Tales of the Flying Mountains by Poul Anderson Page A

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    Blades cursed, whirled, and ran.
    His way was clear. Most of the men were still in their dorms, preparing to leave. He traveled in huge lowgravity leaps.
    The radio shack rose out of the surface near the verandah. Blades tried the door. It didn’t budge. A chill went through him. He backed across the corridor and charged. The door was only plastiboard—
    He hit with a thud and a grunt, and rebounded with a numbed shoulder. But it looked so easy for the cops on 3V!
    No time to figure out the delicate art of forcible entry. He hurled himself against the panel, again and again, heedless of the pain that struck in flesh and bone. When the door finally, splinteringly gave way, he stumbled clear across the room beyond, fetched up against an instrument console, recovered his balance, and gaped.
    The operator lay on the floor, swearing in a steady monotone. He had been efficiently bound with his own blouse and trousers, which revealed his predilection for maroon shorts with zebra stripes. There was a lump on the back of his head, and a hammer lay close by. Ellen must have stolen the tool and come in here with the thing behind her back. The operator would have had no reason to suspect her.
    She had not left the sender’s chair, not even while the door was under attack. Only a carrier beam connected the Sword with the Altair . She continued doggedly to fumble with dials and switches, trying to modulate it and raise the ship.
    â€œPraises be … you haven’t had advanced training … in radio,” Blades choked. “That’s … a long-range set … pretty special system—” He weaved toward her. “Come along, now.”
    She spat an unladylike refusal.
    Theoretically, Blades should have enjoyed the tussle that followed. But he was in poor shape at the outset. And he was a good deal worse off by the time he got her pinioned.
    â€œOkay,” he wheezed. “Will you come quietly?”
    She didn’t deign to answer, unless you counted her butting him in the nose. He had to yell for help to frog-march her aboard ship.
    â€œ Pallas Castle calling NASS Altair . Come in, Altair. ”
    The great ovoid swung clear in space, among a million cold stars. The asteroid had dwindled out of sight. A radio beam flickered across emptiness. Within the hull, the crew and a hundred refugees sat jammed together. The air was thick with their breath and sweat.
    Blades and Chung, seated by the transmitter, felt another kind of thickness, the pull of the internal field. Earth-normal weight dragged down every movement; the enclosed cabin began to feel suffocatingly small. We’d get used to it again pretty quickly , Blades thought. Our bodies would, that is. But our own selves, tied down to Earth forever — no .
    The vision screen jumped to life. “NASS Altair acknowledges Pallas Castle, ” said the uniformed figure within.
    â€œOkay, Charlie, go outside and don’t let anybody else enter,” Chung told his own operator.
    The spaceman gave him a quizzical glance, but obeyed. “I wish to report that evacuation of the Sword is now complete,” Chung said formally.
    â€œVery good, sir,” the Navy face replied. “I’ll inform my superiors.”
    â€œWait, don’t break off yet. We have to talk with your captain.”
    â€œSir? I’ll switch you over to——”
    â€œNone of your damned chains of command,” Blades interrupted. “Get me Rear Admiral Hulse direct, toot sweet, or I’ll eat out whatever fraction of you he leaves unchewed. This is an emergency. I’ve got to warn him of an immediate danger only he can deal with.”
    The other stared, first at Chung’s obvious exhaustion, then at the black eye and assorted bruises, scratches, and bites that adorned Blades’s visage. “I’ll put the message through Channel Red at once, sir.” The screen blanked.
    â€œWell, here we go,” Chung