Haarland’s face was suddenly, queerly gray. He said, almost to himself, “It seems that there are things worse than war.” Abruptly he smiled. “Let’s find Ma.”
They returned through the coupling and searched the longliner for the old woman. A Sonny told them, “Ma usually hangs around the meter room. Likes to see them blinking.” And there they found her.
“Hello, Haarland,” she smiled, flashing her superb teeth. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Perfect, Ma. I want to talk to you under the seal.”
She looked at Ross. “Him?” she asked.
“I vouch for him,” Haarland said gravely. “Wesley.”
She answered, “The limiting velocity is C.”
“But C2 is not a velocity,” Haarland said. He turned to Ross. “Sorry to make a mystery,” he apologized. “It’s a recognition formula. It identifies one member of what we call the Wesley families, or its messenger, to another. And these people are messengers. They were dispatched a couple of centuries ago by a Wesley family whose ship, for some reason, no longer could be used. Why?—I don’t know why. Try your luck, maybe you can figure it out. Ma, tell us the history again.”
She knitted her brows and began to chant slowly:
“In great-grandfather’s time the target was Clyde,