Tubemonkey

Sixty feet away and four stories above the concrete floor of Bed 52, a man stood by the curving window of Karrin's office and watched Rhiannon descend in the lift. He was a small, padded man with the sly look of the lower Mars suburbs about him.

"Tubemonkey," he said, curling his lips over the word.

Karrin raised his sober, business-man's eyes from their inspection of the briefcase on the desk before him. "He'll do perfectly, Lin. He's just idiot enough to get us there and back and then forget all about it. He got a dose of cosmics--sometimes he can't even remember his own name."

"Yes?" Lin Janus' cold gaze followed Rhiannon as the big man went through the distant playground gate. Rhiannon was carrying Tweety on his shoulder and bouncing every other step into the air, and Tweety had wrapped indignant tentacles around his steed's head. A mud-colored puppy went scooting after them, yanked by jealousy from the quilted lay his master had prepared for him beneath Cradle Nine.

"Can he still handle a boat?"

"Not for combat." Karrin leaned far back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head with a dignity that made the awkward position seem very right. "He can still hit space, though."

Janus turned away from the window.

"You'd better make certain that he forgets," he said.

Karrin shrugged; another killing wouldn't matter much. "Why do we need a pilot in the first place?"

"You took me out last time," Janus said flatly, "and I damned near died of fright." He tapped the briefcase. "You're sure this is the right stuff? I can't tell from looking, you know--hyper-atomics are out of my line."

Karrin smiled slightly and brought his body forward in the chair. "You're getting what you're paying me for." He took his time about lighting a cigarette and then laid it on the edge of the desk as he stood up. He took a leather folder from the briefcase, opened it to reveal a dozen closely printed and diagrammed sheets.

"These," he said, "are Llarn's defenses. Take my word for it."

Unlike most wars, this one had started formally and in good military taste. From their headquarters on Llarn's moon the Rebels had made their request for political autonomy, and denial had come promptly, through Llarn's Council, from the far off Earth Federation. The Rebels had announced their intent to revolt in force and the first engagement had occurred that very day--a space battle, fought competently by both sides, and a draw. Llarn, Earth's first extra-Solar pioneer world, threw up hyper-atomic shields--Llarn's moon did likewise--and the matter rested there in a checkmate of technological perfection.

Subsequent space battles had been fought, but these mattered very little. It had boiled down to a secret service war; a deadlock to be broken by the first side skillful enough to spy out the plans of the enemy's defense set-up. Sabotage could then finish the job.

The attendant looked at Rhiannon without enthusiasm. He gave the big man a time ticket and turned and went through an arched doorway. He had just pulled a fresh punching bag from the dwindling supply when a wham sound ran across the air of the playground outside.

Surrounded by pained chuckles, Rhiannon looked unhappily at the dangling plastic ruin and allowed himself to be shoved aside by the bitter attendant. Then, when the damage was repaired, he drew back his huge right arm again. The attendant grabbed it.

"Hold on, Rhiannon, there's a rocket game over here, fella. Come on and I'll show it to you!" He pulled the reluctant giant over to a facsimile control board set against the wall; watched for, and saw, the huge smile break out. Every day was a new life for Rhiannon, and the presence of this mock control board--installed to keep him out of trouble--came always as a wonderful surprise.

"Sit down, Rhiannon. Tubes set?"

A tense nod.

"Gravity O.K.? Green light from Central? Blast off!"

Rhiannon zoomed his boat into outer space and began to chase a comet. It got away from him. After a while he thought it would be nice if he could blast the whole Rebel navy out of the void--and they appeared, tier upon tier of them, in gleaming battle shields.

"Sergeant Atoms!" he rumbled. "Make ready to fire."

Atoms rose up on his hind legs, compelled and controlled by the strange and inexplicable telepathic aftermath of Rhiannon's misfortune. The former pilot's "cosmic braincut"--and the "braincuts" of the other few similar radiation cases--had resulted in this sour blessing: had stepped up their mental broadcasting apparatus, and left them very little to broadcast. Humans could often pick up random thoughts from these men, while animals reacted easily to their will.

Thus it was that "Sergeant" Atoms placed his paws on the dummy firing button; a temporarily selfless extension of Rhiannon's physical and psychical form.

Together, they wiped out the Rebel fleet in a matter of seconds.

Rhiannon was exploring Polaris when a hand fell lightly upon his shoulder. He whirled up and around snarling. A Rebel spy on his boat: he'd kill the son--