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Ah may I be relieved of my command now?"
Crane flushed. "Oh, hell, Admiral "
"Don't say anything," said the old man quickly. "I'll concede that you clipped me on the button,
and I'll admit it hurt. But I have to say to you that I know it was time, past time. Immediate command
is your job and it doesn't do either of us any good for me to cling to it." He punched Crane
affectionately on the shoulder and walked off before Crane could answer, going aft through the ward
room.
Now if that's a shadow, Crane thought, it's a big one...
He called to Chip Morton, "Buzz Jamieson for me."
A moment later, Morton said, "No answer from the sick bay, sir."
"I wanted a casualty report. I hope he "
"Oh, he reported five minutes ago. Nothing so far but bruises and a dislocated finger on the cook.
I guess he's scouting around for any more."
"Guess so. As you go, Mr. Morton. I'm going aft."
"Aye-aye, sir."
And there's another one, thought Crane, moving aft. Morton. He had been so used to Morton all
his adult life that he had forgotten how to look at the man. Listen to that snappy aye-aye. He was
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getting from Crane the one thing which apparently he had always wanted flat orders, a demand
for obedience. He seemed much happier.
Crane stepped into the magazine, and smiled at the after portside launching tube. Everything was
shipshape here, the advanced Polaris missile programmed and sealed, with statically charged carbon
particles in the warhead. He walked over to it and slapped the hose-like power supply cable which
arched up from the deck to the launch control housing. "Good ol' horse," he said and slapped it again,
whereupon it came away from the box and toppled limply onto the deck.
Crane stared for one appalled moment, then flipped the four locking levers on the launch control
box and threw up the lid. Inside was not the shambles he half feared he might see. It was much worse
than that. It was neat as could be. The clutter of parts had been efficiently tidied up: two tubes were
gone, three thermistors and a diode were gone; most importantly, the preset step relay was gone.
He slammed down the lid and sprinted for the nearest intercom, which happened to be in the sick
bay. He burst in. Dr. Hiller was standing beside the desk. " 'Scuse me," he grunted, and half lifted,
half shoved her aside, and dove for the key. "Chip, hook me to the Admiral, private, quick. I'm in the
sick bay."
He pounded an impatient fist against the desk top while he waited out the interminable eight
seconds. He found himself looking at Susan Hiller's face, which wore that wide-eyed, dispassionate,
observing look. Well, let her observe. "Admiral," he barked at the first sound from the intercom,
"Crane here. Somebody's scoured out the launch control box on our prepared missile. How far are we
from firing point?"
"Right on, a hundred fathoms low. What do you mean scoured?"
"I mean sabotaged. How much time until launching?"
A pause. "Forty-six minutes."
Forty-six minutes. And if the old man's calculations were right, they fired in forty-six minutes or
they didn't fire at all, and if they didn't fire, the belt of flame would reach a critical state, widen, and
englobe the earth.
Because you bragged on yourself, the inner Crane said snidely. Pride goeth before a fall. And he
answered it, I'll do what I have to do right up to the end. No sense getting mad at me. I was made like
that.
He said, "Please, Admiral get back here. Maybe we "
"He's on his way," said the intercom in Emery's voice.
"We've got one ace in the hole," he told Dr. Hiller, just because she was there. "The manual
firing. But that has to be done from outside."
"Oh?" she said, but he had already gone. He went, not through the corridor, but at a dead run past
her room and into Alvarez's, banging right through and out the second door, which he recalled facing
the nearest of the four one-man escape hatches. He was only mildly aware of Alvarez rising slowly
from his settee to stare at him through the door he had left open in his flight; then he was un-dogging
the hatch, clawing out the suit which hung there, ripping at his buttons with his free hand. He
discarded shoes, trousers and shirt, and sat down on the high sill to fight his way into the clinging
fabric. Once he was in it, with the hood pushed back leaving his face free, he ran forward to the
magazine. Emery and the Admiral were there. Emery showed only perplexity, Nelson was merely
busy; neither showed fear. "The warhead charge hasn't been messed with, anyway," announced the
Admiral as Crane pelted up to them. "Propelling charges are okay. It's just the launch impulse she
won't get."
"Can't we cannibalize one of the others?" Emery demanded.
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"Damn it, no: this is a XII; the others are all Tens. I blame myself; I should've used something
we had two of."
"A Ten might not do the job," Crane pointed out. "This one positively will."
Jamieson showed up: now, this man showed fear white, wet, tight-drawn fear. "Have you seen
Dr. Hiller?"
Emery nodded toward a door on the inboard bulkhead. "Down to the aquarium, I think."
Wordless, Jamieson sprang to the door and disappeared. Emery said, "Ah youth. Ah spring,"
dourly.
The p.a. system crackled at them, "Captain Crane. Call the greenhouse, please."
Crane swore and padded back to the sick bay. "Crane," he said into the intercom, which told him,
"There's a lot of shipping hanging around up there. We're in luck one way, though either they have
no sound gear or they're not using it."
"Keep me posted," said Crane, and went back to the Admiral. He reported, and Nelson shook his
head. "That is un-good. With no company, we could fire this thing from on deck. But if they see us
before we launch, they'll blow us clear to the Van Allen belt."
"I'm going out, sir," said Crane. "Lu, snatch me down that manual launching trigger."
Emery, on tiptoe, got one of the heavy, small, flat devices. "Give it here," said Nelson. He looked
at his wrist. "I have 15 hours 39 minutes uh... nine, ten seconds."
"I make it nine seconds," said Emery. I set it this morning."
"Close enough." Nelson palmed a knife out of his pocket, opened a screwdriver blade and
worked on the trigger. One screw wound clockwork inside; another set the time. "Here you go."
Crane took the device and ran forward, followed by Emery, who took the tanks from their hook
and assisted in getting them strapped on. "Don't stop to go fishin' or anything," he said with forced
casualness. "You have all of nineteen minutes."
Crane nodded and pulled on the hood. Emery checked the zippers and seals, and coupled in the
hose. Crane fumbled his gloved hand over the seam between faceplate and hood and found it intact.
Emery held up both hands and shook them in front of the faceplate, and Crane responded with thumb
and forefinger in a circle. He stepped into the closet-sized airlock, pulled the hatch shut and swung the
dog-lever, then opened the seacock. The chamber filled with alarming speed. He glanced at his wrist
pressure gauge as soon as his face was submerged, and grunted. Close to 400 feet. The suit could take
it and he could take it, but at such pressures a tank of air was not good for very long.
He got a grip on the outer hand-hold, and opened the hull gate. Suction snatched at him;
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