Captive of the Centaurianess by Poul Anderson

about in the galaxy wheresoever it pleased had not been one that he could cheerfully contemplate.
    Meanwhile the amazons themselves poured in, ten times as many as the thirty-odd hulls could hold, riding and hiking from the uttermost ends of Kathantuma and its neighbor queendoms to be in on the most gorgeous piece of banditry ever dreamed of. Only Dyann cared much about Ormun, who was just her personal joss, and only Ray gave a damn about Jupiter as a menace to Earth. However, the man was surprised at how quickly the chosen volunteers formed themselves into disciplined crews and how readily the officers of these developed the needful skills. It occurred to him at length that their way of life selected for alertness, adaptability, and—yes, though he hated to admit it—intelligence.
    Three hectic months after his arrival on Varann, the fleet departed. After his labors, followed by Dyann's idea of a celebration, he used most of the travel time to catch a nap.
     
    VII
     
    Enormous in the forward ports , banded with hues of cloud and storm that could have swallowed lesser worlds whole, diademmed with stars, Jupiter swelled to vision. Ray's heart bumped, his palms were cold and wet, his tongue dry. Somehow he pushed his way through a throng of armored women. Dyann sat at the controls of the flagship, her gaze intent upon the giant ahead.
    "Listen," he pleaded amidst the racket of eager contralto voices, "let me at least call Earth and find out what's been happening. You need to know yourself."
    "Okay, okay," she said. "But be qvick."
    He settled himself before the comscreen and fiddled with knobs. Last year, the notion of virtually instantaneous talk across nearly a billion kilometers would have been sheer fantasy. He, though, was using a phase wave with unlimited speed to beam radio photons. It released them at a distance from Earth, which he had figured out on his pocket calculator, such that their front would reach a relay satellite with enough microwattage to be detected, amplified, and bucked on. The phone number attached to the signal was that of the Union's central public relations office. It was the only official one he knew where he could be sure to get a response without running a gantlet of secretaries.
    The satellite beamed that reply back in the direction which its instruments had registered —with due allowance for planetary motions, of course. The Urushkidan-Tallantyre standing wave acquired the photons and passed them on. It also happened to acquire a commercial for Chef Quimby's Extra-Oleaginous Oleomargarine; and, when Ray received the information officer, that person resembled something seen through several meters of rippled water. At any rate, her image did. He hadn't had a chance to work the bugs out of his circuits.
    "Who is calling, please?" she asked through an obbligato of " Friends, in these perilous times, how better to keep up your strength for the cause of civilization than by a large, nutritious serving— "
    "This is Raymond Tallantyre, calling from the vicinity of Jupiter. I've just returned from Alpha Centauri on a spacecraft traveling faster than light."
    " — deliciously vitaminized— "
    "Sir," the Union spokesman said, "this is no time to be frivolous."
    "— it's yum-yum GOOD— "
    "Listen," Ray cried, "I want to give the technology to the Union. Stand by to record."
    On the far side of Dyann, Urushkidan slithered to attention. "Hey!" he piped. "I neber said I'd gibe away—"
    "Your behavior is in very poor taste," said the official, and switched off.
    Presently Ray regained the wit to find a newcast. That wasn't hard; there were a lot of newcasts these days. He gathered that Jupiter had declared war "to assert racial rights long and cruelly denied." Three weeks ago, the Jovians had won a major naval engagement off Mars. They were not yet proceeding against Earth, but threatened to do it unless they got an armistice on terms which amounted to surrender. Without that, they would