“Kormork’s still working on that,” the girl captain told him. “Nothing definite, yet.”
In one corner of the big room, somebody had thumbtacked a ten-foot-square map of the Company area to the floor. Paula Quinton and Mrs. Jules Keaveney were on their knees beside it, pushing out handfuls of little pink and white pills that somebody had brought in two bottles from the dispensary across the road, each using a billiard-bridge. The girl in the orange sweater had a handful of scribbled notes, and was telling them where to push the pills. There were other objects on the map, too—pistol-cartridges, and cigarettes, and foil-wrapped food-concentrate wafers. Paula, seeing him, straightened.
“The pink are ours, general,” she said. “The white are the geeks.” Von Schlichten suppressed a grin; that was the second time he’d heard her use that word, this evening. “The cigarettes are airjeeps, the cartridges are combat-cars, and the wafers are lorries or troop-carriers.”
“Not exactly regulation map-markers, but I’ve seen stranger things used. … Captain Malavez!”
“Yes, sir?” The girl captain, rushing past, her hands full of teleprint-sheets, stopped in mid-stride.
“What we need,” he told her, “is a big TV-screen, and a pickup mounted on some sort of a contragravity vehicle at about two to five thousand feet directly overhead, to give us an image of the whole area. Can do?”
“Can try, sir. We have an eight-foot circular screen that ought to do all right for two thousand feet. I’ll implement that at once.”
Going into a temporarily idle telecast booth, he called Konkrook. First he spoke to a civilian who chewed a dead cigar, and then he got Themistocles M’zangwe on the screen.
“How is it, now?” he asked.
“Getting a little better,” the Graeco-African replied. “Half an hour ago, we were shooting geeks out the windows, here; now we have them contained between the spaceport and the native-troops and labor barracks, and down the east side of the island to the farms. We have the wire around the farms on the island electrified, and we’re using almost all our combat contragravity to keep the farms on the mainland clear.” He hesitated for a moment. “Did you hear about Eric and Lemoyne?”
Von Schlichten shook his head.
“We just got a call from Rodolfo MacKinnon. He took a couple of prisoners and made them talk. The whole party that were at Orgzild’s palace were massacred. Some of them were lucky enough to get killed fighting. The geeks took Eric and Hendrik alive; rolled them in a puddle of thermoconcentrate fuel and set fire to them. When we can spare the contragravity, we’re going to drop something on the Kee-geek embassy, over in town.”
“Well, that was what I wanted to call you about—contragravity.” He told M’zangwe about King Kankad’s offer. “His crowd ought to be coming in in a couple of hours. What can you scrape up to send to Kankad’s Town to airlift Kragans in?”
“Well, we have three hundred-and-fifty-foot gun-cutters, one 90 mm gun apiece. The Elmoran, the Gaucho, and the Bushranger. But they’re not much as transports, and we need them here pretty badly. Then, we have five fertilizer and charcoal scows, and a lot of heavy transport lorries, and two one-eighty-foot pickup boats.”
“How about the Piet Joubert?” von Schlichten asked. “She was due in Konkrook from the east about 13:00 today, wasn’t she?”
M’zangwe swore. “She got in, all right. But the geeks boarded her at the dock, within twenty minutes after things started. They tried to lift out with her, and the Channel Battery shot her down into Konkrook Channel, off the Fifty Sixth Street docks.”
“Well, you couldn’t let the geeks have her, to use against us. What do you hear from the other ships?”
“Procyon’s at Grank; we haven’t had any reports of any kind from there, which doesn’t look so good. The Northern Lights is at Grank, too. The Oom Paul Kruger should have been at Bwork, in the east, when the gun went off. And the Jan Smuts and the Christiaan De Wett were both at Keegark; we can assume Orgzild has both of them.”
“All right. I’m sending Aldebaran to Kankad’s, to pick up more reinforcements for you.”
“We can use them! And with Aldebaran, we ought to be able to take the offensive against the city by this time tomorrow. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment. I’ll see about getting Aldebaran sent off, now.”
Leaving the booth, he heard, above the clatter of communications-machines and hubbub of voices, Jules Keaveney arguing contentiously. Evidently Colonel Cheng-Li’s efforts to drag the Resident out of his despondency had been an excessive success.
“But it’s crazy! Not just here; everywhere on Uller!” Keaveney was saying. “How did they do it? They have no telecast equipment.”
“You have me stopped, Jules,” Mordkovitz was replying. “I know a lot of rich geeks have receiving sets, but no sending sets.”
The pattern that had been tantalizing von Schlichten took visible shape in his mind. For a moment, he shelved the matter of the Aldebaran.
“They didn’t need sending equipment, Barney,” he said. “They used ours.”
“What do you mean?” Keaveney challenged.
“Look what happened. Sid Harrington was poisoned in Konkrook. The news, of course, was sent out at once, as the geeks knew it would be, to every residency and trading-station on Uller, and that was the signal they’d agreed upon, probably months in advance. All they had to do was have that geek servant put poison in Harrington’s whiskey, and we did the rest.”
“Well, what was our intelligence doing—sleeping?” Keaveney demanded angrily.
“No, they were writing reports for your civil administration blokes to stuff in the wastebasket, and being called mailed-fist-and-rattling-saber alarmists
