Greylorn, John Keith Laumer [book club books .txt] 📗

“That’s a mighty small field, though.”

Joyce called from the radar board, “I think I’m getting an echo at 15,000, sir. It’s pretty weak.”

Miller, quiet and meticulous, delicately tuned the beam control. “Give me your fix, Joyce,” he said. “I can’t find it.”

Joyce called out his figures, in seconds of arc to three places.

“You’re right on it, Joyce,” Miller called a minute later. “I got it. Now pray it don’t get away when I boost it.”

Clay stepped over behind Miller. “Take it a few mags at a time,” he said calmly.

I watched Miller’s screen. A tiny point near the center of the screen swelled to a spec, and jumped nearly off the screen to the left. Miller centered it again, and switched to a higher power. This time it jumped less, and resolved into two tiny dots.

Step by step the magnification was increased as ring after ring of the lens antenna was thrown into play. Each time the centering operation was more delicate. The image grew until it filled a quarter of the screen. We stared at it in fascination.

It showed up in stark silhouette, in the electronic “light” of the radar scope. Two perfect discs, joined by a fine filament. As we watched, their relative positions slowly shifted, one moving across, half occluding the other.

As the image drifted, Miller worked with infinite care at his console to hold it on center, in sharp focus.

“Wish you’d give me an orbit on this thing, Joyce,” he said, “so I could lock onto it.”

“It ain’t got no orbit, man,” Joyce said. “I’m trackin’ it, but I don’t understand it. That rock is on a closing curve with us, and slowin’ down fast.”

“What’s the velocity, Joyce?” I asked.

“Averagin’ about 1,000 relative, Captain, but slowin’ fast.”

“All right, we’ll hold our course,” I said.

I keyed for a general announcement.

“This is the Captain,” I said. “General Quarters. Man action stations and prepare for possible contact within one hour.”

“Missile Section. Arm No. 1 Battery and stand by.”

Then I added, “We don’t know what we’ve got here, but it’s not a natural body. Could be anything from a torpedo on up.”

I went back to the Beam screen. The image was clear, but without detail. The two discs slowly drew apart, then closed again.

“I’d guess that movement is due to rotation of two spheres around a common center,” Clay said.

“I agree with you,” I said. “Try to get me a reading on the mass of the object.”

I wondered whether Kramer had been locked up as I had ordered, but at this moment it seemed unimportant. If this was, as I hoped, a contact with our colony, all our troubles were over.

The object (I hesitated to call it a ship) approached steadily, still decelerating. Now Clay picked it up on the televideo, as it paralleled our course forty-five hundred miles out.

“Captain, it’s my guess the body will match speeds with us at about 200 miles, at his present rate of deceleration,” Clay said.

“Hold everything you’ve got on him, and watch closely for anything that might be a missile,” I said.

Clay worked steadily over his chart table. Finally he turned to me. “Captain, I get a figure of over a hundred million tons mass; and calibrating the scope images gives us a length of nearly two miles.”

I let that sink in. I had a strong and very empty feeling that this ship, if ship it were, was not an envoy from any human colony.

The annunciator hummed and spoke. “Captain, I’m getting a very short wave transmission from a point out on the starboard bow. Does that sound like your torpedo?” It was Mannion.

“That’s it, Mannion,” I said. “Can you make anything of it?”

“No, sir,” he answered. “I’m taping it, so I can go to work on it.”

Mannion was our language and code man. I hoped he was good.

“What does it sound like,” I asked. “Tune me in.”

After a moment a high hum came from the speaker. Through it I could hear harsh chopping consonants, a whining intonation. I doubted that Mannion would be able to make anything of that gargle.

Our Bogie closed steadily. At four hundred twenty-five miles he reversed relative directions, and began matching our speed, moving closer to our course. There was no doubt he planned to parallel us.

I made a brief announcement to all hands describing the status of the action. Clay worked over his televideo, trying to clear the image. I watched as the blob on the screen swelled and flickered. Suddenly it flashed into clear stark definition. Against a background of sparkling black, the twin spheres gleamed faintly in reflected starlight.

There were no visible surface features; the iodine-colored forms and their connecting shaft had an ancient and alien look.

We held our course steadily, watching the stranger maneuver. Even at this distance it looked huge.

“Captain,” Clay said, “I’ve been making a few rough calculations. The two spheres are about 800 yards in diameter, and at the rate the structure is rotating it’s pulling about six gravities.”

That settled the question of human origin of the ship. No human crew would choose to work under six gee’s.

Now, paralleling us at just over two hundred miles, the giant ship spun along, at rest relative to us. It was visible now through the direct observation panel, without magnification.

I left Clay in charge on the bridge, and I went down to the Com Section.

Joyce sat at his board, reading instruments and keying controls. So he was back on the job. Mannion sat, head bent, monitoring his recorder. The room was filled with the keening staccato of the alien transmission.

“Getting anything on video?” I asked. Joyce shook his head. “Nothing, Captain. I’ve checked the whole spectrum, and this is all I get. It’s coming in on about a dozen different frequencies; no FM.”

“Any progress, Mannion?” I said.

He took off his headset. “It’s the same thing, repeated over and over, just a short phrase. I’d have better luck if they’d vary it a little.”

“Try sending,” I said.

Joyce tuned the clatter down to a faint clicking, and switched his transmitter on. “You’re on, Captain,” he said.

“This is Captain Greylorn, UNACV Galahad; kindly identify yourself.” I repeated this slowly, half a dozen times. It occurred to me that this was the first known time in history a human being had addressed a non-human intelligence. The last was a guess, but I couldn’t interpret our guest’s purposeful maneuverings as other than intelligent.

I checked with the bridge; no change. Suddenly the clatter stopped, leaving only the carrier hum.

“Can’t you tune that whine out, Joyce?” I asked.

“No, sir,” he replied. “That’s a very noisy transmission. Sounds like maybe their equipment is on the blink.”

We listened to the hum, waiting. Then the clatter began again.

“This is different,” Mannion said. “It’s longer.”

I went back to the bridge, and waited for the next move from the stranger, or for word from Mannion. Every half hour I transmitted a call identifying us, followed by a sample of our language. I gave them English, Russian, and Standard Interlingua. I didn’t know why, but somehow I had a faint hope they might understand some of it.

I stayed on the bridge when the watch changed. I had some food sent up, and slept a few hours on the OD’s bunk.

Fine replaced Kramer on his watch when it rolled around. Apparently Kramer was out of circulation. At this point I did not feel inclined to pursue the point.

We had been at General Quarters for twenty-one hours when the wall annunciator hummed.

“Captain, this is Mannion. I’ve busted it....”

“I’ll be right there,” I said, and left at a run.

Mannion was writing as I entered ComSection. He stopped his recorder and offered me a sheet. “This is what I’ve got so far, Captain,” he said.

I read: INVADER; THE MANCJI PRESENCE OPENS COMMUNICATIONS.

“That’s a highly inflected version of early Interlingua, Captain,” Mannion said. “After I taped it, I compensated it to take out the rise-and-fall tone, and then filtered out the static. There were a few sound substitutions to figure out, but I finally caught on. It still doesn’t make much sense, but that’s what it says.”

“I wonder what we’re invading,” I said. “And what is the “Mancji Presence’?”

“They just repeat that over and over,” Mannion said. “They don’t answer our call.”

“Try translating into old Interlingua, adding their sound changes, and then feeding their own rise-and-fall routine to it,” I said. “Maybe that will get a response.”

I waited while Mannion worked out the message, then taped it on top of their whining tone pattern. “Put plenty of horse-power behind it,” I said. “If their receivers are as shaky as their transmitter, they might not be hearing us.”

We sent for five minutes, then tuned them back in and waited. There was a long silence from their side, then they came back with a long spluttering sing-song.

Mannion worked over it for several minutes. .ldThey must have understood us, here’s what I get,” he said:

THAT WHICH SWIMS IN THE MANCJI SEA; WE ARE AWARE THAT YOU HAVE THIS TRADE TONGUE. YOU RANGE FAR. IT IS OUR WHIM TO INDULGE YOU; WE ARE AMUSED THAT YOU PRESUME HERE; WE ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR INSOLENT DEMANDS.

“It looks like we’re in somebody’s back yard,” I said. “They acknowledge our insolent demands, but they don’t answer them.” I thought a moment. “Send this,” I said. “We’ll out-strut them:”

THE MIGHTY WARSHIP GALAHAD REJECTS YOUR JURISDICTION.

TELL US THE NATURE OF YOUR DISTRESS AND WE MAY CHOOSE TO OFFER AID.

Mannion raised an eyebrow. “That ought to rock them,” he said.

“They were eager to talk to us,” I said. “That means they want something, in my opinion. And all the big talk sounds like a bluff of our own is our best line.”

“Why do you want to antagonize them, Captain?” Joyce asked. “That ship is over a thousand times the size of this can.”

“Joyce, I suggest you let me forget you’re around,” I said.

The Mancji whine was added to my message, and it went out. Moments later this came back:

MANCJI HONOR DICTATES YOUR SAFE-CONDUCT; TALK IS WEARYING; WE FIND IT CONVENIENT TO SOLICIT A TRANSFER OF ELECTROSTATIC FORCE.

“What the devil does that mean?” I said. “Tell them to loosen up and explain themselves.”

Mannion wrote out a straight query, and sent it. Again we waited for a reply.

It came, in a long windy paragraph stating that the Mancji found electro-static baths amusing, and that “crystallization” had drained their tanks. They wanted a flow of electrons from us to replenish their supply.

“This sounds like simple electric current they’re talking about, Captain,” Mannion said. “They want a battery charge.”

“They seem to have power to burn,” I said. “Why don’t they generate their own juice? Ask them; and find out where they learned Interlingua.”

Mannion sent again; the reply was slow in coming back. Finally we got it:

THE MANCJI DO NOT EMPLOY MASSIVE GENERATION-PIECE WHERE ACCUMULATOR-PIECE IS SUFFICIENT. THIS SIMPLE TRADE SPEECH IS OF OLD KNOWLEDGE. WE SELECT IT FROM SYMBOLS WE ARE PLEASED TO SENSE EMPATTERNED ON YOUR HULL.

That made some sort of sense, but I was intrigued by the reference to Interlingua as a trade language. I wanted to know where they had learned it. I couldn’t help the hope I started building on the idea that this giant knew our colony, in spite of the fact that they were using an antique version of the language, predating Omega by several centuries.

I sent another query, but the reply was abrupt and told nothing except that Interlingua was of “old knowledge.”

Then Mannion entered a long technical exchange, getting the details of the kind of electric power they wanted.

“We can give them what they want, no sweat, Captain,” he said after half an hour’s talk. “They want DC; 100 volt, 50 amp will do.”

“Ask them to describe themselves,” I directed. I was beginning to get an idea.

Mannion sent, got his reply. “They’re