3/ THE LONGEST VIGIL

 

The following article appeared in the Terrania Times under dateline of 8 October 2042:

It appears that our report of Oct. 5 concerning the disappearance of a Gazelle scoutship from the new Fleet base on Myrtha 7, coupled with our remarks aimed at the Information Ministry’s somewhat irresponsible attitude toward an open Press policy, has occasioned considerable uneasiness, which to some extent is difficult to understand.

Certainly the incident is more serious than the Ministry cared to admit. Certainly the public deserves to be better informed than this at a time of danger. But on the other hand it would be foolish to believe that the loss of one Gazelle could cause the outbreak of a deadly war somewhere in the far reaches of the galaxy or that the sudden departure of major Fleet units from the planets of the solar system has any connection with the mere defection of three servicemen. Some simple arithmetic should make this self-evident. A Gazelle costs the Government about 45 million solars. That’s just about how much they would have to write off the books if such a spacecraft were lost, for whatever reason. However, to this hour the current Fleet manoeuvre has already cost 1000 times that much, or about 50 billion solars.

Like many of our fellow citizens, we are of the opinion that the ministries of this capital are not particularly infallible but we do believe that we shouldn’t accuse them of shortcomings in the commercial area of straight economics. Neither a fool nor a madman would institute a manoeuvre representing possibly a total cost of 100 billion solars just to recover an object costing at the most only 45 million.

According to reliable sources, the present large-scale manoeuvre of the Fleet is a precautionary move designed to bolster our defence preparedness, which will be routinely continued in the course of years to come. There may be some variance of opinion concerning the additional cost of such measures to the general public but certainly this is not something to start people running for the hills nor should anyone give credence to nonsensical, trouble-making rumours.

 

* * * *

 

"Anything special happen while I was gone?" asked Suttney as he entered the control room.

Oliver Roane got to his feet, grumbling to himself. "I don’t know," he answered peevishly. "Once he turned something on the panel and claimed it was the air-conditioning."

Ronson Lauer stood in the doorway. Both he and Suttney were watching Chellish sharply but Chellish noticed that Lauer seemed to react with a start, suddenly crouched as though to spring like a cat while staring intently at him.

Chellish knew that he was the most dangerous of the three—quick and unscrupulous.

Walter Suttney had also turned toward him with a penetrating glance. "What about it, Chellish?" he asked.

Chellish didn’t answer.

Suttney came a few steps closer to him. "Answer me, Chellish!" he ordered emphatically. "Was it the air-conditioning?"

"No," he answered calmly, while keeping an eye on Lauer.

"What was it then?" Suttney demanded.

"I don’t know," he answered with as much indifference as he could muster. "I just pressed two buttons, that’s all." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lauer reach for his weapon that he carried in a belt holster.

"Why?" persisted Suttney.

"To gain some time," Chellish answered, rising to his feet. "What did you think?"

Lauer moved toward him silently with a murderous gleam in his eye and his gun in his hand.

"Well, the longer we’re stuck here the better it is for me, isn’t it," Chellish answered finally. "That’s the whole bit."

Suttney revealed the first signs of confusion. He didn’t understand how anybody who was completely in his power could dare go against him and openly admit it. Oliver Roane stood a few yards behind him, awkwardly ponderous, his mouth agape in obvious stupefaction. But Lauer moved toward him with a feline swiftness.

Chellish sensed his danger. He spoke with the last reserves of his composure. "Suttney! Look out for Lauer!" As Suttney turned, he added: "I’m the only man on board who can fly. this ship!"

Suttney saw what Lauer was intent upon. "Cool it!" he roared. "Lauer, stay where you are—and put that gun away!"

Lauer came to a startled halt but he obeyed. "He double-crossed us!" he snarled. "On account of him we’ll maybe be stuck here for days."

Suttney turned back to Chellish. "I could kill you for that," he said quietly.

Chellish felt a sense of momentary triumph. "No, you can’t do that," he retorted, "unless you want to lie out here forever. Of course you have a smattering of technology and Lauer knows a bit of galactic math; but the two of you together wouldn’t be able to pilot a Gazelle."

Apparently Suttney had thought of this because he didn’t seem to be surprised. He only nodded slowly. "So that’s the score with you, is it?" He turned to the others. "What should we do with him?"

Ronson Lauer made a wild gesture with his arms. "Oliver! Go give it to him!"

Chellish noted Suttney’s smile as he stepped to one side. "Yes," the latter agreed, "maybe that’s the best idea. Oliver, put your gun down and try to convince him we’re through playing games."

Oliver Roane dropped the weapon onto his chair and slowly approached Chellish, who was also standing. "Come here, sonny," he grinned at him. "Otherwise you’ll get smeared across that console and wreck everything."

Chellish did not move. "Come and get me," he growled.

Lauer made a lateral movement, thinking that Chellish was totally absorbed by Roane’s approach but Chellish was aware that he had slipped behind him and moved down several seats.

"Come here, I said!" insisted Roane threateningly.

Almost simultaneously Lauer let out a triumphant shout. "I’ll send him to you!"

Having heard the running steps behind him, Chellish ducked swiftly to one side, allowing Lauer to expend his full charge on empty air. At the same time he grasped the smaller man by his belt and collar and, using the other’s momentum, ran forward with him and slammed his body against Roane’s towering frame. The sequence of events had all been too fast for Roane, who had wound up a haymaker to meet him but instead the blow struck Lauer with its full force. Lauer spun around once and collapsed to the deck.

Following up the advantage while Roane’s guard was down, Chellish lit into him rapidly with his fists, taking him by surprise and forcing him back a few steps. Chellish pressed him further with a heavy pummelling, causing the big man to reel and stagger farther backwards until he was stopped by a large switch panel. Chellish nailed him against it, prepared to put an end to the contest as swiftly as possible—but then he struck a snag.

He had forgotten about his wounded fingers which had been burned by a well-aimed shot from Roane’s thermo-gun. The pain had gone out of them because a regenerative ointment had started a thin growth of new flesh over the wounds. But when he suddenly grasped his semi-unconscious opponent in an attempt to deliver a final blow, his right hand grazed a metallic protrusion on the panel, which tore open his wounds again.

A wave of burning pain swept through his body, causing him to reel back, blinded by tears of agony that shot into his eyes. Roane didn’t know what had caused Chellish to suddenly let up on him but he heard his sudden outcry and rallied to take advantage of his opportunity. He whirled away from the panel. Chellish saw him coming at him, tried to defend himself but was too weakened by the shock of pain. Two heavy blows from Roane’s heavy fists caught him full in his unprotected face. He was barely aware of a third crushing blow that followed because the searing pain from his fingers seemed to drown him in a sea of fire.

Then he sank into oblivion.

 

* * * *

 

His desire to fight for time was so intense that it did not even leave him during his spell of unconsciousness. When he came to he knew at once what had happened and realized there was nothing more stupid he could do than to immediately open his eyes and let them know he had regained consciousness.

He heard noises around him but his head was roaring so much that at first he couldn’t distinguish them clearly. Finally he made out Suttney’s words: "What did you get into the act for, anyway? Who told you to?"

Then Lauer’s answer: "Nobody tells me what to do. I do things on my own. But so what? With me that space jockey’s had it… just as soon as we don’t need him any more."

"You lay off of him, Ronson!" retorted Suttney in half-suppressed anger. "We didn’t pull this stunt just to go around bumping guys off!"

Lauer’s reply came after a slight pause. "Oh yeah? Who are you to talk? I don’t see any halo on you, Suttney!"

Suttney fell silent. Chellish heard somebody walk a few steps and sit down in one of the control room seats. Probably Suttney. It looked as though the latest episode had struck discord among the three deserters.

Suddenly he heard Suttney say: "If he hasn’t come to within an hour from now we’ll splash a bucket of water in his face."

Chellish decided to make the best use possible of the hour this gave him. Owing to his miserable condition it wasn’t at all difficult to fall asleep on the spot.

 

* * * *

 

The Drusus cruised along according to plan in its prescribed area, which was a particularly vacuous region of space, 45 light-years distant from the blue dwarf star Vollaal. 75% of the auxiliary craft were deployed searching the sector assigned to the Drusus but the rest were held in reserve in case of emergency.

On board the Drusus was a contingent of those new recruits who had recently been absorbed into the Fleet: settlers from Grautier. A wall of suspicion and distrust had suddenly risen between them and the regular personnel, since after all the three deserters who had stolen the Gazelle and taken 1st Lt. Chellish hostage were also former settlers.

Among the former settlers on board was Horace O. Mullon, former leader of the True Democrats, and the man who had finally brought about the demise of Hollander. Horace Mullon’s personal dossier reflected backgrounds and potentials which by far exceeded the dry memoranda pertaining to him, as furnished by the civilian courts on Earth, attributes which according to reports from Chellish and Capt. Blailey during the time of Mullon’s leadership of the colony development had certainly been demonstrated, and which had been of special great interest to Perry Rhodan himself. Moreover, Mullon was practically the only one who was excluded from the general air of suspicion because no one could believe that Hollander’s bitterest enemy could ever have any subversive connections with the latter’s followers.

Mullon could thank Perry Rhodan’s special interest in him for the fact that he had not been transferred into the Fleet at the level of lowest rank—or rather, it was due to Rhodan’s insight into his abilities and potentials. He had been classified as an officer candidate with the proviso that the regulations could be bypassed in his case and he would be given a lieutenant’s commission just as soon as he had demonstrated beyond all possible doubt that he had divested himself of his former antisocial and revolutionary ideas. At 30 years of age he would be fairly old for a mere lieutenant but in view of his obvious organisational capabilities it seemed that nothing would stand in the way of his continued rapid promotion.

When Horace Mullon received the order to report to duty on board the Drusus, he believed that the time had finally come to fully redeem himself. The Drusus had taken off with almost all other units on Grautier and it appeared that its first hypertransition had been a long one. All indications pointed to the fact that great events were at hand and Mullon was determined to distinguish himself.

It was one day after their departure that he learned what the mission was actually all about. A Gazelle had been hijacked—by Suttney, Lauer and Roane, three men who had been members of Hollander’s police troops during the latter’s reign of terror in Greenwich. Also on board the Gazelle was an unwilling hostage: Gunther Chellish, Mullon’s friend, with whom he had captured Hollander and given a hotfoot to the Whistlers.

But this news had the effect of knocking Mullon’s personal plans into a cocked hat. All thoughts of gaining personal laurels or racing to get a lieutenant’s commission became minor considerations now. He could well imagine Chellish’s current situation. He was familiar enough with the three who had stolen the Gazelle to know that Chellish could expect only the worst from them.

If the Gazelle were not located before the 3 deserters were able to realize their plans, Gunther Chellish would be lost. The ship had to be found. This was now Mullon’s single, driving thought.

The personnel unit making up the transferred settlers was registered as Company 15, which for the moment was without specific assignment. These men were on board for training. They were given hard duty, of course, but for the time being it served no other purpose than to ‘make men out of them’, as Sgt. Delacombe had expressed it. With Delacombe’s permission, Horace Mullon reported to the tracking control section. Since he had learned how to handle such equipment under Chellish’s guidance, he was given duty at this station. He was assigned to the console section composed of the material sensors, or ‘matter trackers’, and after that nobody could tear him away from his instruments.

The one thought of finding Chellish banished from his mind all considerations of his physical needs. Over a period of 70 hours, Mullon had only 5 hours of sleep. When they wanted to force him to get some rest he insisted on stimulants so that he could remain at his post.

After 3½ days they transferred him to another console section having to do with hypersensor and ID frequency tracking. The hypersensor work turned out to be easier. The transfer had been made to keep him from having a breakdown but no one realized at the time that this transfer was precisely the move that would lead to a fulfilment of Mullon’s driving desire.

 

* * * *

 

Gunther Chellish was rudely awakened by a deluge of ice cold water. He rolled away quickly to escape the rest of it, which Lauer was trying to dump on him out of a large bucket. His swift reaction angered Lauer, who gave him a kick. As Chellish jumped up he dropped the pail and drew his weapon, aiming it at him quickly.

"Come and get it!" Lauer snarled. "Go ahead—try something!"

After his short nap, Chellish felt considerably better than before. His headache had vanished almost completely and his fingertips itched, which was a sign that the wounds had begun to heal again.

When he saw Lauer he started to laugh, recalling that he had run straight into Roane’s first haymaker. The signs of it were plainly evident. But his laughter only excited Lauer all the more and he noted that the latter’s finger was slowly closing on the trigger.

"I’ll wipe that laugh off your face!" Lauer practically hissed at him.

"Knock it off!" It was Suttney’s sudden command, emerging from the rear of the control room. "Ronson, I warned you about that rattle-brain temper of yours!"

Chellish forced a grin and turned around as though Lauer’s threatening weapon didn’t concern him. As he saw Suttney approaching him he also noticed Oliver Roane, who lay back all splayed out in a chair. He breathed with an audible rattle and three-fourths of his face was covered by a welter of bandages that he had apparently put on by himself.

"You knock it off, too, Chellish," Suttney warned. "You’ve had it! From now on you’ll get no further chances to give us any trouble. Sit down at your controls and find out what kind of damages you’ve caused."

Chellish followed the order. As he went to the pilot’s seat he glanced at the chronometer. Three hours had been consumed during his period of unconsciousness and sleeping. But it appeared that this had still not been enough time for the search ships to find them.

He struggled to suppress his anxiety as he sat down before the flight console and took over those controls that had to do with the hypertransition. All he knew was that he had activated two switches in the wrong sequence. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what damage this might have caused—or even if any damage had resulted at all. The only thing he knew was that the control system was an extremely complex setup. It wasn’t just a radio set where a couple of conflicting controls could be activated without causing serious trouble. When you handled this system counter to operating instructions, anything could go out of kilter.

The question was: what?

His hands trembled as he went through the checkout. A bank of small parity and error lamps, more than 200 of them, all seemed to light up and indicate that so far nothing was wrong.

Up to a point. Two lamps remained dark. The rear-lighted instruction plate underneath these two announced the trouble: Distributor 225, section 17; 15 mh inductor, H-compensator.

He breathed a slow sigh of relief, hiding his reaction from the others. He had lucked in. The repairs involved only represented about an hour and a half of work, maybe even less. This time Suttney wouldn’t be able to suspect that he was merely trying to gain time. And most important: Distributor 225 and the damaged 15 microhenry coil were located in the same maintenance shaft as the frequency absorber.

"So—what did you find?" Suttney asked.

Chellish pointed to the two darkened indicator lamps. "One pulse distribution card is down with a burned out coil."

"Is that hard to fix?"

"No chance of repairing the coil but the card itself can be fixed—maybe 2 hours."

Suttney’s eyes went wide. "Are you trying to tell me that we can’t budge out of here just because one coil can’t be repaired?"

Chellish smiled, shaking his head negatively. "No. I didn’t say that. The coil is a printed circuit element and can’t be repaired. But you can replace it with a new chip—that’s a printed circuit component for the card. We have plenty in stores, provided you didn’t dump any of that stuff out the disposal chutes."

Suttney gave him an ill-tempered look of distrust. "Alright, cut the wisecracks," he snapped. "How long does it take to do the whole thing?"

"I told you—two hours."

"What about that coil?"

"For that, maybe two minutes—one to locate it and one to replace it."

"Good! Then get busy! Do you need tools or equipment?"

"Plenty," Chellish smirked.

"Then get them together. And don’t think you can pull anything on us again. Ronson will supervise your work. Ron—you go with him!"

"With the greatest of pleasure!" Lauer eagerly replied. From equipment stores Chellish selected a few instruments such as an oscilloscope and a signal generator, which he gave to Lauer to carry; also such smaller items as a soldering gun, an assortment of wire leads, tweezers, solder flux and an instrument tool kit. While searching for everything he needed, he took his time with a slow deliberation. He wasn’t particularly bleeding with anxiety to complete the repairs.

From parts stores all he needed was the chipboard containing the small coil for replacement plus a few fasteners and lead clamps.

Then he opened the crawl hatch in the main corridor which led into the K-shaft and climbed down the ladder. Lauer followed him at a distance of about 5 rungs above his head, taking care to leave the hatch cover open.

Rows of conduits ran down the wall of the shaft. So far, Chellish hadn’t come up with anything to help his plan along but suddenly he had an idea. Most of the power cables in these conduits carried high tension direct current at potentials exceeding 2000 volts. If he could manage somehow to cause Lauer to come in contact with an uninsulated spot, then maybe…

The ladder rungs ended about 25 feet below the crawl hatch. From this point the shaft ran horizontally, like a tunnel, to the hull of the ship itself. He spotted the card drawer where the damaged distributor circuit would be. Pulling it out slightly, he ejected the card and lay it on top, finally locating the element chip containing the damaged coil. At the same time he noticed nearby the slender, gleaming cylinder of the frequency absorber, which was the main thing he’d been searching for. It was located only a few feet beyond the card drawer.

"Move it!" complained Lauer uneasily. "Give me some room!"

Chellish obliged him, moving just beyond the card drawer and placing his equipment and tool kit on the floor of the tunnel close to the silvery absorber tank. "I have to work in a couple of places in this area," he answered in a cooperative tone. He pointed out a few pretended work areas which included both the region of the frequency absorber and the actual distributor card. "Make yourself comfortable where you can keep an eye on me."

At first Lauer blinked at him in astonishment but when he realized Chellish was being sarcastic at his expense, his face reddened in anger.

Chellish made a project out of laying out his gear while unobtrusively taking note of where Lauer located himself. He had shoved the oscilloscope and signal generator a yard or so along the floor ahead of him and was now squatting on the deck plates with weapon in hand.

Chellish’s first strategic move was to expose a red insulated main power line. He worked with a safety stripper and put on such an air of nonchalance that Lauer could not suspect he was fooling with a high tension line. He was satisfied with the results. He had stripped bare about 3 inches of finger-thick cable so that at the right moment all he would have to do would be to snip it in two with an insulated pair of cable cutters and bring the hot end of it in contact with a spot where the high voltage would be conducted to Lauer.

Then he busied himself with actual repair of the distributor circuit card. Once he had the signal generator and the oscilloscope connected up, he perceived the trouble immediately. He couldn’t raise a pulse at any of the test points nor was there any voltage supply coming through. When the coil had burned out the distributor circuit had shut down, operating as its own safety cutoff. Three solder points were shorted and one of the integrated circuit elements seemed to be out also. He had a supply kit for the repairs; he set to work. He repaired the solder points and replaced the inactive circuit element with a small resistance, for test purposes. Then he ran a new check with his instruments and discovered that the distributor was still not functioning. He had no other recourse than to fault isolate the card point by point, which was a tedious procedure.

The time dragged on. Chellish turned several times to glance at Lauer, who didn’t appear to be especially comfortable. He noticed that the latter moved his head several times to look around him restlessly. Then invariably he would collect himself with a start and return his attention to Chellish, as if he were convinced he didn’t dare let him out of his sight for a second. But at no time did he do what Chellish was waiting for: there was no place where his bare skin came in contact with metal.

Chellish had observed, however, that close to Lauer there was a single vent tube for the air-conditioning that ran vertically down the shaft. It was made of uninsulated plastic metal, which was an excellent conductor. If Lauer were to grip the tube just once in order to brace himself… There was a metal cross-brace which held the vent to the wall. It projected over to him just above the card drawer.

He began to become impatient. Three quarters of an hour had gone by already. He decided that if Lauer didn’t touch the vent tube within another half hour he’d have to think of another plan. Meanwhile he kept on working with the distributor circuit. His incessant thought was that this would be his last chance. If he didn’t make use of it he was a goner. And what was much worse: there’d be nobody left to prevent the galactic war that would result from the Robot Regent of Arkon knowing the actual location of the Earth.

He broke Out in sweat and started to mentally curse Lauer. He glanced at him so often that the latter finally noticed it.

"Keep your nose in your work!" Lauer snapped at him. "We’re running out of time. You turn your head this way once more and I’ll let you have it!"

"Oh yeah?" retorted Chellish angrily. "So you could melt down a couple of heavy high tension lines, right? Then you’ll see where that gets you!"

Stirred by new suspicion, Lauer responded immediately. "Is that what you’re banking on?" he snarled in a vicious rage. "You think I don’t trust myself to shoot for fear of fouling something up? Alright, you just wait and I’ll show you what I can do!"

Suddenly here it was—the one chance! Ronson Lauer stood up. He held the thermo-gun with the barrel lowered and looked for a position from which he could fire it without damaging the conduits anywhere. In the cramped quarters, standing up wasn’t so easy. Lauer finally grasped the air vent tube to help him get up and he did not let go of it after he was on his feet.

Chellish cried out, "Don’t shoot!"

Actually his voice rang with triumph more than fear. While Lauer braced himself for a shot, Chellish ducked to one side and quickly snipped the high tension line at the uninsulated section with his safety cutters. Grasping the cable where it was insulated he bent it inward under cover of the card drawer. Lauer was momentarily confused. His gun was well aimed but now the card drawer was in the way. However wild his fit of rage at the moment, he knew that it would be his own neck if his shot caused damage to any important equipment.

He hesitated—and that was Gunther Chellish’s great moment!

Swiftly but with care he shoved the live end of the power cable toward the cross-brace and finally made contact. Simultaneously, Lauer let out a yell of unbridled terror. He kept on yelling until Chellish removed the end of the wire from the metal strap. For a full second, Lauer had been unable to release his grip from the vent tube but now his hand fell limp and he dropped unconscious to the deck.

Chellish didn’t delay more than half a second. With a sure hand he brought the cable back to its original position. Then he got busy with the frequency absorber.

He disconnected the input and output leads from their contact points and connected them with another piece of wire. Cutting this new wire in two, he inserted a resistance unit between the ends, calculating that it would be equal to the resistance of the absorber’s internal circuits. Then he lifted this arrangement above the absorber and concealed it against the wall behind it.

For this he had needed hardly a minute. When be had finished he straightened up and listened. He had figured that Lauer’s outcry would have been heard in the control room and that Suttney would appear almost at once at the hatch opening. But so far this had not occurred. He looked sceptically at Lauer and listened again. Everything was quiet up above.

He quickly installed the new coil in the distributor card and checked it out. When it was in working order he snapped it into its slot in the card drawer and closed the drawer. Then, carefully but swiftly, he repaired the high tension cable break with a length of flexible plastic metal. After that he pulled the insulation sleeving back down over the uncovered section and sealed it tight. When he had finished he inspected his work and was satisfied that nobody would detect anything wrong here unless he knew precisely where to look-which was unlikely.

Lauer was still unconscious.

He stepped over the motionless body and climbed up the ladder. At the top he set up a hue and cry of alarm. "Hey… Suttney! Roane! Lauer’s fallen unconscious!"

Nobody heard him. He crawled through the hatchway into the main corridor and ran forward to the control room while still shouting. The door was closed but it opened automatically as he came within a few yards of it. Inside, Suttney was busy applying fresh bandages to Roane’s face.

"For cripes sake are all of you deaf in here?" blurted out Chellish breathlessly. "Lauer’s passed out down below. He must have touched a high voltage lead somewhere—so give me a hand with him!"

Suttney stiffened with suspicion as he stared at him. "Are you sure," he asked, "that you didn’t monkey around with the power cables long enough to be able to give him a shock?"

Chellish gave a polished performance, appearing to be dumbfounded. "That would have been impossible," he answered, still panting hard. "How could I get away with a thing like that? Just tell Lauer to be a good sport and put his finger on the nice hot wire?"

Without wasting any more words, Suttney strode past Chellish into the outer corridor. Chellish followed him.

 

* * * *

 

Horace O. Mullon had fallen into a trance-like routine. His movements were no longer monitored by his conscious mind. He manipulated the controls unconsciously, moving each switch or dial according to training habit, without deliberation.

By now it was 4 days since he had slept, excluding the 5 hours at the start of his duty; nor had he eaten very much. His physical body was animated by the last dregs of his energy reserves. It was easy to see that it would only take a few hours at the most before Mullon broke down and became a candidate for hospital treatment.

Still, they let him have his way. It was his own choice and wish to stay at his post.

He worked the compensator tracker whose leisurely rotating antenna covered the 360° sweep of space every quarter of an hour. He was fully familiar with the working principle of the antenna as a result of previous training sessions, and the operation theory now seemed to voice itself in his head like a dull catechism in an echo-chamber: Owing to the 5th dimensional nature of the resonant frequency energy fields, the antenna did not function like ordinary tracking sweeps. At a position of reception that was 180° out of phase with an incoming signal, normal intensity was about 30% and of course when the antenna pointed directly at the source of propagation the intensity was 100%. The operator was expected to immediately turn the antenna in the correct direction after receiving a low-percent signal so that the following signal, resulting from a ship’s emergence from transition, would then be picked up at full intensity on the tracking screen, causing the positional data to be captured with a maximum exactitude.

Mullon had sat at this particular screen for 10 hours without detecting the slightest blip. The dark green fluorescent screen raster with its complex coordinate grids stared back at him with blank obstinacy. All he noticed on it was a lightning dot or flicker of light every few minutes which lingered briefly with a faint afterglow, only to fade. Mullon knew that these were simply interference blips caused by cosmic rays.

But when a brilliant spike of a partial wave-form suddenly glared at him from the screen, he knew it was an unequivocal signal. Instantly, Mullon broke from his automaton stupor. He noticed that the wave-spike rose only partway toward the maximum scale on the screen and he reacted without looking, activating the switch that would orient the antenna to maximum reception. The beautiful spike paled and disappeared, as expected, but a few seconds later it came back in full glory, in fact brighter than before, and its amplitude exceeded the top of the scale.

"Got it!" he yelled, and his voice cracked in the process. "Position spike on the C-tracker! We’ve got ’em!"

After which he sank limply away from the console, fell out of his seat and lay motionlessly on the deck.