Tales of the Flying Mountains by Poul Anderson Page B

said. “I wonder how the food in Rehab is these days.”
    â€œWant me to do the talking?” Blades asked. Chung wasn’t built for times as hectic as the last few hours, and was worn to a nubbin. He himself felt immensely keyed up. He’d always liked a good fight.
    â€œSure.” Chung pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and began to fill the cabin with smoke. “You have a larger stock of rudeness than I.”
    Presently the screen showed Hulse, rigid at his post on the bridge. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said. “What’s the trouble?”
    â€œPlenty,” Blades answered. “Clear everybody else out of there; let your ship orbit free a while. And seal your circuit.”
    Hulse reddened. “Who do you think you are?”
    â€œWell, my birth certificate says Michael Joseph Blades. I’ve got some news for you concerning that top-secret gadget you told us about. You wouldn’t want unauthorized personnel listening in.”
    Hulse leaned forward till he seemed about to fall through the screen. “What’s this about a hazard?”
    â€œFact. The Altair is in distinct danger of getting blown to bits.”
    â€œHave you gone crazy? Get me the captain of the Pallas. ”
    â€œVery small bits.”
    Hulse compressed his lips. “All right, I’ll listen to you for a short time. You had better make it worth my while.”
    He spoke orders. Blades scratched his back while he waited for the bridge to be emptied and wondered if there was any chance of a hot shower in the near future.
    â€œDone,” said Hulse. “Give me your report.”
    Blades glanced at the telltale. “You haven’t sealed your circuit, Admiral.”
    Hulse said angry words, but complied. “Now will you talk?”
    â€œSure. This secrecy is for your own protection. You risk court-martial otherwise.”
    Hulse suppressed a retort.
    â€œOkay, here’s the word.” Blades met the transmitted glare with an almost palpable crash of eyeballs. “We decided, Mr. Chung and I, that any missile rig as haywire as yours represents a menace to navigation and public safety. If you can’t control your own nuclear weapons, you shouldn’t be at large. Our charter gives us local authority as peace officers. By virtue thereof and so on and so forth, we ordered certain precautionary steps taken. As a result, if that warhead goes off, I’m sorry to say that NASS Altair will be destroyed.”
    â€œAre you … have you——” Hulse congealed. In spite of everything, he was a competent officer, Blades decided. “Please explain yourself,” he said without tone.
    â€œSure,” Blades obliged. “The station hasn’t got any armament, but trust the human race to juryrig that. We commandeered the scoopships belonging to this vessel and loaded them with Jovian gas at maximum pressure. If your missile detonates, they’ll dive on you.”
    Something like amusement tinged Hulse’s shocked expression. “Do you seriously consider that a weapon?”
    â€œI seriously do. Let me explain. The ships are orbiting free right now, scattered through quite a large volume of space. Nobody’s aboard them. What is aboard each one, though, is an autopilot taken from a scooter, hooked into the drive controls. Each pilot has its sensors locked onto your ship. You can’t maneuver fast enough to shake off radar beams and mass detectors. You’re the target object, and there’s nothing to tell those idiot computers to decelerate as they approach you.
    â€œOf course, no approach is being made yet. A switch has been put in every scooter circuit, and left open. Only the meteorite evasion units are operative right now. That is, if anyone tried to lay alongside one of those scoopships, he’d be detected and the ship would skitter away. Remember, a scoopship hasn’t much mass, and she does have engines