Gaynor shook his head. "There's nothing as fast as thought." He made a final adjustment on the helmet. "If they're noticing such things, they may be aware of a slight pause, but it's doubtful that they'll notice—particularly when the fun starts. Which will be soon, now."
"This is all very ducky, husband mine, but what am I supposed to be doing all the time? Am I an orphan?'
"Suggest you watch the screens and keep in contact with our friends—never can tell when you might be able to make a bright suggestion. Matter of fact, you'll have to keep contact if you want to know where to send the spy-beams in order to see what's going on. Oh, it'll be exciting enough for your bloodthirsty tastes, pet. Just think of poor me—I won't know what's happened until it's all over."
"What! Won't you be in on this?"
"Yeah, with my mind a perfect blank."
"Huh," she snorted, "that'll be simple for you!"
Out of the bad guys' citadel came the air fleet, rank after rank of slender, black arrows, floating gracefully upward. In a few moments' time, thought Jocelyn, they would be over and beyond the outlying star-points and into the no-man's land area. But at that precise instant, hell broke loose.
The neat, orderly arrangement of the first rank was suddenly shattered as four shells exploded simultaneously in its midst. Jocelyn gasped, twirled the dials of the screen seeking the source of the deadly fire. In a moment she had found it; a battery in one of the outlying fortresses had turned its guns upon their own air forces.
Misdirection with a vengeance, she thought. It worked beautifully when used upon such a set-up as the enemy had. Their whole training was that of blind obedience to superiors—she guessed what the orders must have been: attack and destroy the air fleet which has become a traitor to the fatherland.
The second wave had come up now, and, sizing up the situation (no doubt through the help of the idiot) quickly spread out, so as to offer the poorest possible target and dove for their attackers. There were no flashes from the great guns—they operated on springs. But their fire was deadly none the less; for all the maneuvering of the slender ships, black arrow after black arrow burst into shattered fragments.
By the time the third wave came up, the first two had been utterly disorganized, a few individual ships, diving toward the batteries and being blown out of the atmosphere. So far, not one hit by the fleet had been made, although several concerted dives had been attempted.
The third wave, it seemed would not be taken off guard. But Jocelyn, looking on and trying to outguess the command, had forgotten the lovely possibilities of misdirection. The third wave did not attack the batteries at all; it hovered high above the citadel then dropped like hawks upon the ascending fourth wave of ships. As if, at a signal, all seven batteries directed their fire toward the citadel itself, raining devastating fire upon the vital sections.
Jocelyn tuned in upon the thought-waves to hear a veritable fury of hysterical commands and countercommands vibrating back and forth. At a sudden hunch, she sought out the room where the central command hung out with the idiot. She was amazed to find a heavy cordon of guards around the room, constantly being reinforced. She looked into the room itself, and rocked with laughter at the sight of Clair, sitting on a stool, drooling, a blank look upon his face. There was a faint bulge in his vest pocket—that would be Ionic Intersection.
The room was apparently soundproof to the nth degree. The central command sat around, a confident smirk upon their faces, watching maps, making marks upon them and nodding approvingly. Jocelyn took a closeup on the map and was amazed to discover that, according to it, the enemy air fleet was now approaching its objectives having smashed through the spheres of Luke's people. For a moment she stared disbelieving, then laughed again as the answer came to her. Of course! These sublime dopes weren't being let in on what was actually happening.
She flashed back to the scene of battle. The entire armada of black ships was now engaged in terrific battle with itself. Each squadron, she observed, had its own particular symbol, which helped. Because each squadron was attacking any and every other squadron.
Meanwhile, mechanized infantry was moving rapidly inward, upon itself. Paying little heed to the struggle in the sky, the infantry from the north side advanced upon, met, and locked in titanic combat with the infantry from the south. Land cruisers riddled each other with deadly fire while the soldiery on foot brought into play the "new weapon," the corroding mist. From little containers they squirted it far ahead of them and waited for the "enemy" to come on. It was the southern infantry that waited; the northern soldiery came forward.
Jocelyn stared for a moment in fascinated horror as the infantry moved into the terrain filled with the deadly corrosive mist, sat with her fists tightly clenched as the mist settled about them and slowly ate them away. There was no escape. The ghastly stuff was all-devouring. One drop upon any part of the clothing was sufficient, unless that bit could be taken off and flung away before it penetrated to the skin. She sat transfixed with the horror of it, then suddenly, switched to another scene. There was death and destruction in the skies, too, but it was swift and comparatively clear and painless.
The final scene came when the door of the central command's office was rudely shoved open, and a squad of soldiers came in. Before the amazed mucky-mucks could protest, they raised pistols and riddled them.
"Stop it!" Jocelyn's thoughts screamed out. "Their power's broken; put an end to the battle!"
"We've done just that," came back Luke's thoughts in answer. But Jocelyn didn't hear him; for the first time since adolescence, she was out cold in a genuine faint.
VIII.
"Do you people have any mass-decreasing stuff?" asked Gaynor, via telepathic helmet.
"No," sadly admitted Luke. "I fear you will have to go back to your universe as you are. Though I don't see what's wrong with Clair's size. I think it's a very distinguished size."
"Yeah," said Jocelyn in disgust. "You would."
The war was definitely over. They'd just finished a conference with emissaries from the former bad guys and a general session whereby arrangements would be made to help the former enemy reconstruct in return for certain processes which could be put to peacetime use was in the offing. Clair and Ionic Intersection had made their exit after the revolution, signalized by the shooting of the central command.
"But what," demanded Io, "caused Arthur to bloat up to his terrific size? I don't understand it."
"Perhaps," mused Clair, "it was because I took a different route to this plane. It's a marvel that the same thing didn't happen to you."
"So help me, partner," said Gaynor, "this is going to be awkward. Awkward as a bandersnatchgoing around the good old USA with a colleague the size of a big house. I don't know what to do about it. And how we can get you back into the Prototype is also beyond me."
"What happened to Proto Jr?" asked Jocelyn. "That went big, too. And unfortunately, I'm afraid it was blown up during the battle because it was right in the former bad guy's city. The counter lost focus when it swelled up, I guess.
"But this is what is known as a spot! Clair big and us normal— "
"Hold on a minute," interrupted Ionic Intersection. "Maybe that's not just so."
"Meaning what?" asked her husband. "Meaning, my dearest, that maybe you're normal and we're small. Ever think of that?"
"Holy smokes!" gargled Gaynor. "You could be right at that." He clipped on his helmet and concentrated heavily.
"Yep," he said at length, "you seem to be right. And what does that dope Oley say but that they have mass-increasing stuff. And why didn't I ask him in the first place?"