Destroyer of Worlds by Larry Niven Read Free Book Online Page A

salute. “You didn’t see me. Captain Tanaka-Singh is on the bridge. He’ll explain.” Omar would keep these two hidden until
Don Quixote
returned from its upcoming, unannounced mission.
    â€œYes, sir,” they chorused.
    Alert clicks came over the comm link, then Eric’s voice. “Sigmund, are you coming?”
    â€œIn a minute.” Sigmund waited for the footsteps to fade. He muted the inter-ship link before connecting the intercom to Baedeker’s cabin. “It’s time.”
    Silence.
    â€œNow, tanj it!” Sigmund said.
    Finally: “Acknowledged, Sigmund.”
    However grudging, the answer was delivered in a breathy contralto. Puppeteers always spoke thus to humans. Given that a Puppeteer could imitate most musical instruments—and whole orchestras when he wished—the sexy voice had to be a conscious, manipulative choice.
    A moment later hooves clattered on the metal deck of the corridor. Baedeker hesitated in the doorway, ready to run in either direction.
    â€œBaedeker,” Sigmund coaxed. The Puppeteer edged into the relax room. “Baedeker, it’s your turn to cross.”
    With a bit less cajoling than Sigmund had expected, Baedeker sidled onto the disc and vanished. Sigmund allowed Baedeker a moment to vacate the receive disc before stepping to
Don Quixote
—
    Where Eric was red in the face. Baedeker had backed away. His heads were swiveling about in panic, searching for somewhere to bolt. He found refuge behind the crates of weapons and battle armor Sigmund had transferred before the crew exchange.
    â€œYou!” Eric hissed. “How dare you—”
    â€œHe’s with me,” Sigmund snapped. “Eric, back off. That’s an order.”
    Kirsten was listening over the intercom. “Who? Is everything okay?”
    â€œFine, Kirsten,” Sigmund said. “Radio the shuttle. Tell Omar, ‘Well done, and have a safe trip home.’ ”
    Eric’s hands were fists, white-knuckled, as he kept moving toward Baedeker. “Do you know who this is, Sigmund? What he tried to do?”
    â€œEric! Who is it?” Kirsten asked.
    â€œIt’s Baedeker!” Eric shouted back. “Baedeker!”
    Sigmund chose his words carefully. “He did what seemed best to protect his people and his home. As you and I do.”
    â€œHe hid explosives aboard my ship!”
    The late, lamented
Explorer
. “The ship you stole, Eric.”
    â€œThat’s not the point!”
    It was precisely the point. In another life, on another world, Sigmund had hidden a bomb in another ship, and for the same reason: lest the vessel be stolen. Sigmund had done it first, and—unlike Baedeker—deterred a theft.
    Not that Sigmund was proud of what he’d had to do. “Baedeker was doing his job. Eric, do yours.”
    Eric winced. “I always have.”
    Sigmund permitted Eric the last word to lessen the sting of the rebuke. “All right, Kirsten.” Sigmund recited a set of coordinates. “Whenever you’re ready.”
    Kirsten knew how Sigmund felt about spaceships and she allowed him no time to get cold feet. That, or she recognized their destination. “Dropping to hyperspace in five seconds . . . four . . . three . . .”
    Â 
    HYPERSPACE!
    It was a place (dimension? abstraction? shared delusion?) that defied description. Whatever hyperspace was, or wasn’t, when you were in it a hyperdrive shunt carried you along at a prodigious clip: roughly a light-year of Einstein space every three days.
    Leave a view port uncovered in hyperspace and—if you were lucky—the walls seemed to converge in denial of the nothingness. If you were unlucky, your mind simply got lost. Whatever hyperspace was, or wasn’t, the mind refused to acknowledge it. Hyperspace had driven many minds mad.
    And so, ships sped through hyperspace with their view ports painted over, or hidden