Two dozen private individuals —among them three men from the New Moon, Hannas and Co-maine and Brelekko, The sixty members of the Green Hall Council —to let them consider all they have done to the Purples.”
The humming whisper gave way again to that sardonic chuckle, Jay Kalam’s hand tensed and trembled on the little black disk, and his aching body was cold with sudden sweat.
“The total now is ninety-nine,” that husky rasping ran on.
“I need one more to complete my hundred.
Knowing the other ninety-nine, Commander Kalam, I need not tell you who the other is to be.”
With that, the humming whisper ceased.
Jay Kalam dropped the Communicator.
His swift hand snatched the blaster from his belt; he spun to search the empty room—knowing all the time that such precautions were futile.
Nothing happened, however, in the long moment that he held his breath.
He made himself holster the weapon again, and groped for the communicator to call Rocky Mountain Base, now a billion miles behind and more, through the visiwave relay.
“Did you pick up that message?” he asked hoarsely.
“Is triangula-tion possible?”
And back across that void, that light would have taken many hours to bridge, the voice of the operator came instantly, consternation not hidden by its humming distortion.
“We heard it, Commander.
But triangulation was impossible— because the message was transmitted from our own station!
We haven’t yet discovered how our transmitter circuits picked it up. But guard yourself, Commander Kalam.
You got the threat against yourself?”
“I did,” Jay Kalam said.
“If I am kidnapped, Hal Samdu will take my place and the Legion will carry on.”
He dialed off, called Hal Samdu on the Bellatrix, and told that veteran spaceman of these disastrous new developments.
“Draw up beside the Inflexible, Hal,” he said, “and come aboard.
You will take command if I become the hundredth man.”
“Aye, Jay.”
The rumble of Hal Samdu came thinned and furred through the communicator.
“But what of Giles—have you heard anything?”
“Not yet,” Jay Kalam told him.
“I’m afraid for Giles, Jay.”
The deep voice seemed hoarse with alarm.
“It’s true he’s an old man, now, and not so clever as he used to be.
This Derron is powerful and desperate—and it’s a whole day, now, since we heard anything.”
Jay Kalam lowered his communicator, with a helpless shrug—and instantly the throb of the emergency signal bade bun take it up again.
He touched the dial, and put the little black disk to his ear.
“Jay! Do you hear me, Jay?”
It was the long-awaited voice of Giles Habibula, thinned, muffled with the hum of the instrument, and hoarse with some desperate anxiety.
“I do, Giles,” he said into the little disk.
“What is it?”
“Turn back, Jay,” came the faint, wheezing voice.
“For life’s sake, turn your fleet back to the System.
Call off your bloodhounds of space, and leave us be.”
“Turn back?” cried Jay Kalam.
“Why?”
“Ah, Jay, there’s been a monstrous error.
This is not the Basilisk I’ve caught.
My companion is but an honest, luckless man. And your chase is a fearful blunder, Jay.
It is drawing you far out into space, and leaving the System defenseless.
“In Earth’s name, Jay, I beg you to turn back.”
“Giles!” the Commander shouted.
“If you’re speaking under torture—”
A dead click told him that the other instrument had been dialed off.
He was trying to call back when the softer note of the ship’s signal rang.