Her body ached. Not just the dull ache she’d expected from the acceleration. This was stabbing pain, pain so intense it was like a bright red veil across her eyes, pain all through her lower abdominal region, pain made worse when she touched herself or moved her legs.
I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to turn on that — transmitter. Or what Kleinst called a transmitter. Nothing like the box Lieutenant Farr kept at Navy House in Jikar.
But first I’ve got to know. Are we in orbit, or—
She floated to the viewport. A river of stars swung past, then Prince Samual’s World. The ship was rolling, not fast enough to create artificial gravity, but definitely rolling.
Once each minute her world was below. Not a whole world, only a large disc. She wedged her head against the port and waited, cautiously experimenting with her legs to see if she could find a position that might alleviate the pain even a little.
Gradually she detected motion. She was moving across the Major Sea, and if anything she was drawing away from Prince Samual’s World.
Later she’d get out the sextant and take angles, but it looked good. The Hope was in orbit. Maybe. Time for the transmitter. She pushed away from the port and over to the bulkhead. The transmitter was nothing but a vibrator, some coils, and a gap across which a fat electrical spark jumped when she pressed the keys.
Dit dit dit. Dah dah dah. Dit dit dit. Which stood for S.O.S., which stood for something so ancient that no one knew what it might be. Did the Empire still use S.O.S. as a distress signal? The First Empire had. Longway was certain of it. So why wouldn’t the present day Imperials?
Not that it mattered a lot. The Empire knew she was there. Nathan had arranged that. Their observer would tell the Imperial Navy ship all about her. She wound the clockwork that controlled the spark gap. An endless tape fed through it. Dit dit dit. Dah dah dah. Dit dit dit. A thick wire from the spark gap led through insulators to a mess of fused quartz, through that to outside the ship. She tried to imagine the signal going through space, reaching out to Tombaugh. Dit dit dit. Dah dah dah. Dit dit dit.
Now they’d hear it and come get her-
But there was nothing to do but wait, and time passed slowly.
If only I didn’t hurt so bad. We didn’t expect this. What’s wrong with me? Acceleration? Vibration? Something awful. God, it hurts …
Gradually, though, the pain lessened. It wasn’t as bad if she stayed curled into a tight ball. She pushed herself to the couch and drew a strap loosely across herself and lay there.
Time passed slowly. There was a counter on the tape mechanism driving the transmitter. Not a very accurate clock, but the best she had. It told her that thirty minutes had gone by. She stretched her legs experimentally. Not too bad. Painful, but she could stand it. And there was something wrong with the gyros. Batteries weakening. They were slowing down.
If they slowed enough, she’d have to try to control the ship herself. There were big wooden levers by one of the ports, and she could use them to control the jets mounted in a ring around the ship. If they didn’t run out of peroxide for the jets, she might be able to control tumbling. She hoped she wouldn’t have to. Kleinst wasn’t sure she — or anyone else — could do it by eye with nothing but the viewports to guide her.
The stars were still rolling past, first the stars, then Prince Samual’s World. The ship was rolling, but it wasn’t tumbling yet. She wondered if she should cancel the roll motion. Kleinst hadn’t been sure about that. It might be difficult, and the Empire surely had ways to stabilize the ship.
No, damn it, she thought. We’ll do as much of this ourselves as we possibly can. She took off the cords that held the control levers in place, and experimentally moved one of them. There was a subdued sound, more a rushing than a roar, and the stars swung more slowly.
Not so hard, she thought. Not hard at all. She moved the lever again, held it a bit longer, then waited to see what that did.
Three more times, and she had almost done it. Now the ship rotated very slowly, Prince Samual’s World visible for long minutes at each of the three viewports. Good enough, she thought. No point in taking chances. There still didn’t seem to be tumbling, although the sound of the gyros was definitely weaker.
If she listened carefully, she could hear the hiss of the air tanks. Five hours of air. Then-
Don’t think about that.
What should I think about?
It’s beautiful up here. Prince Samual’s World is lovely, a big saucer with wispy clouds, and the stars above, rivers of stars, and—
Where is that ship?
Dit dit dit. Dah dah dah. Dit dit dit.
CHAPTER THIRTY
DEFINITIONS
There were three senior civil servants with Ackoff and Captain Greenaugh when Jeff arrived at the High Commissioner’s office. The massive conference table was littered with overflowing ashtrays and dirty coffee cups.
Ackoff was preoccupied and his introductions were perfunctory. That was telling; Ackoff was generally impeccably polite. “Lieutenant, you know our First Secretary, Dr. Boyd? And Madame Goldstein and Mr. Singh. I presume you’ve completed your inspection of that colonial craft?”
“Yes, sir.”
“An official inspection,” Greenaugh said. “By our official observer.”
Jeff winced at the irony in his commanding officer’s voice.
“Report says the pilot’s not in good shape. Is she all right?” Greenaugh asked.
Boy, and how! Jeff wanted to say. “She was shaken up rather badly, sir. They have her in Tombaugh’s sick bay. She’s cheerful enough. I think she’s rather flattered by all the attention…”
“Hardly surprising,” Goldstein said.
“We will need your observations, Lieutenant,” Commissioner Ackoff said. “We have a problem. What do we do with this?” He held up a parchment. “As you suspect, it’s King David’s formal application for admission of Prince Samual’s World as a second-class space-faring planet. I expect it comes as no surprise to learn it begins with great professions of loyalty to the Empire… He’s got his prerogatives right, too. Self-government under Imperial defense and Imperial advice on extra-planetary policy. Official observers at Court. Representative in the lower house of Parliament. Willing to accept reasonable trade restrictions. And while this doesn’t ask for it, you can be certain the next document we get will be a request for technological assistance. I would be interested in knowing how they learned so much about Imperial politics.”
Dr. Boyd was a tall man, well rounded, going to fat but not quite there yet. “To be precise, about the structure of Imperial government as it existed before the last Reform Act,” Boyd said. “They obtained excellent information, but much is somewhat out of date. A deficiency I think Mr. Soliman’s people will remedy shortly.”
Jeff muttered something.
’"Yes, Lieutenant?” Ackoff asked.
“Nothing, sir. It doesn’t seem to me that Trader Soliman’s firm would be too happy at losing a colony world since they’ve got the trade concession.”
“On the contrary,” Dr. Boyd said. “Trader Soliman’s on-planet factor has already attached a letter recommending that this application be approved.”
“I don’t understand,"Jeff said.
Ackoff smiled grimly. “The situation is rather delicate … Tell me, Lieutenant, how much of that craft represents imported technology?”
“It’s hard to say, sir,” Jeff answered. He spoke carefully, knowing his career was at stake in this meeting. And not just mine, he thought. All of us. We let them do this right under our noses, and someone’s going to pay — “The, uh, craft is unbelievably primitive. I wondered why they were so mass-conscious, but it’s obvious as soon as you board the thing. Take the gyros for instance. They’re huge. They have to be, because they’re mechanically coupled to the attitude jets.”