He started off to the right in a seeming trance. The first step had been taken. His many hours of thought, study and planning would carry him from here.
This was the only way. He had repeated the fact over and over. It was an ugly business, but had to be done. Five years of war was enough. Man was on his knees before the invaders from outer space; but they in turn had been too long from home and were near the breaking point. A continued drain would mean defeat for both sides. Ruy could turn the tide, but very probably his life would be the minimum sacrifice.
He had decided his fate long before he left the decks of his ship. Only the belligerent pride of statesmen, and the steadfast belief in the infallability of their computers, kept the two great battle fleets drawn in null position against each other. The computers, perhaps, deserved such ultimate confidence—in theory. They always predicted optimum maneuver envelopes, always predicted mobilization rates to develop force fields designed to offset those of the enemy. And they always kept battle losses to a minimum—merely dribbling away the resources of the solar system. Yet in five years of such optimum maneuvering, not a single battle had been won.
Two doors gave way before Ruy's pocket vibrator, the lock tumblers slipping and turning freely in a mad frenzy to escape the resonating hum. A short, windowless corridor lay before him, broken only by a massive door at the other end. Beyond that door lay Ruy's objective.
The guard never had time to do more than note Ruy's presence in this sanctum sanctorum. The needle thin spray of a paralyzing drug made his body feel stiff, unmanageable, and peculiarly buoyant, as though he were being hurled through space. His thoughts became blurred and then after a blinding flash, complete oblivion set in.
The two officers seated at the control panels of the master computer experienced similar depression of their cardiovascular systems and medullae.
Small thermite igniters pressed against the door lock and hinges fused the steel door to its frame.
With the smell of scorched paint still stinging his nostrils, Ruy seated himself at the control panel, dabbed his left wrist with stringent antiseptic, gripped his hand into a fist, and plunged the silver probes deep into the nerves of his wrist.
