THE HOUR
OF BATTLE
BY ROBERT SHECKLEY
ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL
As one of the Guardian ships protecting Earth, thecrew had a problem to solve. Just how do you protecta race from an enemy who can take over a man's mindwithout seeming effort or warning?
"That hand didn't move, didit?" Edwardson asked, standingat the port, looking at thestars.
"No," Morse said. He hadbeen staring fixedly at theAttison Detector for over anhour. Now he blinked threetimes rapidly, and looked again."Not a millimeter."
"I don't think it movedeither," Cassel added, from behindthe gunfire panel. And thatwas that. The slender black handof the indicator rested unwaveringlyon zero. The ship's gunswere ready, their black mouthsopen to the stars. A steady humfilled the room. It came from theAttison Detector, and the soundwas reassuring. It reinforcedthe fact that the Detector wasattached to all the other Detectors,forming a gigantic networkaround Earth.
"Why in hell don't theycome?" Edwardson asked, stilllooking at the stars. "Why don'tthey hit?"
"Aah, shut up," Morse said.He had a tired, glum look. Highon his right temple was an oldradiation burn, a sunburst ofpink scar tissue. From a distanceit looked like a decoration.
"I just wish they'd come,"Edwardson said. He returnedfrom the port to his chair, bendingto clear the low metal ceiling."Don't you wish they'dcome?" Edwardson had the narrow,timid face of a mouse; buta highly intelligent mouse. Onethat cats did well to avoid.
"Don't you?" he repeated.
The other men didn't answer.They had settled back to theirdreams, staring hypnotically atthe Detector face.
"They've had enough time,"Edwardson said, half to himself.
Cassel yawned and licked hislips. "Anyone want to play somegin?" he asked, stroking hisbeard. The beard was a mementoof his undergraduate days.Cassel maintained he could storealmost fifteen minutes worth ofoxygen in its follicles. He hadnever stepped into space unhelmetedto prove it.
Morse looked away, and Edwardsonautomatically watchedthe indicator. This routine hadbeen drilled into them, brandedinto their subconscious. Theywould as soon have cut theirthroats as leave the indicator unguarded.
"Do you think they'll comesoon?" Edwardson asked, hisbrown rodent's eyes on the indicator.The men didn't answerhim. After two months togetherin space their conversationalpowers were exhausted. Theyweren't interested in Cassel'sundergraduate days, or inMorse's conquests.
They were bored to death evenwith their own thoughts anddreams, bored with the attackthey expected momentarily.
"Just one thing I'd like toknow," Edwardson said, slippingwith ease into an old conversationalgambit. "How far canthey do it?"
They had talked for weeksabout the enemy's telepathicrange, but they always returnedto it.
As professional soldiers, theycouldn't help but speculate onthe enemy and his weapons.It was their shop talk.
"Well," Morse said wearily,"Our Detector network coversthe system out beyond Mars' orbit."
"Where we sit," Cassel said,watching the indicators now thatthe others were talking.
"They might not even knowwe have a detection unit working,"Morse said, as he had saida thousand times.
"Oh, stop," Edwardson said,his thin face twisted in scorn."They're telepathic. They musthave read every bit of stuff inEverset's mind."
"Everset didn't know we hada detect