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Title: Slacker's Paradise
Author: Jameson, Malcolm (1891-1945)
Date of first publication: April 1941
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Astounding Science-Fiction, April 1941
   [New York: Street & Smith]
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 4 June 2016
Date last updated: 4 June 2016
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1327

This ebook was produced by Al Haines


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






SLACKER'S PARADISE

By Malcolm Jameson



    _Or it seemed that way till the commander of a space
    rowboat found a gigantic enemy battleship that was
    determined to surrender to him!_




At a corner table in Spider Hinton's place on Juno three young officers
sat.  One of them drummed continually on the table top with restless,
nervous fingers, and scowled about the place in obvious discontent.
The other two were relaxed and appeared to be enjoying themselves as
they toyed with the stems of their glasses and watched the girls begin
to assemble.  All three wore the slender silver badge of the crescent
moon as well as the usual insignia of the Terrestrial Space Guard.

It was that crescent and what it signified that was what was so
annoying to Lieutenant (jg) Alan MacKay, T.S.G.R.F., Class 5.  In the
parlance of officialdom it meant simply "an officer of limited
qualifications," but to the impatient young MacKay and the public at
large--and to the girls who entertained the Fleet, and to the personnel
of the Fleet itself, _especially_ to the personnel of the Fleet
itself--it meant unqualified, untrained, unfit.  It meant half-baked
and incompetent.  It meant that its wearer was quite likely to be a
strutting young ass masquerading as a Guard Officer, quite imposing
over the tea table, but a joke in the thermless void.  And Alan MacKay
resented that very much.

It annoyed him exceedingly that his apparently wonderful luck in having
been commissioned and given command of an SP boat while still a junior
at Yalnell was attributed to the powerful political pull of his
mothersome Aunt Clara.  For it was true.  With Machiavellian cunning
she had worked every wire to insure his having the highest possible
rank and the cushiest possible jobs.  He did not know it, though he
suspected it from the fate of his monthly plea for more active duty,
but the jacket that held his service record, at the Department was
plastered over with little notes clipped to it, such as, "Do not shift
this officer to other duty without seeing me--JBH, High Admiral," "PD
only," meaning planetary duty only, and the like.  Whenever he thought
of his Aunt Clara he cursed her softly under his breath, and not once
did his conscience trouble him for his gross ingratitude.

The cabaret was beginning to fill up for the midday jamboree.  Two
girls stopped at the table for a moment.  Ensign Hartley had waved them
down just as they came in.

"Sit down," he invited, "and crook an elbow with us.  We're off for the
rest of the day."

"You!  Humph," said one of them, tossing her head.  "You'll keep for
the dull times.  Today there'll be real sailors here--fighting men."
She gave a tug at her companion's arm.  "Come along, deary--you can't
afford to have _them_ catch you hanging out with planet lice."  They
walked away.

"You asked for it, you damn fool," growled the other ensign, Terrell.
"Didn't you read the board when we came in off patrol?  The _Pollux_ is
coming in.  She's all shot to hell from that big battle oft the
Trojans, on her way to Lunar Base for general repairs.  Every man jack
on her has been given the Nova rosette, and Captain Bullard rates a
diamond clasp for his Celestial Cross.  The best thing we can do is get
out of here and make ourselves as small as possible until she shoves
off."

"Yes," said Lieutenant MacKay, rising, grim and red of face.

He strode out of the room and into the locker room where their
spacesuits hung.  Officers and men from the eight other SP boats were
just coming in and taking off their armor so they could go onto the
dance floor.  MacKay nodded perfunctorily to one or two of them, then
beckoned to his own two junior officers to follow him on outside.

"He may inspect us," he said, tersely, "get back on board and slick her
up."  To himself he added disgustedly, "we can't fight, but we can
shine brightwork--as if a man like Bullard cared a damn about shiny
brass!"

For Bullard was to him what he had come to be to practically every
young man and boy on the five planets--an idol.  Who had not heard of
his exploits in this tedious and long-drawn-out war between the
Federation of Interior Planets and the Jovian Empire?  And now Bullard
was here!  Alan MacKay winced.  That meant he would have to meet him,
for etiquette was rigorous.  All junior ship commanders had to pay
their respects to any visiting senior.  He was at once elated and
ashamed, for though he was a big, strapping fellow with a fine
education, he bore that telltale crescent on his chest--the stigma of
the unfit.  What if he was commanding officer of the _TSS SP 331_?  The
bawdy songs of the Service and the old sky-dogs had but one translation
for that "SP."  It was "Slacker's Paradise."



It was in the same gloomy mood that Lieutenant MacKay watched the
descent of the mighty monster of the void from alongside his own tiny
craft parked outside the thin dome of Hebesport.  He marveled at her
size, and yet she was being brought down with an apparent ease and
dexterity that amazed him.  For the reports of her damage had not been,
exaggerated.  Every plate of her showed signs of a fight.

Two-thirds of her false collision nose had been shorn off and what was
left of it was covered with blue-scale, indicating it had been done
with a fierce hydroxygen ray.  Hardly a square yard of her skin but was
patched with hastily riveted plates.  One fin had been melted clean
away and the slag from it hurled aft along her hull, where great frozen
gobs of it still clung.  A queer and clumsy-looking jury-rig was where
her jet-deflectors should have been, and a yawning hole in the bottom
was all that remained of the nether turret.

But she came down neatly and without assistance from the ground force.
MacKay continued to stare, wondering what she was like inside, for in
common with his mates of the Juno Patrol, he had never set foot within
a big ship.  He had been told that she was packed from stem to stern
with machinery and gadgets but he could not imagine such a quantity of
machinery.  His major subject in school had been interplanetary
languages; what he had learned about physics and mechanics he had
picked up on his little _SP 331_.

MacKay saw the groundport open and a man he knew must be Bullard step
out, accompanied by several others.  They had started across the field
toward the entrance to the dome when suddenly they stopped in mid-field
and turned their faces upward.  A small ship was coming in from the
opposite direction, and judging from the corona of bright flame all
about it, it was furiously decelerating.  Despite his short service and
general ignorance on matters of the void, MacKay had learned to read
that sign.  It was one of the Council's dispatch boats on special
service.  Nothing else was driven at that furious, tube-burning pace.

The Bullard party waited where they stood until it had landed, and they
continued to stand there while a man sprinted across the field in huge
bounds to them.  MacKay saw Billiard take a white envelope from him,
and turn it over and over in his hands as the messenger poured out some
additional news with many gesticulations.  Billiard at first shook his
head, then nodded, and the man walked back toward his ship.

Whatever Captain Bullard had meant to do first, the arrival of this
ship evidently changed his plans.  Instead of continuing on to the
dome, he abruptly altered his course and came straight toward where the
line of SP boats lay.  MacKay called a warning to his men within, and
sent another flying down the line to rap on hulls and wake up the
shipkeepers within.

Goose pimples arose on his skin as he stood and waited.  His ship
having come in first, had been parked farthest down the line, so that
it was not until Bullard had inspected all the rest that he rounded the
nose of the grounded SP boat and advanced straight upon MacKay.  He
answered the junior's salute briskly and asked:

"Permission to inspect you, sir?"

MacKay nodded dumbly, but he need not have.  Bullard had already passed
him and was inside.  The _SP 331's_ young skipper let the officers who
were with Bullard go in first, then he followed.  Bullard was already
half through.  He came out of the cubbyhole that passed for an engine
room and into the control booth.  He turned to one of his aids.

"Best of the lot, eh?"

The officer addressed nodded.



Bullard caressed the knobs and buttons on the control panel with
skilled fingers, then he glanced upward at the port bulkhead.  A grim
smile showed for an instant on his face, then he suppressed it.  He
looked full at the purple-faced MacKay, who was gasping like a fish out
of water.  There was a twinkle of questioning amusement in the eyes of
the famous captain of the _Pollux_.

"One of my men, sir," blurted MacKay, blushing to the roots of his
hair.  "He got a transfer to the Fleet.  We felt we ought to put that
up."

"That" was a small silk flag--a single red star on a pale-blue
background.  Its counterpart hung proudly in millions of homes on
Earth, Venus and Mars.  It was the current service flag.  It meant that
a member of the household had gone to the war.

"So," said Captain Bullard, "that's the way you feel about it?"  The
smile was off his face now, and his eyes were piercing and hard.  They
never wavered below the level of MacKay's own eyes, but the junior had
the feeling that he was being studied from tip to toe.  He got no clue
from Bullard as to what the answer should be.

"Y-y-yes, sir," he gulped.  "We do."

Captain Bullard continued to gaze at him relentlessly.  MacKay felt
that more was expected of him.

"Oh, sir," he exploded, "I didn't ask for this--it was a doting
aunt--I've tried and tried, but they turn my letters down--it ... it--"

"Enough!" said Bullard, hard as nails.  "It is not what you do, but how
you do it that counts.  There is an old Earth saying, 'They also serve
who stand and wait.'  You know no gunnery, I daresay, nor one end of a
torpedo from the other.  You may lack much special knowledge that our
profession requires.  That is all your new moon means to me.  But you
know _something_.  It is _how_ you use that in a real emergency that
matters--not what you ought to know."

Lieutenant (jg) Alan MacKay, T.S.G.R.F., Class 5, nodded miserably.  It
sounded reasonable--consoling even--but at the bottom of his heart he
knew he was doing empty and useless and humiliatingly safe duty when
the course of all history was at stake.  Captain Bullard whirled where
he stood.

"I should like to speak to the lieutenant privately," he said, quietly.

When the others had withdrawn he addressed MacKay again.

"You are about to have your chance.  You saw that messenger boat come
in?  She is a virtual wreck.  She cannot be repaired for days.  But her
captain has delivered me a message that must go on.  It is highly
secret and urgent and must not be sent through the ether.  It must be
delivered to the commander in chief by hand, or failing that, orally.
He is now hovering off the Jovian System maintaining our blockade
there.  How soon can you start?"

"Within the hour, sir," answered the startled MacKay.  Now that he had
received what he had been begging for, he was frightened.  Was he good
enough?  Could he do it?  What if he failed?

But Bullard showed no hesitation.  He produced an envelope that MacKay
saw was sealed with heavy state seals.

"This," said Bullard, "is written in plain English, not enciphered
code, and there is a reason for it.  That 'MR' in red letters on the
lower front corner means at 'messenger's risk.'  That is your
authorization, if threatened with capture or loss of the document, to
open it and read it until you have memorized its contents.  Then you
are to eat it, or otherwise completely destroy it.  After that, you
must use every effort to deliver it to the commander in chief,
suffering torture, if required, rather than divulge its purport.  Are
you ready to undertake that?"

MacKay looked into the steely eyes.  He saw something he could not
evade.  That question was not a query--it was a command.

"I am," he said simply, and held out his hand for the message.

"You will give me your receipt, please," said Captain Bullard, evenly.

Lieutenant MacKay's hand trembled as he wrote out the receipt, but as
he handed it across he was rewarded with a friendly smile from the man
he had so long admired--and but a moment ago had feared.

"Remember"--Bullard glanced down at the paper--"Mr. MacKay, if you are
caught by the enemy, you are on your own.  All will depend then on your
own judgment and your capacity for action.  You have a great
responsibility.  Do not be afraid to exercise it.  Bear in mind that in
a grave emergency, _any_ action is better than inaction."

MacKay was vaguely aware of a warm grasp of the hand, a slap on the
shoulder, and his boyhood hero was gone.  A second later he had snapped
out of it and was holding the general alarm button hard down.  There
was much to do to make ready to hop off within the hour.



MacKay looked back once, after he had cleared Hebesport.  The dome with
the depot and cabaret under it looked like a dime on the sidewalk seen
from a five-story window, and the black ships lying on the ozone snow
outside like flies--one big one and the rest dots.  He had told neither
Hartley nor Terrell where they were going or why.  He had only set the
course and promised to explain in due time.  Hartly was the assistant
for astragation, and Terrell's job was handling the motors.  As a
relief for Hartley, there was Red Dugan, the scarlet-haired,
freckle-faced quartermaster.  Terrell's helper was Billy Kelsey, the
radio-man, better known as Sparks.  Sparks alone of them did not wear
the silver crescent.  He was an old Fleet Reserve man, having done his
time long ago in the early Martian Wars.

Until that moment, Mackay had never felt the weight of responsibility.
The _SP 331_ was much like his own yacht in its general characteristics
and he had never had any misgivings about his ability to handle her.
Her armament was so inadequate as to never have given him a qualm.  It
consisted simply of a 10 mm. needle gun, fit only to detonate a stray
mine.  The SP boats were designed simply to patrol, not fight.  But now
she might have to fight or run, and since she could not do the former,
it left no choice but the latter.  And that, a swift computation
showed, was almost as impossible.

MacKay was still trying to figure out how with his low rocket radius he
could make the best possible speed to the Fleet and still keep back
enough fuel in reserve to enable him to duck an emergency, when
suddenly the emergency came.  It was Red, the quartermaster, who
announced it.  He had been exploring space ahead with the not too
sensitive old Mark I thermoscope the _SP 331_ was fitted with.

"There's something ahead, something big," he reported.  Red pulled the
book to him that contained the resultant patterns of various
combinations of infrared rays originating from mixed substances.  He
puzzled over the cross-index until he came to the type figures that
matched those visible on the face of the thermoscope.  He read out of
the book:


    LT--848--501, surcharged with F type spots: an atomic-powered type
    BBB with propulsion cut, but auxiliaries running.  Usually
    indicates five units distance at normal intensity.  Apply inverse
    square rule for other readings.


That could only mean a Jovian battleship of the most powerful class,
lying to in the vicinity!  For the Federation boasted nothing bigger
than the highly specialized Star-class cruisers, such as the _Pollux_.

Almost in the same moment, the televox came to life with a sputter and
a crackling.  A guttural voice was speaking:

"_Phraedon?  Seznik ng aut flotzkrigen zub snugelbisker!  Phraedon?_"

"What is that?" yelped Hartley.

MacKay listened as the message was repeated.  He knew the Jovian
dialects better in written form than by ear.

"He wants to know if we are Terrestrials.  He says if we are, to come
alongside and arrange surrender."

As he spoke he twisted the jet-deflector to hard dive and hard right.
Simultaneously he jammed down the button that released maximum rocket
power.

"Handle her, Hartley, I've got a job to do."



The realization that he had failed at the one real mission he had been
assigned almost bowled MacKay over.  His vocal cords felt tense and
paralyzed, and cold sweat stood out on his forehead and more trickled
down his ribs, but he knew the hour had come to destroy the important
message.  Yet he hesitated.  Had he really been overhauled by a Jovian?
For how could a Jovian, no matter how big, elude the clouds of cruisers
that swarmed about Jupiter and his planets?

He paused, irresolute, with his fingers still on the flap of the sealed
envelope.  Sparks flung open the door of the radio booth and stuck his
head out.

"Message coming through from _Pollux_.  I'll give you the decode in a
jiffy."  He slammed the door.

"How are we doing?" MacKay asked Hartley, nervously.

"Rotten," said Hartley.  "She's come into sight--big brute, with black
and white checks on her sides--she's piling on the power now."

Sparks stepped out of the booth.  The slip he handed MacKay read:


    For your info: INTERCEPT Dir-Gen to c-IN-c: Complete retirement as
    previously ordered.  Await further orders at Mars Base.   Messenger
    ship note changed destination.


MacKay waited no longer.  His trembling fingers tore open the precious
envelope and he took out the flimsy single sheet of paper it contained.
He knew now that the blockade had been abandoned for some reason
unknown to him and the Jovian fleet was free to come out.  He spread
the paper open and read.

He skipped the flowery heading.  It was from the Grand Federated
Council to the commander in chief.  The first paragraph was full of
flattering words about how well the fleet had done.  The second spoke
of the hardships endured by the three planets during the long war, and
of the millions of men lost and the trillions of sols spent.  Taxation
was now unendurable.  The third paragraph read:


    Until now we had hoped that our blockade would win eventually, but
    late information advises us that the _flerig_ crops on all Jovian
    satellites are bumper ones this year, and that herds of
    _leezvartle_, under intensive breeding, are actually larger than at
    the beginning of the war.  Since the enemy has unlimited resources
    of minerals, it is clear that we can no longer hope to win.  Hence
    the order for your withdrawal.

    Inform his Imperial Majesty that a peace commission is being sent
    and request an immediate armistice.  Advise him our terms in
    general will be the following:

    Recognition of Jovian dominion over all outer planets and
    satellites; division of asteroids to be determined by conference,
    as well as the amount of indemnity we shall pay--


MacKay had turned pale.  It was monstrous, shameful!  That the
Federation should weaken now, after having relieved half the suffering
planets controlled by the ruthless and aggressive Callistans and won
all the major battles of the war, was unthinkable cowardice.  Why, they
were giving the Jovian Emperor--self-styled, for in the beginning he
was only a Callistan soldier of fortune--more than even he had ever
hoped to gain.  And the ultimate in degradation was that unsolicited
and ignominious offer to pay indemnities!

He ran through the incredible message once more.  Then the _SP 331_
lurched violently.

"They've hooked us with a tractor beam," shouted Hartley.  MacKay tore
a strip from the Council's message and rolled it into a pellet which he
popped into his mouth.  He followed it with another and another.  By
the time the small patrol vessel was locked against the captor's
spaceport, he had swallowed the last of it.  Its many-sealed cover had
been reduced to black ashes, which he slowly crumbled between his
fingers.

The televox came to life with:

"_Lu supnitte af trelb vittervang--LOSHT!_"

"They're damned polite," muttered Lieutenant MacKay, as he buckled on
the gold-hilted dagger that was the ceremonial descendant of the sword.
"Will his excellency have the kindness to come on board--PLEASE!" he
mimicked, bitterly.



To say that Lieutenant (jg) Alan MacKay was surprised when he stepped
out of the _Draval's_ inner lock would be to commit a gross
understatement.  He was, to be most exact, simply flabbergasted.

Eight side-boys lined the passage, and a rank of four musicians,
tooting the raucous _zibl_ pipes that give Ionic music its particularly
ghastly effect, were rendering full imperial--if distinctly
cacaphonous--honors.  Two gigantic drummers battered out the ruffles.
Beyond them stood a gold-laced admiral and his staff, all of them gaunt
and emaciated-looking, but rigged out in all their finery.

MacKay saluted clumsily.  He was astonished to see the admiral bow
deeply, and in the doing, unhook his own poniard from its clasp.  When
he straightened up from his obeisance, he took two steps forward and
handed the swordlet to MacKay.

"Pliss," he said, "you take it.  Ve het ver' grit fribble ta scap--bat
Trestians olright.  Now ve gat life-boats ant go avay.  Maybeso To gat
_Draval_ other time, no?"  He looked appealingly at MacKay.

"I think we will do better if we converse in Ionic," suggested
Lieutenant MacKay, glancing stupidly at the token of surrender he held.
He did not quite know what to do with it.  Impulsively he handed it
back to the admiral.  "Do I understand that _you_ are surrendering to
_me_?" he asked, still unbelieving.

"Yaas," said the admiral, and with another sweeping bow, indicated he
might come farther into the ship to hear the reasons.

They walked down a long glittering passage.  On either side MacKay had
glimpses through explosion-proof glassite bulkheads of masses of
monster vacuum tubes; banks of condensers and transformers; immensely
intricate bits of machinery composed of strangely arranged helixes,
glowing spheres, and literally miles of glistening wires, He had not
the faintest notion of what any of the machines were called or what
their function.

The admiral led the way into a luxurious office and sat down wearily.
He seemed very weak.  All his suite had mysteriously disappeared.

"We destroyed our consort--a ship that was manned wholly by Callistans,
and killed all the Callistan officers we had on board.  We managed to
elude your most effective blockade, and got this far, but I am afraid
we cannot go farther.  It is for that reason I place the ship under
your protection."

MacKay blinked.  _His_ protection!  He thought feebly of the _SP 331's_
10 mm. micro-Bertha.  It was too silly, too wacky.  This was all a
dream.  But the admiral talked on, earnestly and pleadingly.  MacKay
was brought back to a sense of reality by a series of quivering jolts
that momentarily shook the ship.

"My staff and remaining crew taking off in the boats," explained the
admiral.  "They are holding one for me.  I must get back as soon as
possible."

"B-but--"

"I am Jallikat--you may have heard of me--I was one of the first who
advocated a union of the Jovian satellites.  I had no idea, of course,
how tyrannical the Callistons would prove to be, or what a fantastic
madman they had for a leader.  I need not relate how Europa and
Ganymede were induced to join us, or our subsequent conquests
elsewhere.  But all that is over.  The empire is an empty shell and
overripe for destruction.  The _flerig_ crop is a complete failure.
Our once vast herds of _leezvartle_ have been slaughtered to the last
animal--"

MacKay gave a start.  It was an example of what skillful propaganda
could do to unman an enemy.

"The Callistans have more local revolts on hand than they can manage.
In another day they will collapse, for the people are starving.  Your
blockade, my young friend, has beat them.

"You wonder why I bring you this battleship.  I will tell you.  We have
listened to your director and we trust him.  He has said that the war
aims are for the liberations of the subject peoples.  Very well, when
that day comes, Io will need a fleet, and we wish these ships which
have always been manned by lonians, to be spared as a nucleus for our
future nation.  We do not so trust your allies, the Martians.  They
would either add them to their own navy, or destroy them to keep them
out of other hands."

The admiral smiled hopefully.

"Now that I have delivered it safely into your hands, may I have your
permission to go back to my people?"

"Why, certainly," said MacKay, perfunctorily.  He was too dumfounded to
add anything to that.  Almost before he knew it, the admiral had gone.
A moment later there was one last thudding jolt.  Lieutenant (jg) Alan
MacKay felt a peculiar tingling all over his body.  He--a wearer of the
crescent---was in complete command of the biggest battleship of the
skies.  It was an empty and crewless battleship, to be sure, but only
yesterday even ships like the indomitable _Pollux_ would not have dared
approach it except in divisions of six.  It made him feel a little
faint.



MacKay pulled himself together and walked out into the passage.  He was
not certain by what way he had come, for there had been several
turnings.  The ship was vast and strange, and eerie in its silence.
But after several false tries, which humbled him further, he found the
air lock.  He straightened up and drew a deep breath.  Five seconds
later, he stepped down into the eight-by-eight control room of the
microscopic _SP 331_.

"No kidding, fellows," he announced in a pathetic effort at being
nonchalant, "but we have captured a battleship.  Leave this little
thing as she is and let's go aboard and look her over."

Four pairs of eyes stared at him, and four sets of lips twitched into
incredulous grins.  After a moment Terrel spoke up.

"O.K., I'll bite.  What's the gag?"

"I mean it," said MacKay, seriously.  "The gag is that there is not a
soul on board her nor a bite of anything to eat.  How she's fixed for
fuel or anything else is something we don't know.  Our first job is to
find out."

They explored that ship like miners exploring a new-found cave.  Time
after time they became lost, or wound up in blind passages.  It took
the best part of an hour before they came to the control room, embedded
behind thick armor in the very bowels of the ship.  MacKay found a set
of plans and dragged them out.  Hastily he translated some of the more
important symbols on them for the guidance of his helpers.

"Here," he said to Terrell, "this is the motive-power layout as well as
of the auxiliaries.  Take Red with you and see if you can dope out what
makes this ship move and how to keep the lights and things on.  You'll
have to stand watch and watch when you do.  Report back in an hour or
so, in any case.  Have Sparks locate the radio and let me know the
minute he can start sending.  You, Hartley, take this set and have a
look-see at the magazines.  I wouldn't be surprised if the powder
hasn't gone sour.  If it has, flood or smother.  Look for labels on the
wall alongside locked valves.  'Belligish' something or other is what
you'll find--it means 'to extinguish.'  I don't see how you can go
wrong if you turn one on."

After they had gone, MacKay made a cursory examination of the control
room.  Its thousands of gadgets must have taken a score of men to
operate, and very little of it meant anything to him, accomplished
yachtsman though he was.  He gave up the job and busied himself with
examining the more important of the ship's papers.

What they contained was ample confirmation of what the admiral had
said.  Request after request for vital supplies had been turned down,
or ersatz material sent in its place.  Much of the correspondence dealt
with the failure of the supposedly "just as good or better"
substitutes.  He felt better over his instructions to Hartley when he
learned that half the ship's magazines had already been smothered on
account of deteriorating powder.

But the question that pressed relentlessly on his brain was the big
one.  What should he do about that message?  Abandon this hulk and go
on in the _SP 331_?  Or had the news he had just come by altered the
situation so materially that it did not matter whether the message was
delivered?  He decided to radio Terra, giving the news he had just
acquired, and ask for further instructions, even though according to
the code, no messenger was permitted to query his orders.

That idea was knocked in the head as soon as it was conceived.  Sparks
came in.

"I found it," he said, "and it works.  I traced back and followed a
lead into here.  You can start sending any time now.  Use that set over
there."  He pointed to a panel half-concealed by a huge switchboard.
"Here's something interesting I found--a complete set of all our codes
and ciphers!  Wouldn't that burn 'em up at GHQ?  Here are a few--you'll
notice they are printed in Jovian thin-line type--guess they issued
them to all their ships."

MacKay frowned.  If the Callistans had all their codes, he could not
hope to communicate confidentially with the director, the _Pollux_, or
anyone else.  Should he indicate that revolution was on the verge of
breaking out in Jovia, the emperor might stamp it out before the
Earthmen and allies could help.  Yet the information he had in his
possession was incredibly valuable.  Had the Council had it a few days
earlier, they would never have sent their pusillanimous peace offer.
If they had it now, they would surely recall it.

"Hold everything," said MacKay, and sat down to think.  His brain felt
numb and his skin was tingling again.  He was almost afraid to face the
fact that was every moment, forcing itself more and more into the
foreground.  It was that at that moment he--he, the lowly junior grade
lieutenant of Class 5 of the Reserve--held the fate of the Solar
System's peoples in his hand.  Upon what he did next--or failed to
do--everything hung.  No matter how slight his action, the
repercussions would be interplanetary.  It was a crushing thought to
one who had never had to make a major decision and stand by its
consequences.

It was only a matter of a minute or so that he sat there in sober
study, though to him it seemed much longer.  He groaned.  "Oh, if I
only knew, What would a man like Bullard do?  He would do something, I
bet."

The thought of Bullard was tonic.  The picture of the man came up
before him, vivid and clear.  He could almost hear him talking, and the
exact words of that memorable interview came back to him.  They were
strangely prophetic.

"It is _how_ you use what you know that counts in an emergency--you may
be on your own--all will depend on your own judgment and capacity for
action--do not be afraid to exercise it--any action is better than
none."

That was the gist of it.  That was the Bullardian philosophy in a
nutshell.  Act!  Damn the torpedoes; go ahead!  Cut the Gordian Knot,
if there was no other way.



Lieutenant MacKay made up his mind.  They might hang him for high
treason, but what he was about to do was, to the best of his sincere
judgment, the only thing to be done under the circumstances.  It was
what the peoples of all the worlds of the System hungered for.  When he
spoke again it was with a firm steady voice and flashing eyes.

"Sparks!  Start sending--reserved State wave length--priority
symbol--urgent.  'From the Council of the Federated Planets to the
Emperor of Jovia.  Sir.  Within the next twelve hours you will by
decree grant whole and unconditional freedom to all your subjects
beyond the confines of the planetoid Callisto.  You will at once recall
and immobilize all strictly Callistan war craft.  To permit the orderly
doing of this we have temporarily withdrawn our forces.  Should you
fail to comply within the time set, we shall resume the assault.'
Let's see, I think that covers it.  Sign off with the usual high seal
symbol.  You know the one.  Got it?"

"Yep," said Sparks, his hand steadily pounding away.  "All gone.  Now
what?"  The grizzled old radio man had something like admiration in his
eyes, though he could only guess the story behind what was transpiring.

"Give me the key.  I'm a bum operator, but nobody can do these sneezes
but me.  I doubt if you could even read them."

MacKay sat down.  All his self-consciousness had evaporated.  He was
plunging along now, and letting the chips fall where they might.  He
might make ridiculous errors in plain code, or Ionic or Ganymedian
grammar, but he didn't care.  If the idea got across, that was enough.
It did not matter now about his ignorance of gunnery, or engineering,
or anything else nautical.  He was using the thing he did
know--planetary languages.

For an hour he sat, jabbering forth dramatic appeals to the Ionians,
the Europans and the others to arise and drive out their conquerors.
He told how the crew of the _Draval_ had done it, and said she was
waiting for them to join her.  He promised the support of Terra, and
the quick return of the Federated Fleet to aid them if they only showed
resolution.  He went on and on, his hand never ceasing.  It was Sparks
who broke him off.

"A call on another wave, sir.  It's from Admiral Alley Cat, or
something that sounds like that.  He says knock it off--it's all over.
They've dug a bird somewhere that knows English.  Anyhow, he's on the
way here."

MacKay slumped back in his seat.  He had not known how tired one could
get merely flicking the hand.  But there was another clicking starting
up.  It was on the high State wave he had just been using.  He listened.


    "Urgent for _Pollux_.  If you possibly can, turn back and find the
    _SP 331_ you used for messenger.  Her operator is stricken with
    cosmopsychosis and is sending wild and extremely damaging messages.
    Suppress him even if it involves destruction of the patrol boat.

    "Signed, DIRECTOR."


"Oh, gosh," said MacKay, "now I've got to start explaining.  You do
it--I'll dictate."

When the full story was on the ether, MacKay was in a state of virtual
collapse.  He looked with a dull eye upon Terrell who came in to report
that the power installation was miles beyond his comprehension, though
he did think they would have lights for a while.

"It doesn't matter," said MacKay, wearily, and closed his eyes.  The
issue would be determined then.

It was the next day that Admiral Jallikat brought his squadron up.
There was the _Tschasnick_, the _Perl_, and the _Bolonok_, all
battleships, four cruisers and a number of lesser craft.  The admiral
promptly sent over enough men to man the _Draval_ and get her under
way.  She picked up speed sluggishly and headed Earthward to the point
where the _Pollux_ was limping back, trying to intercept them.

"I'll go ahead in the _SP 331_," said MacKay, the moment the messenger
reported the _Pollux_ had been picked up by the sensitive thermoscopes
of the big ship.  "It is I, and I alone, who have to face the music."



Lieutenant (jg) Alan MacKay left his tiny SP boat tied up to the
_Pollux's_ entry port and silently followed the commander who had
admitted him toward Captain Bullard's cabin.  He entered and stood just
inside the door, waiting anxiously for what the captain had to say.  He
was not happy.

Bullard rose from his desk and walked forward without a word until he
came face to face with the young officer, and not a foot away.  He
reached out his right hand and with two fingers seized the silver pin
on MacKay's chest.  With a single resolute yank, he ripped it away and
a bit of the cloth came with it.  Without looking at it he flung it
backward across the room.

"I'm sorry about the tear," said Bullard quietly, "I did not mean to be
quite so vigorous.  But here, this will cover it--"

From his own breast he unpinned the broad, star-spangled gold-threaded
ribbon of the Celestial Cross.

"After all," he said, and this time he smiled, "_you_ won a war,
whereas all I won was battles."


    Note:

    The seemingly incredible situation in the middle portion of this
    story occurred in almost identical fashion during the 1st World
    War, in 1918.

    A pair of Austro-Hungarian battleships--the _Zrinyi_ and the
    _Radetsky_--surrendered to an American sub-chaser.  Their condition
    was the same, and their purpose was the same.  The crews were
    Dalmatians and foresaw the dismemberment of Austria and hoped for
    the establishment of a Dalmatian Republic.  They refused
    obstinately to surrender to either Italian or French ships, though
    they were both in the Adriatic.  They insisted on finding an
    American captor, as they were hopeful that we would return the
    ships to them as a nucleus for their own fleet.  The biggest they
    could find was a sub-chaser.

    The young lieutenant who took over the _Zrinyi_ was just out of
    college and had never been on board a battleship.  There was no
    food but the ersatz stuff left by the Austrians.  It took them days
    to make out what was what, as the crew promptly deserted as soon as
    the ship was safely under the American flag.  But the American kids
    hung on, and managed to keep steam up and run the ship until the
    Peace Treaty finally disposed of it.

    The Italians eventually got them, and used them for targets.  They
    were like our Connecticuts.          M.J.



THE END.






[End of Slacker's Paradise, by Malcolm Jameson]
