Dogood drummed a tuneless solo on the rim of the direct vision port and looked out over a flat, dung-hued landscape to the smooth, empty curve of the horizon. It was the third time he had left the scanner in as many minutes and he recognized that he was showing signs of tension.
Light level was permanently low on Copreus. Well-lit by the shadowless glow of the command cabin, his reflected image appeared on the plexiglass as though superimposed on the grey-brown rock like a brooding genie. A tall, wide-shouldered figure, in white, belted coveralls, with the stylised map of Earth planet in blue and gold on the left breast pocket and the rank tabs of a Controller on the epaulettes.
Wide-spaced green eyes stared back at him. High-domed forehead, brown hair, thick straight eyebrows. A thinnish face, with a long, inquisitive nose. It was comfortably familiar, a touchstone that he was still at the urgent end of the quick-dead continuum.
Reassured on that point, he went back to his console and tapped some more. It made no difference to the leisurely approach speed of the excursion module he was waiting for; but it kept him from grinding his teeth.
Finally, he shoved the ivorine stylus into its slot and found something else for his idle hands to do, aware that it was all compensatory action and that he would, basically, like to be clubbing his absent colleague with a marlin spike.
He checked over the power console. It was all systems go. Centaur was ready to lift off, with the final count down hanging on the delay button. Two minutes after the module was in its bay, they could be clawing out of this ash pit on a course for Zeta beacon and the first short leg of rationalized time.
He gravitated to the communications desk and sent up the flexible aerial rod to fifty metres from the cone. The recognition bleep from the module was strength nine, and he tuned round in a circular sweep, as he had done times without number since they arrived.
In all that time, the only organized sound he had ever heard was the continuous homing signal of the robot beacon. Now, when traffic was boosted by a hundred per cent and a totally strange call sounded out through the p.a., he looked at the gear in simple disbelief.
But the auto recorder had taken it up and a thin ticker tape was coiling out into its can.
There was an abrupt stop and then the eteliolated blip of a far distant response. Even the booster, working overtime, could barely bring it up to a readable level.
Two ships, then, were moving into this empty quarter in the vast no-man's-land between the Rim and the inner ring of I.G.O. space.
Years ago it could only have been a patrolling squadron of the Inter-Galactic Organization itself. But the days of gunboat diplomacy were long gone. I.G.O's overwhelming superiority had been pared down to a dubious balance of power and a long defensive retreat to the centres which it could hold.
The Rim powers of the Outer Galactic Alliance, held in check for millennia by the advanced cultures of the I.G.O., were on the move, reinforced by new allies from outside the galaxy. In the long confrontation of a highly civilized system by a barbaric rival, time was on the side of the barbarians.
Dogood fed the data on for decode and watched a thin band of running text appear at the foot of the main scanner. Language identification established that the original was in Scotian. The nearer ship was out of rationalized time and forty minutes distant from the gravisphere of Copreus.
In spite of the secrecy of the mission and the careful preservation of radio silence on the last stint, somebody had done the sum and sent a ship to investigate.
Well, they could have Copreus. In a week's detailed check, there had been no evidence that it held any useful minerals that would justify a showdown with O.G.A. Now it was simply a matter of getting back alive with a NIL return.
He lifted his space suit out of its locker and began to seal up, using quick, economical movements and keeping one eye on the text.
The message was routine, a report of position and course to a superior. From that distance, they would already know the size and status of the ship down on Copreus.
Confirmation came with the answering signal, "Check. Destroy civilian ship. Keep alive minimum of two crew for interrogation. Out."
)
After millennia of probing into the galaxy, the long retreat had begun. Centaur was a temporary plug in the dyke that kept out the flood of marauding extra-terrestrials. But her crew of two had their own problem when the Time Beacons began to fail. Still, life has to be lived out, wherever or whenever consciousness is, at the level of the situation that exists there. Ava Mallam and Bob Dogood had a complex maze to tread in sorting out the angles of twin lives in counterpoint. And meanwhile, time was catching them in a deadly grip.
