It had an atomic warhead so that, to the watchers below, there was suddenly a new sunjust visible through the clouds.
Two
The TWA jet had left New York a few hours after dark. As soon as it had reached its cruising altitude it had gone supersonic and cut a booming path straight across the United States. About the time it was crossing Kansas the western sky had grown light as the Mach 2.5 craft caught up with the setting sun. The sun was well above the horizon again when they lost altitude over Arizona, and the passengers who had seen one sunset in New York City now witnessed a far more colorful one over the Mojave desert.
Thurgood-Smythe squinted into the glare then opaqued his window. He was going through the notes of the emergency meeting that had been hurriedly called at the UN and had no eyes either for the glories of the sunset or the massed technology of Spaceconcent opening up before him. His attache case rested on his knees with the flat VDU screen pulled out of its slot. The figures, names, dates marched steadily across the screen, stopping only when he touched the keyboard to correct any transcription errors made by the speech recorder. It had been programmed for his voice, but still substituted one for von a good deal of the time. He made the corrections automatically, still taken aback by the momentous changes and the immense gravity of the situation. What had happened was unbelievable, impossible. But happened it had.
There was a jar as they touched down, then he was thrust forward against the safety harness as the engines reversed. The screen and keyboard disappeared at the touch of a button; the dark window cleared and he looked out at the white towers of the space center, now washed with glowing ochre by the sun. He was the first passenger off the plane.
Two uniformed guards were waiting for him; he nodded at their snappy salutes. Nothing was said, nor did they ask for identification. They knew who he was, knew also that this was an unscheduled flight arranged for his benefit. Thurgood-Smythe’s beaklike nose and lean, hard features had been made familiar by the news reports. His short-cropped white hair appeared severely military compared to the longer-haired styles currently in fashion. He looked exactly what he was; someone in charge.
Auguste Blanc was standing at the ceiling-high window, his back turned, when Thurgood-Smythe came in. As Director of Spaceconcent his office was naturally on the top floor of the tallest administration building. The view was impressive; the sunset incomparable. The mountains on the horizon were purple-black, outlined against the red of the sky. All of the buildings and the towering spaceships were washed by the same fiery color. The color of blood; prophetic perhaps. Nonsense! A cough cut through Auguste Blanc’s thoughts and he turned to face Thurgood-Smythe.
“A good flight, I sincerely hope,” he said, extending his hand. A thin, delicate hand, as finally drawn as his features. He had a title, a very good French one, but he rarely used it. The people he needed to impress, such as Thurgood-Smythe, took no heed of such things. Thurgood-Smythe nodded sharply, impatient for the formalities to be out of the way.
“But tiring nevertheless. A restorative, then? Something to drink, to relax?”
“No thank you, Auguste. No, wait, a Perrier. If you please.”
“The dry air of the airship. Not humidified as we of course do in the spacers. Here you are.” He passed over the tall glass, then poured an Armagnac for himself. Without turning about, as though ashamed of what he was saying, he spoke into the bottles of the cocktail cabinet. “Is it bad? As bad as I have heard?”
“I don’t know what you have heard.” Thurgood-Smythe took a long drink from his glass. “But I can tell you this, in all secrecy…”
“This room is secure.”
“… it is far worse than any of us thought. A debacle.” He dropped into an armchair and stared sightlessly into his glass. “We’ve lost. Everywhere. Not a single planet remains within our control—”
“That cannot be!” The sophistication was gone and there was an edge of animal fear in Auguste Blanc’s voice. “Our deepspace bases, how could they be taken?”
“I’m not talking about those. They’re unimportant. All of them on low-gravity, airless moons. They aren’t self-sufficient, they must be supplied regularly. More of a handicap than an asset. They can’t be attacked — but they can be starved out. We’re evacuating them all.”
“You cannot! They are our foothold, the cutting edge of the blade for conquest..
“They are our Achilles’ heel, if you wish to continue this stupid simile.” There was no trace of politeness, no touch of warmth in Thurgood-Smythe’s voice now. “We need the transport and we need the men. Here is an order. See that it goes out on the Foscolo net at once.” He took a single sheet of paper from his case and passed it over to the trembling director. “The debate is done. Two days of it. This is the combined decision.”
Auguste Blanc’s hands were shaking in the most craven manner so that he had difficulty reading the paper he grasped. But the director was needed. He was good at his job. For this reason, and none other, Thurgood-Smythe spoke quietly, considerately.
“These decisions are sometimes harder to make than to implement. I’m sorry, Auguste. They left us no choice. The planets are theirs. All of them. They planned well. Our people captured or dead. We have most of our space fleet intact, there was no way they could get at them, though a few were sabotaged, a few deserted. We’re pulling back. A strategic withdrawal. A regrouping.”
“Retreat.” Spoken bitterly. “Then we have lost already.”
“No. Not in the slightest. We have the spacers, and among them are the only ships designed for military use. The enemy have freighters, tugs, a handful of deserters. Many of their worlds already face starvation. While they are thinking about survival we shall reinforce our defenses. When they try to attack us they will certainly be defeated. Then, one by one, we will reoccupy. You and I will probably not see the end, not in our time, but this rebellion will eventually be stifled and crushed. That is what will be done.”
“What must I do?” Auguste Blanc asked, still insecure.
“Send this command. It is a security order to all commanders to change codes. I am sure that the old one is compromised by now.”
Auguste Blanc looked at the incomprehensible series of letters and numbers, then nodded. Encoding and decoding were a computer function and he neither knew nor cared how they operated. He slid the sheet into the reader slot in his desk top and tapped a series of commands on the keyboard. A few seconds after he had done this the response sounded from the computer speakers.
“Command issued to all receivers listed. Response received from all receivers listed. Communication code has been changed.”
Thurgood-Smythe nodded when he heard this and put another sheet of paper onto Auguste Blanc’s desk.
“You will notice that the orders are issued in very general terms. The fleet to be withdrawn to Earth orbit as soon as possible, all advanced bases to be deactivated, the Lunar bases to be reinforced. As soon as enough transports are available they will be used to ferry troops to the Earth-orbiting colonies. They will be occupied in force. I have positive information that the colonies’ sympathies are with the rebels, not with their home world. And the same thing will be done with orbital satellite stations. Do you have any questions?”
“Will there be a shortage of food? I heard that we are going to go hungry. I had my wife send in a large order for food but it was not filled. What does it mean?”
The man is a coward — and a fool, Thurgood-Smythe thought to himself. Worried about his failure to be a hoarder! I suppose that is a new word to him. And to most people. They’ll find out what it means when we shoot a few of them. For hoarding, and spreading defeatist rumors as well.