most of them, were a mess. Some consisted of nothing whatsoever save shots of empty space.
But some…
Thor Bjornsen was right. It had been a balls-up.
The four Earth fleets, those of the United States, Common Europe, the Soviet Complex and China, had zeroed-in like madmen, all firing everything they had, missiles, laser beams, flakflak guns of all categories, firing wildly.
There was no sign he could make out of the Kradens firing back, although, of course, there was always some chance of them using weapons that were undetectable with Earth equipment.
Don flinched when he saw a Common Europe cruiser misdirect a laser beam and cut entirely through a Chinese cruiser, and winced again when two American Two Man Scouts crashed headlong into each other.
The Kradens, seemingly completely confused at this hysterical attack, broke their original neat formation, at first sped up unbelievingly, and then disappeared, leaving only the smoldering hulks of their destroyed craft behind.
But the hysterical shooting, beaming and launching of nuclear missiles continued on for possibly an hour more. Spacecraft of the four fleets darted about, firing, sometimes colliding.
It was the most horrifying spectacle Don Mathers had ever witnessed, and the most senseless. Thor Bjornsen had been right. Those so-called Kradens had not been a military expedition. What they had been, only the Almighty Ultimate knew. Merchants or ambassadors attempting to contact other intelligent life forms? Who could know? And then another truth came home to him. That Kraden derelict which he had beamed over and over with his flakflak gun. It hadn’t been a new arrival. Not even, as Thor had tried to figure out, a new missionary to attempt to establish contact with the aggressive human race. It had been a leftover from the first conflict. It had been destroyed in the first contact and had been drifting in space for half a century, undetected. He didn’t know, but possibly the Kradens had devices, still operative over all the decades, that could repulse Earth type sensors. Or possibly their crafts were made of some material that radar wouldn’t pick up.
When it was all over, he flicked off the screen and sank back into his chair. All his instincts were to go to the auto-bar and dial himself a bottle; but he didn’t. He had to think.
He attempted to recapitulate and it came hard. It was all too unbelievable.
There had been a cover-up. There must have been. The greatest cover-up of all history. The biggest military White wash of all time. Bigger than the reports Cortes and his men had made of the conquest of Mexico.
It came to him how it could have been done. Most of those involved in the fight had no complete picture of what was happening. Four Earth fleets were in the hysterical mess. There was no central command, largely they couldn’t even understand each other’s languages. They simply lit in, each spacecraft, each man, for himself. Chaos!
And then when it was all over, they returned triumphantly to Earth, now united, now no longer four space fleets, but one. Then the highest ranking officers had compiled the mass of video-tapes that had been taken, combined them.
Those at the top could not afford to admit they had attacked, without provocation, a peaceful armada from outer space. They couldn’t afford to lose their high positions, their prestige, their commands.
Those who had raised voices of dissent, assuming there were any, must have been suppressed. The military- industrial apparatus must have swung into high gear. Why, otherwise, were these video-tapes supposedly of high security nature? Security against whom? The Kradens? Obviously, the Kradens couldn’t possibly have access to them. The security applied only to Earthlings, members of the human race. They were the ones from whom the information was being withheld.
And why?
He reactivated the library booster screen, dialed, and said, “I wish to know what corporations are most active in trying to breakthrough in the field of nuclear fusion.”
It was the same sharp looking young man that he had confronted hours earlier.
He said, “That information is restricted, Colonel.”
“I know, I know,” Don said wearily. “However…”
“Yes, Colonel Mathers.”
It took some digging around, but it finally emerged that Lawrence Demming and Maximilian Rostoff dominated the various organizations that were working on nuclear fusion, none of which, for various reasons, were having much luck. Scientists died, sometimes under strange circumstances; projects, seemingly doing fine, were aborted; this, that and the other thing. Seemingly the project was jinxed.
It didn’t take much to come to the conclusion that Demming and Rostoff didn’t want nuclear fusion to take over from the uranium utilizing nuclear fission.
So he finally stood and made his way to the elevator and instructed it to take him to the reception room of Demming’s private sanctum sanctorum, where the other usually was at this time of day.
At the entrance to the inner sanctum was posted one of the bodyguards.
Don said, “I want to see Demming.”
The bodyguard said, politely enough, “You don’t have an appointment, Colonel Mathers, and he and Mr. Rostoff are having a conference. He says to keep everybody out.”
“That doesn’t apply to me,” Don snapped. “Get out of my way.”
The other barred the way, saying reluctantly, “He said it applied to everybody, Colonel Mathers.”
Don put his full weight into a blow that started at his waist, dug deep into the other’s middle. The guard doubled forward, his eyes bugging. Don gripped his hands together into a double fist and brought them upward in a vicious uppercut.
The other fell forward and to the floor.
Don stood over him for a moment, watchful for movement which didn’t develop. The hefty bodyguard wasn’t as tough as he looked. Had he moved, Don would have kicked him in the side of the head.
He knelt and fished from under the other’s left arm a vicious looking short-barreled laser pistol. He tucked it under his own jacket into his belt, then turned and opened the door and entered the supposedly barred office.
Demming and Rostoff looked up from their work across a double desk. The subservient Dirck Bosch was, as usual, on his feet and in the background a bit. Somewhat to Don’s surprise, Alicia was also present, seated to one side, rather idly going through an old-fashioned hardcover book.
She said, “Why, Don. Where have you been this last week or so?”
“Learning the facts of life,” he told her.
Demming leaned back in his swivel chair and said, “You’re sober for a change.”
Don Mathers pulled up a stenographer’s chair and straddled it, leaning his arms on the back. He said coldly, “Comes a point when even the lowest worm turns. I’ve been checking out a few things.”
Demming grunted amusement.
Don said, “Space patrols have been cut far back, although the people haven’t been informed of the fact.”
Rostoff snorted. “Is that supposed to interest us? That’s the problem of the military and the government.”
“Oh, it interests us, all right,” Don growled. “Currently, the corporation controls probably five-sixths of the system’s uranium.”
Demming said in greasy satisfaction, “More Like seven-eights and increasing by the week.”
“Why, then?” Don said bluntly. “Why are you doing what you’re doing?”
They both scowled but another element was present in their expressions too. They thought the question unintelligent. Alicia put down her book and frowned puzzlement.
Demming closed his eyes and said in his porcine manner, “Tell him, Max.”
Rostoff said, “Look, Mathers, don’t be stupid. Remember when we told you, during that first interview, that we wanted your name in the corporation, among other reasons, because we could use a man who was above the law? That a maze of ridiculous binding ordinances have been laid on business through the centuries?”
“I remember,” Don said bitterly.
“Well, it goes both ways. Government today is also bound, very strongly, and even in great emergency, not to interfere in business. These complicated laws balance each other, you might say. Our whole legal system is based
