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When the Bigglersporters emerged from the meeting, they found that their own space-yacht had been commandeered and sent off to Amaterasu and Beowulf for assistance, that the regiment of local infantry they had enlisted from the King of Tradetown had been taken over by the Rivington authorities, and that the Gilgamesh freighter they had chartered to transport them to Gram would now take them to Marduk.
The voice from the spaceport control building said briskly: "Demolition charges placed, sir. Ready to evacuate and fire. Sir, the space-yacht Sylva sends a message to the captain of the pirate ship. It says they'll wait." Bors said, "Damn! All right." Then into the broadcast-microphone, "Two-and-a-half minutes. There will be no further count-down.
He strode from the council-chamber. As the door closed behind him, he ground his teeth. The stout man, Morgan, of the space-yacht Sylva, paced up and down the room where he waited to be called. His daughter sat tranquilly in a chair. She smiled pleasantly at Bors when he came in. Morgan turned to face him. "Here's some Talents, Incorporated information," he said zestfully. "The cabinet is scared.
"Yes, sir. One moment! It's calling, sir! Here it is ." There was a clicking, and then there came a voice which had the curious quality of a loudspeaker sound picked up and relayed through another loudspeaker. "Calling ground! Calling ground! Space-yacht Sylva reports arrival and asks coordinates for landing. Our mass is two hundred tons standard. Purpose of visit, pleasure-travel." A pause.
"How do you know that?" demanded Bors. "The Department for Predicting Dirty Tricks was reading old news-reports," she told him. "We're leaving now. 'Bye." "Goodbye," said Bors, and sighed, not knowing whether he felt regret or relief. The space-yacht Sylva flicked out of sight. It had gone into overdrive. Bors realized that he hadn't noticed which way it pointed. He should have taken note.
Bors had arrived at the grimmest decision of his life when his cabin speaker said curtly: "Captain Bors, sir. Space-yacht Sylva calling. Asks for you." "I'm here," said Bors. Gwenlyn's voice came out of the speaker. "Are you in trouble, Captain? One of our Talents insists that you are." Bors swallowed. "I thought you'd gone on as you were supposed to do. Yes. There is trouble.
That was probably the very least of what they did to him. They've turned him into a zombi." "Well, how did Myrna get to Moonbase?" "That was Lady Valerie, as much as anybody else. She and Sir Thomas Kobbly, and Captain Rainer. They armed the servants at Cragdale with hunting rifles and everything else they could scrape up, captured Prince Edvard's space-yacht, and took off in her.
In such a case this Ministry and all the others would hastily be doused with incendiary material and fired, and it would desperately be hoped that all the planet's records went up in the flames. Captain Bors flung more and more papers on the blaze. He came to an end of them. The communicator buzzed, again. He answered once more. "Sir, the space-yacht Sylva is landed.
Long before he reached Walden, of course, he could have his own crew so terrified that they'd fight like fiends for fear of what he might do to them if they didn't. But if he could keep the space-yacht also He nodded gravely. He liked the new possibility. If it didn't work, there was the first plan in reserve.
Space-yacht Sylva reports breakout from overdrive and asks coordinates for landing. Purpose of visit, pleasure-travel." Bors swore, then smiled to himself. Gwenlyn had threatened to do something drastic! "Say landing's forbidden," he commanded an instant later. "Advise immediate departure." He pressed a button and said evenly: "One minute gone! In two minutes more we send our bombs and take off."
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