Читать книгу The Spectre General - Theodore Cogswell - Страница 6

CHAPTER TWO

Conrad Krogson, Supreme Director of War Base Three of Sector Seven of the Galactic Protectorate, stood at quaking attention before the viewscreen of his space communicator. It was an unusual position for the director. He was accustomed to having people quake while he talked.

“The Lord Protector just received a tip that General Carr is still alive!” said the sector commander. “He’s yelling for blood, and if it’s a choice between yours and mine, you know whose it’s going to be!”

“But sir,” Krogson protested in a quavering voice, “I can’t do anything more than I am doing. I’ve had double security checks running since the last time there was an alert, and they haven’t turned up a thing. And I’m so shorthanded now that if I pull another random purge, I won’t have enough techs left to work the base.”

“That’s your problem, not mine,” said the sector commander viciously, “because I’m giving you exactly ten days to produce something that is big enough to take the heat off me. If you don’t, I’ll break you, Krogson. If I’m sent to the uranium mines, you’ll be sweating right alongside me. That’s a promise!”

Krogson’s face blanched.

“Any questions?” snapped the sector commander.

“Yes,” said Krogson.

“Well, don’t bother me with them. I’ve got troubles of my own!” The screen went dark.

Krogson slumped into his chair and stared dully at the blank screen. Finally he roused himself with an effort and let out a bellow that rattled the lightpens in the cup atop his desk.

“Schankle! Get in here!”

A gnomelike little figure scuttled through the door and bobbed obsequiously. “Yes, Director?”

“I need advice,” said Krogson. “The Lord Protector has the shakes again, and his eyes are on us.”

“What is it this time?”

“General Carr!” said the director gloomily. “The ex-Number Two.”

“I thought he’d been reeducated.”

“So did I,” said Krogson, “but he must have slipped out some way. The Protector thinks he’s started up an underground.”

“He’d be a fool if he didn’t,” said the little man. “The Lord Protector isn’t as young as he once was, and his grip on the Protectorate is getting a little shaky.”

“Maybe so, but he’s still strong enough to get us before General Carr gets him. The sector commander just gave the word. We produce or else!”

“We?” said Schankle unhappily.

“Of course,” snapped Krogson. “We’re in this together. Now let’s get to work! If you were Carr, where would be the logical place for you to hide out?”

“Well,” said Schankle thoughtfully, “if I were as smart as Carr is supposed to be, I’d find myself a hideout right on Prime Base. Everything’s so fouled up there that they’d never find me.”

“That’s out for us,” said Krogson. “We can’t go rooting around the Lord Protector’s own backyard. What would Carr’s next best bet be?”

Schankle thought for a moment. “He might go out to one of the deserted systems,” he said slowly. “There must be half a hundred stars in our own base area that haven’t been visited since the old empire broke up. Our ships don’t get around the way they used to, and chances are slim that anybody would stumble onto him accidentally.”

“It’s a possibility,” said the director thoughtfully, “a bare possibility.” He pounded his desk in sudden resolution. “But by the Protectorate, at least it’s something! Alert the section heads for a staff meeting in half an hour. I want every scout sent on a quick check of every system in our area!”

“I beg your pardon, Director,” said Schankle, “but half our light ships are red-lined for essential maintenance and the other half should be. Anyway it would take months to check every possible hideout in this area, even if we used the whole fleet.”

“I know,” said Krogson, “but we’ll have to do what we can with what we have. At least I’ll be able to report to sector command that we’re doing something. Tell Astrogation to set up a series of search patterns. We won’t have to check every planet. A single quick sweep through each system will do the trick. Even Carr can’t run a base without power. Where there’s power, there’s flux leakage, and flux leakage can be detected a long way off. Put everyone on double shifts and have all detection gear double-checked.”

“Can’t do that either,” said Schankle. “There aren’t more than a dozen techs left. Most of them were transferred to Prime Base last week.”

Director Krogson threw up his hands. “How in the name of the Bloody Blue Pleiades am I supposed to keep a war base going without technicians? You tell me, Schankle, you always seem to know the answers.”

Schankle coughed modestly. “Well, sir,” he said, “as long as you have a situation where technicians are sent to the uranium mines for making mistakes, it’s going to be an unpopular vocation. And, as long as the Lord Protector of the moment is afraid that his subordinates have ideas about grabbing his job—which they generally do—he’s going to keep his fleet as strong as possible and theirs so weak they aren’t dangerous. The best way to do that is grabbing techs. If most of a base’s ships are sitting around waiting for repair, no commander will be able to act on any ambitions he may happen to have. Add that to the obvious fact that our whole technology has been on a downward spiral for the last three hundred years and you have your answer.”

Krogson nodded gloomily. “Sometimes I feel as if we were all on a dead ship falling into a dying sun,” he said. His voice suddenly altered. “But in the meantime we have our necks to save. Get going, Schankle!”

Schankle bobbed and darted out of the office.