“Maybe,” Staley answered. “Lafferty. Get the coffee maker and take it port side. Move, we’ll cover you.”
The plainsman waved and dove down the corridor in the direction the Marines had vanished. “Had we nae best be goin’wi’ him?” Potter asked.
“Torpedo,” Staley barked. “We’ve got to detonate the torpedo.”
“But, Horst,” Whitbread protested. “Can’t we get control of the ship? I haven’t seen any miniatures with vacuum suits.”
“They can build those magic pressure curtains,” Staley reminded him. “Besides, we’ve got our orders.” He pointed aft, and they moved ahead of him. Now that MacArthur was clear of humans they hurried, burning through airtight compartments and grenading the corridors beyond. Potter and Whitbread shuddered at the damage they were doing to the ship. Their weapons were not meant to be used aboard a working spacecraft.
The torpedoes were in place: Staley and Whitbread had been part of the work crew that welded them on either side of the Field generator. Only—the generator was gone. A hollow shell remained where it had been.
Potter was reaching for the timers that would trigger the torpedo. “Wait,” Staley ordered. He found a direct wire intercom outlet and plugged his suit in. “Anyone, this is Midshipman Horst Staley in the Field generator compartment. Anyone there?”
“Aye aye, Mr. Staley,” a voice answered. “A moment, sir, here’s the Captain.” Captain Blaine came on the line.
Staley explained the situation. “The Field generator’s gone, sir, but the Field seems strong as ever…”
There was a long pause. Then Blaine swore viciously, but cut himself off. “You’re overtime, Mr. Staley. We’ve orders to close the holes in the Field and get aboard Lenin’s boats in five minutes. You’ll never get out before Lenin opens fire.”
“No, sir. What should we do?”
Blaine hesitated a moment. “I’ll have to buck that one up to the Admiral. Stay right where you are.”
A sudden roaring hurricane sent them scurrying for cover. There was silence, then Potter said unnecessarily, “We’re under pressure. You Brownies must have repaired one or another door.”
“Then they’ll soon be here.” Whitbread cursed. “Damn them anyway.”
They waited. “What’s keeping the Captain?” Whitbread demanded. There was no possible answer, and they crouched tensely, their weapons drawn, while around them they heard MacArthur coming back to life. Her new masters were approaching.
“I won’t leave without the middies,” Rod was saying to the Admiral.
“You are certain they cannot reach after port air lock?” Kutuzov said.
“Not in ten minutes, Admiral. The Brownies have control of that part of the ship. The kids would have to fight all the way.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Let them use the lifeboats, sir,” Rod said hopefully. There were lifeboats in various parts of the ship, with a dozen not twenty meters from the Field generator compartment. Basically solid-fuel motors with inflatable cabins, they were meant only to enable a refugee to survive for a few hours in the event that the ship was damaged beyond repair—or about to explode. Either was a good description of MacArthur’s present status.
“The miniatures may have built recording devices and transmitters into lifeboats,” Kutuzov said. “A method of giving large Moties all of MacArthur’s secrets.” He spoke to someone else. “Do you think that possible, Chaplain?”
Blaine heard Chaplain Hardy speaking in the background. “No, sir. The miniatures are animals. I’ve always thought so, the adult Moties say so, and all the evidence supports the hypothesis. They would be capable of that only if directly ordered—and, Admiral, if they’ve been that anxious to communicate with the Moties, you can be certain they’ve already done it.”
“Da,” Kutuzov muttered. “There is no point in sacrificing these officers for nothing. Captain Blaine, you will instruct them to use lifeboats, but caution them that no miniatures must come out with them. When they leave, you will immediately come aboard Lenin.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Rod sighed in relief and rang the intercom line to the generator compartment. “Staley: the Admiral says you can use the lifeboats. Be careful there aren’t any miniatures in them, and you’ll be searched before you board one of Lenin’s boats. Trigger the torpedoes and get away. Got that?”
“Aye aye, sir.” Staley turned to the other middies. “Lifeboats,” he snapped. “Let’s—”
Green light winked around them. “Visors down!” Whitbread screamed. They dove behind the torpedoes while the beam swung wildly around the compartment. It slashed holes in the bulkheads, then through compartment walls beyond, finally through the hull itself. Air rushed out and the beam stopped swinging, but it remained on, pouring energy through the hull into the Field beyond.
Staley swung his sun visor up. It was fogged with silver metal deposits. He ducked carefully under the beam to look at its source.
It was a heavy hand laser. Half a dozen miniatures had been needed to carry it. Some of them, dead and dry, clung to the double hand hold.
“Let’s move,” Staley ordered. He inserted a key into the lock on the torpedo panel. Beside him Potter did the same thing. They turned the keys—and had ten minutes to live. Staley rushed to the intercom. “Mission accomplished, sir.”
They moved through the airtight open compartment’s door into the main after corridor and rushed sternward, flinging themselves from hand hold to hand hold. Null-gee races were a favorite if slightly non-regulation game with midshipmen, and they were glad of the practice they’d had. Behind them the timer would be clicking away—
“Should be here,” Staley said. He blasted through an airtight door, then fired a man-sized gap through the outer hull itself. Air whistled out—the miniatures had somehow again enclosed them in the stinking atmosphere of Mote Prime even as they had come aft. Wisps of ice-crystal fog hung in the vacuum.
Potter found the lifeboat inflation controls and smashed the glass cover with his pistol butt. They stepped out of the way and waited for the lifeboats to inflate.
Instead the flooring swung up. Stored beneath the deck was a line of cones, each two meters across at the base, each about eight meters long.
“The Midnight Brownie strikes again,” said Whitbread.
The cones were all identical, and fabricated from scratch. The miniatures must have worked for weeks beneath the deck, tearing up the lifeboats and other equipment to replace them with—these things. Each cone had a contoured crash chair in the big end and a flared rocket nozzle in the point.
“Look at the damn things, Potter,” Staley ordered. “See if there’s anywhere Brownies could hide in them.” There didn’t seem to be. Except for the conical hull, which was solid, everything was open framework. Potter tapped and pried while his friends stood guard.
He was looking for an opening in the cone when he caught a flicker of motion in the corner of his eye. He snatched a grenade from his belt and turned. A space suit floated out of the corridor wall. It held a heavy laser in both hands.
Staley’s nerves showed in his voice. “You! Identify yourself!”
The figure raised its weapon. Potter threw the grenade.
Intense green light lashed out through the explosion, lighting the corridor weirdly and tearing up one of the conical lifeboats. “Was it a man?” Potter cried. “Was it? The arms bent wrong! Its legs stuck straight out—what was it?”