Subspace explorers, p.18
Subspace Explorers, page 18
Unfortunately, Spehn and Dann were wrong; and so were the Destons. It is a sad but true fact that a college graduate at graduation knows more than he ever did before or ever will again; and so it was with these young new psiontists. They thought they knew it all, but they didn't. They had a long way to go.
Chapter 16
STRATEGIC WITHDRAWAL
Since the Galactic Federation claimed authority over all explored off-planet space, and since InStell still wanted to get rid of the job of policing all that space, GaIFed took the navy over. (It had a tremendous war-chest, and the financial details of the transaction are of no importance here.) What had been the Interstellar Patrol was now the Grand Fleet of the Galactic Federation.
Fleet Admiral Guerdon Dann, being a psiontist, could understand and could work in subspace. Therefore he could perceive subspace-going vessels before they emerged into normal space, a feat no non-psionic observer could perform. Thus he perceived a very large number of vessels so maneuvering in subspace as to emerge in a roughly globular formation well outside his own globe of warships. He perceived that they were warcraft and really big stuff-super-dreadnougbts very much like his own-and that there were four or five hundred of them. That wasn't good; but, since their purpose was pellucidly clear, he'd have to do something. What could he do? His mind raced.
He wasn't a war admiral-pirates didn't fight in fleets. He didn't know any more about fleet action in space than a pig did about Sunday. There'd never been any. Missile-killers were new and had extreme range, and no repulsor except a planet-based super-giant could stop one after fifteen seconds of flight at 175,000 gravities. However, they carried no screen, so they'd be duck soup for beams, especially lasers-if they could spot them soon enough, and he'd have to assume that they could.
Torps had plenty of screen, but they were slow; hence they were duck soup for repulsors. What he ought to have, dammit, was something with the legs of a killer and the screens of a torp, and there was nothing like that even on the drawing boards. Before leybyrdite nothing like that had been possible.
Beams, then? Uh-uh! They'd englobe shipwise, four or five to one. His ships could then immerge-if they were fast enough-or get whiffed out.
He got into telepathic touch with his officers. "I don't know whether we can do anything to those boys or not. Probably not. We certainly can't if we let them get close to us-they'll englobe us four or five to one if we make like heroes, so we won't. Be ready to immerse when I give the word. Try killers at fifteen seconds range as they emerge and send out some torps on general principles, but that's all. We're going to execute a strategic withdrawal-in other words, run like hell."
Computers computed briefly; impressed data upon mechanical brains. Missile-killers and torpedoes hurtled away. The first strange warship emerged and the first missile-killer flashed into a raging, space-wracking fireball miles short of objective.
"I was afraid of that," Dann thought on, quietly. "I don't think they'II follow us-I think I know what they're after-so we'll run. Numbers one to fifty, to Galmetia; fifty one to one hundred, to Newmars; and everybody, get under an umbrella, just in case they do follow us."
En route to Galmetia-the flagship Terra was of course Number One-Dann had a long telepathic conversation with Maynard, and on landing he went straight to GalMet's main office. Maynard was waiting for him, with a staff of some fifty people. Maynard said:
"You all know that the purpose of the enemy fleet was not specifically to attack our fleet or our planets, but to break our blockade of Earth. They broke it, and announced that any planet refusing to resume full trade with Earth would be bombed. So," he shrugged his shoulders and grimaced wryly, "we give in and it is now business as usual. We have of course taken the obvious steps; we are beefing up our repulsors and are developing a laser that will cut an eighty-mile asteroid up into thin slices at half a million miles. We've also started on your special torp, Guerd, on a crash-pri basis. 'TIMPS' is the name: Torpedo, Improved, Missile-Propelled, Screened. But we haven't been able to do anything more than guess at the answers to such questions as: Who are they? Where do they come from? No known planet, of that we are sure. Capital, Communism, Labor, or what? Hatfield, have you anything to offer?"
The meeting went on for four hours; but beyond the obvious fact that there was a planet-and not a Johnny-Come-Lately planet, either, but one long-enough established to have plenty of people, plenty of industry, and plenty of money or its equivalent-the meeting got nowhere. At adjournment time Maynard flashed Deston a thought to stay behind, and after the others had gone he said:
"You told me you didn't know anything. I didn't ask you then and I'm not asking you now what you're figuring on doing about it. But you're going to do something. Correct?"
"Correct. I don't know what anybody can do, but we're going to work on it. They have leybyrdite; but they almost certainly did not develop it themselves."
"Cancel the almost'. We've never limited its sale-we can't. Anyone could have bought any amount of it. Dummy concerns-untraceable-is my guess on that. We know that a lot of Tellurian capital has always operated on the old grab-everything-in-sight principle, and everyone knows what Communism does. Either of them could and would run a planet as that one has obviously been run for many years-in a way that would make the robber barons of old sick at the stomach. But since it doesn't make sense that Labor has been doing it... it almost has to be either Capital or Communism."
"It looks that way." Deston frowned in thought. "But I don't know any sure-fire way of finding out which, if either... so I'd better go get hold of some people to help me think. 'Bye."
Deston did not walk out of the room, but 'ported himself to Barbara's side in the University office. "Hi, pet," he said, kissing her lightly. "I got troubles. How about busting in on that squirrel-some foursome that Horse French is in? I want to cry in their beer."
"Uh-uh, let's not bust in; they'll have to come up for air pretty soon. Let's wait 'til they do, then 'port up there with some lemon sour and Gulka fizz and cherry sloosh and stuff for a break."
The foursome did and the Destons did and Deston said:
"Well, well, Frenchy old horse, fancy meeting you here!" and four strong hands gripped and shook hard. This was the Communications Officer to whom Deston had reported the survival of the liner Procyon so long before. "Nobody ever even suspected you of having a brain in your head. All beef-nothing but muscle to keep your ears apart, I always thought."
"Hi, Runt! You? Think? What with? But I'll tell you how it was. So many captains got married that they couldn't find room for enough desks for 'em all to sit at, so they loaned me to this here Adams projecton pay, too. Nice of 'em, what?-but you've never met my wife. Paula, this renegade fugitive from InStell is Babe Deston-the unabashed hero of subspace, you know."
"I know." The slender, graceful, black-haired, black-eyed girl with the almost theatrical make-up, who had been watching and listening to this underplayed meeting as intently as Barbara had, gave him a firm, warm handshake and turned to Barbara. "And you're Bobby, of course. These men of ours...." She raised one carefully-sculptured eyebrow, "but toe don't have to insult each other to prove that we're..."
"Hey!" Deston broke in then. He had been studying the way Paula walked-he'd never seen anybody except Barbara move with such perfect, automatic, unconscious coordination as that "Wha'-d'ya mean, Paula?" he demanded. "She's Angelique de St. Aubin!"
"In Person, not a tri-di," French bragged. "But Paula's her real name. The only things about her that are French are the name she married and her professional accent. This psionics stuff is the only way I could lure her down off of the high wire-she wouldn't come to ground, even after she got her Mrs. degree, just for the honor and privilege of being Mrs. Captain Horace French."
"Let's spread this around a little, huh, and give the rest of us a chance." The coltish but attractive teenager, having gulped the last syrupy bits of a full half liter of cherry sloosh, came in. "I'm May Eberly. I can't tell you two wonderful people how glad I am that you started this and let me in-I never dreamed-well, anyway, it's exactly what I was born for. The others, too. You know what they call us? The Effeff-the Funny Four, no less-but I don't care. I love it! And this," she waved a hand at the oldster, "is Titus Fleming. He's got pots of money, so we call him 'Tite', but of course he isn't, just the opposite, in fact he spoils us all rotten, and. .
"Hush, child," Fleming said, with an affectionate smile. Then, to Deston, "May has an extraordinarily brilliant and agile mind, but she is inclined to natter too much."
"Well, why not?" the youngster demanded, engagingly. When we're en rapport I don't talk at all, so I have to make up for it sometime, don't I? And Mr. Deston -no, I think I'll call you 'Babe', too. Okay?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Horse, there-I never heard him called that before, but I like it-says if everybody's forbearing enough to let me keep on living long enough to grow up, which will surprise him a megabuck's worth, I'll be a gorgeous hunk of woman some day." She executed a rather awkward pirouette. "I can't do this anywhere near like Paula does yet, but I'm going to sometime, just see if I don't."
"I'd hate to bet one buck against Horse's megabuck that you won't." Deston agreed. The girl was certainly under fourteen, but the promise was there. Unmistakably there. "Or that you won't live to break a hundred, either.
"Oh, thanks, Babe. Oh, I just can't wait! I'm going to be a femme fatale, you know-all slinky and everything-but you prob'ly didn't come all the way out here just to chatter-I think Tite's word 'natter' is cute, don't you?-so maybe before Horse bats my ears down again I'd better keep still awhile. S'pose?"
"Could be-we're in a jam," Deston said, and told them what the jam was. "So you see, to get anywhere at all, we've got to do some really intensive spying, and the only way to do that is to learn how to read non-psionic minds, and the poop is that if anybody in total space can deliver the goods on that order, you four are most apt to be the ones."
"Oh?" May exclaimed. "That's a really funny one, Babe-we must really be psychic...." She broke off with a giggle as the others began to laugh. "No, I mean really-much more so even than we thought-because that's exactly what we've just been working on-not to be just snoopy stinkers, either-or stinky snoopers?-but just to find out why nobody could ever do it before we aren't very good at it yet, but it goes like this-no, let's all link up and we'll show you. Oh, this is going to really be fun!"
The four linked up and went to work, and the Destons tuned themselves in; very slowly at first; more as observers than as active participants in the investigation. The subject this time was a middle-echelon executive, the traffic manager of one division of far-flung War-
ner Oil. He was a keen-looking young man, sharp-featured, with a very good head for figures. His king-size desk was littered with schedules, rate-books, and revision sheets. From time to time his fingertips flicked rapidly by touch over the keys of a desk-type computer.
The four were getting a flash of coherent thought once in a while, but that was all.
The Destons watched, studied, analyzed, and compared notes until their fusion finally said, in thought, "Okay, Effeff, come up for air and take a break. Time out for discussion." They emerged as individuals and Deston said, "You aren't making contact and I think I know why. Horse, do either you or Paula know consciously that you're trying to work the Fourth Nume?"
"My Cod, no," Paula said. "We were exposed to that stuff a long time ago, but it didn't take."
"You weren't ready, so Doc wouldn't have tried to give it to you, so who did?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Throckmorton."
"They would," Barbara said then. "Fortunately, they've learned better now."
"But you two can give it to us."
"We could make a stab at it, but we'd rather not. We need more practice. We'll call Adams and Stella and watch."
The Adamses came in, and wrought; and this time, since the pupils were ready, the lesson "took."
"Now we'll git 'im!" May exclaimed. "Come on, what's holding us up?"
"I am," Deston said. "Don't go off half-cocked; we've got a lot to do yet. Before anyone can do a job he has to know exactly what the job is and exactly how to do it, and we don't know either one. So let's examine your four-ply entity-the tools you're using. There's no three-dimensional analogy, but we can call Horace and Paula an engine, with two vital parts missing-the spark-plug and the flywheel...."
"But I want to learn that fourth-nume stuff now!" May declared. She was, as usual, 'way out ahead. "I don't want to wait until I'm old and decrepit and...
"Tut-tut, youngsters." Fleming reached out and put his hand lightly over the girl's mouth. "That attitude is precisely what makes you the spark-plug; but if you and I had the abilities we lack instead of the ones we have, neither of us would be in this particular engine at all." "That's right," Deston said. "Now as to what this engine does. Postulating a two-dimensional creature, you could pile a million of him up and still have no thickness at all. Similarly, no three-dimensional material body can be compressed to zero thickness. The analogy holds in three and four dimensions. However, there are discontinuities, incompatibilities, and sheer logical impossibilities. Hence, ordinarily, a four-dimensional mind, which all psionic minds are, cannot engage any three-dimensional, non-psionic mind at all. All possible points of contact are of zero dimensions....
"But wait up, Babe," French broke in. "We can see three dimensional objects, so why can't we..."
"We can't really see 'em," Deston said, flatly. "We can see what and where they are, but they're absolutely immaterial to us. So forces, already immaterial, become imperceptible. Clear?" " As mud," French said, dubiously. "There's a .
Paula broke in. "I see! The Fourth-they just showed us-remember? Manipulate-immaterial... non-space-non-time?"
"Oh, sure." French's face cleared. "What we were doing, Babe, was blundering around in the Fourth, making a contact once in a blue moon by luck?"
That's about it. Now, another analogy. Consider transformation of coordinates-polar into Cartesian, three-dimensional into two-dimensional, and so on. What a competent operator in the Fourth actually does is manipulate non-space-non-time attributes in such a way as to construct a matrix that is both three- and four-dimensional. Analogous to light-particle and/or wave. You follow?"
"Perfectly," the Frenches said in unison. "Four on our side, three on the non-psi's side, with perfect coupling."
"You lost May and me there," Fleming said. "However, you would, of course... but I understand much better now why we four work together so well. I'll venture an analogy-poor, perhaps-May scouts out ahead, in a million directions at once. I follow behind, sometimes pushing and sometimes putting on the brakes."
"And steering the sled!" May exclaimed. "I see, now, too-that's the way it works!"
"Close enough," Deston said. "Now. Thought patterns are as individual as fingerprints or the shape of one snowflake or one instantaneous pattern in a kaleidoscope. What two telepaths do is not tune one mind to the other. Instead, each one of a very large number of filaments of thought-all under control, remember-touches its opposite number, thus setting up a pattern that has never existed before and will never exist again...."
"I get it!" French exclaimed. "Reading a non-psi's mind will be a strictly one-way street. Well have to go through the matrix-which doesn't exist in telepathy -and match whatever pattern we find on the other side -which won't change."
"That's right-we hope! Now you can go."
They went; and this time the traffic-manager's mind was wider open to inspection than any book could possibly be. To be comparable, every page of such a book would have to be placed in perfect position to read and all at once!
Paula stood it for something over one second, then broke the linkage with what was almost a scream. "Stop it!"
She drew a deep breath and went on, more quietly, "I'm glad it's you who will have to do that, Babe, not I. That was a worse thing than anything a Peeping Tom could ever do. It's shameful-monstrous-it's positively obscene to do a thing like that to anyone, for any reason."
"Why, Paula, that was fun!" May exclaimed.
"But Babe," Paula said, "that was nothing like telepathy... but of course if wouldn't be."
"Of course. In telepathy the exchange of information is voluntary and selective. This way, the poor devil doesn't stand a chance. He doesn't even know it's happening."
Paula frowned. " 'Poor devil' is the exactly correct choice of words. Are you going to have to use us like that on the other poor devils you are going to... I can't think of a word bad enough."
"No. I just tried it. I can do it alone now, perfectly. But that's the way it is; opening new cells and learning new techniques. I had the latent capabilities. You others did, too."
"I can, but if you think I ever will you're completely out of your mind," Barbara declared, and Paula agreed vigorously.
But I want to and I can't/" May wailed. "Why oh why can't I grow up faster!"
"We don't want you to grow up at all, sweetie," French said. "We don't want to lose our spark-plug. Ever think of that angle?"
"Babe, will I really have to leave this Funny Four then?"
"You'll not only have to, you'll want to," Deston replied, soberly. "That is one of the immutable facts of life."
"Okay, this is lots more fun than being old would be, anyway. What'll we try next, Paula?"
"I'd like to go back up into the Fourth Nume and really explore it-turn it inside out-that is, if there's nothing more important at the moment?" Paula quirked an eyebrow at Deston.
There was not. Goodbyes were said, and promises were made to meet soon and often, and the Destons 'ported themselves away.
Maynard called a special meeting of the Board to order and said, "Since you all know what the Tellurian situation is, politically and otherwise, I won't go into it. It seems to some of us, however, that this recent disaster may not be a disaster at all; that, if we play our cards properly, we may be able to secure much better results than if our blockade of Tellus had succeeded.
