Race Against Time (16 page)

Pei nodded. "John, you have a general education, but your period is the most modern of our three. Could you handle such a craft?"

"I used to dream of being a spaceship captain," John admitted. "I read about
Sputnik
and the orbital flights and really went wild. And of course I've liked science fiction right along. Standard technology—well, it would be suicidal to mess with one of their spaceships. You'd need a super computer just to set course, and I don't know anything about computers."

"Would they resemble the communicators we have used?"

John's mouth fell open. "Yes! If a spaceship were keyed in to one of those units, it could do anything! You'd still have to watch for acceleration and free fall and incorrect orbit...."

"Yes," Pei said. "I shall be our leader—until we prepare to enter space. Then John—"

"Space!" Betsy exclaimed. "What—"

"Will assume command, for he comprehends those problems best," Pei continued without a break. "When we arrive at earth—"

"Earth!"

"Not knowing what we will find, Humé will be our leader, for we may have to fight."

He paused now, but no one had any argument. Pei had evolved a beautiful compromise and an ambitious plan, and they all knew it.

Pei reached out and took Meilan's brush. As he spoke, he made Middle Kingdom doodles on the floor. "Consider a hypothetical case, a contest in which one side has many people, much equipment, and copious information. The other side has few people, poor equipment, and limited knowledge. Yet it must do battle no matter how small its resources. How would it best set about it?"

"Hide and strike," Humé said. "When Kanem was new...."

"Yes, guerrilla warfare," John agreed.

Pei nodded, continuing to write on the floor. "The Hsiung-nu and T'u Chüeh—the barbarian horse-nomads of the western and northern reaches—have employed similar tactics with excellent success. But let us suppose the case is more exaggerated. Perhaps only five or six individuals against an entire planet—and what they say to each other is overheard by the spies of the other side. How might the smaller group prevail?"

John looked at the communicator, startled. Now he saw what Pei was driving at—maybe. Of course the Standards could still be listening! They wouldn't try to close in on the taxi again, but they didn't have to. Every time the purebreds seemed to have escaped a trap, they found a larger one, its jaws closing inexorably. They could not plan anything effective in range of that ever-present Standard ear.

"The smaller group might do best to surrender," Humé said, "and hope for a better opportunity at another time."

Pei nodded no. "Yes."

What?
They had already agreed
not
to surrender! And Pei's expression indicated he was ready to fight, yet his words were the opposite.

"Sometimes it is possible to use a man's own power against him," Pei went on.

"Judo," John said. "He charges; you duck and throw him over your back. But I don't see how—"

"You are correct, of course," Pei said, tapping the communicator panel meaningfully. "When the disparity between opposing forces is too great, there can be no contest. The smaller group can only hurt itself by resisting."

Pei had something in mind, obviously, and not what he was saying. He was speaking for the benefit of the eavesdroppers, leading them astray. Yet the chance of success
was
pretty small, in the long run.

"Maybe the Standards are just waiting for us to come to our senses," John said, playing along now. "Less risky."

Meilan came to him. "The writing on the floor—Pei has a plan," she whispered. "What you called guerrilla. But not on land, not physical. On the communicator, in a landscape we cannot see. Yet we can hide in it by making false pictures with words—all together—while we go to the spaceship. Each must decide what to say, without them knowing."

Then John understood. Modern civilization could not exist without communications, and Pei had grasped that from the perspective of his many-centuries removal from the contemporary scene. If they could somehow obstruct the Standard communications network, there would be chaos, and in that anarchy they very well might take over a spaceship and escape. But how? Overall strategy was one thing; the mundane details were another.

"Pei trusts you know magic words. How to use the strength of their communications system against them," Meilan whispered.

Brother! Now it was up to him again! How
could
they change anything? Nothing a person might say over the phone would knock out the instrument itself! Machines weren't emotional; they did not make judgments; they didn't react. Not
that
way. About all a person could do was tie up the line so that no one else could call the number, making people mad.

John snapped his fingers. Of course! "Call in false reports of our whereabouts," he whispered to Meilan. "And other 'false pictures.' Many of them can be true statements but irrelevant. Irrelevancy still takes up time and channels. Just so the airways are flooded with reports that the authorities have to pay attention to, so that when the
real
report comes in, it can't be distinguished from the others. Meanwhile don't use the communicator for our own journey; keep it on manual. Do we have coordinates for a space port?"

"Humé has many coordinates. I do not know how he found them," she said as she moved back toward Pei.

Routine conversation continued for a few minutes, and the whisperings continued. Then there was a silence. John saw Betsy making notes and did the same himself. They each needed an arsenal of irrelevancy.

Finally Pei looked around. The others nodded.

"Attention," Pei said as he signaled Humé to change course on manual. "T'u Chüeh raiding parties have been sighted on the border. Please address me to the chief of operations."

There was momentary static as a connection was made. "Please repeat the message," a man's voice said.

Pei smiled grimly. "The Huns are invading! Notify the prefect! All troops must be massed for action!"

"Your message is not clear.
Who
is—"

"Huns. Aliens. The barbarian enemy. It is almost too late!"

"Aliens! One moment while I connect you with the Department of Extraplanetary Affairs."

John had an inspiration. "Communicator! How many calls can you handle simultaneously?"

"Four channels are available on this unit."

"Good. Number them one through four. We shall call off the numbers of the ones we wish to use."

Betsy caught on at once. "Channel Two. Attention, all units within the range of this broadcast. There is a dangerous leakage in your primary power supply. Please shut it down until the condition can be corrected. Thank you."

"Channel Three," Ala said. "The palm leaf despises the hippo."

"Channel Three, your message is unclear," a male voice said. "To whom is it addressed?"

"To those who wish to know how to kill the Zin."

"The Zin? Is that an animal? Killing is not permitted...."

"I will narrate the history, since you inquire."

"A simple definition will suffice. The bands are crowded...."

"The river spirit of the great Niger bend was called Zin-kibaru, and he had much magic and music and ruled over the fishes and animals of the water. But there was also a man named Faran whose rice fields were beside the river, and every night Zin-kibaru played his music there and brought the fish to eat Faran's rice. One day Faran went fishing...."

"The airways are very busy. Please define your term more concisely."

John had been ready to start in on Channel Four but couldn't help listening to this peculiar tale. The art of storytelling had been more advanced in bygone centuries!

"...and only caught two hippopotamuses. He was angered by this tiny catch—hardly enough to feed his mother and himself for supper—and decided to go fight Zin-kibaru, the water dragon. They met on an island, and Faran demanded Zin's music. 'We shall fight for it,' Zin said, 'but if I win, I will take your canoe.' Faran was little and fat, while Zin was tall and thin. But Faran was winning when Zin uttered this spell: 'The palm leaf despises the hippo.' Faran fell and lost his canoe."

Suddenly John made a connection. That was the spell Ala had used on him!

"So Faran went home, ashamed. 'You are stupid,' said his mother. 'You did not use the counterspell.' Then Faran took another canoe and went after Zin-kibaru again. Faran was winning, and the Zin fled. When Faran caught up, Zin-kibaru said, 'The palm leaf despises the hippo.' But Faran replied, 'If the sun strikes it, what happens to the palm leaf?' And the Zin fell to the ground. So Faran conquered the dragon and gained much power."

John couldn't pause to savor the information. "Channel Four," he said. "Relay this message to the coast guard through a random channel. As follows: Party of six purebreds observed at coordinates 2121056789, leaving a stolen taxi. Emergency."

Meilan nudged him. "Oh-oh," he said. "Correction, Channel Four: Last two digits are one two." He had forgotten the octal system—a giveaway!

"Channel Two," Betsy said. "Uh, route that through a random system." She had caught on to John's idea: If the call really went through a randomly selected line, it would be difficult or impossible to trace. "Office of the President: A malfunction has been traced to your personal communications set. You are in danger from radiation. Please shut down your set immediately and summon a repair crew."

Humé was guiding the taxi on manual, and there was no sign of pursuit. Was this verbal smoke screen working? They wouldn't know until they landed. It was quite a group effort, though! John listened to the babel of voices for a moment. Pei was telling Channel One another Middle Kingdom tale, evidently taking his cue from Ala. Meilan was on Channel Two now, explaining the psychology of I Ching and instructing the party at the other end in finding a hexagram. Betsy had moved over to Channel Three.

"Route this message randomly to all astronomers," Betsy was saying. "Think of a number. Add fifteen. Subtract four. Delete the number you started with. Multiply the result by two. The number you now have is twenty-two. Remember it, and spread the word."

"That won't work," John warned her. "Remember, their numbering system is octal."

"It is? Communicator, what is my correct answer, then?"

"Twenty-two," the voice replied.

John was taken aback. "But it
can't
be. Not unless...."

Pei broke off from his narration. "Twenty-two in octal would be read eighteen in decimal," he said. "She's not dealing with the numbers she supposes, but the device remains effective."

Betsy said nothing, not wanting to contradict Pei. John was confused, too. How could they tell what system the Standards used if the figures seemed the same?

Well, back to work!

"Channel Four: Route this message randomly to all taxi supervisors, labeled
Urgent!
'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.' " He ran through the rest of it. Then: "Request an immediate response from all taxi passengers, and make note how many answer the question correctly. Turn in the data to the head of the farm bureau for analysis."

Yes, they were guerrillas of communications, hiding behind a barrage of nonsense! It shouldn't work; it
couldn't
work; but Humé kept piloting, and there was no challenge from the Standards.

"One man went to mow!" John sang joyfully, "went to mow the meadow! One man and his dog...." For he spied a complex that very much resembled a space port, and they were gliding toward what had to be a spaceship angled for takeoff.

"Keep broadcasting!" Pei warned as the taxi angled in.

Humé knew what he was doing. The taxi never touched ground. It halted just short of the ship and eased in toward the main lock. Then it touched, and the ports of vehicle and ship phased together.

"Move in and take over, Captain," Pei said, grinning.

More nervous than he would admit, John used his ID to open the panel. He stepped through. Canute plunged through beside him, and suddenly John felt better. Any danger was diminished by the presence of the dog.

The ship was much larger than the taxi, but no space was wasted in hallways or antechambers. He stood in the main travel compartment, from the look of it. Two Standards reclined in stress couches, listening to a communications broadcast. They were absorbed with the message and did not notice John immediately.

"...the eyes, the head, the hands, the feet, and all the other members," a female voice was saying. "Then the Creator set them all in a beautiful garden, where each might live in comfort, so long as they were liberal in almsgiving and showed hospitality to all strangers."

Oh, no! It was one of Ala's stories!

"This is a take-over," John announced loudly. The two heads turned as he fumbled for a better word. "A piracy. A liberation." Everything sounded ridiculous! "I'm assuming command of this ship."

"Oh, a spacejack," the female Standard said. "Everything happens at once! First the com network is swamped with gibberish so we can't get takeoff clearance, and now this!"

"Yes. A spacejack," John said. The word was new to him, but it seemed to fit the situation nicely.

"...disguised as a leper and visited the garden. 'Oh, Eyes,' he cried. 'I am dying of this loathsome disease and must have a bed for the night.' But the Eyes were repulsed by his aspect, and drove him away. So he went to the Head, and said..."

"Does it have to be right now?" the male Standard demanded with irritation. "We are just starting an orbital vacation. We'd have been gone by now if we'd had our clearance for a nonrisk ascent."

"It has to be now," John said. "This vicious beast is impatient." Canute growled obligingly.

"...to the Stomach, who was the only one to remember the command of his Creator. Stomach gave the leper food and lodging and treated him kindly..."

The woman sighed. "Very well. Sign the regular form."

"Sign the form?" John wasn't certain they realized that he meant to steal their ship, not just borrow it.