The Mothballed Spaceship

I began writing Deathworld in 1956 in Mexico, con­tinued it in England and Italy, and finally finished it in New York in 1957. All along the way it was a col­laboration with John Campbell. Since 1 had already sold him a short story or two, I felt bold enough to ask him to comment on an outline of a novel—my first—that I was struggling with. His answering letter was longer than my outline. He suggested ideas I had never considered, permutations never thought of—and all within the struc­ture of my outline. Emboldened, I wrote 10,000 words and sent them to him and received comment afresh. Still fearful of the novel length, I sent him 30,000 words when I had done them, only to receive an irate grumble that he thought this was the whole thing and was put out he couldn't finish reading it. With this firm kick I finally finished the thing and took it to the post office and re­ceived, practically by return mail, a check for $2,100. I had sold my first serial to Astounding.

The Deathworld trilogy appeared in ASF, after the first serial, as The Ethical Engineer and The Horse Bar­barians. It is the continuing story of real supermen, people who live on a high-gravity planet where the deadly life forms continually war on them. Eventually they leave this world to settle on an equally deadly planet named Felicity. "The Mothballed Spaceship" takes place after this last conquest, and is the only Deathworld story written without the aid, advice, comment, criticism and good-humored assistance of John Campbell.

I wish it could have been otherwise.

"I'll just swing a bit closer," Meta said, touching the controls of the Pyrran spacer.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Jason said resignedly, knowing that a note of caution was close to a challenge to a Pyrran.

"Let us not be afraid this far away," Kerk said, as Jason had predicted. Kerk leaned close to look at the viewscreen. "It is big, I'll admit, three kilometers long at least, and probably the last space battleship existing. But it is over five thousand years old, and we are two hundred kilometers away from it…"

A tiny orange glow winked into brief existence on the distant battleship, and at the same instant the Pyrran ship lurched heavily. Red panic lights flared on the con­trol panel.

"How old did you say it was?" Jason asked innocently, and received in return a sizzling look from the now-silent Kerk.

Meta sent the ship turning away in a wide curve and checked the warning circuitry. "Port fin severely damaged, hull units out in three areas. Repairs will have to be made in null-G before we can make a planetfall again."

"Very good. I'm glad we were hit," Jason dinAlt said. "Perhaps now we will exercise enough caution to come out of this alive with the promised five million credits. So set us on a course to the fleet commander so we can find out all the grisly details they forgot to tell us when we arranged this job by jump-space communication."

Admiral Djukich, the commander of the Earth forces, was a small man who appeared even smaller before the glowering strength of the Pyran personality. He shrank back when Kerk leaned over his desk toward him and spoke coldly. "We can leave and the Rim Hordes will sweep through this system and that will be the end of you."

"No, it will not happen. We have the resources. We can build a fleet, buy ships, but it will be a long and tedious task. Far easier to use this Empire battleship."

"Easy?" Jason asked, raising one eyebrow. "How many have been killed attempting to enter it?"

"Well, easy is not perhaps the correct word. There are difficulties, certain problems… forty-seven people in all."

"Is that why you sent the message to Felicity?" Jason asked.

"Yes, assuredly. Our heavy-metals industry has been purchasing from your planet; they heard of the Pyrrans: how less than a hundred of you conquered an entire world. We thought we would ask you to undertake this task of entering the ship."

"You were a little unclear as to who was aboard the ship and preventing any one else from coming near."

"Yes, well, that is what you might call the heart of our little problem. There's no one aboard…" His smile had a definite artificial quality as the Pyrrans leaned close. "Please, let me explain. This planet was once one of the most important under the old Empire. Although at least eleven other worlds claim themselves as the first home of mankind, we of Earth are much more certain that we are the original. This battleship seems proof enough. When the Fourth War of Galactic Expansion was over, it was mothballed here and has remained so ever since, unneeded until this moment."

Kerk snorted with disbelief. "I will not believe that an unmanned, mothballed ship five millennia old has killed forty-seven people."

"Well, I will," Jason said. "And so will you as soon as you give it a little thought. Three kilometers of almost indestructible fighting ship propelled by the largest en­gines ever manufactured—which means the largest space­ship atomic generators as well. And of course the largest guns, the most advanced defensive and offensive weap­onry ever conceived with secondary batteries, parallel fail-safe circuitry, battle computers—ahh, you're smiling at last. A Pyrran dream of heaven—the most destructive single weapon ever conceived. What a pleasure to board a thing like this, to enter the control room, to be in con­trol."

Kerk and Meta were grinning happily, eyes misty, nodding their heads in total agreement. Then the smiles faded as he went on. "But this ship has now been moth­balled. Everything shut down and preserved for an emer­gency—everything, that is, except the power plant and the ship's armament. Part of the mothballing was ob­viously provision for the ship's computer to be alert and to guard the ship against meteorites and any other chance encounters in space. In particular against anyone who felt he needed a spare battleship. We were warned off with a single shot. I don't doubt that it could have blasted us out of space just as easily. If this ship were manned and on the defensive, then nothing could be done about getting near it, much less entering. But this is not the case. We must outthink a computer, a machine, and while it won't be easy, it should be possible." He turned and smiled at Admiral Djukich. "We'll take the job. The price has doubled. It will be one billion credits."

"Impossible! The sum is too great; the budget won't allow…"

"Rim Hordes, coming closer, bent on rapine and destruction. To stop them you order some spacers from the shipyard; schedules are late; they don't arrive on time; the Horde fleet descends. They break down this door and here, right in this office, blood…"

"Stop!" the Admiral gasped weakly, his face blanched white. A desk commander who had never seen action— as Jason had guessed. "The contract is yours, but you have a deadline, thirty days. One minute after that you don't get a deci of a credit. Do you agree?"

Jason looked up at Kerk and Meta who, with instant warrior's decision, made their minds up, nodding at the same time.

"Done," he said. "But the billion is free and clear. We'll need supplies, aid from your space navy, material and perhaps men as well to back us up. You will supply what we need."

"It could be expensive," Admiral Djukich groaned, chewing at his lower lip. "Blood…" Jason whispered, and the Admiral broke into a fine sweat as he reluctantly agreed. "I'll have the papers drawn up. When can you begin?"

"We've begun. Shake hands on it and we'll sign later." He pumped the Admiral's weak hand enthusiastically. "Now, I don't suppose you have anything like a manual that tells us how to get into the ship?"

"If we had that we wouldn't have called you here. We have gone to the archives and found nothing. All the facts we did discover are on record and available to you for what they are worth."

"Not much if you killed forty-seven volunteers. Five thousand years is a long time, and even the most ef­ficient bureaucracy loses things over that kind of distance. And, of course, the one thing you cannot mothball are instructions how to un-mothball a ship. But we will find a way, Pyrrans never quit, never. If you will have the records sent to our quarters, my colleagues and I will now withdraw and make our plans for the job. We shall beat your deadline."

"How?" Kerk asked as soon as the door of their apartment had closed behind them.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Jason admitted, smiling happily at their cold scowls. "Now, let us pour some drinks and put our thinking caps on. This is a job that may end up needing brute force, but it will have to begin with man's intellectual superiority over the ma­chines he has invented. I'll take a large one with ice if you are pouring, darling."

"Serve yourself," Meta snapped. "If you had no idea how we were to proceed, why did you accept?"

Glass rattled against glass and strong beverage gurgled. Jason sighed. "I accepted because it is a chance for us to get some ready cash, which the budget is badly in need of. If we can't crack into the damn thing, then all we have lost is thirty days of our time." He drank and re­membered the hard-learned lesson that reasoned argu­ment was usually a waste of time with Pyrrans and that there were better ways to quickly resolve a situation. "You people aren't scared of this ship, are you?"

He smiled angelically at their scowls of hatred, the sudden tensing of hard muscles, the whine of the power holsters as their guns slipped toward their hands, then slid back out of sight.

"Let us get started," Kerk said. "We are wasting time and every second counts. What do we do first?"

"Go through the records, find out everything we can about a ship like this, then find a way in."

"I fail to see what throwing rocks at that ship can do," Meta said. "We know already that it destroys them be­fore they get close. It is a waste of time. And now you want to waste food as well, all those animal car­casses…"

"Meta, sweet, shut up, I'm hinting. There is method to the apparent madness. The navy command ship is out there with radars beeping happily, keeping a record of every shot fired, how close the target was before it was hit, what weapon fired the shot and so forth. There are thirty spacers throwing spacial debris at the battleship in a steady stream. This is not the usual thing that hap­pens to a mothballed vessel and it can only have interesting results. Now, in addition to the stonethrowing, we are going to launch these sides of beef at our target, each space-going load of steak to be wrapped with twenty kilos of armlite plastic. They are being launched on dif­ferent trajectories with different speeds, and if any one of them gets through to the ship, we will know that a man in a plastic spacesuit made of the same material will get through as well. Now, if all that isn't enough burden on the ship's computer, a good-sized planetoid is on its way now in an orbit aimed right at our moth-balled friend out there. The computer will either have to blow it out of space, which will take a good deal of energy—if it is possible at all—or fire up the engines or something. Anything it does will give us information, and any information will give us a handle to grab the problem with."

"First side of beef on the way," Kerk announced from the controls where he was stationed. "I cut some steaks off while we were loading them; have them for lunch. We have a freezerful now. Prime cuts only from every carcass, maybe a kilo each; won't affect the experiment."

"You're turning into a crook in your old age," Jason said.

"I learned everything I know from you. There goes the first one." He pointed to a tiny blip of fire on the screen. "Flare powder on each, blows up when they hit. Another one. They're getting closer than the rocks—but they're not getting through."

Jason shrugged. "Back to the drawing boards. Let's have the steaks and a bottle of wine. We have about two hours before the planetoid is due, and that is an event we want to watch."

The expected results were anticlimactic, to say the least. Millions of tons of solid rock put into collision or­bit at great expense, as Admiral Djukich was fond of reminding them, soared majestically in from the black depths of space. The battleship's radar pinged busily and, as soon as the computer had calculated the course, the main engines fired briefly so that the planetoid flashed by the ship's stern and continued on into interstellar space.

"Very dramatic," Meta said in her coldest voice.

"We gained information!" Jason was on the defensive. "We know the engines are still in good shape and can be activated at a moment's notice."

"And of what possible use is that information?" Kerk asked. -

"Well, you never know; might come in handy…"

"Communication control to Pyrrus One. Can you read me?"

Jason was at the radio instantly, flicking it on. "This is Pyrrus One. What is your message?"

"We have received a signal from the battleship on the 183.4 wavelength. Message is as follows. Nederuebla a't navigacio centro. Kroniku ci tio Sangon …"

"I cannot understand it," Meta said.

"It's Esperanto, the old Empire language. The ship simply sent a change-of-course instruction to navigation control. And we know its name, the Indestructible."

"Is this important?"

"Is it!" Jason yipped with joy as he set the new wave­length into the communication controls. "Once you get someone to talk to you, you have them half sold. Ask any salesman. Now, absolute silence, if you please, while I practice my best and most military Esperanto." He drained his wine glass, cleared his throat and turned the radio on. "Hello, Indestructible, this is Fleet Headquar­ters. Explain unauthorized course change"

"Course change authorized by instructions 590-L to avoid destruction."

"Your new course is a navigational hazard. Return to old course."

Silent seconds went by as they watched the screen-then the purple glow of a thrust drive illuminated the battleship's bow.

"You did it!" Meta said happily, giving Jason a loving squeeze that half crushed his rib cage. "It's taking orders from you. Now tell it to let us in."

"I don't think it is going to be that easy—so let me sneak up on the topic in a roundabout way." He spoke Esperanto to the computer again. "Course change satis­factory. State reasons for recent heavy expenditure of energy."

"Meteor shower. All meteors on collision orbit were destroyed."

"It is reported that your secondary missile batteries were used. Is this report correct?" "It is correct."

"Your reserves of ammunition will be low. Resupply will be sent."

"Resupply not needed. Reserves above resupply level." "Argumentative for a computer, isn't it?" Jason said, his hand over the microphone. "But I shall pull rank and see if that works.

"Headquarters overrides your resupply decision. Resupply vessel will arrive your cargo port in seventeen hours. Confirm."

"Confirmed. Resupply vessel must supply override mothball signal before entering two-hundred kilometer zone."

"Affirmative, signal will be sent. What is current sig­nal?"

There was no instant answer—and Jason raised crossed fingers as the silence went on for almost two seconds. "Negative. Information cannot be supplied." "Prepare for memory check of override mothball sig­nal. This is a radio signal only?" "Affirmative."

"This is a spoken sentence." "Negative"

"This is a coded signal." "Affirmative."

"Pour me a drink," Jason said with the microphone off. "This playing twenty questions may take some time." It did. But patient working around the subject sup­plied, bit by bit, the needed information. Jason turned off the radio and passed over the scribbled sheet. "This is something at least. The code signal is a ten-digit number.

If we send the correct number, all the mothballing ac­tivity stops instantly and the ship is under our control."

"And the money is ours," Meta said. "Can our com­puter be programmed to send a series of numbers until it hits on the right one?"

"It can—and just the same thought crossed my mind. The Indestructible thinks that we are running a com­munications check and tells me that it can accept up to seven hundred signals a second for repeat and verifica­tion. Our computer will read the returned signal and send an affirmative answer to each one. But of course all the signals will be going through the discrimination circuits, and if the correct signal is sent, the mothball defenses will be turned off."

"That seems like an obvious trick that would not fool a five-year-old," Kerk said.

"Never underestimate the stupidity of a computer. You forget that it is a machine with zero imagination. Now, let me see if this will do us any good." He punched keys rapidly, then muttered a curse and kicked the con­sole. "No good. We will have to run nine to the tenth power numbers and, at seven hundred a second, it will take us about five months to do them all." . "And we have just three weeks left."

"I can still read a calendar, thank you, Meta. But we'll have to try in any case. Send alternate numbers from one up and counting from 9,999,999,999 back down. Then we'll get the navy code department to give us all their signals to send as well; one of them might fit. The odds are still about five to one against hitting the right combination, but that is better than no odds at all. And we'll keep working to see what else we can think of."

The navy sent over a small man named Shrenkly who brought a large case of records. He was head of the code department, and a cipher and puzzle enthusiast as well. This was the greatest challenge of his long and undis­tinguished career, and he hurled himself into it. "Won­derful opportunity, wonderful. The ascending and de­scending series are going out steadily. In the meantime I am taping permutations and substitutions of signals which will—"

"That's fine, keep at it," Jason said, smiling enthusias­tically and patting the man on the back. "I'll get a report from you later, but right now we have a meeting to attend. Kerk, Meta, time to go."

"What meeting?" Meta asked as he tried to get her through the door.

"The meeting I just made up to get away from that bore," he said when he finally got her into the corridor. "Let him do his job while we see if we can find another way in."

"I think what he has to say is very interesting."

"Fine. You talk to him—but not while I am around. Let us now spur our brains into action and see what we can come up with."

What they came up with was a number of ideas of varying quality and uniform record of failure. There was the miniature flying robot fiasco where smaller and smaller robots were sent and blasted out of existence, right down to the smallest, about the size of a small coin. Obsessed by miniaturization, they constructed a flying-eye appara­tus no larger than the head of a pin that dragged a threadlike control wire after it that also supplied current for the infinitesimal ion drive. This sparked and sizzled its way to within fifteen kilometers of the Indestructible before the all-seeing sensors detected it and neatly blasted it out of existence with a single shot. There were other suggestions and brilliant plans, but none of them worked out in practice. The great ship floated serenely in space reading seven hundred numbers a second and, in its spare time, blowing into fine dust any object that came near it. Each attempt took time, and the days drifted by steadily. Jason was beginning to have a chronic headache and had difficulty sleeping. The problem seemed insoluble. He was feeding figures about destruction distances into the computer when Meta looked in on him. "I'll be with Shrenkly if you need me," she said. "Wonderful news."

"He taught me about frequency tables yesterday, and today he is going to start me on simple substitution ci­phers."

"How thrilling."

"Well, it is—to me. I've never done anything like this before. And it has some value: we are sending signals and one of them could be the correct one. It certainly is accomplishing more than you are with all your flying rocks. With two days to go, too."

She stalked out and slammed the door, and Jason slumped with fatigue, aware that failure was hovering close. He was pouring himself a large glass of Old Fa­tigue Killer when Kerk came in. "Two days to go," Kerk said.

"Thanks. I didn't know until you told me. I know that a Pyrran never gives up, but I am getting the sneaking suspicion that we are licked."

"We are not beaten yet. We can fight."

"A very Pyrran answer—but it won't work this time. We just can't barge in there in battle armor and shoot the place up."

"Why not? Small-arms fire would just bounce off us as well as the low-power rays. All we have to do is dodge the big stuff and bull through."

"That's all! Do you have any idea how we are going to arrange that?"

"No. But you will figure something out. But you better hurry."

"I know, two days. I suppose it's easier to die than admit failure. We suit up, fly at the battleship behind a fleet of rocks that are blasted by the heavy stuff. Then we tell the enemy discrimination circuits that we are not armored spacesuits at all, but just a couple of jettisoned plastic beer barrels that they can shoot up with the small-caliber stuff. Which then bounces off us like hail and we land and get inside and get a billion credits and live happily ever after."

"That's the sort of thing. I'll go get the suits ready."

"Before you do that, just consider one thing in this preposterous plan. How do we tell the discrimination circuitry…" Jason's voice ran down in midsentence, and his eyes opened wide—then he clapped Kerk on the back. Heavily too, he was so excited, but the Pyrran seemed completely unaware of the blow. "That's it, that's how we do it!" Jason chortled, rushing to the computer con­sole. Kerk waited patiently while Jason fed in figures and muttered over the tapes of information. The answer was not long in coming.

"Here it is!" Jason held up a reel of tape. "The plan of attack—and it is going to work. It is just a matter of remembering that the computer on that battleship is just a big dumb adding machine that counts on its fingers, but very fast. It always performs in the same manner be­cause it is programmed to do so. So here is what happens. Because of the main drive tubes the area with the least concentration of fire power is dead astern. Only one hun­dred and fourteen gun turrets can be trained that way. Their slew time varies—that is, the time it takes a turret to rotate one hundred and eighty degrees in azimuth. The small ones do it in less than a second; the main batteries need six seconds. This is one factor. Other factors are which targets get that kind of attention. Fastest-moving rocks get blasted first, even if they are farther away than a larger, slower-moving target. There are other factors like rate of fire, angle of depression of guns and so forth. Our computer has chomped everything up and come up with this!"

"What does it reveal?"

"That we can make it. We will be in the center of a disk of flying rocks that will be aimed at the rear of the Indestructible. There will be a lot of rocks, enough to keep all the guns busy that can bear on the spot. Our suits will be half the size of the smallest boulder. We will all be going at the same speed, in the same direction, so we should get the small-caliber stuff. Now, another cloud of rocks, real heavy stuff, will converge on the stern of the ship from a ninety-degree angle, but it will not hit the two-hundred-kilometer limit until after the guns start blasting at us. The computer will track it and as soon as our wave is blasted will slew the big guns to get rid of the heavy stuff. As soon as these fire, we accelerate toward the stern tubes. We will then become prime targets, but, before the big guns can slew back, we should be inside the tubes."

"It sounds possible. What is the time gap between the instant we reach the tubes and the earliest the guns can fire?"

"We leave their cone of fire exactly six-tenths of a second before they can blast us."

"Plenty of time. Let us go."

Jason held up his hand. "Just one thing. I'm game if you are. We carry cutting equipment and weapons. Once inside the ship there should not be too many problems. But it is not a piece of cake by any means. The two of us go. But we don't tell Meta—and she stays here."

"Three have a better chance than two to get through."

"And two have a better chance than one. I'm not going unless you agree."

"Agreed. Set the plan up."

Meta was busy with her new-found interest in codes and ciphers; it was a perfect time. The Earth navy ships were well trained in precision rock-throwing—as well as being completely bored by it. They let the computers do most of the work. While the preparations were being made, Kerk and Jason suited up in the combat suits: more tanks than suits, heavy with armor and slung about with weapons. Kerk attached the special equipment they would need while Jason short-circuited the airlock indicator so Meta, in the control room, would not know they had left the ship. Silently they slipped out.

No matter how many times you do it, no matter how you prepare yourself mentally, the sensation of floating free in space is not an enjoyable one. It is easy to lose orientation, to have the sensation that all directions are up—or down—and Jason was more than slightly glad of the accompanying bulk of the Pyrran.

"Operation has begun."

The voice crackled in their earphones, then they were too busy to be concerned about anything else. The com­puter informed them that the wall of giant boulders was sweeping toward them—they could see nothing themselves—and gave them instructions to pull aside. Then the things were suddenly there, floating ponderously by, already shrinking into the distance as the jets fired on the space-suits. Again following instructions, they accelerated to the correct moving spot in space and fitted themselves into the gap in the center of the floating rock field. They had to juggle their jets until they had the same velocity as the boulders; then, power cut off, they floated free. "Do you remember the instructions?" Jason asked. "Perfectly."

"Well, let me run through them again for the sake of my morale, if you don't mind." The battleship was visible now far ahead, like a tiny splinter in space. "We do noth­ing at all to draw attention as we come in. There will be plenty of activity around us, but we don't use power except in an extreme emergency. And we get hit by small-caliber fire—the best thing that can happen to us because it means the big stuff is firing at something else. Meanwhile the other attack of flying rocks will be com­ing in from our flank. We won't see them—but our com­puter will. It is monitoring the battleship as well, and the instant the big guns fire on the second wave, it will send the signal go. Then we go. Full power on the rockets toward the main drive tube. When our suit radar says we are eleven hundred meters from the ship, we put on full reverse thrust because we will be inside the guns. See you at the bottom of the tube."

"What if the computer fires the tube to clear us out?"

"I have been trying not to think about that. We can only hope that it is not programmed for such a complex action and that its logic circuits will not come up with the answer…"

Space around them exploded with searing light. Their helmet visors darkened automatically, but the explosions could still be clearly seen, they were so intense. And silent. A rock the size of a small house burned and vaporized soundlessly not a hundred meters from Jason, and he cringed inside the suit. The silent destruction con­tinued—but the silence was suddenly shattered by deafen­ing explosions, and his suit vibrated with the impact.

He was being hit! Even though he expected it, wanted it, the jarring was intense and unbelievably loud. Then it stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and dimly, he heard a weak voice say go.

"Blast, Kerk, blast!" he shouted as he jammed on full power.

The suit kicked him hard, numbing him, slowing his fingers as they grappled for the intensity control on the helmet and turned it off. He winced against the glare of burning matter but could just make out the disk of the spaceship's stern before him, the main tube staring like a great black eye. It grew quickly until it filled space and the sudden red glow of the preset radar said he had passed the eleven-hundred-meter mark. The guns couldn't touch him here—but he could crash into the battleship and demolish himself. Then the full blast of the retrojets hit him, slamming him against the suit, stunning him again, making control almost impossible. The dark opening blossomed before him, filling his vision, blacking out everything else.

He was inside it, the pressure lessening as the landing circuits took over and paced his rate of descent. Had Kerk made it? He had stopped, floating free, when some­thing plummeted from above, glanced off him and crashed heavily into the end of the tube.

"Kerk!" Jason grabbed the limp figure as it rebounded after the tremendous impact, grappled it and turned his lights on it. "Kerk!" No answer. Dead?

"Landed… faster than I intended."

"You did indeed. But we're here. Now let's get to work before the computer decides to burn us out."

Spurred by this danger, they unshipped the molecular unbinder torch, the only thing that would affect the tough tube liners, and worked a circular line on the wall just above the injectors. It took almost two minutes of pain­staking work to slowly cut the opening, and every second of the time they waited for the tube to fire.

It did not. The circle was completed, and Kerk put his shoulder to it and fired his jets. The plug of metal and the Pyrran instantly vanished from sight—and Jason dived in right behind him into the immense, brightly lit engine room, made suddenly brighter by a flare of light behind him. Jason spun about just in time to see the flames cut off, the flames leaping from the hole they had just cut. The end of a microsecond blast. "A smart com­puter," he said weakly. "Smart indeed."

Kerk had ignored the blast and dived into a control room to one side. Jason followed him—and met him as he emerged with a large chart in a twisted metal frame. "Diagram of the ship. Tore it from the wall. Central con­trol this way. Go."

"All right, all right," Jason muttered, working to keep pace with the Pyrran's hurtling form. This was what Pyrrans did best, and it was an effort to keep up the pace. "Repair robots," he said when they entered a long corridor. "They won't bother us…"

Before he had finished speaking, the two robots had raised their welding torches and rushed to the attack. But even as they moved, Kerk's gun blasted twice, and they exploded into junk. "Good computer," Kerk said. "Turn anything against us. Stay alert and cover my back."

There was no more time for talking. They changed their course often, since it was obvious that they were heading toward central control. Every machine along the way wanted to kill them. Housekeeping robots rushed at them with brooms, TV screens exploded as they passed, airtight doors tried to close on them, floors were electri­fied if they were touched. It was a battle, but really a one-sided one as long as they stayed alert. Their suits were invulnerable to small-scale attacks, insulated from electricity. And Pyrrans are the best fighters in the galaxy. In the end they came to the door marked centra kontrolo, and Kerk offhandedly blasted it down and floated through. The lights were lit, the room and the controls were spotlessly clean.

"We've done it," Jason said, cracking his helmet and smelling the cool air. "One billion credits. We've licked this bucket of bolts…"

"THIS IS A FINAL WARNING!" the voice boomed and their guns nosed about for the source before they realized it was just a recording, "THIS BATTLESHIP HAS BEEN ENTERED BY ILLEGAL MEANS. YOU ARE ORDERED TO LEAVE WITHIN THE NEXT FIFTEEN SECONDS OR THE ENTIRE SHIP WILL BE DESTROYED. CHARGES HAVE BEEN SET TO ASSURE THAT THIS BATTLESHIP DOES NOT FALL INTO ENEMY HANDS. FOURTEEN…"

"We can't get out in time!" Jason shouted.

"Shoot up the controls!"

"No! The destruction controls won't be here."

"twelve"

"What can we do?"

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing at all…"

"eight"

They looked at each other wordlessly. Jason put out his armored hand and Kerk touched it with his own.

"seven"

"Well, goodby," Jason said, and tried to smile.

"four… errrk. thre…"

There was silence, then the mechanical voice spoke again, a different voice. "De-mothballing activated. De­fenses disarmed. Am awaiting instructions."

"What… happened?" Jason asked.

"De-mothballing signal received. Am awaiting instruc­tions"

"Just in time," Jason said, swallowing with some diffi­culty. "Just in time."

"You should not have gone without me," Meta said. "I shall never forgive you."

"I couldn't take you," Jason said. I wouldn't have gone myself if you had insisted. You are worth more than a billion credits to me."

"That's the nicest thing you ever said to me." She smiled now and kissed him while Kerk looked on with great disinterest.

"When you are through, would you tell us what hap­pened?" Kerk said. "The computer hit the right number?"

"Not at all. I did it." She smiled into the shocked silence, then kissed Jason again. "I told you how inter­ested I am now in codes and ciphers, Simply thrilling, with wartime applications too, of course. Well, Shrenkly told me about substitution ciphers and I tried one, the most simple. Where the letter A is one, B is two and so forth. And I tried to put a word into this cipher and I did, but it came out 81122021, but that was two numbers short. Then Shrenkly told me that there must be two digits for each letter or there would be transcription prob­lems, like you have to use 01 for A instead of just the number 1. So I added a zero to the two one-digit num­bers, and that made ten digits, so for fun I fed the number into the computer and it was sent and that was that."

"The jackpot with your first number—with your first try?" Jason asked hollowly. "Wasn't that pretty lucky?"

"Not really. You know military people don't have much imagination; you've told me that a thousand times at least. So I took the simplest possible, looked it up in the Es­peranto dictionary…"

"Haltu?"

"That's right; encoded it and sent it and that was that."

"And just what does the word mean?" Kerk asked.

"Stop," Jason said, "just plain stop."

"I would have done the same thing myself," Kerk said, nodding in agreement "Let us collect the money and go home."