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"Would it change anything, Ben?"
"Nooo. I suppose not."
"Then we'll let him carry on without any more cause for jumpiness than the presence of a vice admiral on
board is already providing."
8
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Crouched in his fitted acceleration cradle aboard the Djann vessel, the One-Who-Commands studied
the motion of the charged molecules in the sensory tank before him.
"Now the death-watcher dispatches his messengers," he communed with the three link brothers who
formed the Chosen Crew. "Now is the hour of the testing of Djann."
"Profound is the rhythm of our epic," the One-Who-Records sang out. "We are the
chosen-to-be-heroic, and in our tiny cargo, Djann lives still, his future glory inherent in the convoluted
spores!"
"It was a grave risk to put the destiny of Djann at hazard in this wild gamble," the One-Who-Refutes
reminded his link brothers. "If we fail, the generations yet unborn will slumber on in darkness or perish in
ice or fire."
"Yet if we succeed if the New Thing we have learned serves well its function then will Djann live
anew!"
"Now the death messengers of the water beings approach," the One-Who-Commands pointed out.
"Link well, brothers! The energy aggregate waits for our directing impulse! Now we burn away the dross
of illusion from the hypotheses of the theorists in the harsh crucible of reality!"
"In such a fire, the flame of Djann coruscates in unparalleled glory!" the One-Who-Records exulted.
"Time has ordained this conjunction to try the timbre of our souls!"
"Then channel your trained faculties, brothers." The One-Who-Commands gathered his forces, feeling
out delicately to the ravening nexus of latent energy contained in the thought shell poised at the center of
the stressed-space field enclosing the fleeing vessel. "Hold the sacred fire, sucked from the living bodies
of a million of our fellows," he exhorted. "Shape it, and hurl it in well-directed bolts at the death-bringers,
for the future and glory of Djann!"
9
At noon, Carnaby and Sickle rested on a nearly horizontal slope of rock that curved to meet the vertical
wall that swelled up and away overhead. Their faces and clothes were gray with the impalpable dust
whipped up by the brisk wind. Terry spat grit from his mouth, passed a can of hot stew and a plastic
water flask to Carnaby.
"Getting cool already," he said. "Must not be more'n ten above freezing."
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"We might get a little more snow before morning." Carnaby eyed the milky sky. "You'd better head back
now, Terry. No point in you getting caught in a storm."
"I'm in for the play," the boy said shortly. "Say, Lieutenant, you got another transmitter up there at the
beacon station you might could get through on?"
Carnaby shook his head. "Just the beacon tube, the lens generators, and a power pack. It's a
stripped-down installation. There's a code receiver, but it's only designed to receive classified instruction
input."
"Too bad." They ate in silence for a few minutes, looking out over the plain below. "Lieutenant, when this
is over," Sickle said suddenly, "we got to do something. There's got to be some way to remind the Navy
about you being here!"
Carnaby tossed the empty can aside and stood. "I put a couple of messages on the air, sub-light, years
ago," he said. "That's all I can do."
"Heck, Lieutenant, it takes six years, sub-light, just to make the relay station on Goy! Then if somebody
happens to pick up the call and boost it, in another ten years some Navy brass might even see it. And
then if he's in a good mood, he might tell somebody to look into it, next time they're out this way."
"Best I could do, Terry, now that the liners don't call any more."
Carnaby finished his stew, dropped the can, watched it roll off downslope, clatter over the edge, a tiny
sound lost in the whine and shrill of the wind. He looked up at the rampart ahead.
"We better get moving," he said. "We've got a long climb to make before dark."
10
Signal Lieutenant Pryor awoke to the strident buzz of his bunkside telephone.
"Sir, the commodore's called a Condition Yellow," the message deck NCO informed him. "It looks like
that bandit blasted through our intercept and took out two Epsilon-classes while he was at it. I got a
standby from command deck, and "
"I'll be right up," Pryor said quickly.
Five minutes later, he stood with the on-duty signals crew, reading out an incoming from fleet. He
whistled.
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"Brother, they've got something new!" He looked at Captain Aaron. "Did you check out the vector they
had to make to reach their new position in the time they've had?"
"Probably a foulup in Tracking." Aaron looked ruffled, routed out of a sound sleep.
"The commodore's counting off the scale," the NCO said. "He figured he had 'em boxed."
The annunciator beeped. The yeoman announcedMalthusa's commander.
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