"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."