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airtight doors opened. The first explosion had left the vital hyperspace coils
and power supply unharmed. But it had pierced a hull section over some of the
crew's quarters. One crewman had been inside.
He was dead- a combination of sudden decompression and asphyxiation.
They buried him in flight, sending his corpse into deep space through an air
lock. It was the second such service Cranston had presided over in the last
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two days and it left him fuming.
Commander Ulmstead he was the key. Until he revealed Jason Clarke's project,
Cranston knew he hadn't a chance in hell of getting a handle on
this mission, what was left of it. So far he felt he'd been fighting from
inside a rubber sack. He could take no initiatives, make no sallies, cause no
discomfort to a seeming swarm of enemies with impeccable information sources.
Worse, besides not knowing who they were, he hadn't the slightest idea of what
they were after.
Impossible. Cranston had never felt so impotent.
From the funeral service he stalked to the control room of
Draco II
and ordered the hyperspace coils charged to the maximum rate. His, and
everyone else's time, was filled with the bone-wearying task of rechecking all
the starship's systems and doubling for the lost crewmen. Cranston worked,
ate, slept, and worried. Until he spoke to Ulmstead he had inclination for
little else.
They hyperspaced to Earth and Baldy's superb navigation served them well. They
were a mere two days ion drive from their mother planet.
Cranston contacted Ulmstead in the code they'd established and got a priority
landing slot in return. He'd deliver the scanty information found at the
outpost in person. He didn't give his usual grin at the flagrantly imaginative
and equally unprintable comments the other orbit hoppers made as he
leap-frogged the landing sequence and docked at the New
York Citiplex spaceport.
Cranston spent an hour on exasperating but necessary details. He arranged
repair for the ripped hull, standard dock maintenance, and crew leave. Baldy
stayed with the ship. Cranston paused when it came to Dione, then opted for
her staying at a Citiplex hospital. The leg wound itself would justify a short
visit. But, with the Raker abduction fresh in his mind, he took no chances.
Booking her into a hospital under an assumed name would provide a fair hiding
place. Add Gor as a bodyguard and there could be none better under the
circumstances. Gor took fifteen minutes to arrange the details. With barely a
word to anyone, Cranston boarded a taxi for Spacefleet Headquarters.
* * *
Ulmstead was waiting. Despite his own fury, Cranston was frankly shocked at
the man's transformation. The commander's eyes had sunk deep into their
sockets. The skin beneath them was dark and puffy. He looked more haggard than
Cranston ever remembered. Obviously, Ulmstead had quite a bit on his mind.
"The mission, Cranston. Did you find anything at the outpost?" the commander
asked without preamble. It was a measure of the man's concern that he skipped
even cursory greetings. But his azure eyes bored into Cranston; whatever his
physical state, his mental condition was as keen as ever.
Cranston found himself relating the highlights of the mission the anonymous
attack in space, the ruin of the outpost, the kidnapping on
Raker, the sabotage of
Draco II
. His voice gained an edge of bitterness as he continued the ugly litany of
events. "Dione's safe now. And my starship's serviceable," he concluded,
without mentioning just where
Dione was. A security leak existed somewhere, and he wasn't about to take
further chances with her safety. Cranston had hedged when it came to the name
Jason Clarke had scrawled on the floor. He'd get to the fine details later.
"It's been something of a suicide mission, Commander. Men are dead because of
information I don't have. Information about what Clarke was doing. I should
know what his project was."
The words came out as a flat demand.
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