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Updated: June 26, 2025
"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.
Within a week, the films taken at the camp had been shown so frequently on telecast as to wear out their interest value. Baby, however, was still available for new pictures, and in a few days a girl had to be hired to take care of his fan mail. Once, entering a bar, Jack thought he saw Baby sitting on a woman's head.
He was right, of course. Von Schlichten admitted it. "I'm too old to play cowboy, like this," he said. "Back to the Reservation; telecast station." Looking back over his shoulder, he saw eight or ten more flares alight, and the ground-flashes of exploding shells and rockets; the air above the road was sparkling with gun-flames.
I can criticize the impersonation; remember, I knew Trod very well. You know, I was his hostess, too. I met many of the people with whom he was associated, and they know me. Would things look more convincing if I appeared on the telecast with your man?" "It certainly would; it would be a great help!" he told her enthusiastically. "Maybe you girls ought to get up, now.
And don't bother taking any prisoners; we can't spare personnel to guard them." Kormork grinned. The taking of prisoners had always been one of those irrational Terran customs which no Ullran regarded with favor, or even comprehension. There was fresh intelligence from Konkrook, by the time he returned to the telecast station.
Less than a minute later, a voice came out of one of the speakers: "Eglonsby calling Space Vikings. Your bomb has done great damage. Will you hold your fire until somebody in authority can communicate with you? This is the chief operator at the central State telecast station; I have no authority to say anything to you, or discuss anything."
"Emmett," he said, "those orbiters you have strung around this planet, two thousand miles out, for telecast rebroadcast stations. How much of a crew could be put on one of them?" Pearson laughed. "Crew of what, general? White mice, or trained cockroaches? There isn't room inside one of those things for anything bigger to move around." "Well, I know they're automatic, but how do you service them?"
A voice at the telecast station furnished it; he punched it out. "Von Schlichten, right overhead. That you, Major Falkenberg? Nice going, major; how are your casualties?" "Not too bad. Twenty or thirty Kragans and loyal Skilkans, and eight Terrans killed; about as many wounded." "Pretty good, considering what you're running into. Get many of your Kragans mounted on those hipposaurs?"
A couple of girl lieutenants from Signals, going over the script of the evening telecast, to be transmitted to the Cyrano, on orbit five thousand miles off planet and relayed from thence to Terra via Lunar. Sid Chamberlain, the Trans-Space News Service man, was with them. Like Selim and herself, he was a civilian; he was advertising the fact with a white shirt and a sleeveless blue sweater.
We want to be able to make a couple of practice drops." There was no use, he thought, of raising hopes which might prove premature. He told Paula Quinton, of course, and Themistocles M'zangwe, and, by telecast on sealed beam, King Kankad and Air-Commodore Hargreaves.
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