
Jenny looked quickly to the screens below. They flowed and
changed as Michael's computer dumped in data. They don't have
enough bombs left to kill their velocity. They can't come home
unless they win.
"Admiral, is there anything I ought to say?" President Coffey
asked.
"You're the politician, Mr. President."
"Meaning that it's more important to me than to General
Gillespie. Colonel, tell him -- dammit. Cut me in."
"Sir. Michael, stand by for Executive One."
"General, this is David Coffey. I'll give your message to your
wife. Anything else?"
"For the record: posthumous awards for civilians. I recommend
the Medal of Freedom. Dr. Arthur Grace Pelz. Mr. Samuel Cohen.
Mr. Harry Reddington. Military personnel -- Excuse me. I'll switch on
automatic digital reporting. Mr. President, it's getting a bit thick --"
"Godspeed, General."
"Michael out."
The screens below shifted: a composite picture of Michael,
dented and torn. Bombs exploded aft as the big ship accelerated.
Another screen showed a tiny Earth surrounded by colored
dots with arrows protruding. Velocity vectors. The Navy would need
to learn a whole new way of reading maps if this kind of thing ever
became common. The alien invader was a large red spear; Michael,
in blue, pursued relentlessly; both vectors pointed away from
Earth. Michael's vector was longer. The dots would be touching
within the hour.
Digit ships were orange dots. They swarmed close around the
Earth. A few were farther out and tens of thousands of miles away,
their orange arrows pointing toward the battle.
Admiral Carrell studied the screen. "The digit ships are no
threat. It'll be all over by the time they get there."
"Is he going to ram?" General Toland asked.
"He can't come home," Admiral Carrell said carefully. "Under
the circumstances, what would you do?"
"Damn straight," Toland said. "Can he do it?"
Carrell shrugged. "General, I expect the engineering people will
be working on that question. It would be interesting to know what
they think."
"Sir." Jenny touched more buttons. Jenny Crichton knew: that
was Ed Gillespie, her sister's husband, with no more than two
hours to live and nothing anyone could do about it. Colonel Jennifer
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