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here of nothing. Funny to think it could be his last. H was out of condition. It had been too long since
his last climb.
But that wasn't the way to think. He had a job to do the first in twenty-one years. For a moment,
ghostly recollections rose up before him: the trim Academy lawns, the spit-and-polish of inspection, the
crisp feel of the new uniform, the glitter of the silver comet as Anne had pinned it on . . .
That was no good either. What counted was here: the station up above. One more push, and he'd be
there. He rested for another half minute, then pulled himself up and forward, onto the relatively mild slope
of the final approach to the crest. Fifty yards above, the dull-gleaming plastron-coated dome of the
beacon station squatted against the exposed rock, looking no different than it had five years earlier.
Ten minutes later he was at the door, flicking the combination latch dial with cold-numbed fingers.
Tumblers clicked, and the panel slid aside. The heating system, automatically reacting to his entrance,
started up with a busy hum to bring the interior temperature up to comfort level. He pulled off his
gauntlets, ran his hands over his face, rasping the stubble there. There was coffee in the side table, he
remembered. Fumblingly, with stiff fingers, he got out the dispenser, twisted the control cap, poured out a
steaming mug, gulped it down. It was hot and bitter. The grateful warmth of it made him think of Terry,
waiting down below in the chill of the half-ruined hut.
"No time to waste," he muttered to himself. He stamped up and down the room, swinging his arms to
warm himself, then seated himself at the console, flicked keys with a trained ease rendered only slightly
rusty by the years of disuse. He referred to an index, found the input instructions for code gamma eight,
set up the boards, flipped in the pulse lever. Under his feet, he felt the faint vibration as the power pack
buried in the rock stored its output for ten microseconds, fired it in a single millisecond burst, stored and
pulsed again. Dim instrument lights winked on, indicating normal readings all across the board.
Carnaby glanced at the wall clock. He had been here ten minutes now. It would take another quarter
hour to comply with the manual's instructions but to hell with that gobbledygook. He'd put the beacon
on the air; this time the Navy would have to settle for that. It would be pushing it to get back to the boy
and pack him down to the village by nightfall as it was. Poor kid; he'd wanted to help so badly . . .
19
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"That's correct, sir," Pryor said crisply. "I haven't picked up any comeback on my pulse, but I'll definitely
identify the echo as coming from a JN type installation."
Commodore Broadly nodded curtly. "However, inasmuch as your instruments indicate that this station is
not linked in with a net capable of setting up a defensive field, it's of no use to us." The commodore
looked at Pryor, waiting.
"I think perhaps there's a way, sir," Pryor said. "The Djann are known to have strong tribal feelings.
They'd never pass up what they thought was an SOS from one of their own. Now, suppose we signal
this JN station to switch over to the Djann frequencies and beam one of their own signal patterns at them.
They just might stop to take a look . . ."
"By God," Broadly looked at the signal lieutenant, "if he doesn't, he's not human!"
"You like the idea, sir?" Pryor grinned.
"A little rough on the beacon station if they reach it before we do, eh, Lieutenant? I imagine our friends
the Djann will be a trifle upset when they learn they've been duped."
"Oh . . ." Pryor looked blank. "I guess I hadn't thought of that, sir."
"Never mind," Broadly said briskly, "the loss of a minor installation such as this is a reasonable exchange
for an armed vessel of the enemy."
"Well . . ."
"Lieutenant, if I had a few more officers aboard who employed their energies in something other than
assembling statistics proving we're beaten, this cruise might have made a record for itself " Broadly cut
himself off, remembering the degree of aloofness due very junior officers even juniors who may have
raked some very hot chestnuts out of the fire.
"Carry on, Lieutenant," he said. "If this works out, I think I can promise you a very favorable
endorsement on your next ER."
As Pryor's pleased grin winked off the screen, the commodore flipped up the red line key, snapped a
brusque request at the bored log room yeoman.
"This will make Old Carbuncle sing another tune," he remarked almost gaily to the exec, standing by with
a harassed expression.
"Maybe you'd better go slow, Ned," the latter cautioned, gauging his senior's mood. "It might be as well
to get a definite confirmation on this installation's capabilities before we go on record "
Broadly turned abruptly to the screen as it chimed. "Admiral, as I reported, I've picked up one of our
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