Project Gutenberg's Talents, Incorporated, by William Fitzgerald Jenkins

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Title: Talents, Incorporated

Author: William Fitzgerald Jenkins

Release Date: December 13, 2007 [EBook #23845]

Language: English

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[Cover Illustration]




Bors felt as if he'd been hit over the head. This was ridiculous! He'd
planned and carried out the destruction of that warship because the
information of its existence and location was _verified_ by a
magnetometer.

But, if he'd known _how_ the information had been obtained--if he'd
known it had been _guessed at_ by a discharged spaceport employee, and a
paranoid personality, and a man who used a hazel twig or something
similar--if he'd known _that_, he'd never have dreamed of accepting it.
He'd have dismissed it flatly!

       *       *       *       *       *

Aficionados of science fiction recognize and respect MURRAY LEINSTER as
a writer of rare talent. His ingenuity of plot, his technical know-how
and flight of imagination in TALENTS, INCORPORATED will go far to
increase his stature and popularity as an exciting and thought-provoking
storyteller.




 AVON BOOK DIVISION
 The Hearst Corporation
 572 Madison Avenue--New York 22, N.Y.




 _TALENTS,
 INCORPORATED_


 Murray
 Leinster




 Copyright, ©, 1962, by Murray Leinster.
 All rights reserved.
 Published by arrangement with the author.
 Printed in the U.S.A.


Transcriber's Note:

    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
    typographical errors have been corrected without note. Subscript
    characters are shown within {braces}.




TALENTS, INCORPORATED




_Part One_




Chapter 1


Young Captain Bors--who impatiently refused to be called anything
else--was strangely occupied when the communicator buzzed. He'd ripped
away the cord about a thick parcel of documents and heaved them into the
fireplace of the office of the Minister for Diplomatic Affairs. A fire
burned there, and already there were many ashes. The carpet and the
chairs of the cabinet officer's sanctum were coated with fine white
dust. As the communicator buzzed again, Captain Bors took a fireplace
tool and stirred the close-packed papers to looseness. They caught and
burned instead of only smouldering.

The communicator buzzed yet again. He brushed off his hands and pressed
the answer-stud.

He said bleakly: "Diplomatic Affairs. Bors speaking."

The communicator relayed a voice from somewhere else with an astonishing
fidelity of tone.

"_Spaceport, sir. A ship just broke out of overdrive. We don't identify
its type. One ship only, sir._"

Bors said grimly;

"You'd recognize a liner. If it's a ship from the Mekinese fleet and
stays alone, it could be coming to receive our surrender. In that case
play for time and notify me."

"_Yes, sir.--One moment! It's calling, sir! Here it is--._"

There was a clicking, and then there came a voice which had the curious
quality of a loudspeaker sound picked up and relayed through another
loudspeaker.

"_Calling ground! Calling ground! Space-yacht_ Sylva _reports arrival
and asks coordinates for landing. Our mass is two hundred tons standard.
Purpose of visit, pleasure-travel._"

A pause. The voice from the spaceport:

"_Sir?_"

Captain Bors said impatiently, "Oh, let him down and see if he knows
anything about the Mekinese. Then advise him to go away at once. Tell
him why."

"_Yes, sir._"

A click. Young Captain Bors returned to his task of burning papers.
These were the confidential records of the Ministry for Diplomatic
Affairs. Captain Bors wore the full-dress uniform of the space navy of
the planet Kandar. It was still neatly pressed but was now smudged with
soot and smeared with ashes. He had burned a great many papers today.
Elsewhere in the Ministry other men were burning other documents. The
other papers were important enough; they were confidential reports from
volunteer- and paid-agents on twenty planets. In the hands of
ill-disposed persons, they could bring about disaster and confusion and
interplanetary tension. But the ones Captain Bors made sure of were
deadly.

He burned papers telling of conditions on Mekin itself. The authors of
such memoranda would be savagely punished if they were found out. Then
there were papers telling of events on Tralee. If it could be said that
he were more painstakingly destructive than average about anything,
Captain Bors was about them. He saw to it that they burned to ashes. He
crushed the ashes. He stirred them. It would be unthinkable that such
morsels could ever be pieced together and their contents even guessed
at.

He went on with the work. His jaunty uniform became more smeared and
smudged. He gave himself no rest. There were papers from other planets
now under the hegemony of Mekin. Some were memoranda from citizens of
this planet, who had traveled upon the worlds which Mekin dominated as
it was about to dominate Kandar. They, especially had to be pulverized.
Every confidential document in the Ministry for Diplomatic Affairs was
in the process of destruction, but Captain Bors in person destroyed
those which would cause most suffering if read by the wrong persons.

In other ministries and other places similar holocausts were under way.
There was practically nothing going on on Kandar which was not related
to the disaster for which the people of that world waited. The feel of
bitterness and despair was everywhere. Broadcasting stations stayed on
the air only to report monotonously that the tragic event had not yet
happened. The small space-navy of Kandar waited, aground, to take the
king and some other persons on board at the last moment. When the
Mekinese navy arrived--or as much of it as was needed to make resistance
hopeless--the end for Kandar would have come. That was the impending
disaster. If it came too soon, Bors's task of destruction couldn't be
completed as was wished. In such a case this Ministry and all the others
would hastily be doused with incendiary material and fired, and it would
desperately be hoped that all the planet's records went up in the
flames.

Captain Bors flung more and more papers on the blaze. He came to an end
of them.

The communicator buzzed, again. He answered once more.

"_Sir, the space-yacht_ Sylva _is landed. It comes from Norden and has
no direct information about the Mekinese. But there's a man named Morgan
with a very important letter for the Minister for Diplomatic Affairs.
It's from the Minister for Diplomatic Affairs on Norden._"

Bors said sardonically, "Maybe he should wait a few days or hours and
give it to the Mekinese! Send him over if he wants to take the chance,
but warn him not to let anybody from his yacht leave the spaceport!"

"_Yes, sir._"

Bors made a quick circuit of the Ministry building to make sure the rest
of the destruction was thoroughly carried out. He glanced out of a
window and saw the other ministries. From their chimneys thick smoke
poured out--the criminal records were being incinerated in the Ministry
of Police. Tax records were burning in the Ministry of Finance.
Educational information about Kandarian citizens flamed and smoked in
the Ministry of Education. Even voting and vehicle-registry lists were
being wiped out of existence by flames and the crushing of ashes at
appropriate agencies. The planet's banks were completing the
distribution of coin and currency, with promissory notes to those
depositors they could not pay in full, and the real-estate registers
were open so individuals could remove and hide or destroy their titles
to property. The stockholders' books of corporations were being burned.
Small ships parted with their wares and took promises of payment in
return. The planet Kandar, in fact, made ready to receive its
conquerors.

It was not conquered yet, but there could be no hope.

Bors was in the act of brushing off his hands again, in a sort of
symbolic gesture of completion, when a ground-car stopped before the
Ministry. A stout man got out. A rather startlingly pretty girl
followed. They advanced to the door of the Ministry.

Presently, Captain Bors received the two visitors. His once-jaunty
uniform looked like a dustman's. He was much more grim than anybody his
age should ever be.

"Your name is Morgan," he said formidably to the stout man. "You have a
letter for the Minister. He's not here. He's gathering up his family. If
anyone's in charge, I am."

The stout man cheerfully handed over a very official envelope.

Bors said caustically, "I don't ask you to sit down because everything's
covered with ash-dust. Excuse me."

He tore open the envelope and read its contents. His impatience
increased.

"In normal times," he said, "I'm sure this would be most interesting.
But these are not normal times. I'm afraid--"

"I know! I know!" said the stout man exuberantly. "If times were normal
I wouldn't be here! I'm president and executive director of Talents,
Incorporated. From that letter you'll see that we've done very
remarkable things for different governments and businesses. I'd like to
talk to someone with the authority to make a policy decision. I want to
show what we can do for you."

"It's too late to do anything for us," said Bors. "Much too late. We
expect the Mekinese fleet at any instant. You'd better go back to the
spaceport and take off in your yacht. They're going to take over this
planet after a slight tumult we expect to arrange. You won't want to be
here when they come."

Morgan waved a hand negligently.

"They won't arrive for four days," he said confidently. "That's Talents,
Incorporated information. You can depend on it! There's plenty of time
to prepare before they get here!" He smiled, as if at a joke.

Young Captain Bors was not impressed. He and all the other officers of
the Kandarian defense forces had searched desperately for something that
could be done to avert the catastrophe before them. They'd failed to
find even the promise of a hope. He couldn't be encouraged by the
confidence of a total stranger,--and a civilian to boot. He'd taken
refuge in anger.

The pretty girl said suddenly, "Captain, at least we can reassure you on
one thing. Your government chartered four big liners to remove
government officials and citizens who'll be on the Mekinese black list.
You're worried for fear they won't get here in time. But my father--"

The stout man looked at his watch.

"Ah, yes! You don't want the fleet cluttered up with civilians when it
takes to space! I'm happy to tell you it won't be. The first of your
four liners will break out of overdrive in--hm--three minutes, twenty
seconds. Two others will arrive tomorrow, one at ten minutes after noon,
the other three hours later. The last will arrive the day after, at
about sunrise here."

Bors went a trifle pale.

"I doubt it. It's supposed to be a military secret that such ships are
on the way. Since you know it, I assume that the Mekinese do, too. In
effect, you seem to be a Mekinese spy. But you can hardly do any more
harm! I advise you to go back to your yacht and leave Kandar
immediately. If our citizens find out you are spies, they will literally
tear you to pieces."

He looked at them icily. The stout man grinned.

"Listen, your h-- Captain, listen to me! The first liner will report
inside of five minutes. That'll be a test. Here's another. There's a
Mekinese heavy cruiser aground on Kandar right now! It's on the sea
bottom fifty fathoms down, five miles magnetic north-north-east from
Cape Farnell! You can check that! The cruiser's down there to lob a
fusion bomb into your space-fleet when it starts to take off for the
flight you're planning--to get all the important men on Kandar in one
smash! That's Talents, Incorporated information! It's a free sample. You
can verify it without it costing you anything, and when you want more
and better information--why--we'll be at the spaceport ready to give it
to you. And you will want to call on us! That's Talents, Incorporated
information, too!"

He turned and marched confidently--almost grandly--out of the room. The
girl smiled faintly at Bors.

"He left out something, Captain. That cruiser-- It could hardly act
without information on when to act. So there's a pair of spies in a
little shack on the cape. They've got an underwater cable going under
the sand beach and out and down to the space-cruiser. They're watching
the fleet on the ground with telescopes. When they see activity around
it, they'll tell the cruiser what to do." Then she smiled more broadly.
"Honestly, it's true! And don't forget about the liner!"

She followed her father out of the room. Outside, as they got into the
waiting ground-car, she said to her father, "If he smiled, I think I'd
like him."

But Bors did not know that at the time. He would probably not have paid
any attention if he had. Kandar was about to be taken over by the
Mekinese, as his own Tralee had been ten years before, and other planets
before that. Mekin was making an empire after an ancient tradition,
which scorned the idea of incorporating other worlds into its own
governmental system--which was appalling--but merely made them subjects
and satellites and tributaries.

Bors had been born on Tralee, which he remembered as a tranquil world of
glamor and happiness. But he was on Kandar now. He served in its
space-navy, and he foresaw Kandar becoming what Tralee had become. He
felt such hatred and rebellion toward Mekin, that he could not notice a
pretty girl. He was getting ready for the savage last battle of the
space-fleet of Kandar, which would fight in the great void until it was
annihilated. There was nothing else to do if one was not to submit to
the arrogant tyranny that already lorded it over twenty-two subject
planets and might extend itself indefinitely throughout the galaxy.

He moved to verify again the complete pulverizing of the ashes in the
fireplace.

The communicator buzzed. He pressed the answer button. A voice said,
"_Sir, the space-liner_ Vestis _reports breakout from overdrive. Now
driving for port. Message ends._"

Bors's eyes popped wide. He'd heard exactly that only minutes ago! It
could be coincidence, but it was a very remarkable one. The man Morgan
had come to him to tell him that. If he'd come for some other reason,
and merely made a guess, it could be coincidence. But he'd come only to
tell Bors that he could be useful! And it was impossible, at a
destination-port, to know when a ship would break out of overdrive!
Einstein's data on the anomalies of time at speeds near that of light
naturally did not apply to overdrive speeds above it. Nobody could
conceivably predict when a ship from many light-years away would arrive!
But Morgan had! It was impossible!

He'd said something else that was impossible, too. He'd said there was a
Mekinese cruiser on the sea-floor of Kandar, where it could blast all
the local fleet--which was ready to fight but vulnerable to a single
fusion-bomb. If such a thing happened, the impending disaster would be
worse than intolerable. To Bors it would mean dying without a chance to
strike even the most futile of blows at the enemy.

He hesitated a long minute. Morgan's errand had been to make a
prediction and give a warning, to gain credence for what he could do
later. The prediction was fulfilled. But the warning....

An enemy cruiser in ambush on Kandar was a possibility that simply
hadn't been considered--hadn't even occurred to anyone. But once it was
mentioned it seemed horribly likely. There was no time for a search at
random, but if Morgan had been right about one thing he might have some
way to know about another.

Bors gave curt orders to his subordinates in the work of
record-destruction. He went out of the building to the greensward mall
that lay between the ministries of the government, and headed for the
palace at its end. The government of Kandar was not one of great pomp
and display. There was a king, to be sure, but nobody could imagine the
perspiringly earnest King Humphrey the Eighth as a tyrant. There were
titles, it was true, but they were life appointments to the planet's
legislative Upper House. Kandar was a tranquil, quaint, and very happy
world. There were few industries, and those were small. Nobody was
unduly rich, and most of its people were contented. It was a world with
no history of bloodshed--until now.

Bors brushed absently at his uniform as he walked the two hundred yards
to the palace. He abstractedly acknowledged the sentries' salutes as he
entered. Much of the palace guard had been sent away, and most of the
palace's small staff would hide from the Mekinese. The aggressors had a
nasty habit of imposing special humiliations upon citizens who'd been
prominent before they were conquered.

He went unannounced into King Humphrey's study, where the monarch
conferred dispiritedly with Captain Bors's uncle, the exiled Pretender
of Tralee, who listened with interest. The king was talking doggedly to
his old friend.

"No. You're mistaken. You'll have my written order to distribute the
bullion in the Treasury to all the cities, to be shared as evenly as
possible by all the people. The Mekinese can't blame you for obeying an
order of your lawful king before they unlawfully seize the kingdom!"

Captain Bors said curtly, "Majesty, the first of the four liners is in.
Two more will arrive tomorrow and the last at sunrise the day after. The
Mekinese will be here two days later."

King Humphrey and Captain Bors's uncle stared at him.

"And," said Bors, "the same source of information says there's a
Mekinese cruiser waiting underwater off Cape Farnell to lob a fusion
bomb at the fleet as it's ready to lift."

King Humphrey said, "But nobody can possibly know that two liners will
come tomorrow! One hopes so, of course. But one can't know! As for a
cruiser, submerged, there's been no report of it."

"The information," said Captain Bors, "came from Talents, Incorporated.
It's sample information, given free. The first item has checked. He came
with a letter from a cabinet minister on Norden."

Bors handed it to the Pretender of Tralee.

"Mmmm," he said thoughtfully. "I've heard of this Talents, Incorporated.
And on Norden, too! Phillip of Norden mentioned it to me. A man named
Morgan had told him that Talents, Incorporated had secured information
that an atom bomb--a fission bomb as I remember, and quite small--had
been set to assassinate him as he laid a cornerstone. The information
turned out to be correct. Phillip of Norden and some thousands of his
subjects would have been killed. The assassins were really going to
extremes. As I remember, Morgan wouldn't accept money for the warning.
He _did_ accept a medal."

"I think," said Bors, "I think I shall investigate what he said about a
Mekinese ship in hiding. You've no objection, Majesty?"

King Humphrey the Eighth looked at the Pretender. One was remarkably
unlike the other. The King was short and stocky and resolute, as if to
overcome his own shortcomings. The pretender was lean and gray, with the
mild look of a man who has schooled himself to patience under
frustration. He nodded. King Humphrey shook his head.

"Very well," said Bors. "I'll borrow a flier and see about it."

He left the palace. There was already disorganization everywhere. The
planetary government was in process of destroying all the machinery by
which Kandar had been governed, as if to make the Mekinese improvise a
government anew. They would make many blunders, of course, which would
be resented by their new subjects. There would be much fumbling, which
would keep the victims of their conquest from regarding them with
respect. And there would be the small tumult Bors had said was in
preparation. The king and the Kandarian fleet would fight, quite
hopelessly and to their own annihilation, when the Mekinese fleet
appeared. It would be something Kandar would always remember. It was
likely that she would not be the most docile of the worlds conquered by
Mekin. The Mekinese would always and everywhere be resented. But on
Kandar they would also be despised.

Bors found the ground-cars which waited to carry the king and those who
would accompany him, to the fleet when the time came. He commandeered a
ground-car and a driver. He ordered himself driven to the
atmosphere-flier base of the fleet.

On the way the driver spoke apologetically. "Captain, sir, I'd like to
say something."

"Say it," said Bors.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I've got a wife and children. Even for their sakes,
sir. I mean, if it wasn't for them I'd--I'd be going with the fleet.
I--wanted to explain--"

"Why you're staying alive?" asked Bors. "You shouldn't feel apologetic.
Getting killed in the fleet ought to follow at least the killing of a
few Mekinese. There should be some satisfaction in that! But if you stay
here your troubles still won't be over, and there'll be very little
satisfaction in what you'll go through. What the fleet will do will be
dramatic. What you'll do won't. You'll have the less satisfying role. I
think the fleet is taking the easy way out."

The driver was silent for a long time as he drove along the strangely
unfrequented highways. Just before the ground-car reached the air base,
he said awkwardly, "Thank you, sir."

When he brought the car to a stop, he got out quickly to offer a very
stiff military salute.

Bors went inside. He found men with burning eyes conferring feverishly.
An air force colonel said urgently, "Sir, please advise us! We have our
orders, but there's nearly a mutiny. We don't want to turn anything over
to the Mekinese--after all, no matter what the king has commanded, once
the fleet had lifted off, there can be no punishment if we destroy our
planes and blast our equipment! Will you give us an unofficial--"

Bors broke in quickly.

"I may be able to give you a chance at a Mekinese cruiser. Can you lend
me a plane with civilian markings and a pilot who's a good photographer?
I'll need a magnetometer to trail, too. There's a rather urgent
situation coming up."

The men stared at him.

He explained the possibility of a Mekinese space-cruiser lying in fifty
fathoms off Cape Farnell. He did not say where the information came
from. Even to men as desperate as these, Talents, Incorporated
information would not seem credible without painstaking explanation.
Bors was by no means sure that he believed it himself, but he wanted to
so fiercely that he sounded as if some Mekinese spy or traitor had
confessed it.

The feeling of tenseness multiplied, but voices grew very quiet. No man
spoke an unnecessary word. In minutes they had made complete
arrangements.

When the atmosphere-flier took off down the runway, wholly deceptive
explanations were already being made. It was said that the
atmosphere-fliers were to load bombs for demolition because the king was
being asked for permission to bomb all mines and bridges and railways
and docks that would make Kandar a valuable addition to the Mekinese
empire. Everything was to be destroyed before the conquerors came to
ground. The destruction would bring hardship to the citizens--so the
story admitted--but the Mekinese would bring that anyhow. And they
shouldn't profit by what Kandar's people had built for themselves.

The point was, of course, to get bombloads aboard planes with no chance
of suspicion by spy or traitor of the actual use intended for them.
Meanwhile, Bors flew in an atmosphere-flier which looked like a private
ship and explained his intentions to the pilot, so that the small plane
did not go directly to the spot five miles offshore that the mysterious
visitors had mentioned, to make an examination of the sea bottom.
Instead, it flew southward. It did not swing out to sea for nearly fifty
miles. It went out until it was on a line between a certain small island
where many well-to-do people had homes, and the airport of the planet's
capital city. Then it headed for that airport.

It flew slowly, as civilian planes do. By the time the sandy beaches of
a cape appeared, it was quite convincingly a private plane bringing
someone from a residential island to the airport of Kandar City. If a
small object trailed below it, barely above the waves, suspended by the
thinnest of wires, it was invisible. If the plane happened to be on a
course that would pass above a spot north-northeast from the tip of the
cape, a spot calculated from information given by Talents, Incorporated,
it seemed entirely coincidental. Nobody could have suspected anything
unusual; certainly nothing likely to upset the plans of a murderous
totalitarian enemy. One small and insignificant civilian plane shouldn't
be able to prevent the murder of a space-fleet, a king and the most
resolute members of a planet's population!

Captain Bors flew the ship. The official pilot used an electron camera,
giving a complete and overlapping series of pictures of the shore five
miles away with incredible magnification and detail.

The magnetometer-needle flicked over. Its findings were recorded. As
the plane went on it returned to a normal reading for fifty fathoms of
seawater.

Half an hour later the seemingly private plane landed at the capital
airport. Another half-hour, and its record and pictures were back at the
air base, being examined and computed by hungry-eyed men.

Just as the pretty Morgan girl had said, there was a shack on the very
tip of the cape. It was occupied by two men. They loafed. And only an
electron camera could have used enough magnification to show one man
laughing, as if at something the other had said. The camera proved--from
five miles away--that there was no sadness afflicting them. One man
laughed uproariously. But the rest of the planet was in no mood for
laughter.

The magnetometer recording showed that a very large mass of magnetic
material lay on the ocean bottom, fifty fathoms down. Minute
modifications of the magnetic-intensity curve showed that there was
electronic machinery in operation down below.

Bors made no report to the palace. King Humphrey was a conscientious and
doggedly resolute monarch, but he was not an imaginative one. He would
want to hold a cabinet meeting before he issued orders for the
destruction of a space-ship that was only technically and not actually
an enemy. Kandar had received an ultimatum from Mekin. An answer was
required when a Mekinese fleet arrived off Kandar. Until that moment
there was, in theory, no war. But, in fact, Kandar was already conquered
in every respect except the landing of Mekinese on its surface. King
Humphrey, however, would want to observe all the rules. And there might
not be time.

The air force agreed with Bors. So squadron after squadron took off from
the airfield, on courses which had certain things in common. None of
them would pass over a fisherman's shack on Cape Farnell. None could
pass over a spot five miles north-north-east magnetic from that cape's
tip, where the bottom was fifty fathoms down and a suspicious magnetic
condition obtained. One more thing unified the flying squadrons: At a
given instant, all of them could turn and dive toward that fifty-fathom
depth at sea, and they would arrive in swift and orderly succession.
This last arrangement was a brilliant piece of staff-work. Men had
worked with impassioned dedication to bring it about.

But only these men knew. There was no sign anywhere of anything more
remarkable than winged squadrons sweeping in a seemingly routine
exercise about the heavens. Even so they were not visible from the cape.
The horizon hid them.

For a long time there was only blueness overhead, and the salt smell of
the sea, and now and again flights of small birds which had no memory of
the flight of their ancestors from ancient Earth. The planet Kandar
rolled grandly in space, awaiting its destiny. The sun shone, the sun
set; in another place it was midnight and at still another it was early
dawn.

But from the high blue sky near the planet's capital, there came a
stuttering as of a motor going bad. If anyone looked, a most minute
angular dot could be seen to be fighting to get back over the land from
where it had first appeared, far out at sea. There were moments when the
stuttering ceased, and the engine ran with a smooth hum. Then another
stutter.

The plane lost altitude. It was clear that its pilot fought to make
solid ground before it crashed. Twice it seemed definitely lost. But
each time, at the last instant, the motor purred--and popped--and the
plane rose valiantly.

Then there was a detonation. The plane staggered. Its pilot fought and
fought, but his craft had no power at all. It came down fluttering, with
the pilot gaining every imaginable inch toward the sandy shore. It
seemed certain that he would come down on the white beach unharmed, a
good half-mile from the fisherman's shack on the cape. But--perhaps it
was a gust of wind. It may have been something more premeditated. One
wing flew wildly up. The flier seemed to plunge crazily groundward. At
the last fraction of a second, the plane reeled again and crashed into
the fisherman's shack before which, from a distance of five miles, a man
had been photographed, laughing.

Timbers splintered. Glass broke musically. Then there were thuds as men
leaped swiftly from the plane and dived under the still-falling
roof-beams. There were three, four, half a dozen men in fleet uniforms,
with blasters in their hands. They used the weapons ruthlessly upon a
civilian who flung himself at an incongruously brand-new signalling
apparatus in a corner of the shattered house. A second man snarled and
savagely lunged at his attackers; he was also blasted as he tried to
reach the same device.

There was no pause. Over the low ground to the west a flight of bombers
appeared, bellowing. In mass formation they rushed out above the sea.
Far to the right and high up, a second formation of man-made birds
appeared suddenly. It dived steeply from invisibility toward the water.
Over the horizon to the left there came V's of bomber-planes, one after
another, by dozens and by hundreds. More planes roared above the
shattered shack. They came in columns. They came in masses. From the
heavens above and over the ground below and from the horizon that rimmed
the world, the planes came. Planes from one direction crossed a certain
patch of sea.

They were not wholly clear of it when planes from another part of the
horizon swept over the same area, barely wave-tip high. Planes from the
west raced over this one delimited space, and planes from the north
almost shouldered them aside, and then planes from the east covered that
same mile-square patch of sea, and then more planes from the south....

They followed each other in incredible procession, incredibly precise.
The water on that mile-square space developed white dots, which always
vanished but never ceased. Spume-spoutings leaped up three feet, or ten,
or twenty and disappeared, and then there were others which spouted up
one yard, or two, or ten. There were innumerable temporary whitecaps.
The surface became pale from the constant churning of new foam-patches
before the old foam died.

Then, with absolute abruptness, the planes flew away from the one square
mile of sea. The late-comers climbed steeply. Abruptly, behind them,
there were warning booms. Then monstrous masses of spray and bubbles
and blue water leaped up three hundred feet, four hundred feet, five....

A square mile of ocean erupted as the planes climbed up and away from
it. There were bombs in the ocean--some had sunk down deep. Others
followed in close succession. Many, many burdens of bombs had been
dropped into the sea as plane-fleet after plane-fleet went by.

The sea exploded in monstrous columns. Ton, half-ton and two-ton bombs
began to detonate, fifty fathoms down. The Mekinese duty-officer below
had just learned that the spies' signalling device was cut off, when a
detonation lifted the hull of the Mekinese cruiser and shook it
violently. Another twisted its tail and crushed it. A bomb hit sea
bottom a quarter-mile away. More bombs exploded still nearer, in close
contact with the giant hull. A two-ton bomb clanked into contact with
its metal plating and burst.

The cruiser's duty-officer, cowering, thrust over the emergency-lever
which would put the ship through pre-recorded commands faster than
orders could be spoken.

Rockets flared, deep under water. But the flames set off bombs and the
rocket-nozzles cracked and were useless. A midship compartment was
flooding. A forward compartment's wall caved in, and still bombs
burst.... The skipper of the assassin cruiser screamed an order to fire
all missiles. They were already set on target. They were pre-set for the
spot where the space-navy of Kandar waited to rise.

They did not. One missile was blasted as the cover of its launcher-tube
opened. Another was blown in half when partly out of its tube and a
third actually rammed a sinking bomb and vanished with it when it
exploded.

The huge thing under the sea heaved itself up blindly. It reached the
surface. But it was shattered and rent and dying, and planes dived
vengefully upon it and blasted apart whatever could be seen in the
roaring foam. So the blinded, suffering thing of metal only emptied
itself of air and went down to the bottom again, where more bombs ripped
and tore it.

The atmosphere-fliers of Kandar swung in a gigantic, ballooning circle
about the spot where they had dropped a good fraction of a ton of bombs
to the square yard. But nothing stirred there any more. Still, the
planes flew in a great, deadly band about it until a flitterboat came
out from shore and lowered a camera and a light by long, long cords.

There was no space-cruiser at the bottom of the sea. There was evidence
of one, yes. There were patches of plating, and there were naked,
twisted girders. The dangling underwater camera faithfully reported what
it saw by the light that was lowered with it. But there was no
space-cruiser. There were only the rather small fragments of what had
been one a little while before.

Captain Bors went back to the palace. He was savagely pleased. He and
the air-fleet men had done something. They'd had some satisfaction.
They'd killed some Mekinese and ruined a plan to assassinate the Kandar
fleet. But they'd only gotten an immediate satisfaction. Kandar was
still to be conquered. Nothing important had changed.

Bors made his way to the king's study. He entered. King Humphrey the
Eighth and the Pretender of Tralee were listening doubtfully to a stout
man. The man was Morgan.

He stopped talking and blinked at Captain Bors. The captain ignored
royal etiquette and spoke to him without first greeting the king.

"The ship was there, as you said. We smashed it. Thank you. Is there any
more information you can give us?"




Chapter 2


At the spaceport, carefully selected persons filed onto the space-liner
_Vestis_. It was not officially believed that the other three great
chartered ships would arrive before the Mekinese fleet. It was, in fact,
rather likely that none of the information given by Talents,
Incorporated was ever believed until the event confirmed the prediction.
In the case of the first liner, those who went on board had been chosen
by a strict principle of priority. Men who would merely be imprisoned
when Mekin took over had no privilege of escape. Not yet. Those who were
destined for execution as soon as a quisling government was formed, were
also not entitled to depart on the liner. But those who had
conspicuously supported King Humphrey in his resistance to intimidation;
those who had encouraged others to object to concessions which could
only be forerunners of other concessions; those who had spoken and
written and labored to spread information about the facts of life under
Mekin, would not merely be imprisoned or executed. They would be
tortured. So they were entitled to first chance at escape.

The space-liner blasted off some six hours after its arrival. It
vanished blessedly into overdrive where it could not be intercepted. It
headed for the far-away world of Trent, where its passengers would be
allowed to land as refugees and where, doubtless, they would speak
bitterly about Mekin for all the rest of their lives. But the government
of Mekin would not care.

Mekin was a phenomenon so improbable that only those who were students
of past civilizations could really believe it. There were innumerable
references to such régimes in the histories of ancient Earth. There was,
for example, Napoleon, said people informed about such matters. With a
fraction of a fraction of one per cent of the French people actively
cooperating, he overawed the rest and then took over a nation which was
not even his own. Then he took over other nations where less than a
fraction of a fraction of one per cent concurred. Then he took soldiers
from those second-order conquests to make third-order conquests, and
then soldiers from the third to make fourth.

There was Mussolini, said the learned men. He had organized a group of
rowdies and gangsters, and began by levying protection-money on
gambling-houses and even less reputable resorts, and with the money
increased his following. He had murdered those who opposed him and
presently he collected protection money from even the great business
corporations of his country, financing more political gangsterism until
he ruled his nation for himself and his confederates.

And there was Hitler, said the historically-minded. In the beginning his
followers never dared show themselves in the uniforms they adopted,
because their fellow-countrymen hated everything they stood for. But
before the end came they worshipped him. They murdered millions at his
command, but they died because of him, too.

There was Lenin, and there was Stalin. Specialists in history could talk
very learnedly about the developments on Mekin which paralleled the
cabals headed by Lenin, and later, Stalin. Theirs was a much more
durable organization than those of Napoleon and Mussolini and Hitler.

The ruling clique on Mekin had begun in this manner.

Mekin had once had a cause to which all its officials paid lip-service
and some possibly believed in. Because of this cause it was the
organization and not the individual who was apotheosized. Therefore,
there could be fierce battles among members of the ruling class. There
could be conspiracies. The last three dictators of Mekin had been
murdered in palace revolutions, and the current dictator was more
elaborately protected from his confreres than any mere hereditary tyrant
ever needed to be. But Mekin remained a strong and dynamic world,
engaged in the endless subjugation of other worlds for a purpose nobody
really remembered any more.

Against such a society, a planet like Kandar was helpless. Mekin could
not be placated nor satisfied with less than the subjugation and the
ruin of its neighbors. For a time, Kandar had tried to arm for its own
defense. It had a space-fleet which in quality was probably equal to
Mekin's, but in quantity was hopelessly less. Also it had a defensive
policy. It did not dream of any but a defensive war. And no war was ever
won by mere defense. There could be no defense against the building-up
of tensions, the contriving of incidents, the invention of insults. It
had been proved often enough. Eventually there was an ultimatum, and
there was surrender, and then the installation of a puppet government
and the ruthless bleeding of another captured planet for the benefit of
the rulers of Mekin.

The process was implacable. There was nothing to be done but submit,
flee or die. Various parts of Kandar's population chose one or another
course. Four great liners would carry away those who could be helped to
flee. The mass of the people must submit, the fighting forces savagely
made ready to die.

But in the cabinet meeting after the destruction of the hidden enemy
cruiser, the tone was set by highly practical men. Bors was present at
the meeting. He'd destroyed the cruiser. He was to be questioned about
it. He had Morgan standing by to explain the part of Talents,
Incorporated if required.

King Humphrey said heavily, "This is probably the last cabinet meeting
before the coming of the Mekinese. I do not think oratory is called for.
I put the situation as it stands. A fleet will come from Mekin for our
answer to their ultimatum. Our space-fleet will not surrender. Our air
force is openly mutinous at the idea of submission. It has been said
that if we fight, our planet will be bombed from space until all its air
is poison, so that every living creature here will die. If this is true,
I do not think that even we who plan to fight have the right to bring
such a bombing about. But I doubt if that is true. There has been one
incident. Whether one likes it or not, it has happened. Captain Bors has
reason to hope that the space-fleet, by fighting to the death, can
actually benefit the rest of our people."

Bors spoke, excitement coloring his words.

"It's perfectly simple. There are only two kinds of people, slaves and
free men. Slaves can be tortured and killed without concern. With free
men a bargain has always to be struck. If there is no resistance to the
Mekinese, they will despise us. We will be worse off than if we fight.
Because if we fight, at least our people will be respected. They may be
oppressed because they are conquered, but they won't be treated with
the contempt and doubled oppression given to slaves."

A bearded man said querulously, "That's theory. It's psychology. It even
smacks of idealism! Let us be realistic! As a practical man, I am
concerned with getting the best possible terms for our population. After
all, the dictator of Mekin must be a reasonable man! He must be a
practical man! I believe that we should negotiate until the very last
instant."

Bors said indignantly, "Negotiate? You haven't anything to negotiate
with! I am not a citizen of Kandar, though I serve in its fleet. I am
still a national of Tralee. But I have talked to the officers of the
fleet. They won't surrender. You can't negotiate for them to do so. You
can't negotiate for them to go quietly away and pretend that nothing has
happened and that there never was a fleet. When the Mekinese arrive, the
fleet will fight. It doesn't hope to win; it doesn't expect
anything--except getting killed honorably when its enemy would like to
have it grovel. But it's going to fight!"

King Humphrey said doggedly, "My influence does not extend to the
disgrace of our fighting forces. The fleet will fight. I believe it
unwise. But since it will fight I shall be in the flagship and it _will
not surrender_."

There was a pause. The bearded man said peevishly, "But it should fight
on its own! It should not compromise Kandar!"

There was a murmur. King Humphrey looked about him from under lowered
brows.

"That can be arranged," he said heavily. "I will constitute a caretaker
government by royal proclamation. I will appoint you," he looked
steadily at the bearded man, "to be head of it and make such terms as
you can. If you like, when the Mekinese come you can warn them that the
fleet has mutinied under me, its king, and may offer battle, but that
you are ready to lead the people of Kandar in--"

"In licking the boots of all Mekinese," said Bors in an icy tone.

There was a small rumble of protest. Bors stood up.

"I'd better leave," he said coldly. "I'm not entitled to speak. If you
want me, I can be reached."

He strode from the council-chamber. As the door closed behind him, he
ground his teeth. The stout man, Morgan, of the space-yacht _Sylva_,
paced up and down the room where he waited to be called. His daughter
sat tranquilly in a chair. She smiled pleasantly at Bors when he came
in. Morgan turned to face him.

"Here's some Talents, Incorporated information," he said zestfully. "The
cabinet is scared. A few are willing to fight, but most are already
trying to think how they can make terms with the Mekinese."

Bors opened his mouth to swear, then checked himself.

"Gwenlyn," said Morgan, "will pardon an expression of honest
indignation. It's a dirty shame, eh?"

"If I were a native of Kandar," said Bors bitterly, "I'd be even more
ashamed than I am as a native of Tralee. The people of Tralee
surrendered, but they didn't realize what they were getting into. These
men do!"

The girl Gwenlyn said quietly, "I'm sorry for King Humphrey."

"He's miscast," said Morgan briskly. "He should be king of a calm and
peaceful world in calm and peaceful times. You're going to have trouble
with him, Captain Bors!" Then he said; "Perhaps we can work out a plan
or two, eh? While you're waiting for the cabinet to call you back?"

"I've no authority," said Bors. "My uncle's the Pretender of Tralee, and
I was originally commissioned in the fleet as a sort of courtesy to him.
I can't speak for anybody but myself."

"You can speak for common sense," said Gwenlyn. "After all, you know
what the people really want. You could try to arrange things so that the
fleet can fight well."

"It'll fight well," said Bors curtly. "It'll give a good account of
itself! But that won't do any good!"

Morgan struck an attitude, beaming.

"Ah! But you've got Talents, Incorporated on your side! You don't
realize yet, Captain, what a difference that can make! While there's
life and Talents, Incorporated, there's hope!"

Bors shrugged. Suddenly he found that he, too, drearily accepted defeat.
There was no more hope of accomplishment. There was nothing to be
achieved. He would serve no purpose by straining against the impossible.

He said tiredly, "I'll agree that Talents, Incorporated cost the
Mekinese one cruiser."

"A trifle," said Morgan, waving his hand, "mere soupçon of
accomplishment. We're prepared to do vastly more."

It occurred to Bors to be curious.

"Why? You're risking your life and your daughter's by staying here. If
Mekin ever finds out about its cruiser on the sea bottom and your share
in that affair, you'll be in a fix! And certainly you can't expect to
make a profit here? We couldn't even pay you for what you've already
done!"

"I'm right now," said Morgan placidly, "quite as rich as I want to be.
I've another ambition--but let's not go into that. I want to show you
what Talents, Incorporated can do in the four days--" he looked at his
watch--"three hours and some odd minutes that remain before the Mekinese
fleet turns up. You've checked up on Talents, Incorporated?"

"My uncle says," Bors told him, "that you kept Phillip of Norden from
being assassinated by a fission-bomb at a cornerstone laying. He also
says you wouldn't accept a reward, only a medal."

"I collect them," said Morgan modestly. "You'd be surprised how many
orders and decorations a man can acquire by industry and
organization--and Talents, Incorporated."

Gwenlyn said, "Four days, three hours and some odd minutes--"

"True," said Morgan. "Let's get at it. Captain Bors, have you ever heard
of a lightning calculator--a person who can do complicated sums in his
head as fast as he can hear or read the numbers involved?"

"Yes," said Bors. "It's quite phenomenal, I believe."

"It's a form of genius," said Morgan. "Only I call it a talent because
it tends to make itself useless. Have you ever heard of a dowser?"

"If you mean a man who finds places for wells, and locates mines by
means of a hazel twig--"

"The hazel twig is immaterial," Morgan told him. "The point is that
you've heard of them, and you know that they can actually do such
things. Right?"

Bors frowned. "It's not proven," he said. "At least I think it isn't
considered proven because it isn't understood. But I believe it's
conceded that such things are done. I believe, in fact, that dowsing has
been done on photographs and maps, in an office, and not on the spot at
all. I admit that that seems impossible. But I'm told it happens."

Morgan nodded rapidly, very well pleased.

"One more. Have you heard of precognition?"

Bors nodded. Then he shrugged.

"I have a Talent," said Morgan. "I have a man in my employ with a talent
for precognizing when ships are going to arrive. His gift is strictly
limited. He used to work in a spaceport office. He always knew when a
ship was coming in. He didn't know how he knew. He doesn't know now. But
he always knows when a ship will arrive at the planet where he is."

"Interesting," said Bors, only half listening.

"He was discharged," Morgan went on, "because he allowed a maintenance
crew to disassemble, for repair, a vital relay in a landing-grid on the
very day when three space-ships were scheduled for arrival. There was
pandemonium, of course, because nothing could have landed there. So when
my Talent let the relay be dismantled, with three ships expected.... But
one ship was one day late, another two days, and the third, four. He
knew it. He didn't know how, but he knew! He was discharged anyway."

Bors did not answer. The cabinet meeting in the other room went on.

"He told me," said Morgan, matter-of-factly, "that four ships would
arrive on Kandar, and when. One of them has arrived. The others will
come as predicted. He knows that a fleet will get here two days after
the last of the four. One can guess it will be the Mekinese fleet."

Bors frowned. He was interested now.

"I've another Talent," pursued Morgan. "He ought to be a paranoiac. He
has all the tendencies to suspicion that a paranoid personality has. But
his suspicions happen to be true. He'll read an item in a newspaper or
walk past, oh, say a bank. Darkly and suspiciously, he guesses that the
newspaper item will suggest a crime to someone. Or that someone will
attempt to rob the bank in this fashion or that, at such-and-such a
time. And someone does!"

"He'd be an uncomfortable companion," Bors observed wryly.

"I found him in jail," said Morgan cheerfully. "He'd been warning the
police of crimes to come. They happened. So the police jailed him and
demanded that he name his accomplices so they could break up the
criminal gang whose feats he knew in advance. I got him out of jail and
hired him as a Talent in Talents, Incorporated."

Bors blinked.

"Before we landed here," said Morgan, "I'd told him about the political
situation, the events you expect. He immediately suspected that the
Mekinese would have a ship down somewhere, to blast the fleet of Kandar
if it should dare to resist. In fact, he said positively that such a
cruiser was waiting word to fire fusion-bombs."

Bors blinked again.

"And I spread out maps," said Morgan, "and my dowser went over them--not
with a hazel twig, but something equally unscientific--his instinct--and
he assured me that the cruiser was under water five miles
north-north-east magnetic from Cape Farnell. The map said the depth
there was fifty fathoms. Then my paranoid Talent observed that there'd
be spies on shore with means to signal to the submerged cruiser. My
dowser then found a small shack on the map where a communicator to the
ship would be. With the information about the arrival of the liners, and
the facts about the cruiser--and I had other information too--I went to
the Ministry for Diplomatic Affairs and told you. As you know, the
information I gave you was accurate."

Bors felt as if he'd been hit over the head. This was ridiculous! He'd
hunted for the space-cruiser under the sea because the prediction of the
liner's arrival was so uncannily correct. He'd helped plan and carry out
the destruction of that warship because its existence and location were
verified by a magnetometer. But if he'd known how the information was
obtained, if he'd known it was guessed at by a discharged spaceport
employee, and a paranoid personality, and a man who used a hazel twig or
something similar.... If he'd known that, he'd never have dreamed of
accepting it. He'd have flatly dismissed the ship-arrival prediction!

But, if he hadn't trusted the information enough to check on it, why,
the small space-fleet of Kandar would vanish in atomic flame when it
tried to take off to fight. With it would vanish Bors, and his uncle,
and the king and many resolute haters of Mekin.

Gwenlyn said, "You're perfectly right, Captain."

"What's that?" asked Bors, numbly.

"It is stark-raving lunacy," said Gwenlyn pleasantly. "Just like it
would have seemed stark-raving lunacy, once upon a time, to think of
people talking to each other when they were a thousand miles apart. Like
it seemed insane to talk about flying machines. And again when they said
there could be a space-drive in which the reaction would be at a right
angle to the action, and especially when somebody said that a way would
be found to drive ships faster than light. It's lunacy, just like those
things!"

"Y-yes," agreed Bors, his thoughts crowding one another. "It's all of
that!"

Morgan nodded his head rapidly.

"I felt that way about it," he observed, "when I first got the idea of
finding and organizing Talents for practical purposes. But I said to
myself, 'Lots of great fortunes have been made by people assuming that
other people are idiots.' In some ways they are, you know. And then I
said to myself, 'Possibly a fortune can be made by somebody assuming
that _he_ is an idiot.' So I assumed it was idiotic to doubt something
that visibly happened, merely because I couldn't understand it. And
Talents, Incorporated was born. It's done quite well."

Bors shook his head as if to clear it.

"It seems to have worked," he admitted. "But if I'd known--" He spread
out his hands. "I'll play along! What more can you do for us?"

"I've no idea," said Morgan placidly. "Such things have to work
themselves out, with a little prodding, of course. But one of my Talents
says the lightning-calculator Talent is the one who'll do you the most
good soonest. I'd suggest--"

There was a murmur of voices from the cabinet room. The door opened and
King Humphrey came out. He looked baffled, which was not unusual. But he
looked enraged, which was.

"Bors!" he said thickly. "I've always thought I was a practical man! But
if being practical means what some members of my cabinet think, I would
rather be a poet! Bors, do something before my cabinet dethrones me and
tricks the fleet into disbanding!"

He stumbled across the room, not noticing Morgan or Gwenlyn. Bors came
to attention.

"Majesty," he said, not knowing whether he spoke in irony or
bewilderment, "I take that as an order."

The king did not answer. When the door on the other side of the room
closed behind his unregal figure, Bors turned to Morgan.

"I think I've been given authority," he said in a sort of baffled calm.
"Suppose we go, Mr. Morgan, and find out what your lightning calculator
can do in the way of mental arithmetic, to change the situation of the
kingdom?"

"Fine!" said Morgan cheerfully. "D'you know, Captain Bors, he can solve
a three-body problem in his head? He hasn't the least idea how he does
it, but the answer always comes out right!" Then he said exuberantly,
"He'll tell you something useful, though! That's Talents, Incorporated
information!"




Chapter 3


There was a fleet on the way to Kandar. It could not be said to be
traveling in space, of course. If there had been an observer somewhere,
he could not conceivably have detected the ships. There would be no
occultations of stars; no blotting out of any of the hundreds and
thousands of millions of bright specks which filled all the firmament.
There would be no drive-radiation which even the most sensitive of
instruments could pick up. The fleet might be at one place to an
observer's right--where it was imperceptible--and then it might be at a
place to the observer's left--where it was undetectable--and nobody
could have told the difference.

Actually, each ship of the Mekinese fleet was in overdrive, which meant
that each had stressed the space immediately around it so that it was
like a cocoon of other-space; as if it were out of this cosmos
altogether and in another. In sober fact, of course, nothing of the sort
had happened. An overdrive field changed the physical constants of
space. The capacity of a condenser in an overdrive field was different
from that of a condenser out of it. The self-induction of a coil in an
overdrive field was not the same as in normal space. Magnetic and
gravitational fields also did not follow the same laws in stressed space
as in unstressed extension. The speed of light was different. Inertia
was different. In short, a ship could drive at many hundreds of times
the velocity of light and the laws of Einstein did not apply, because
his laws referred to space that men had not tampered with.

But though ships in overdrive had to be considered as in motion, and
though their speed had to be considered as beyond the astronomical,
there were such incredible distances to be covered that time piled up.
Aside from double stars, there were no suns yet discovered which were
less than light-years apart. The time required for travel between
inhabited planets was still comparable to the time needed for
surface-travel between continents on a world. So the fleet of Mekin,
journeying faster than the mind could imagine, nevertheless drove and
drove and drove in the blackness and darkness and isolation of each
ship's overdrive field. They had so driven for days. They would continue
to do so for days to come.

When Captain Bors burned the documents in the Ministry for Diplomatic
Affairs, the enemy fleet might have been said to be at one place. When a
submerged space-cruiser, planning assassination, was itself blown to
bits with no chance to strike back, the Mekinese fleet was approximately
somewhere else. When a cabinet meeting disheartened King Humphrey, the
fleet was much nearer to Kandar. But days of highly-tedious
eventlessness were still ahead of the war-fleet.

So Bors and Gwenlyn and Morgan got a ground-car and were driven to
Kandar's commercial spaceport. There they found the _Sylva_. It was far
larger than the usual space-yachts. There were commercial space-craft
which were no larger. But it was a workmanlike sort of ship, at that. It
had two lifeboat blisters, and there were emergency rockets for landings
where no landing-grids existed. The armored bands of overdrive-coil
shielding were massive. The _Sylva_, in fact, looked more like a service
ship than either a commercial vessel or a yacht. It was obviously
unarmed, but it had the look of a craft that could go very nearly
anywhere.

"You'll find the Talents a bit odd," said Gwenlyn, as they drove up
under the hull's wide bulge. "When they meet new people they like to
show off. Most of them were pretty well frustrated before Father found a
use for them. But they're quite pleasant people if you don't treat them
like freaks. They're not, you know."

Bors had nothing to say. Until he was fifteen he'd lived on Tralee,
which was then a quiet, pacific world, as Kandar had been. As the nephew
of a monarch at least as resolutely constitutional as King Humphrey,
he'd been raised in a very matter-of-fact fashion. The atmosphere had
been that of a comfortable, realistic adjustment to facts. He was taught
a great respect for certain facts without being made fanatically opposed
to anything else. He'd been trained to require reasonable evidence
without demanding that all proofs come out of test tubes and electronic
apparatus. He was specifically taught that arithmetic cannot be proved
by experimental evidence, but that sound experimental evidence agrees
with arithmetic. So he was probably better qualified than most to deal
with something like Talents, Incorporated. But it was not easy for him.

The ground-car stopped. An exit-port in the space yacht opened and an
extension-stair came down. The three of them mounted it. The inner
lock-door opened and they entered the _Sylva_.

An incredibly fat woman regarded Bors with warm and sentimental eyes. A
man no older than Bors, but with prematurely gray hair, nodded at him. A
man in a chair lifted a hand in highly dignified greeting. Everyone
seemed to know who he was. There was a blonde woman who might be in her
late thirties, a short, scowling man with several jewelled rings on his
fingers, and a gangling, skinny adolescent. There were still others.

Morgan addressed them with enthusiasm. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said.
"I present Captain Bors! He's come to arrange to use your talents in the
gravest of all possible situations for his world!"

There were nods. There were bows. The dignified man in the chair said
confidently, "The ship was where I specified."

"Exactly!" said Morgan, beaming. "Exactly! A magnificent piece of work!
Which is what I expected of you!"

He made individual introductions all around. Bors did not begin to catch
the names. This was so-and-so, said Morgan, "our Telepath." Still
another, "our ship-arrival Precognizer--he predicted the coming of the
liner, you remember." He came to the scowling man with rings. "Captain
Bors, this is our Talent for Predicting Dirty Tricks. You've reason to
thank him for disclosing that Mekinese cruiser underwater."

Bors followed the lead given him.

"There are many of us," he said, "with reason to thank you for a most
satisfying operation. We smashed that cruiser!"

The scowling man nodded portentously. The introductions went on. The
skinny adolescent was "our Talent for Locating Individuals." The
enormously fat woman: "our Talent for Propaganda."

Bors was confused. He had to steel himself not to decide flatly that all
this was nonsense. Morgan and Gwenlyn took him away from what appeared
like a sort of social hall for these externally commonplace persons.

They arrived at a smaller compartment. It was a much more personal sort
of place. Morgan waved his hand.

"Gwenlyn and I live here," he observed. "Our cabins are yonder and you
might call this our family room. Gwenlyn finds the undiluted society of
Talents a bit wearing. Of course, handling them is my profession, though
I have some plans for retirement. We'll see our Mathematics Talent in a
minute or two. He knows it's expected that he'll be the most useful of
all our Talents at the moment. He will make an entrance."

Gwenlyn sat down. She regarded Bors with amusement.

"I think the Captain's halfway unconvinced again, Father."

"I'm not unconvinced," said Bors grimly. "I'm desperate. It's not easy
either to ignore what's happened or to believe that it will continue.
And I--well--if the Mekinese fleet does arrive, I don't want to miss
going with our fleet to meet it."

"You won't miss anything, Captain," said Morgan happily. "Have a cigar.
Gwenlyn, do you think I should--"

"Let me," said Gwenlyn. "I know how the Captain feels. I'm an outsider,
too. I haven't any talent--fortunately! Sit down, Captain."

Bors seated himself. Morgan offered a cigar. He seemed too impatient and
much too pleased to be able to sit down himself. Bors lighted the
cigar; at the first puff he removed it and looked at it respectfully.
Such cigars were not easy to come by.

"I think," said Gwenlyn amiably, "that Father himself has a talent,
which makes him not too easy to get along with. But it has had some good
results. I hope it will have more here. The whole business is
unbelievable, though, unless you think of some very special facts."

Bors nodded. He puffed again and waited.

"He told you some of it," said Gwenlyn. "About the ship arrival Talent
and the dowser. There've always been such people with gifts that
nobody's ever understood, but that are real. Only they've always been
considered freaks. They feel that they're remarkable--and they are--and
they want people to recognize this. But they've never had a function in
society. They've been _denied_ all function. Take the Mathematical
Talent! He can do any sort of mathematics in his head. Any sort! He used
to hire out to work computers, and he always got discharged because he
did the computations in his head instead of using the machines. He was
always right, and he was proud of his ability. He wanted to use it! But
nobody'd let him. He was a miserable misfit until Father found him and
hired him."

Bors nodded again, but his forehead wrinkled.

"Talents, Incorporated is merely an organization, created by my father,
to make use of people who can do things ordinarily impossible, and
probably unexplainable, but which exist nevertheless. There are more
talents than Father has gathered, of course. But what good are their
gifts to them? No good at all! They're considered freaks. So Father
gathered them together as he found them. First, of course, he needed
capital. So he used them to make money. Then he began to do useful
things with them, since nobody else did. Now he's brought them here to
help."

Bors said painfully, "They don't all have the same gift."

"No," agreed Gwenlyn.

"And there are limits to their talents?"

"Naturally!"

Morgan broke in, amused. "Gwenlyn insists that I have the talent of
finding and using talents."

"A mild talent, Father," said Gwenlyn. "Not enough to make you
revolting. But--"

A door opened. A tweedy man with a small mustache stood in the doorway.

"I believe I'm wanted?" he said offhandedly.

Morgan introduced him. His name was Logan. He was the lightning
calculator, the mathematical talent of Talents, Incorporated. Bors shook
his hand. The tweedy man sat down. He drew out a pipe and began to fill
it with conscious exactitude. He looked remarkably like a professor of
mathematics who modestly pretended to be just another commuter. He
dressed the part: slightly untidy hair; bulldog pipe; casual, expensive
sports shoes.

"I understand," he said negligently, "that you want some calculations
made."

"I'm told I do," said Bors, harassedly. "But I don't know what they
are."

"Then how can I make them?" asked Logan with lifted eyebrows.

"Naturally," said Morgan, "you'll find out the kind of calculations he
needs, that he can't get anywhere else. That'll be the kind he needs
from you."

"Hm," said Logan. He blew a smoke-ring, thoughtfully. "Where do you use
calculations in space-travel?"

"Everywhere," said Bors. "But we've computers for it. And they're quite
adequate."

Logan shrugged. "Then what do you need me for?"

"You tell me!" said Bors, nettled. "Certainly we don't need calculations
for space-travel. We've no long journey in mind. We're simply going to
go out and do some fighting when the Mekinese fleet gets here."

Logan blew another smoke-ring.

"What calculations do you use in space-fighting?"

"Courses and distances," said Bors. He could see no sense in this, but
he went on. "Allowing for acceleration and deceleration in setting our
missiles on targets. Allowing for the motion of the targets. Again we
have computers for this. In practice they're too good! If we send a
missile at a Mekinese ship, they set a computer on it, and it computes a
course for a counter-missile which explodes and destroys our missile
when it's within a certain distance of it."

"Then your missile doesn't hit," said Logan.

"All too often, it doesn't," admitted Bors.

"Then their missiles don't hit either."

"If they send a hundred missiles at us, they're cancelled out if we send
a hundred to destroy them. Unfortunately, if they send more than we can
counter, we get wiped out."

Bors found his throat going dry. This, of course, was what he'd
desperately been denying to himself. It was the fundamental reason for a
total lack of hope. The history of warfare is the history of rivalry
between attack and defense. In the matter of missiles in space, there
was a stalemate. One missile fired in attack could always be destroyed
by another fired in defense. It was an arithmetic balance. But it meant
that three ships could always destroy two, and four ships three. In the
space-fight ahead, there would be at least ten Mekinese ships to every
one from Kandar. The sally of Kandar's fleet would not be a rush into
battle, but an advance into annihilation. "What we need," said Bors
desperately, "is a means to compute courses for our missiles so they'll
hit, and that the enemy can't counter-compute--so that his missiles
can't compute how to change course in order to cancel ours out."

He was astonished as the words left his mouth. This was what was needed,
of course. But then he realized that it couldn't be done.

Logan blew a smoke-ring.

"Mechanical computers," he said, "have limits. They're designed to
calculate a trajectory with constant acceleration or no acceleration.
But that's all."

Bors frowned. "What else could there be?"

"Changing acceleration," said Logan condescendingly. "A mechanical
computer can't compute that. But I can."

Bors continued to frown. One part of his mind assured him that the
statement that mechanical computers could not calculate trajectories of
missiles with changing acceleration was incorrect. But the rest of his
mind tried to imagine such a trajectory. He couldn't. In practice, men
do not have to handle the results of variable acceleration as cumulative
effects.

"I think," said Bors carefully, "that if you can do that--"

Logan blew a smoke-ring more perfect than any that had gone before.

"I'll calculate some tables," he said modestly. "You can use them on
your computer-results. Then if you arrange your missiles to change their
acceleration as they go, the Mekinese missiles can't intercept them."

He waved his hand with the grand air of someone assuring a grammar-grade
pupil that multiplication tables were quite reliable and could be used
with confidence. But his eyes fixed themselves on Bors's face. As the
Captain realized the implications of his statement, the eyes of the
Mathematical Talent of Talents, Incorporated shone with gratified
vanity.

"We'll go out in a couple of tin cans," said Bors fiercely, "and try
this out with dummy warheads!"

Gwenlyn said quickly, "Marvelous! Marvelous, Logan!"

"It's nothing," said Logan modestly.

But it was a very great deal. Bors, impatient to try it out,
nevertheless realized that Logan hadn't made the suggestion out of a
brilliant perception of a solution to a problem in ballistics, but
because he thought in terms of mathematical processes. He didn't think
of a new missile operation, but a new kind of computation. And he
reveled in the fact that he had showed off his brilliance.

In the ground-car on the way to the fleet, Bors said helplessly to
Gwenlyn, "I'm not the right man to be the liaison with you people. But
this might make us a pretty costly conquest for Mekin! With luck, we may
trade them ship for ship! They won't miss the ships they lose, but
it'll be a lot of satisfaction to us!"

"You expect to be killed," Gwenlyn said flatly.

"My uncle," explained Bors, "considers that he should have gotten killed
when Mekin took over Tralee. It would have set a good example. Since we
didn't do it for Tralee, we'll do it for Kandar. The king's going along
too. After all, that's one of the things kings are for."

"To get killed?"

"When necessary," Bors told her. "Kandar shouldn't surrender even though
there will be at least ten Mekinese to one Kandarian."

She smiled at him, very oddly.

"I suspect," she said, "that not everybody on the fleet will be killed.
I'm sure of it. In fact, as my father would say, that's Talents,
Incorporated information!"

Bors frowned worriedly.

The fleet of Mekin continued in overdrive, heading for Kandar. Each
second it traversed a distance equal to the span of a solar system, out
to its remotest planet. A heartbeat that would begin where a pulsing
Cepheid, had it been possible to see, would have seemed at its greatest
brilliance, and would end where the light from that same giant star
seemed dimmed almost to extinction. Of course no such observation could
be made from any ship in overdrive. Each one of the many, many ugly
war-machines was sealed in its own cocoon of overdrive-stressed space.
Even in the armed transports that carried officials and bureaucrats and
experienced police organizers to set up a puppet government on Kandar,
there was not the faintest hint of anything that happened outside the
individual ship. But, what might be termed the position of the fleet,
changed with remarkable swiftness. It traveled light-hours between
breaths. Light-days between sentences. Light-months and light-years....

But it would not arrive on Kandar for a long while yet. Not for three
whole days.




Chapter 4


The small fighting ship lifted swiftly from the surface of Kandar. As it
rose, the sky turned dark and the sun's brilliant disk, far too bright
to be looked at with unshielded eyes, became a blazing furnace that
could roast unshielded flesh. Stars appeared, shining myriads despite
the sun, with every one vivid against a background of black. The
planet's surface became a half-ball, of which a part lay in darkness.

"_Co-o-ntact!_" said a voice through many speakers placed throughout the
fighting ship's hull.

There was the rushing sound of compartment doors closing. Then a
cushioned silence everywhere, save for the faint, standby scratching
sounds that loudspeakers always emit.

Screens lighted. A speck moved among the stars.

"_Prepare counter-missiles_," said the voice. "_Proximity and track.
Fire only as missiles appear._"

The moving speck flamed and was again only a moving speck. It ejected
something which hurtled toward the ship just up from Kandar.

"_Intercept one away!_" said a confident voice.

The last-launched missile fled toward the first moving speck,
diminishing as it went. It swung suddenly, off course.

"_Fire two!_" snapped somebody somewhere.

Another object hurtled away toward the stars.

"_Fire three! Fire four!_"

Far away, something came plunging toward the ship. It did not travel in
a straight line. It curved. It was not reasonable for a missile to
travel in a curved line. The interceptor missiles had to detect it,
swing to intercept, to accelerate furiously. The first interceptor
missed. Worse, it had lost its target. It went wandering vaguely among
the stars and was gone.

The second missed. The voice in the speaker seemed to crack.

"_Fire all missiles! They're turning too late! Pull 'em up ahead of the
damned thing!_"

The deadly contrivances plunged away and further away into emptiness.
The third interceptor missed. The fourth. Tiny specks moved gracefully
on the radar screen. There was something coming toward the ship that had
risen from Kandar. The tracer-trails of missiles appeared against the
stars. They made very pretty parabolas. That was all. The thing that was
coming left a tracer-trail too. It curved preposterously. The just-risen
ship furiously flung missiles at it. It did not dodge. But none of the
tracer-trails intersected its own. All of them passed to its rear.

For the fraction of a second it was visible as an object instead of a
speck. That object swelled.

It went by. Bors's voice, relayed, said,

"_Coup! You're out of action. Right?_"

The skipper of the ship just up from Kandar said grudgingly, "Hell, yes!
We threw fifteen missiles at it, and missed with every one! This is
magic! Can we all have this before the Mekinese get here?"

"_I hope so_," said Bors's voice. "_We're trying hard, anyhow. Will you
report to ground?_"

"_Right_," said the speakers in the ship which had just fired fifteen
missiles without a hit or interception. "_Off._"

And then the compartment doors opened again and the normal sounds of a
small fighting ship in space began again.

An hour later, aground, Bors said impatiently, "Half a dozen ships have
checked out with me. I sent a single dummy-warhead missile at each one.
They knew I was trying something new. They tried interceptors. Not one
worked. Worse, my missiles drew the interceptors off-course so they lost
their original aim on the _Isis_. Missiles set for variable acceleration
not only can't be intercepted but they draw interceptors off-course and
are super-interceptors themselves. I fired one dummy warhead at each
target-ship. I got six hits with six missiles. They fired an average of
twelve missiles against each of mine. They got no intercepts or hits
with seventy-two tries! This appears to me a very gratifying development
for the situation we're in."

The bearded man who'd plumped for negotiation, earlier, now spoke
indignantly in the War Council.

"Why wasn't this revealed earlier? We could have made a demonstration
and Mekin would have been wary of issuing an ultimatum! Why was this
concealed until it was too late to use in negotiations with them?"

"It wasn't available until today," Bors answered. "It was tried, and it
worked."

An admiral said slowly, "As I understand it, this is a proposal of
the--hm--Talents, Incorporated people."

"No," said Bors. "We got the idea but couldn't do the math. Talents,
Incorporated did the computations to make the missiles hit."

"Why? Why let them do the math? There may be a counter to this device.
Perhaps Talents, Incorporated, was sent to us to get us to adopt this
freakish trick."

"Talents, Incorporated," said Bors, "enabled us to smash a submerged
Mekinese cruiser. In giving us the necessary information, Talents,
Incorporated kept the Mekinese from wiping out our space-fleet. Talents,
Incorporated-- Oh, the devil!"

The admiral gazed about him.

"This--device," he said precisely, "is not a tried and standard weapon.
On the other hand, the sally of our fleet is not war. Because of our
civilian population we cannot make war on Mekin! The defiance of our
fleet will be a gesture only--a splendid gesture, but no more. It should
be a dignified gesture. It would be most inappropriate for our fleet to
take to space, ostensibly to say that it prefers death to surrender, and
for it then to unveil a new and eccentric device which would say that
the fleet was foolish enough to hope that a gadget would save it from
dying and Kandar from conquest. The fleet action should be fought with
scorn of odds. It should end its existence in a manner worthy of its
traditions!"

Bors exploded, "Damnit--"

King Humphrey held up his hand and said fretfully, "As I remember it,
Admiral, you have been assigned to hold together the defense
forces--those who either did not insist on going with the fleet, or for
whom there was no room--who have to be surrendered. You talk of
gestures. But the young men who will go out in the fleet are not going
there to make gestures! They simply and furiously hate Mekin for what it
is about to do. They are going out to kill as many Mekinese as they can
before they, themselves, are killed. They would call your speech
nonsense. And I would agree with them."

Bors said respectfully, "Yes, Majesty. It may also be said that copies
of the first Talents, Incorporated launching-data tables have already
been distributed to the missile crews throughout the fleet. More are
being distributed as fast as Logan calculates them. I don't think you
can keep our ships from trying the new missiles when the fighting
starts!"

Indignantly, the bearded man said, "I protest! This is a War Council! If
the council is to be lectured by strangers and if its orders won't be
obeyed, why hold it?"

"Why, indeed?" King Humphrey looked sternly about the council-table.
Sternness did not become him, but dignity did. He said with dignity,
"You who are to stay here have to think of dealing with a victorious
Mekin. We who are to go have to think of making our defeat count. There
is no point in further discussion. The fleet will take off immediately."

He rose from his seat. The bearded man protested, "But the Mekinese
aren't here yet! They won't arrive until day after tomorrow!"

"You're using Talents, Incorporated information," objected Bors. "And it
is wise for the fleet to move off-planet at once! You are reasonable
men. Too reasonable! Nothing can destroy a nation so quickly as for it
to fall into the hands of practical, hard-headed, reasonable men who act
upon the best scientific data and the opinions of the best experts! That
happened on Tralee, and my uncle and myself are exiles and Tralee is
subjugated in consequence. But I am beginning to have hope for Kandar!"

He followed King Humphrey out of the council-room. Fleet admirals
brought up the rear. The stodgy, dumpy figure of the king tramped
onward. It became obvious that he was bound for the ground-cars that
waited to take him and those who would follow him to the launching area
of the fleet.

A lean, gray, vice-admiral fell into step beside Bors.

"You don't think things are hopeless, Captain?" he asked curiously. "I
don't see the shred of a chance for us. But my whole life's been in the
fleet. Under Mekin I'd be drafted to work in a factory or serve as an
under-officer on a guard-ship, one or the other! I'd rather end in a
good fight. How can you have hope?"

Bors said grimly, "I'm not sure that I have. But I can't believe that
nations can be saved by reasonable, practical men. They aren't made by
them! I've no hope except that acting foolishly may be wisdom. Sometimes
it is."

"Ha!" The vice-admiral grinned wryly. "But fortunes are made by
businessmen, and only history by heroes. No sensible man is ever a hero.
But, like you, I don't like practical men."

They went out-of-doors. The king climbed sturdily into a ground-car. It
hummed away. There was a sort of ordered confusion, and then other
ground-cars began to stream away from the palace.

Morgan appeared and waved to Bors. He hesitated, and Morgan pointed to
an unofficial vehicle. Inside, Gwenlyn was smiling cheerfully at Bors.
He found himself returning the smile, and allowed himself to be guided
to her. The ground-car rolled swiftly after the others.

"I've a little more Talents, Incorporated information," said Morgan.
"It's written down for you to read when you get to wherever you're
going. It's rather important. Please be sure to read it fairly soon, it
may affect the fight."

"I'm headed for the fleet," said Bors. "Take me there, will you? I
wanted to say something before I left, anyhow."

Morgan waved his hand.

"I can guess," he said blandly. "Deepest gratitude and all that, but the
rush of events blocked any way to arrange a suitable recompense for what
Talents, Incorporated has done."

Bors blinked. "That's the substance of what I meant to say," he
admitted.

"We'll take it up later," Morgan told him. "We'll get in touch with you
after the battle."

"I doubt it," said Bors. "I'm not likely to be around."

Gwenlyn laughed a little.

"What's so amusing?" asked Bors. "I don't mean to strike an attitude,
but I do hate everything Mekin stands for, and I've a chance to throw a
brick at it. The price may be high but throwing the brick is necessary!"

"We," said Gwenlyn, "have Talents, Incorporated information, some of
which is in that letter Father gave you. Our Department for Predicting
Dirty Tricks has been busy. You'll see. But we've other information,
too."

Bors frowned at her. He put the letter away.

"More information--and you'll see me after the fight. You're not telling
me you know the future?"

Morgan waved a cigar.

"Of course not! That's nonsense! If one knew the future, one could
change it, and then it wouldn't be what one knew! You haven't had any
prophecies from me! Prophecy's absurd! All we've told you is about
events whose probability approaches unity."

"But--"

"What Father means," Gwenlyn told him, "is that you can't be told
beforehand about anything you can prevent, because if you can prevent it
you can make your knowledge false. So it isn't knowledge. What we want
to say, though, is that we aren't through."

"Why not?"

"I'm going to retire," said Morgan blandly. "But I want to do something
first that I can gloat over later."

"He wants," added Gwenlyn, "to repose in the satisfaction of his
vanity." She laughed again at her father's expression.

"Seriously, Captain, we wanted to give you the letter and to ask you not
to be surprised if we turn up somewhere. There's a Talent," she added,
"a young boy who can find people. He doesn't know how he does it,
but.... We'll find you!"

The ground-car turned in at the fleet's take-off ground. The normal
interstellar traffic of a planet, of course, was handled by a spaceport,
with ships brought down to ground and lifted out to space again by the
force-fields generated in a giant landing-grid. But a war-fleet could
not depend solely on ground installations. The fighting ships of Kandar
were allowed to use the planet's spaceport only for special reasons.
Emergency rocket take-offs and landings were necessary training for war
conditions anyhow. So the take-off ground was pitted and scarred with
burnt-over circles, where no living thing grew and where very often the
clay beneath the humus top-layer was vitrified by rocket-flames.

A guard at the gate brought the ground-car to a halt.

"War alert," said Bors. "Only known officers and men admitted here. It's
not worth arguing about."

He got out of the car and shook hands.

"I still regret," he told Morgan, "that we've had no chance to do
something in return for the information you've given us." To Gwenlyn he
said obscurely, "I'm glad I didn't know you sooner."

He turned and walked briskly into the fenced-off area. Behind him,
Morgan looked inquisitively at his daughter.

"What was that he just said?"

"He's glad he didn't know me sooner," said Gwenlyn. She looked smugly
pleased. "Considering everything, it was a very nice thing to say. I
like him even if he doesn't smile."

Morgan did not seem enlightened. "It doesn't make sense to me."

"That's because you are my father," said Gwenlyn. She stirred
restlessly. She was no longer smiling. "I hope Talents, Incorporated
information isn't wrong this time! Remember, we heard on Norden that the
dictator of Mekin consults fortune-tellers!"

"Ah!" said her father. "But they're only fortune-tellers!"

"One could be a Talent," said Gwenlyn worriedly, "maybe without even
knowing it."

There came a far-distant, roaring sound. Something silvery and
glistening rose swiftly toward the sky. It dwindled to a speck. There
were more roarings. Three more silvery, glistening objects flung
themselves heavenward, leaving massive trails of seemingly solid smoke
behind them. Then there were bellowings. Larger ships rose up. As the
din of their rising began to diminish, there were louder, booming
uproars and other silvery objects seemed to fling themselves toward the
sky.

Then thunder rolled, and huge shapes plunged in their turn toward the
heavens. The space-fleet of Kandar left its native world. It departed in
the formation used for space maneuvering, much like the tactical
disposition of a column of marching soldiers in doubtful territory.
There was a "point" in advance of all the rest, to be the first to
detect or be fired on by an enemy. Then flankers reached straight out,
and to the right and left, and then an advance-guard, and then the main
force with a rear-guard behind it.

The take-off area became invisible under a monstrous, roiling mountain
of smoke, from which threads of vapor reached to emptiness. It became
impossible to hear oneself talk; it was unlikely that one could have
heard a shot, as the heavy ships took off. But presently there were only
lesser clamors and then mere roarings after them, and the last of the
rocket-boomings died away. The smoke remained, rolling very slowly
aside. Then there were unexpected detonations. As the rocket-fume mist
dissolved, the detonations were explained. Every building in the fleet's
home area, the sunken fuel-tanks, the giant rolling gantries--every bit
of ground equipment for the servicing of the fleet was methodically and
carefully being blown to bits. The fleet was not expected back.

The ships rose above the atmosphere, and rose still higher, and the
planet Kandar became a gigantic ball which filled an enormous part of
the firmament. Then there were cracklings of communicators, and orders
flittered through emptiness in scrambled and re-scrambled broadcasts of
gibberish which came out as lucid commands in the control-rooms of the
ships. Then, first, the point, then the advanced flankers, and then the
main fleet, line by line and rank by rank--every ship drove on outward
under top-speed solar-system drive.

The last of the four chartered space-liners, come to take refugees away
before the Mekinese arrived, saw the disappearance of the ships in the
rear of the fleet's formation. The liner was lowered to the ground by
the landing-grid. It reported what it had seen. Those who were entitled
to depart on it crowded aboard. With the fleet gone, panic began.

Morgan had to spend lavishly to get copies of the news reports that the
liner had brought along as a matter of course. He took them back to the
_Sylva_, where a frowning man with rings on his fingers read them with
dark suspicion. Presently, triumphantly, he dictated predictions of
dirty tricks from indications in the news.

Morgan returned to what he'd called the family room of the yacht. He
relaxed. Gwenlyn tried to read. She did not succeed. She was excessively
nervous.

Bors was not. The fleet re-formed itself well out from Kandar. It made
for a rendezvous over a pole of the gas-giant planet which was the
fourth planet from Kandar's sun. It was almost, but not quite in line
with that yellow star toward the base, from which the Mekinese flotilla
would come. The fleet went into a polar orbit around that gigantic
planet, which was useless to mankind because its atmosphere was partly
gaseous ammonia and partly methane.

The cosmos paid no attention. An unstable sol-type star in Cygnus
collapsed abruptly and a number of otherwise promising planets became
unfit for human exploitation. In Andromeda, a super-nova flared. The
light of its explosion would not reach Kandar for very many thousands of
years. The largest comet in the galaxy reached perihelion, and
practically outshone the sun it circled. Nobody saw it, because nobody
lived there. On a dreary, red-sky planet in Mousset, a thing squirmed
heavily out of a stagnant sea and blinked stupidly at the remarkable
above-water cosmos it had discovered. Suns flamed and spouted flares.
Small dark stars became an infinitesimal fraction of a degree colder.
There was a magnetic storm in the photosphere of a sun which was not
supposed to have such things.

The war-fleet of Kandar, in very fine formation, flowed in its polar
orbit around the fourth planet out from Kandar's sun. In carefully
scrambled and re-scrambled communications, certain ships were authorized
to modify the settings of Mark 13 missiles in this exact fashion, to
remove their warheads, and to diverge in pairs from the fleet proper.
They were to familiarize themselves with the results of making the
acceleration of such missiles variable during flight. They would use the
supplied data-tables to compute firing constants for given ranges and
relative speeds. They would, of course, return to formation to permit
other ships the same practice with the new method of missile handling.

Bors read the letter from Talents, Incorporated. It gave an exact time
for the breakout of the Mekinese fleet. The rest consisted mostly of
specific warnings from the Talents, Incorporated Department for
Predicting Dirty Tricks. It listed certain things to be looked for among
the ships of the fleet. The information was like the news of an enemy
ship aground on Kandar; it was self-evidently plausible once one thought
of it. Mekin was ruled and its military practices governed by men with
the instincts of conspirators, using other men with the
psychopathological impulses which make for spies. They thought of
devices neither statesmen nor fighting men would have invented. But a
paranoid Talent could think of them, and know that they were true.

As a result of the warnings, the flagship was found to have been somehow
equipped, by Mekin, with a tiny, special microwave transmitter which
used a frequency not usual on Kandar. It was, in effect, a radio beacon
on which enemy missiles could home. Also, the lead ship of a
cruiser-squadron had been mysteriously geared to reveal its exact
position, course and speed while in space. There were other concealed
devices. Some would make the controls of predetermined ships useless
when beams of specific frequency and form were trained upon them.

Once the basic idea was discovered, it was possible to make sure that
all such enemy-supplied equipment was out of operation. The fleet was
still in no promising situation, with a ten-to-one disadvantage. But it
could not have put up even the beginning of a fight, had these
spy-installed devices remained undiscovered.

Bors said carefully, by scrambled and re-scrambled communicator,
"Majesty, I'm beginning to be less than despairing. If they expect our
ships either to have been destroyed aground, or to be made helpless the
instant combat begins, we may give them a shock. We hoped to smash them
ship for ship. Finding out their tricks in advance may give us that! And
if our missiles work as they've promised, we may get two for one!"

King Humphrey's voice was dogged. "_I will settle for anything but
surrender! From an honorable enemy I would take severe terms rather than
see my spacemen die. But I would do nobody any good by yielding to
Mekin!_"

Bors clicked off. He looked at a clock. The prediction from Talents,
Incorporated was that the Mekinese fleet would break out of overdrive at
11.19 hours astronomical time.

He went over his ship. His crew was by no means depressed. There had
been a terrific lift in spirits when dummy-warheaded missiles made
theoretic hits, though fifteen interceptors tried to stop them. The
crewmen now tended elaborately to explain the process. A part of the
trick was the curved path along which the re-set missiles flashed. Such
courses alone could never be computed by an unwarned enemy under battle
conditions. But the all-important thing was that the missiles changed
their acceleration as they drove. That couldn't be solved and the
solution put into practice during one fleet-action. Once the enemy had
experienced it, they could later duplicate it without doubt, but it
would still be impossible to counter.

So Bors's men were cheerful to the point of gaiety. They would fight
magnificently because they were thinking of what they would do to the
enemy instead of what the enemy might do to them. If enemy crews had
been assured that the fleet was half defeated before the fight began, to
find the fleet not crippled by spy-set devices would be startling. To
find them fighting like fiends would be alarming. And if--Bors grimly
repeated to himself, _if_--the modified missiles worked as well in
battle as in target practice....

He turned in and, despite his tensions, fell asleep immediately and
slept soundly. When he awoke he felt curiously relaxed. It took him a
moment to realize he had dreamed about Gwenlyn. He couldn't remember
what he had dreamed, but he knew it was comfortable and good. He
wouldn't let himself dwell on it, however. There was work to be done.

It was singularly like morning on a planet. The ship was spotless,
immaculate. There was the fresh smell of growing things in the air. To
save tanked oxygen the air-room used vegetation to absorb CO{2} and
excess moisture from the breathing of the crew. There was room to spare
everywhere, because unlike aircraft and surface ships, the size of a
space-ship made no difference in its speed. There was no resistance due
to size. Only the mass counted. So there was spaciousness and freshness
and something close to elation on Bors's ship on the day it was to fight
for the high satisfaction of getting killed.

Bors saw to it that his men breakfasted heartily.

"We've got a party ahead," he told the watch at mess. "Eat plenty but
give the other watch a chance to fill up, too."

Somebody said cheerfully, "The condemned men ate a hearty breakfast,
sir?"

Bors grinned.

"The breakfast we can be sure of. The condemned part--we'll have
something to say about that. Some Mekinese wouldn't have good appetites
if they knew what's ahead of them. One word! Don't waste missiles! There
are a lot of Mekin ships. We've got to make each missile count!"

There was laughter. He went to the control room. He checked with the
clock. Shortly after the other watch was back at its stations he
calculated carefully. The enemy fleet would break out of overdrive
short of Kandar, of course. It would have broken out once before, to
correct its line and estimate the distance to its destination. It would
have assembled itself at that breakout point, but it would still arrive
in a disorderly mob. One's point of arrival could not be too closely
figured at the high speeds of overdrive. So when the Mekinese came, they
would not be in formation.

Bors called the flagship, when the gas-giant planet was in line and a
barrier against the radio waves. King Humphrey's voice came from the
speaker by Bors's side.

"_Bors? What?_"

"Majesty," said Bors. "Talents, Incorporated says the enemy fleet will
break out of overdrive in just about ten minutes. We're out here waiting
for it, instead of aground as they'll expect. They'll break out in
complete confusion. Even with great luck, they'll lose time assembling
into combat formation. Being out here, we may be able to hit them before
they're organized."

A pause.

"_I've been discussing tactics with the high command_," said the king's
voice. "_There's some dispute. The classic tactic is to try for
englobement._"

"I want to point out, Majesty," Bors interrupted urgently, "that when we
cross the north pole again, we're apt to detect the fleet signalling
frantically to itself, sorting itself out, trying to get into some sort
of order. It'll be stirred up as if with a spoon. But if we come around
the planet's pole--and they don't expect us to be out here waiting for
them--we'll be in combat-ready formation. We may be able to tear into
them as an organized unit before they can begin to co-operate with each
other."

A longer pause. Then King Humphrey said grimly;

"_There is one weak point in your proposal, Bors. Only one. It is that
Talents, Incorporated may be wrong about the time of breakout. The more
I think, the less I believe in what they have done, or even what I saw!
But we'll be prepared, however unlikely your idea. We'll be ready._"

He clicked off. Only minutes later, the combat-alert order came through.
In the next ten minutes, Bors's ship hummed for five, was quiet for
three, and then, two minutes early, all inner compartment doors closed
quietly and there was that muffled stillness which meant that everybody
was ready for anything that might happen.

In the control room, Bors watched out of a direct-vision port, giving
occasional glances to the screens. There were flecks of light from
innumerable stars. Then the shining cloud-bank of the gas-giant planet
went black. Screens showed all of the fleet--each blip with a nimbus
about it which identified it as a friend, not a foe. There was the blip
of the leading ship, the "point" of the formation. There were the
flanking ships and all the martial array of the fleet.

Then the screens sparkled with seemingly hundreds of blips which seemed
to swirl and spin and whirl again in total and disordered confusion.

Gongs clanged. A voice said, "_Co-o-ntact! Enemy fleet ahead. Wide
dispersion. They're milling about like gnats on a sunny day!_"

A curt and authoritative and well-recognized voice snapped, "_All ships
keep formation on flagship. Course coordinates...._" The voice gave
them. "_There's a clump of enemy ships beginning to organize! We hit
them!_"

The fleet of Kandar came around the gas-giant world and flung itself at
the fleet of Mekin. It seemed that everything was subject to intolerable
delay. For long, sweating, unbearable minutes nothing happened except
that the fleet of Kandar went hurtling through space with no sensation
or direct evidence of motion. The gas-giant planet dwindled, but not
very fast. The bright specks on the screens which were enemy ships
seemed to separate as they drew nearer. But all happened with infinite
and infuriating deliberation.

It was worth waiting for. There was truly a clumping of enemy ships
ahead. Some of them were less than ten miles apart. In a
two-hundred-mile sphere there were forty ships. They'd been moving to
consolidate themselves into a mutually assisting group. What they
accomplished was the provision of a fine accumulation of targets. Before
they could organize themselves, the Kandarian fleet swept through them.
It vastly outnumbered them in this area.

It smashed them. Bombs flashed in emptiness. There were gas-clouds and
smoke-clouds which stayed behind in space as the fleet went on.

"_New coordinates_," said the familiar authoritative voice. It gave
them. "_There's another enemy condensation. We hit it!_"

The fleet swung in space. It drove on and on and on. Interminable time
passed. Then there were flashes brighter than the stars. A Kandar
cruiser blew up soundlessly. But far, far away other things detonated,
and what had been proud structures of steel and beryllium, armed and
manned, became mere incandescent vapor.

A third clumping of Mekinese ships. The Kandarian fleet overwhelmed it;
overrode it; used exactly the tactics the Mekinese might have used. It
ruthlessly made use of its local, concentrated strength. It was
outnumbered in the whole battle area by not less than ten to one. But
the Mekinese fleet was scattered. Where it struck, the Kandarian fleet
was four and five, and sometimes twenty, ships to one.

It was a smaller fleet in every class of ships, but it was compact and
controlled and it made slashing plunges through the dispersed and
confused enemy. With ordinary missiles three ships could always destroy
two, and four could destroy three. But in the battle of the gas-giant
planet, where there was fighting the Kandarians were never less than two
to one. They were surrounded by enemies, but when those enemies tried to
gather together for strength, the mass of murderously-fighting ships of
Kandar swung upon the incipient group and blasted it.

Nearly half the Mekinese fleet was out of action before Bors's ship
fired a single missile. He'd sat in the skipper's chair, and from time
to time, the course of all the fleet was changed, and he saw that his
ship kept its place rigidly in formation. But he had given not one order
out of routine before the enemy strength was half gone. Then the
communicator said coldly:

"_All ships attention! With old-style missiles we could do everything
we've accomplished so far. But the Mekinese are refusing battle now.
They'll begin to slip away in overdrive if we keep chopping them down in
groups. We have to give them a chance or they'll run away. The new
missile system works perfectly. All ships break formation. Find your own
Mekinese. Blast them!_"

Bors said in a conversational voice, "There are three Mekin ships
yonder. They look like they're willing to start something. We'll take
them on."

He pointed carefully to a spot on the screen. His small ship swung away
from the rest of the fleet. It plunged toward a battleship and two heavy
cruisers who had joined forces and appeared to attempt to rally the
still-stronger-than-Kandar invaders.

They became objects rather than specks upon the screens. They were
visible things on the direct-vision ports. Something flashed, and rushed
toward the little Kandarian space-can.

"Fire one, two, three," Bors ordered.

Things hurtled on before him. A screen showed that the missiles first
fired by the enemy went off-course, chasing the later-fired missiles
from the _Isis_. The Mekinese shots had automatically become
interceptors when Kandarian missiles attacked their parent ships. But
they couldn't anticipate a curved course and their built-in computers
weren't designed to handle a rate of change of acceleration. The three
Mekinese ships ceased to exist.

"Let's head yonder," said Bors.

He pointed again, on the screen. Within the radar's range there were
hundreds of tiny blips. Some were marked with a nimbus apiece. They were
friends. Many, many more were not.

The Mekinese fleet, too, could determine its own numbers in comparison
to the defending fleet. Pride and rage swept through Mekinese
commanders, as they saw the Kandarians deliberately break up their
formation to get their ships down to the level of the enemy. It was
unthinkable for a Mekinese ship to refuse single combat! And when two
and three could combine against a single ship of Kandar....

The invaders had reason to fight, rather than slip into overdrive. They
still outnumbered the ships from Kandar. And for a Mekinese commander to
flee the battle area without having engaged or fired on an antagonist
would be treason. No man who fled without fighting would stay alive.
There had to be a recording of battle offered or accepted, or the
especially merciless court-martial system of Mekin would take over.

There was one problem, however, for the Mekinese skippers. When they
engaged a ship from Kandar, they died. Still, no ship left the scene of
the battle to report defeat.

It was absolute and complete. It was not only a defeat. It was
annihilation. The Mekinese fleet was destroyed to the last ship, even to
the armed transports carrying bureaucrats and police to set up a new
government on Kandar. Those ships which dared not run away without a
token fight, discovered the fleet of Kandar wasn't fighting a token
battle. It had started out to be just that, but somehow the plans had
changed when the fighting started. For the aggressors, it was disaster.

When his fleet reassembled, King Humphrey issued a general order to all
ships. He read it in person, his voice strained and dead and hopeless.

"_I have to express my admiration for the men of my fleet_," he said
drearily. "_An unexampled victory over unexampled odds is not only in
keeping with the best traditions of the armed forces of Kandar, but
raises those traditions to the highest possible level of valor and
devotion. If it were not that in winning this victory we have doomed our
home world to destruction, I would be as happy as I am, reluctantly,
proud...._"




_Part Two_




Chapter 5


Nobody had ever found any use for the Glamis solar system. There was a
sun of highly irregular variability. There were two planets, of which
the one farther out might have been useful for colonization except that
it was subject to extreme changes of climate as its undependable sun
burned brightly or dimly. The nearer planet was so close to its primary
that it had long ceased to rotate. One hemisphere, forever in sunshine,
remained in a low, red heat. Its night hemisphere, in perpetual
darkness, had radiated away its heat until there were mountains of
frozen atmosphere piled above what should have been a mineral surface.
It was a matter of record that a hundred standard years before, a ship
had landed there and mined oxygen-containing snow, which its air
apparatus was able to refine so the crew could breathe while they
finished some rather improbable repairs and could go on to more
hospitable worlds.

The farther-out planet was sometimes a place of green vegetation and
sprawling seas, and sometimes of humid jungles with most of its oceans
turned to a cloud-bank of impenetrable thickness. Also, sometimes, it
was frozen waste from pole to pole. The vegetation of that planet had
been studied with interest, but the world itself was simply of no use to
anybody. Even the sun of the Glamis system was regarded with suspicion.

The fleet of Kandar made rendezvous at the galactic-north pole of the
second planet. On arrival the massed cruisers and battleships went into
orbit. The smaller craft went on a scouting mission, verifying that
there was no new colony planted, that there was no man-made radiation
anywhere in the system, that there was no likelihood of the fleet's
presence--or for that matter its continued existence--becoming known to
anybody not of its ship-crews.

The scout-ships came back, reporting all clear. The great ships drew
close to one another and small space-boats shuttled back and forth,
taking commanders and captains and vice-admirals to the ship, which, by
convention, was commanded by King Humphrey VIII of Kandar.

Captain Bors got to the conference late. There were some grave faces
about the conference room, but there were also some whose expressions
were unregenerate and grimly satisfied. As he entered the room the king
was speaking.

"I don't deny that it was a splendid victory, but I'm saying that our
victory was a catastrophe! To begin with, we happened to hit the
Mekinese fleet when it was dispersed and disorganized. That was great
good fortune--_if_ we'd wanted a victory. The enemy was scattered over
light-minutes of space. His ships could not act as a massed,
maneuverable force. They were simply a mob of fighting ships who had to
fight as individuals against our combat formation."

"Yes, Majesty," said the gray vice-admiral, "but even when we broke
formation--"

"Again," said the king, more fretfully still, "I do not deny that the
fighting ability of our ships was multiplied by the new way of using
missiles. What I do say is that if we'd come upon the Mekinese fleet in
combat formation instead of dispersed; if we'd attacked them when they
were ready for us, it would be doubtful that we'd have been so
disastrously successful! Say that the new missile settings gave each of
our ships fire-power as effective as two or three or five of the enemy.
The enemy was ten to one! If we hadn't hit them when they were in
confusion, we'd have been wiped out. And if we'd hit their fleet anyhow,
we'd be dead. We did not hit the main fleet. We annihilated a division
of it, a small part. We are still hopelessly inferior to the vast
Mekinese fleet."

Bors took a seat at the rear of the room.

A stout rear-admiral said somberly, "We hope we annihilated it, Majesty.
There's no report of any ship fleeing in overdrive. But if any did
escape, its report would lead to an immediate discovery of the exact
improvement in our missiles. I am saying, Majesty, that if one enemy
ship escaped that battle, we can look for all the enemy ships to be
equipped with revised missiles like ours."

Bors raised his voice. "May I speak?"

"Ah," said the king. "Bors. By all means."

"I make two points," said Bors with reserve. "One is that the Mekinese
are as likely to think our missiles captured theirs as that they were
uncomputable. Missile designers have been trying for years to create
interceptors which capture enemy missiles. The Mekinese may decide we've
accomplished something they've failed at, but they're not likely to
think we've accomplished something they never even thought of!"

Voices babbled. A pompous voice said firmly that nobody would be so
absurd. Several others said urgently that it was very likely. All
defense departments had research in progress, working on the capture of
enemy missiles. If it were accomplished, ships could be destroyed as a
matter of routine.

Bors waited until the king thumped on the table for silence.

"The second thing I have to say, Majesty, is that there can be no plans
made until we know what we have to do. And that depends on what Mekin
thinks has happened. Maybe no enemy ship got home. Maybe some ships took
back inaccurate reports. It would be very uncomfortable for them to
report the truth. Maybe they said we had some new and marvellous weapon
which no fleet could resist. In that case, we are in a very fine
position."

The king said gloomily, "You think of abominably clever things, Captain.
But I am afraid we've been too clever. If Mekin masses its entire fleet
to destroy us, they can do it, new missile-system or no new
missile-system! We have somehow to keep them from resolving to do just
that!"

"Which," said Bors, "may mean negotiation. But there's no point in
negotiating unless you know what your enemy thinks you've got. We could
have Mekin scared!"

There was a murmur, which could not be said to be either agreement or
disagreement. The king looked about him.

"We cannot continue to fight!" he said sternly, "not unless we can
defend Kandar--which we can't as against the Mekinese main fleet. We
were prepared to sacrifice our lives to earn respect for our world, and
to leave a tradition behind us. We must still be prepared to sacrifice
even our vanity."

The vice-admiral said, "But one sacrifices, Majesty, to achieve. Do you
believe that Mekin will honor any treaty one second after it ceases to
be profitable to Mekin?"

"That," said the king, "has to be thought about. But Bors is right on
one point. We should come to no final conclusion without information--"

"Majesty," Bors interrupted. His words came slowly, as if an idea were
forming as he spoke. "The enemy may have no news at all. They may know
they've been defeated, but they'd _never_ expect _our_ freedom from
loss. Why couldn't a single Kandarian ship turn up at some port where
its appearance would surely be reported to Mekin? It could pose as the
sole survivor of our fleet, which would indicate that the rest of us
were wiped out in the battle. If we _had_ all been wiped out, there'd be
no point in their fusion-bombing Kandar. Certainly they expected us to
be destroyed. One surviving ship can prove that we _have_ been!"

The king's expression brightened.

"Ah! And we can go and intern ourselves--"

There was a growl. The pompous voice said, "We would gain time, Majesty.
Our fear is that Mekin may feel it must avenge a defeat. But if one ship
claims to be the sole survivor of our fleet, it announces a Mekinese
victory. That is a highly desirable thing!"

The king nodded.

"Yes-s-s.... We were unwise to survive the battle. We can hide our
unwisdom. Captain Bors, I will give you orders presently. As of now, I
will accept reports on battle-damage given and received." As Bors
saluted and turned to the door, the king added, "I will be with the
Pretender presently."

It was an order and Bors obeyed it. He went to find his uncle. He found
the former monarch in the king's cabin of this, the largest ship of the
fleet. The Pretender greeted Bors unhappily.

"A very bad business," he observed.

"Bad," agreed Bors. "But for the two of us, a defeat for Mekin is not
bad news."

"For us and Tralee," the old man said reprovingly, "there is some
pleasure. But it is still bad. Every ship we destroyed must be replaced.
Like every other subject planet, Tralee will be required to build--how
many ships? Ten? Twenty? We have increased the burden Mekin lays on
Tralee. And worse--much worse--"

"There's such a thing," protested Bors, "as using a microscope on
troubles! We did something we badly wanted to! If we can keep it up--"

The Pretender said, "How is the food-supply on your ship? How long can
you feed your crew without supplies from some base?"

Bors swore. The question had the impact of a blow. His _Isis_, like the
rest of the fleet, had taken off from Kandar to fight and be destroyed.
There were emergency rations on board, of course. But the food-storage
compartments hadn't been filled. The fleet did not expect to go on
living, so it did not prepare to go on eating. It would have been absurd
to carry stores for months when they expected to live only hours. It
simply hadn't occurred to anyone to load provisions for a long operation
away from base.

"That's what the king is worrying about," said the Pretender. "We've
some thousands of men who will be hungry presently. If we reveal that we
survived the battle, Mekin's tributaries will begin to think. They might
even hope--which Mekin would have to stop immediately. If we do not
reveal that we still exist, what can be done about starving ship-crews?
It is a bad business. It would have been much better if the fleet had
been destroyed, as we expected, in a gesture of pure fury over its own
helplessness."

Bors said sardonically, "We can all commit suicide, of course!"

The Pretender did not answer. His nephew sank into a chair and glowered
at the wall. The situation was contrary to all the illusions cherished
by the human race. To act decently and with honor is somehow fitting to
a man and consistent with the nature of the universe, so that decency
and honor may prosper. But recent events denied it. Men who were willing
to die for their countrymen only injured them by the attempt. And now
the conduct which honor would approve turned upon them to bring the
consequences of treason and villainy.

A long time passed. Bors sat with clenched hands. It was the barbaric
insistence of Mekin upon conquest that was at fault, of course. But this
happens everywhere, as it has throughout all history. There are, really,
three kinds of people in every community, as there have always been.
There are the barbarians, and there are the tribesmen, and there are the
civilized. This was true when men lived on only one planet, and
doubtless was true when the first village was built. There were
civilized men even then. If there was progress, they brought it about.
And in every village there were, and are, tribesmen, men who placidly
accept the circumstances into which they are born, and who wish no
change at all. And everywhere and at all times there are barbarians.
They seek personal triumphs. They thrive on high emotional victories.
And at no time will barbarians ever leave either civilized men or
tribesmen alone. They crave triumphs over them and each other, and they
create disaster everywhere, until they are crushed.

Bors said evenly, "If the king's planning to surrender the fleet to
Mekin as ransom for Kandar, it won't work."

"He's considering it," said his uncle. "It will be a way of giving them
the victory we cheated them of, though we didn't intend to win."

"It won't work," repeated Bors. "It won't do a bit of good. They'll want
to punish Kandar because it wasn't beaten. They feed on destruction and
brutality. They're barbarians. The economic interpretation of history
doesn't apply here! The Mekinese who run things _want_ to be evil. They
will be until they're crushed."

"Crushed?" asked the Pretender bitterly. "Is there a chance of that?"

Bors considered gravely. Then he said, "I think so."

The door opened and the king came in. Bors rose and the king nodded. He
spoke to the Pretender.

"Somebody raised the question of food," he said. "There isn't any to
speak of, of course. You'd think grown men would face facts! There's not
a man willing to accept what is, and work from that! Lunatics!"

He flung himself into a chair.

"Suggested," he continued, "that a part of the fleet go to Norden to buy
food and bring it back. Of course Mekin wouldn't hear about it, wouldn't
guess at the survival of the fleet because food was bought in such
quantities! Suggested, that a part of the fleet go to some uncolonized
planet and hunt meat. Try to imagine success in that venture! Suggested,
that we travel a long distance, pick out a relatively small world, land
and seize its spaceport and facilities and equip ourselves to bomb Mekin
to extinction. And do it in a surprise attack! Suggested--"

The king shook his head angrily. He did not look royal. He did not look
confident. He looked embittered and even helpless. But he still looked
like a very honest man trying to make up for his admitted deficiencies.

"Majesty," said Bors.

The king turned his eyes.

"You're going to send me off for news," said Bors. "I suggested earlier
that my ship pretend to be the sole survivor of the fleet. I suggest
now that the ship add the wild and desperate boast that since there's no
longer a world which will sponsor it, it's turned pirate. It will take
vengeance on its own. It defies the might of Mekin and it dares the
Mekinese fleet to do something about it."

"Why?" asked the king.

"Pirates," Bors answered, controlling his enthusiasm, "have to be hunted
down. It takes many ships to hunt down a pirate. I should be able to
keep a good-sized slice of the Mekinese navy busy simply lying in wait
for me here and there."

"And?"

"There are tribute-ships which carry food from the subject worlds to
Mekin. Hating Mekin as befits the sole survivor of this fleet, Majesty,
it would be natural for me to capture such ships, even if I could do
nothing better with them than send them out to space to be wasted. They
wouldn't be wasted, naturally. They'd come here."

The king said, "But you couldn't supply the fleet indefinitely!"

Bors nodded agreement. But he waited.

"You may try," said the king querulously. "Have you something else up
your sleeve?"

Bors nodded in his turn.

"Don't tell me what it is," said the king. "So long as the fleet gets
some food and its existence isn't known.... If I knew what you're up to,
I might feel I had to object."

"I think not, Majesty," Bors said, showing a rare smile. "I'll need some
extra men. If I do capture food-ships, they'll be useful."

"I can't imagine that anything would be useful," said the king bitterly.
"Tell the admiral to give them to you."

Bors saluted and left the room. He went directly to the admiral who in
theory was second in command only while the king was aboard. He
explained his mission and some of his intentions. The admiral listened
stonily.

"I'll give you fifty men," he said. "I think you'll be killed, of
course. But if you live long enough to convince them that the fleet's
been destroyed, you'll be of service."

"What," Bors asked, with a trace of humor, "can possibly be done about
the fact that we wiped out a Mekinese fleet instead of letting it
exterminate us?"

"The matter," the admiral answered seriously, "is under consideration."

Bors shrugged and went to his own ship, the _Isis_. He was excessively
uncomfortable. He'd said to his uncle, and implied to the king, that he
had some plan in mind. He did, but it angered him to know that he
counted on assistance; that, in theory, he could not possibly accomplish
it alone. It was irritating to realize that he expected Gwenlyn and her
father to turn up, with their Talents, when absolutely nobody outside of
the fleet could possibly imagine where the fleet had gone. On Kandar it
must be assumed, by now, that it was dead.

His ship's boat clanked into position in the lifeboat blister. The
valves closed on it. A moment later there was a whistling murmur, and
the boat's vision-ports clouded over outside and then cleared. He
stepped out into the ship's atmosphere. His second-in-command greeted
him in the control-room.

"I was trying to reach you at the flagship, sir," he said. "The yacht
_Sylva_ is lying a few miles off. Her owner has forwarded news reports
to the flagship. He asks that you receive him when you can, sir."

Bors's apparent lack of surprise was real. He wasn't surprised. But he
was annoyed with himself for expecting something so impossible as the
_Sylva_ tracing the fleet through an overdrive voyage of days to a most
unlikely destination like Glamis.

"Tell him to come aboard," he commanded.

He went to talk to the mess officer, reflecting that he would ask the
Morgans how the _Sylva_ had known where to come, and they'd tell him,
and it would be extremely unlikely, and he would accept the explanation.
The mess-officer looked harassed at the news of fifty additional crewmen
to be fed.

"Principles of prudence and common sense," said Bors, "don't apply any
more. We'll feed them somehow."

He went back to the control-room. When Morgan appeared, beaming
expansively, Bors was again unsurprised to see Gwenlyn with him. Logan,
the Mathematics Talent, followed in their wake, looking indifferently
about him.

"We wiped out the fleet headed for Kandar," Bors observed. "I don't
suppose that's news, to you?"

Morgan cheerfully shook his head.

"And we're in considerably more trouble than before. Is that news?"

"No," admitted Morgan. "It's reasonable for you to be."

"Then, damnit, I'm going off on a pirating-news-gathering-food-raiding
cruise alone," said Bors. "Is that news?"

"We brought Logan," said Morgan, "to go with you. He'll be useful.
That's Talents--"

"--Incorporated information and I can depend on it," said Bors dourly.
"In plain common sense the odds are rather high against my accomplishing
anything, such as coming back."

Morgan looked at his daughter. He grinned.

"We heard gloom from him the other day before a certain space-battle,
didn't we?" He turned back to Bors. "Look, Captain. Our Talents don't
prophesy. Precognition simply says that when there are so many thousand
ways an event in the future can happen, then, in one of those several
thousand ways, it will. Precognition doesn't say which way. It doesn't
say how. Especially, it doesn't say why. But we have a very firm
precognition by a very reliable Talent that you'll be alive and doing
something very specific a year from now. So we assume you won't be
permanently killed in the meantime."

"But anything else can happen?"

"More or less," admitted Morgan.

"What will happen?"

"We don't know!" said Morgan again. "Someday I may take you aside and
explain the facts of precognition and other talents as I understand
them. I'm probably quite wrong. But I do know better than to try to pry
certain kinds of information from my Talents. Right now--"

"I'm going to try to capture a, what you might call a tribute-ship,
loaded with food for Mekin."

"Tralee," said Morgan with finality. "You'll try there."

"Will I capture a food-ship there?" asked Bors.

"How the devil would I know?" Morgan snapped.

"You asked the wrong question," said Gwenlyn cheerfully. "If you asked
if there's a cargo-ship down on Tralee, loading foodstuffs for Mekin,
there can be an answer to that."

"Is there?"

"At the moment, yes," Morgan answered. "So the dowsing Talent says."

"Then I'll go there," said Bors.

"I thought you might," said Morgan. He looked at his daughter.

"May I come along?" asked Gwenlyn. "With an assortment of Talents? My
father's going to have long conferences with the king. He'll need some
Talents here to work out things. But I could go along on your ship with
a few of the others. We could help a lot."

"No!" said Bors grimly.

"I thought not," said Morgan. "Very well. Logan, you'll help Captain
Bors, I'm sure."

The math Talent said offhandedly;

"Any calculations he needs, of course."

He looked about him with a confident, modestly complacent air.

Bors walked with Morgan and his daughter to the airlock. He turned to
Gwenlyn. "I don't mean to be ungallant, refusing to let you run risks."

"I'm flattered but annoyed," Gwenlyn answered. "It means I'll have to
take drastic measures. Luck!"

She and her father went into the _Sylva's_ space-boat. The blister doors
closed. Bors went back to the control room. He began to set up the
computations for astrogation from the sun of Glamis to the sun of
Tralee. He shortly heard the sound of arrivals via the _Isis's_
airlock. Presently, his second-in-command reported fifty additional
hands aboard. They included astrogators, drive-engineers and assorted
specialists.

After clearance with the flagship, the little warship aimed with
painstaking exactitude at Tralee's sun, making due allowance for its
proper motion, Glamis's proper motion, the length of time the light he
aimed by had been on its way, the distance, and the _Isis's_ travel-rate
in overdrive.

Presently Bors said, "Overdrive coming!" and counted down. After "one"
he pressed a button. There was the singularly unpleasant sensation of
going into overdrive. Then the small fighting ship was alone in its
cocoon of warped and twisted space. Until it came out again, there was
no possible way by which any message could reach it or its existen