“We don’t know. He must have something to conceal, and you can be pretty sure it’s an ugly something. When that freighter disaster got into every daily press conference of the high brass I knew this was coming. I felt it in my bones”.
“But what will happen if the Commander refuses to let even the Marines land? What will happen then?”.
“We may have to open fire on the Station”, the corporal said. “If the Station is in criminal hands we’ll have no alternative”.
“You talk as if you were in command”.
“I guess every soldier talks like that when his life is in jeopardy. But I’m glad I’m not a five-star general. If I had to make a decision like that” —
But it wasn’t a general who made the crucial decision. It was Admiral John Hayes, Commander of the Eighth Spatial Naval Division, acting on behalf of fifty-seven nations.
He stood in the bridge room of a United States naval cruiser of massive tonnage, staring out through a wide- view observation port at the Station’s glimmering immensity. The cruiser and the Station were moving at almost the same speed, fifteen thousand miles an hour. But now the cruiser was moving just a little faster than the Station, and Admiral Hayes was growing impatient.
Maneuvering into an orbital position almost directly abreast of the Station had been difficult. Commander Hayes’ nerves were badly frayed; and he was not a man who could endure too much frustration. He had signaled the Station twice and received no reply. During that time, both the Station and the Cruiser had completely encircled the Earth at an interval of just a little under two hours.
He turned suddenly from the viewport, his lips set in tight lines. He stared for an instant in silence at the young officer at his side, his mind groping for an argument which would completely justify what he had already decided he must do.
But Lieutenant Commander Kenneth Archer spoke first, saying quietly: “You have no choice, sir”.
Hayes’ features relaxed a little. It was good to know that he had support from a man whose judgment he respected. For an instant the awful aloneness which went with supreme command weighed less heavily upon him.
“It’s absolute defiance, open rebellion”, Hayes said. “I’m forced to assume that the Station is in criminal hands. We’ll never know, probably, just what happened on board that freighter. But we do know that accidents occur. For every thirty ships that berth securely, one meets with some kind of navigational mishap. The damage isn’t always irreparable. More often than not, in fact, it’s quite minor. Usually it means only a delay in berthing, a navigational shift, a circling back for another try. But apparently that freighter really had it. So it gave the show away. Commander Clement must be in league, hand in glove, with whoever is interested in smuggling unauthorized uranium shipments through to Earth for his own personal profit. And to hasten his immediate profit that someone apparently found it to his advantage to trigger a little of the shipment into highly fissionable material on Mars”.
“You know as well as I do who the someone is, sir”, Archer said.
“I guess we both know. But right now my only concern is with the Station. If they ignore my third order to stand by for boarding I’ll have to open fire. The Station’s stolen property just as long as it remains in criminal hands. You can’t get a desperate criminal to surrender your property unless you convince him his own life is in danger. I’ve got to try my best to convince Commander Clement I mean business without destroying the Station”.
“You’ll damage it to some extent, sir. How bad do you think it will be?”.
“I don’t know. I don’t intend to launch an atomic warhead. But I can’t stop short of that if he stays stubborn. I’ve no way of knowing what his breaking point will be. But I do know that if he keeps control of the Station he’ll be in a position to wipe out New York or London”.
“But you’ll make your intentions unmistakably clear before you open fire, sir?”.
“Yes”, Hayes said, wearily. “Yes... of course I will”.
11
CORRISTON took a deep breath and let it out slowly. So far luck had favored him. Now he felt as though he were walking through a deadly jungle where all the animals had suddenly turned friendly. The teeth they bared at him were smiling. The grins were their masks. But the commander didn’t pretend at all... whoever the commander really was!
And then that single question began to gnaw at Corriston like some rat feeding on his flesh: Where was the real Clement now? Was he alive? Was he accessible? Or was he dead?
Corriston’s mental processes were now governed by the most evanescent of impressions: the depth of the shadows on both sides of the corridor; his own shadow lengthening before him; the drone of machinery deep within the Station; the muffled beating of his own heart. Suddenly he was at the end of the corridor and approaching the main control room, his face as grim as death.
Violence he had determined upon, but it would be a very brief, a very effective land of violence. It takes only a second to rip a mask from a man’s face.
Something was happening just outside the main control room door. The three executive officers guarding the door had moved eight or ten paces down the corridor, and the door itself was standing ajar. The executive officers had their backs turned to Corriston and were making no attempt to conceal their agitation. They were very pale, at least, one of them was. Two had their backs completely turned, but Corriston caught a brief glimpse of the third mans profile, and it seemed completely drained of color, as if the mask had stopped mirroring emotion artificially and had allowed the wearer’s actual pallor to seep through.
Corriston glided quickly to the door, passed through it and shut it very quietly behind him.
The commander had his back turned too. He was standing before the viewport, staring out into space.
But the commander did seem dazed, did seem stunned. Corriston could tell by his posture, by the way he held his shoulders, by the utter rigidity of his neck.
Then he saw it, the long cylindrical hull touched by a pale glimmer of starlight, the circular, glowing ports, the massive, atomic-projectile launching turrets at its base. He saw it through the viewport, saw it past the commander’s stiffening shoulders — an American war cruiser of formidable tonnage and armed with sufficient fire power to shatter a small moon.
All right, let the Big Dark contain it for a moment, poised out there, ready for any contingency. Right at the moment a scoundrel must be unmasked in a very stark way. Whatever trouble he had brought upon himself, he must be made to face it now without the mask.
Corriston unholstered his gun and walked toward the commander across the deck. He came up behind him and thrust the gun into the small of his back.
“Turn around”, he ordered. “Don’t make any other move. Just turn slowly and face me. I want to take a good look at your face”.
If the commander was startled, he didn’t show it. Perhaps the war cruiser had dealt him such a crushing blow that he was no longer capable of experiencing shock. Or his control may have been extraordinary. Corriston had no way of knowing and it didn’t concern him too much.
He was chiefly interested in the commander’s eyes. He had never before seen eyes quite so piercing in their stare or narrowed in quite such an ugly way.
The commander spoke almost instantly and his voice had a steel-cold rasp. “Well?” he said.
Just a few words — just the shortest possible question he could have asked.
Corriston said: “You re wearing a mask, aren’t you, commander?”.
The impostor’s expression did not change, but his hand went instinctively to his throat.
“Remove your tie and unbutton your collar”, Corriston said.
The man made another quick gesture with his hand in the direction of his throat. But it seemed involuntary, protective, for he did not touch his collar.
Corriston shifted his weapon a little, moving the barrel upward until it pressed very firmly against the