Macroscope

“I am it,” the officer said, answering her question. “But the enemy has surprised us and I lack experience.”

The Queen brooded over the sphere. “My Drone could make a better deployment,” she said.

The officer very nearly dared to show its ire at the disparagement. “Perhaps your Drone should assume tactical command.”

The Drone-mind suffered a flare of rage at the well-turned sarcasm. The Drone would never have implemented it or even expressed it in the presence of the Queen; but Groton, caught off-guard by the ferocity of the emotion, did.

“The Drone will assume command,” he said, with the resonance of triple-range vocal chords.

The Queen turned, about to rebuke him — such rebuke possessing the force of exile — but changed her mind. “Yes — he will. You tactician — attach yourself to him as apprentice. It should be an intriguing experience.”

Thus had a single incontinent outburst netted him stellar responsibility. The whim of the Queen was cruel.

Desperately, Groton assessed his resources. The Drone-mind was cowering in horror, as a man might who had just broken wind vociferously while saluting his country’s flag. He had to detach himself from its emotional state and suppress that mind almost entirely to prevent being overwhelmed by cowardice. This meant taking over most of its remaining functions and dispensing with its store of information. He became the Drone.

Yet it seemed to him that the joke was not as farfetched as the Drone’s diminished status had encouraged the neuters to believe. The Drone had spent several years in close attendance upon the Queen, and surely had overheard many of her directives. The Drone had a good mind and excellent information; it was its timidity and dependence on the Queen that made the notion of command ludicrous.

Neither Queen nor workers knew that a determined human personality had taken control. The Drone had strong emotions and weak initiative; Groton had mild emotions and strong will. The combination could have meant weakness in both departments — but fortunately that was not the case. This worm could turn, as the experience with the supply depot worker had shown.

The Queen was gone, leaving him to his mess.

The tactician-worker waited beside him as directed. Groton perceived the distress caused by this ultimate indignity — but the Queen’s word really was law. The officer, like himself, was captive to its own indiscretion. The Queen had her own ways of dealing with insolence — and the remaining workers had had another lesson.

“What is the immediate objective?” Groton asked the officer, determined to do his best, whatever became of it.

“To drive off the enemy, so that the station can be installed and activated, and the mines placed,” it replied.

“And the mines will prevent subsequent attacks?”

“Yes.”

“How does the Felk armament compare to ours?”

“It is superior. In number, not in kind. We suffered losses in prior placements.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Time for what?”

Groton perceived another weakness of the worker-mind. “How much time do we have before the enemy breaks through and destroys the station?”

“About six hours — unless we can outmaneuver them or frighten them away.” The time had been given in alien units, but Groton had no difficulty in comprehending.

He studied the map-sphere. “You plan to wait for them to attack?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“How else can we observe the nature of their thrust?” Orders or no, the officer had little respect for the Drone. Groton was reminded of a somewhat similar experience many years ago. Then it had been high school students. Now, as then, he had no higher appeal, contrary to the theoretical situation; he had to handle the matter by himself or be washed out.

“Yet,” he said, “with their ships massed and traveling at high velocity, our scattered forces ca

The neuter did not bother to reply.

“You have no manuals of strategy?”

“Of course not. A tactician learns by experience.”

The military mind! “Provided he lives.”

“Yes,” the officer agreed. “My predecessor—”

“And the Felks are similarly organized? No study of the lessons of history?”

“I assume so. How else should it be?”

How else indeed!

It appeared that a noncombative but practical-minded Earthman was as well equipped to handle galactic battle tactics as the galactic commands were.

“All right. Relay this directive: All ships, repeat all ships, to proceed immediately to the Felk battlemoon, there to attack without englobement.”

The officer, true to its nature, relayed the command. Groton heard the controller giving directions to individual ships. Then, thinking about it, the officer objected. “What?”

“You wouldn’t be familiar with the dictum ‘The best defense is a good offense’?”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, chalk it up to experience, once you see it happen. We know we can’t stop their attack, if we wait for it to develop, nor can we hope to overcome the enemy in a normal encounter — but our ships do have an advantage of several hours in deployment. We can hit the Felk before the Felk hits us.”

“But with no defense—”

“Wait and see.” Inwardly, Groton prayed that his audacious gamble paid off. He was not, ordinarily a gambling man. He was exchanging almost certain defeat for a fifty-fifty chance at victory — but had he been a real tactician, he might have known how to play for two- or three-to-one odds in his favor. “Now you and I will board the fleet flagship,” he finished.

That made another stir. It seemed that commanders of naval operations generally ensconced themselves safely within the base moon and jumped to another location in space when the battle went against them. No wonder losses could be heavy!

He had no time to concern himself with the details of the ship he boarded. It was a standard cruiser, heavy on armament, slow on maneuver, but capable of high velocity under sustained acceleration.

Three hours later they were closer to the enemy moon than to their own. The Felk fleet was still emerging, though about half of it was now positioned around its base.

“Form our ships into three wedges,” Groton said. “Send them in simultaneously from three directions.” And it was done.

The enemy fleet deployed to counter this move. “Why don’t they mass and attack our station?” the officer asked, baffled.

“Would you attack the enemy home-base — if your ships were needed to save your own hide?”

“Hide?”

“Carapace. Chitin integument. Personal dignity.”

“Oh. Yes. Self-preservation.”

An underling-worker reported: “Felk commander has a message for Queen commander.”

“Is that safe to accept?”

“Yes,” the officer replied. “The Felks are reputed to be honorable in battle.”

“Let’s see it then. Maybe he wants to negotiate.”

“Negotiate?”

“Don’t you ever bargain for some settlement short of total victory?”

“Bargain?”

Groton shrugged and watched the communications screen. A picture of a two-eyed creature with a caved-in face formed, manlike in its way. Do we look that ugly? he asked himself, already acclimatized to the shell-gloss outlines of the hive perso

The Felk commander spoke in whistles, pursing its flaccid lips, but there was a ru