Eric Frank Russell - The Space Willies

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Eric Frank Russell

THE SPACE WILLIES

CAST OF CHARACTERS

John Leeming

His life depended on his proving a lie.

Mayor Snorkum

When it came to "lapping a pie," the mayor couldn't

be beaten.

Major Klavith

He had a habit of taking fact for fiction - and fiction

for fact

Commodore Keen

There was nothing more important to this commander

than a properly zipped zipper!

Eustace Phenackertiban

His intelligence was such that he was commonly known as "Brain

Child"

Colonel Farmer

He sometimes mistook the scout-pilot barracks for a

day nursery.

HE KNEW he'd stuck his neck out and it was too late to with-

draw. It had been the same since early childhood, when he'd

accepted dares and been sorry immediately afterward. They

say that one learns from experience; if that were true, the

human race would now be devoid of folly. He'd learned

plenty in his time, and forgotten most of it within a week.

So yet again he'd wangled himself into a predicament and

undoubtedly would be left to wangle himself out of it as best

he could.

Once more he knocked at the door, a little harder but not

imperatively. Behind the panels a chair scraped and a harsh

voice responded with obvious impatience:

"Come in!"

Marching inside, he stood at attention before the desk,

head erect, thumbs in line with the seams of the pants, feet

at an angle of forty-five degrees. A robot, he thought, just

a damned robot.

Fleet Admiral Markham surveyed him from beneath bushy

brows, his cold gaze slowly rising from feet to head then de-

scending from head to feet.

"Who are you?"

"Scout-Pilot John Leeming, sir."

"Oh, yes." Markham maintained the stare then suddenly

barked, "Button your fly."

Leeming jerked and showed embarrassment. "I can't, sir.

It has a defective zipper."

"Then why haven't you visited the tailor? Does your com-

manding officer approve of his men appearing before me

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sloppily dressed? I doubt it! What the devil do you mean by

it?"

"With all due respect, sir, I don't see that it matters. Dur-

ing a battle a man doesn't care what happens to his pants so

long as he survives intact."

"I agree," said Markham. "But what worries me is the

question of how much other and more important material

may prove to be substandard. If civilian contractors fail on

little things like zippers, they'll certainly fail on big ones.

Such failures can cost lives."

"Yes, sir," said Leeming, wondering what the other was

getting at.

"A new and untried ship, for instance," Markham went

on. "If it operates as planned, well and good. If it doesn't

. . ." He let the sentence peter out, thought awhile, con-

tinued, "We asked for volunteers for special long-range re-

connaissance patrols. You were the first to hand in your

name. I want to know why."

"If the job has to be done, somebody must do it," Leeming

answered evasively.

"I am fully aware of the fact. But I want to know exactly

why you volunteered." He waited a bit, urged, "Come on,

speak up! I won't penalize a risk-taker for giving his rea-

sons."

Thus encouraged, Leeming said, "I like action. I like work-

ing on my own. I don't like the time-wasting discipline they

go in for around the base. I want to get on with the work for

which I'm suited, and that's all there is to it."

Markham nodded understandingly. "So do most of us. Do you

think I'm not frustrated sitting behind a desk while a

major war is being fought?" Without waiting for a response

he added, "I've no time for a man who volunteers because

he's been crossed in love or anything like that. I want a com-

petent pilot who is an individualist affiicted with the fidgets."

"Yes, sir."

"You seem to fit the part all right. Your technical record is

first-class. Your disciplinary record stinks to high heaven." He

eyed his listener blank-faced. "Two charges of refusing to

obey a lawful order. Four for insolence and insubordination.

One for parading with your cap on back-to-front. What on

Earth made you do that?"

"I had a bad attack of what-the-hell, sir," explained Leem-

ing.

"Did you? Well, it's obvious that you're a confounded

nuisance. The space-base would be better off without you."

"Yes, sir."

"As you know, we and a few allies are fighting a big com-

bine led by the Lathians. The size of the opposition doesn't

worry us. What we lack in numbers we more than make up

for in competence and efficiency. Our war-potential is great

and rapidly growing greater. We'll skin the Lathians alive

before we're through."

Leeming offered no comment, having become tired of

"yessing."

"We've one serious weakness," Markham informed. "We

lack adequate information about the enemy's cosmic hinter-

land. We know how wide the Combine spreads but not how

deep into the starfield it goes. It's true that the enemy is no

wiser with regard to us, but that's his worry."

Again Leeming made no remark.

"Ordinary warships haven't flight-duration sufficiently pro-

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longed to dig deep behind the Combine's spatial front. That

difficulty will be overcome when we capture one or more of

their outpost worlds with repair and refueling facilities.

However, we can't afford to wait until then. Our Intelli-

gence Service wants some essential data just as soon as it

can be got. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good! We have developed a new kind of superfast scout-

ship. I can't tell you how it functions except that it does

not use the normal cesium-ion form of propulsion. Its type

of power unit is a top secret. For that reason it must not fall

into the enemy's hands. As a last resort the pilot must destroy

it, even if it means destroying himself, too."

"Completely wrecking a ship, even a small one, is much more

difficult than it seems."

"Not this ship," Markham retorted. "She carries an effective

charge in her engine room. The pilot need only press a button

to scatter the power units piecemeal over a wide area."

"I see."

"That charge is the sole explosive aboard, The ship carries

no armament of any sort. It's a stripped-down vessel with

everything sacrificed for the sake of speed, and its only de-

fense is to scoot good and fast. That, I assure you, it can do.

Nothing in the galaxy can catch it, providing it's squirting

from all twenty propulsors."

"Sounds good to me, sir," approved Leeming, licking his

lips.

"It is good. It's got to be good. The unanswered question

is that of whether it's good enough to take the beating of a

long, long trip. The tubes are the weakest part of any space-

ship. Sooner or later they burn out. That's what bothers me.

The tubes on this ship have very special linings. In theory

they should last for months. In practice they might not. You

know what that means?"

"No repairs and no replacements in enemy territory - no

means of getting back," Leeming offered.

"Correct. And the vessel would have to be destroyed. From

that moment the pilot, if still surviving, has isolated himself

somewhere within the mists of Creation. His chances of see-

ing humankind again are remote enough to verge upon the

impossible."

"There could be worse situations. I'd rather be alive some

place else than stone-dead here. While there's life there's

hope."

"You still wish to go through with this?"

"Sure thing, sir."

"Then upon your own head be it," said Markham with

grim humor. "Go along the corridor, seventh door on the

right, and report to Colonel Farmer. Tell him I sent you."

"Yes, sir."

"And before you go, try that damned zipper again."

Obediently, Leeming tried it. The thing slid all the way as

smoothly as if oiled. He stared at the other with a mixture

of astonishment and injured innocence.

"I started in the ranks and I haven't forgotten it," said

Markham, pointedly. "You can't fool me."

Colonel Farmer, of Military Intelligence, was a beefy,

florid-faced character who looked slightly dumb but had a

sharp mind. He was examining a huge star-map hung upon one

wall when Leeming walked in. Farmer swung around as

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if expecting to be stabbed in the back.

"Haven't you been taught to knock before you enter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then why didn't you?"

"I forgot, sir. My mind was occupied with the interview

I've just had with Fleet Admiral Markham."

"Did he send you to me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, so you're the long-range reconnaissance pilot, eh? I

don't suppose Commodore Keen will be sorry to see you go.

You've been somewhat of a thorn in his side, haven't you?"

"It would seem that way, sir. But I joined the forces to

help win a war and for no other purpose. I am not a juve-

nile delinquent called up for reformation by the commodore

or by anyone else."

"He'd disagree with you there. He's a stickler for disci-

pline." Farmer let go a chuckle at some secret joke, added,

"Keen by name and keen by nature." He contemplated the

other a short while, went on more soberly, "You've picked

yourself a tough job."

"That doesn't worry me," Leeming said flatly.

"You might never come back."

"Makes little difference. Eventually we all take a ride

from which we never come back."

"Well, you needn't mention it with such ghoulish satisfac-

tion," Farmer complained. "Are you married?"

"No, sir. Whenever I get the urge, I just lie down quietly

until the feeling passes off."

Farmer eyed the ceiling and said, "God!"

"What did you expect?" asked Leeming, displaying a cer-

tain aggressiveness. "A scout-pilot operates single-handed; he

has to learn to dispense with a lot of things, especially com-

panionship. It's surprising how much a man can do without

if he really tries."

"I'm sure," soothed Farmer. He gestured toward the star-

map. "On that the nearest points of light are arrayed across

the enemy's front. The mist of stars behind them are un-

known territory. The Combine may be far weaker than we

think because its front is wafer-thin. Or it may be more pow-

erful because its authority stretches far to the rear. The only

way to find out exactly what we're up against is to effect a

deep penetration through the enemy's spatial lines."

Leeming said nothing.

"We propose to send a special scout-ship through this

area where occupied worlds lie far apart; the Combine's

defenses are somewhat scattered here, and their detector

devices are relatively sparse." Farmer put his finger on a dark

patch on the map. "With the speed your vessel possesses

the enemy will have hardly enough time to identify you as

hostile before they lose trace of you. We have every reason

to believe that you'll be able to slip through into their rear

without trouble."

"I hope so," contributed Leeming, seeing that a response

was expected.

"The only danger point is here." Shifting his finger an inch,

Farmer placed it on a bright star. "A Lathian-held solar sys-

tem containing at least four large space-navy stations. If

those fleets happen to be zooming around the bolt-hole, they

might intercept you more by accident than good judgment.

So you'll be accompanied that far by a strong escort."

"That's nice."

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"If the escort should become involved in a fight, you will

not attempt to take part. Instead you will take full advantage

of the diversion to race out of range and dive through the

Combine's front. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"After you get through you must use your initiative. Bear

in mind that we don't want to know how far back there are

worlds holding intelligent life - you would never reach the

end of those even if you continued to the crack of doom. We

want to know only how far back there are such worlds in reg-

ular communication with various members of the Combine.

Whenever you come across an organized planet playing ball

with the Combine, you will at once transmit all the details

you can offer."

"I will."

"As soon as you are satisfied that you have gained the

measure of the enemy's depth, you will return as quickly as

possible. You must get the ship back here if it can be done.

If for any reason you cannot return, the ship must be con-

verted into scrap. No abandoning it in free space, no dump-

ing it into an ocean or anything like that. The ship must be

destroyed. Markham has emphasized this, hasn't he?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. We're giving you forty-eight hours in which to

clear up your personal affairs. After that, you will report to

Number Ten Spaceport." Farmer held out a hand. "I wish

you all the luck you can get."

"Thinking I'11 need it?" Leeming grinned and went on,

"You're laying very heavy odds against ever seeing me again.

It's written across your face. I'll be back - want to bet on it?"

"No," said Farmer. "I never gamble because I'm a bad

loser. But if and when you do return, I'll tuck you into bed

with my own two hands."

"That's a promise," warned Leeming.

The take-off came at one hour after sunset. There was a

cloudless sky, velvet black and spangled with stars. Strange

to think that far, far out there, concealed by sheer distance,

were countless populated worlds with Combine warships

parading warily between some of them, while the allied fleets

of Terrans, Sirians, Rigellians and others were on the prowl

across an enormous front.

Below, long chains of arc-lights dithered as a gentle breeze

swept across the spaceport. Beyond the safety barriers that

defined the blast-area, a group of people were waiting to

witness the ascent. If the ship toppled instead of going up,

thought Leeming wryly, the whole lot of them would race for

sanctuary with burning backsides.

A voice came out of the tiny loud-speaker set in the cabin

wall. "Warmup, pilot."

He pressed a button. Something went whump; then the

ship groaned and shuddered, and a great circular cloud of

dusty vapor rolled across the concrete, concealing the safety

barriers. The low groaning and trembling continued while

he sat in silence, his full attention upon the instrument bank.

The needles of twenty meters crawled to the right, quivered

awhile, became still. That meant steady and equal pressure

in the twenty stern tubes.

"Everything all right, pilot?"

"Yes."

"Take off at will." A pause, followed by, "Lots of luck!"

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"Thanks!"

He let the tubes blow for another half minute before

gradually moving the tiny boost-lever toward him. The shud-

dering increased; the groan raised its pitch until it became

a howl; the cabin windows misted over and the sky was

obscured.

For a nerve-wracking second the vessel rocked on its tail-

fins. Then it began to creep upward, a foot, a yard, ten yards.

The howl was now a shriek. The chronically slow rate of rise

suddenly changed as something seemed to give the vessel a

hearty shove in the rear. Up it went, a hundred feet, a thou-

sand, ten thousand. Through the clouds and into the deep of

the night. The cabin windows were clear, the sky was full of

stars and the moon looked huge.

The loud-speaker said in faint, squeaky tones, "Nice work,

pilot."

"All my work is nice," retorted Leeming. "See you in the

asylum."

There was no answer to that. They knew that he'd become

afflicted with an exaggerated sense of freedom referred to as

take-off intoxication. Most pilots suffered from it as soon as a

planet lay behind their tail and only the stars could be seen

ahead. The symptoms consisted of sardonic comments and abuse

raining down from the sky.

"Go get a haircut," bawled Leeming into his microphone.

"And haven't you been taught how to salute? Baloney baf-

fles brains!"

They didn't answer that, either.

But down in the spaceport control-tower the duty officer

pulled a face and said to Montecelli, "You know, I think that

Einstein never worked out the whole of it."

"What do you mean?"

"I have a theory that as a man approaches the velocity of

light, his inhibitions shrink to zero."

"You may have something there," Montecelli conceded.

"Pork and beans, pork and beans, Holy God, pork and

beans," squawked the control-tower speaker with swiftly

fading strength. "Get undressed because I want to test your

eyes. Now inhale. Keen by name and keen by-"

The duty officer switched it off.

HE PICKED up the escort in the Sirian sector, the first en-

counter being made when he was fast asleep. Activated by a

challenging signal on a preset frequency, the alarm sounded

just above his ear and caused him to dive out of the bunk

while no more than half awake. For a moment he gazed

stupidly around while the ship vibrated and the autopilot

went tick-tick.

"Zern kaid-whit?" rasped the loud-speaker. "Zern kaid-

whit?"

That was code and meant, "Identify yourself - friend or

foe?"

Taking the pilot's seat, he turned a key that caused his

transmitter to squirt forth a short, ultra-rapid series of num-

bers. Then he rubbed his eyes and looked into the forward

starfield. Apart from the majestic haze of suns shining in the

dark, there was nothing to be seen with the naked eye;

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So he switched on his thermosensitive detector-screens and

was rewarded with a line of brilliant dots paralleling his

course to starboard, while a second group, in arrow formation,

was about to cut across far ahead of his nose. He was not

seeing the ships, of course, but only the visible evidence of

their white-hot propulsion tubes and flaming tails.

"Keefa!" said the loud-speaker, meaning, "All correct!"

Crawling back into the bunk, Leeming hauled a blanket

over his face, closed his eyes and left the autopilot to carry

on. After ten minutes his mind began to drift into a pleasant,

soothing dream about sleeping in free space with nobody to

bother him.

Dropping its code-talk, the loud-speaker yelped in plain

language, "You deaf? Cut speed before we lose you!"

Leeming clambered angrily from the bunk, sat at the con-

trols, adjusted them slowly. He watched his meters until

he thought their needles had dropped far enough to make the

others happy. Then he returned to bed and hid himself un-

der the blanket.

It seemed to him that he was swinging in a celestial ham-

mock and enjoying a wonderful idleness when the loud-

speaker roared, "Cut more! Cut more!"

He shot out from under the blanket, scrambled to the con-

trols and cut more. Then he switched on his transmitter and

made a speceh distinguished by its passion. It was partly a

seditious outburst and partly a lecture upon the basic func-

tions of the human body. For all he knew the astonished

listeners might include two rear admirals and a dozen com-

modores. If so, he was educating them.

In return he received no heated retorts, no angry voice

of authority. It was space-navy convention that a lone scout's

job created an unavoidable madness among all those who per-

formed it, and that ninety percent of them were overdue for

psychiatric treatment. A scout on active service could and

often did say things that nobody else in the space-navy dared

utter. It's a wonderful thing to be recognized as crazy.

For three weeks they accompanied him in the glum silence

which a family maintains around an imbecile relation. He

chafed impatiently during this period because their top speed

was far, far below his maximum velocity, and the need to

keep pace with them gave him the feeling of an urgent motor-

ist trapped behind a funeral procession.

The Sirian battleship Wassoon was the chief culprit; a

great, clumsy contraption, it wallowed along like a bloated

hippopotamus, while a shoal of faster cruisers and destroyers

were compelled to amble with it. He did not know its name

but he did know that it was a battleship because on his de-

tector-screens it resembled a glowing pea amid an array of

fiery pinheads. Every time he looked at the pea he cursed

it something awful. He was again venting his ire upon it

when the loud-speaker chipped in and spoke for the first time

in many days.

"Ponk!"

Ponk? What the devil was ponk? The word meant some-

thing mighty important, he could remember that much. Hasti-

ly he scrabbled through his code-book and found it: Enemy

in sight.

No sign of the foe was visible on his screens. Evidently they

were beyond detector range, and had been spotted only by the

escort's advance-guard of four destroyers running far

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ahead.

"Dial F," ordered the loud-speaker.

So they were changing frequency in readiness for battle.

Leeming turned the dial of his multiband receiver from T

back to F.

On the screens five glowing dots swiftly angled away from

the main body of the escort. Four were mere pinheads, the

fifth and middle one about half the size of the pea. A cruiser

and four destroyers were escaping the combat area for the

time-honored purpose of getting between the enemy and his

nearest base.

In a three-dimensional medium where speeds were tre-

mendous and space was vast, this tactic never worked. It

did not stop both sides from trying to make it work whenever

the opportunity came along. This could be viewed as eternal

optimism or persistent stupidity, according to the state of

one's liver.

The small group of would-be ambushers scooted as fast

as they could make it, hoping to become lost within the

confusing welter of starlights before the enemy came

near enough to detect the move. Meanwhile, the Wassoon and its

attendant cohort plugged steadily onward. Ahead, almost at

the limit of the fleet's detector range, the four destroyers con-

tinued to advance without attempting to disperse or change

course.

"Two groups of ten converging from forty-five degrees

rightward, descending inclination fifteen," reported the for-

ward destroyers.

"Classification?" demanded the Wassoon.

"Not possible yet."

Silence for six hours, then, "Two groups still maintaining

same course; each appears to consist of two heavy cruisers

and eight monitors."

Slowly, ever so slowly, twenty faintly discernable dots ap-

peared on Leeming's screens. This was the time when he and

his escort should be discovered by the enemy's detection de-

vices. The foe must have spotted the leading destroyers hours

ago; either they weren't worried about a mere four ships or,

more likely, had taken it for granted that they were friendly.

It would be interesting to watch their reaction when they

found the strong force farther behind.

He did not get the chance to observe this pleasing phe-

nomenon. The loud-speaker let go a squawk of, "Ware ze-

nith!" and automatically his gaze jerked upward to the screens

above his head. They were pocked with a host of rapidly

enlarging dots. He estimated that sixty to eighty ships were

diving in fast at ninety degrees to the plane of the escort,

but he didn't stop to count them. One glance was sufficient

to tell him that he was in a definite hot-spot.

Forthwith he lifted his slender vessel's nose and switched to

full boost. The result pinned him in his seat while his in-

testines tried to wrap themselves around his spine. It was

easy to imagine the effect upon the enemy's screens; they

would see one mysterious, unidentifiable ship break loose from

the target area and swoop around them at a speed previously

thought impossible.

With luck, they might assume that what one ship could

do all the others could do also. If there is anything a space-

ship captain detests, it is to have a faster ship sneaking up on

his tail. The fiery end of a spaceship is its weak spot, for there

can be no effective armament in an area filled with pro-

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pulsors.

Stubbornly, Leeming stuck to the upward curve which, if

maintained long enough, would take him well to one side of

the approaching attackers and round to the back of them; He

kept full attention upon his screens. The oncomers held

course in a tight, vengeful knot for four hours, by which time

they were almost within shooting range of the escort. At that

point their nerve failed. The fact that the escort still kept

impassive formation, while one ship headed like a shooting

star for their rear, made them suspect a trap. One thing the

Combine never lacked was supicion of the Allies' motives and

unshakable faith in their cunning.

So they curved out at right angles and spread in all di-

rections, their detectors probing for another and bigger fleet

that might be lurking just beyond visibility.

Belting along at top speed, one Lathian light cruiser real-

ized that its new course would bring it within range of the

missiles with which Leeming's strange, superfast ship presum-

ably was armed. It tried to play safe by changing course

again, and thereby delivered itself into the hands of the

Wassoon's electronic predictors. The Wassoon fired; its mis-

siles met the cruiser at the precise point where it came within

range. Cruiser and missiles tried to occupy the same space at

the same time. The result was a soundless explosion of great

magnitude, and a flare of heat that temporarily obliterated

every detector-screen within reach.

Another blast shone briefly high in the starfield and far

beyond reach of the escort's armaments. A few minutes later

a thin, reedy voice, distorted by static, reported that a strag-

gling enemy destroyer had fallen foul of the distant ambush-

ing party. This sudden loss, right outside the scene of action,

seemed to confirm the enemy's belief that the Wassoon and

its attendant fleet might be mere bait in a trap loaded with

something formidable. They continued to radiate fast from

their common center in an effort to locate the hidden menace

and, at the same time, avoid being caught in a bunch.

Seeing them thus darting away like a school of frightened

fish, Leeming muttered steadily to himself. A dispersed fleet

would be easy prey to a superfast ship capable of overtaking

and dealing with its units one by one. But without a single

effective weapon he was impotent to take advantage of an

opportunity that might never occur again. For the moment

he had quite forgotten his role, not to mention his strict

orders to avoid a space-fight at all costs.

The Wassoon soon reminded him with a sharp call of,

"Scout-pilot, where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Up and around," replied Leeming sourly.

"You're more of a liability than an asset," retorted the

Wassoon, unappreciative of his efforts. "Get out while the

getting is good."

Leeming yelled into the microphone, "I know when I'm not

wanted, see? We're being sabotaged by defective zippers,

see? Come on, lift those feet, Dopey - one, two, three, hup!"

As before, the listeners took no notice whatsoever. Leem-

ing turned his ship onto a new course with plane parallel

to that of the escort and high above them. They now became

visible on his underbelly screens and showed themselves in

the same unbroken formation but sweeping in a wide circle

to get on the reverse course. That meant they were leaving

him and heading homeward. The enemy, still scattered be-

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yond shooting range, must have viewed this move as danger-

ous temptation for they continued to refrain from direct

attack.

Quickly, the escort's array of shining dots slid off the

screens as Leeming's vessel shot away from them. Ahead and

well to starboard the detectors showed the two enemy groups

that had first appeared. They had not dispersed in the same

manner that their main force had done, but their course

showed that they were fleeing the area at the best speed they

could muster. This fact suggested that they really were two

convoys of merchantment hugging close to their protecting

cruisers. With deep regret Leeming watched them go. Given

the weapons he could have swooped upon the bloated pa-

rade and slaughtered a couple of heavily-laden ships before

the cruisers had time to wake up.

At full pelt he dived into the Combine's front and headed

toward the unknown back areas. Just before his detectors

lost range, his tailward screen flared up twice in quick suc-

cession. Far behind him two ships had ceased to exist and

there was no way of telling whether these losses had been

suffered by the escort or the enemy.

He tried to find out by calling on the interfleet frequency,

"What goes? What goes?"

No answer.

A third flash covered the screen. It was weak with distance

and swiftly fading sensitivity.

Keying the transmitter to give his identifying code-number,

he called again.

No reply.

Chewing his bottom lip with annoyance, he squatted four-

square in the pilot's seat and scowled straight ahead while

the ship arrowed toward a dark gap in the hostile starfield.

In due time he got beyond the full limit of Allied warship's

non-stop range. At that point he also got beyond help.

The first world was easy meat. Believing it impossible for

any Allied ship to penetrate this far without refueling and

changing tubes, the enemy assumed that any ship detected

in local space must be friendly or, at least, neutral. Therefore,

when their detectors picked him up they didn't even bother

to radio a challenge; they just let him zoom around unham-

pered by official nosiness.

So he found the first occupied world by the simple process

of shadowing a small convoy heading inward from the spa-

tial front, following them long enough to make an accurate

plot of their course. Then, because he could not afford to

waste days and weeks' crawling along at their relatively slow

pace, he arced over them and raced ahead until he reached

the inhabited planet for which they were bound.

Checking the planet was equally easy. He went twice

around its equator at altitude sufficiently low to permit swift

visual observation. Complete coverage of the sphere was not

necessary to gain a shrewd idea of its status, development and

potentialities. What he could see in a narrow strip around its

belly was enough of a sampling for the purposes of the Ter-

ran Intelligence Service.

In short time he spotted three spaceports, two empty, the

third holding eight merchant ships of unknown origin and

three Combine war vessels. Other evidence showed the world

to be heavily populated and well-advanced. He could safely

mark it as a pro-Combine planet of considerable military

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Eric Frank Russell - The Space Willies

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