Short Fiction by Fritz Leiber (top romance novels .TXT) 📕

a really high-speed retrieve-and-rescue ship started out after us. If we’ve won the War.”

“But Titania Station’s dead or never was, not to mention its jeep. And we’ve lost the Battle of Jupiter. You said so yourself,” Ness asserted owlishly. “Captain’s got to look after the whole fleet.”

“Yeah, so he kills himself fretting and the rest of us die of old age in the outskirts of the Solar System. Join the Space Force and See the Stars! Ness, do you know how long it’d take us to reach the nearest star⁠—except we aren’t headed for her⁠—at our 100 mps? Eight thousand years!”

“That’s a lot of time to kill,” Ness said. “Let’s play chess.”

Jackson sighed and they both looked quickly at the dark unlined face above the cocoon, but the lips did not flutter again, or the eyelids. Croker said, “Suppose he knows what the Enemy looks like?”

“I suppose,” Ness said. “When he talks about them it’s as if he was their interpreter. How about the chess?”

“Suits. Knight to King Bishop Three.”

“Hmm. Knight to King Knight Two, Third Floor.”

“Hey, I meant flat chess, not three-D,” Croker objected.

“That thin old game? Why, I no sooner start to get the position really visualized in my head than the game’s over.”

“I don’t want to start a game of three-D with Uranus only 18 hours away.”

Jackson stirred in his hammock. His lips worked. “They⁠ ⁠…” he breathed. Croker and Ness instantly watched him. “They.⁠ ⁠…”

“I wonder if he is really inside the Enemy’s mind?” Ness said.

“He thinks he speaks for them,” Croker replied and the next instant felt a warning touch on his arm and looked sideways and saw dark-circled eyes in a skull-angular face under a battered cap with a tarnished sunburst. Damn, thought Croker, how does the captain always know when Jackson’s going to talk?

“They are waiting for us on the other side of Uranus,” Jackson breathed. His lips trembled into a smile and his voice grew a little louder, though his eyes stayed shut. “They’re welcoming us, they’re our brothers.” The smile died. “But they know they got to kill us, they know we got to die.”

The hammock with its tight-swathed form began to move past Croker and he snatched at it. The captain had pushed off from him for the hatch leading forward.

Grunfeld was losing the new star at 2200 miles into Uranus when he saw the two viridian flares flashing between it and the rim. Each flash was circled by a fleeting bright green ring, like a mist halo. He thought he’d be afraid when he saw that green again, but what he felt was a jolt of excitement that made him grin. With it came a touch on his shoulder. He thought, the captain always knows.

“Ambush,” he said. “At least two cruisers.”

He yielded the eyepiece to the captain. Even without the telescope he could see those incredibly brilliant green flickers. He asked himself if the Enemy was already gunning for the fleet through Uranus.

The blue telltales for Caliban and Starveling began to blink.

“They’ve seen it too,” the captain said. He snatched up the mike and his next words rang through the Prospero.

“Rig ship for the snowbank orbit! Snowbank orbit with stinger! Mr. Grunfeld, raise the fleet.”

Aft, Croker muttered, “Rig our shrouds, don’t he mean? Rig shrouds and firecrackers mounted on Fourth of July rockets.”

Ness said, “Cheer up. Even the longest strategic withdrawal in history has to end some time.”

IV

Three quarters of a day later Grunfeld felt a spasm of futile fear and revolt as the pressure suit closed like a thick-fleshed carnivorous plant on his drugged and tired body. Relax, he told himself. Fine thing if you cooked up a fuss when even Croker didn’t. He thought of forty things to re-check. Relax, he repeated⁠—the work’s over; all that matters is in Copperhead’s memory tanks now, or will be as soon as the captain’s suited up.

The suit held Grunfeld erect, his arms at his sides⁠—the best attitude, except he was still facing forward, for taking high G, providing the ship herself didn’t start to tumble. Only the cheekpieces and visor hadn’t closed in on his face⁠—translucent hand-thick petals as yet unfolded. He felt the delicate firm pressure of built-in fingertips monitoring his pulses and against his buttocks the cold smooth muzzles of the jet hypodermics that would feed him metronomic drugs during the high-G stretch and stimulants when they were in free-fall again. When.

He could swing his head and eyes just enough to make out the suits of Croker and Ness to either side of him and their profiles wavy through the jutting misty cheekpieces. Ahead to the left was Jackson⁠—just the back of his suit, like a black snowman standing at attention, pale-olive-edged by the great glow of Uranus. And to the right the captain, his legs suited but his upper body still bent out to the side as he checked the monitor of his suit with its glowing blue button and the manual controls that would lie under his hands during the maneuver.

Beyond the captain was the spaceshield, the lower quarter of it still blackness and stars, but the upper three-quarters filled with the onrushing planet’s pale mottled green that now had the dulled richness of watered silk. They were so close that the rim hardly showed curvature. The atmosphere must have a steep gradient, Grunfeld thought, or they’d already be feeling decel. That stuff ahead looked more like water than any kind of air. It bothered him that the captain was still half out of his suit.

There should be action and shouted commands, Grunfeld thought, to fill up these last tight-stretched minutes. Last orders to the fleet, port covers being cranked shut, someone doing a countdown on the firing of their torpedo. But the last message had gone to the fleet minutes ago. Its robot pilots were set to follow Prospero and imitate, nothing else. And all the rest was up to Copperhead. Still⁠ ⁠…

Grunfeld wet his lips. “Captain,” he said hesitantly.