Space Police

by Andre Norton

  It did not take long after his landing on that planet to establish with a reasonable degree of certainty that if Pagadan was still present, she was in no condition to respond to any kind of telepathic message. It was only a very little later—since he was working on the assumption that caution was not a primary requirement just now—before he disclosed the much more significant fact that the same held true of the personage who had been known as Deel.

  The next hour, however—until he tapped the right three or four minds—was a dragging nightmare! Then he had the additional information that the two he sought had departed from the planet, together, but otherwise unaccompanied, not too long after he had sent Pagadan his original message.

  He flashed the information back to the docked ship, adding:

  “It’s a question, of course, of who took whom along. My own guess is Pagadan hadn’t tripped any triggers yet and was still in charge—and U-1 was still Deel—when they left here! The ship’s a single-pilot yacht, shop-new, fueled for a fifty-day trip. No crew; no destination recorded.

  “Pass it on to Headquarters right away! They still won’t be able to do anything about it; but anyway, it’s an improvement.”

  “That’s done,” the robot returned impassively. “And now?”

  “I’m getting back to you at speed—we’re going after them, of course.”

  “She must have got the message,” the robot said after a moment, “but not clearly enough to realize exactly what you wanted. How did she do it?”

  “Nobody here seems to know—she blasted those watch-dogs in one sweep, and Gull’s been doing flip-flops quietly ever since! The Ceetal’s gang is in charge of the planet, of course, and they think Deel and his kidnapers are still somewhere around. They’ve just been alerted from Lycanno that something went wrong there in a big way; but again they don’t know what.

  “And now they’ve also begun to suspect somebody’s been poking around in their minds pretty freely this last hour or so.”

  The two men in the corridor outside the Port Offices were using mind-shields of a simple but effective type. It was the motor tension in their nerves and muscles that warned him first, surging up as he approached, relaxing slightly—but only slightly—when he was past.

  He drove the warning to the ship.

  “Keep an open line of communication between us, and look out for yourself. The hunt’s started up at this end!”

  “The docks are clear of anything big enough to matter,” the robot returned instantly. “I’m checking upstairs. How bad does it look? I can be with you in three seconds from here.”

  “You’d kill a few thousand bystanders doing it, big boy! This section’s built up. Just stay where you are. There are two men following me, a bunch more waiting behind the next turn of this corridor. All wearing mind-shields—looks like government police.”

  A second later: “They’re set to use paralyzers, so there’s no real danger. The Ceetal’s outfit wants me alive, for questioning.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Let them take me. It’s you they’re interested in! Lycanno’s been complaining about us, and they think we might be here to get Deel and the Lannai off the planet. How does it look around you now?”

  “Quiet, but not good! There’re some warships at extreme vision range where they can’t do much harm; but too many groups of men within two hundred miles of us are wearing mind-shields and waiting for something. I’d say they’re ready to use fixed-mount space guns now, in case we try to leave without asking again.”

  “That would be it—Well, here go the paralyzers!”

  He stepped briskly around the corridor corner and stopped short, rigid and transfixed in flickering white fountains of light that spouted at him from the nozzles of paralyzer guns in the hands of three of the eight men waiting there.

  After a fifth of a second, the beams snapped off automatically. The stiffness left Iliff’s body more slowly; he slumped then against the wall and slid to the floor, sagging jaw drawing his face down into an expression of foolish surprise.

  One of the gunmen stepped toward him, raised his head and pried up an eyelid.

  “He’s safe!” he announced with satisfaction. “He’ll stay out as long as you want him that way.”

  Another man spoke into a wrist-phone.

  “Got him! Orders?”

  “Get him into the ambulance waiting at the main entrance of the building!” a voice crackled back. “Take him to Dock 709. We’ve got to investigate that ship, and we’ll need him to get inside.”

  “Thought it would be that,” Iliff’s murmur reached the ship. “They’ll claim I was in an accident or something and ask to bring me in.” The thought trailed off, started up again a moment later: “They might as well be using sieves as those government-issue mind-shields! These boys here don’t know another thing except that I’m wanted, but we can’t afford to wait any longer. We’ll have to take them along. Get set to leave as soon as we’re inside!”

  The eight men who brought him through the ship’s ground lock—six handling his stretcher, two following helpfully—were of Gull’s toughest; an alert, well-trained and well-armed group, prepared for almost any kind of trouble. However, they never had a chance. The lock closed soundlessly, but instantaneously, on the heels of the last of them. From the waiting ambulance and a number of other camouflaged vehicles outside concealed semiportables splashed wild gusts of fire along the ship’s flanks—then they were variously spun around or rolled over in the backwash of the take-off. A single monstrous thunderclap seemed to draw an almost visible line from the docks towards the horizon; the docks groaned and shook, and the ship had once more vanished.

  A number of seconds later, the spaceport area was shaken again—this time by the crash of a single fixed-mount space gun some eighty miles away. It was the only major weapon to go into action against the fugitive on that side of the planet.

  Before its sound reached the docks, two guns on the opposite side of Gull also spewed their stupendous charges of energy into space, but very briefly. Near the pole, the ship had left the planet’s screaming atmosphere in an apparent head-on plunge for Gull’s single moon, which was the system’s main fortress. This cut off all fire until, halfway to the satellite, the robot veered off at right angles and flashed out of range on the first half-turn of a swiftly widening evasion spiral.

  The big guns of the moon forts continued to snarl into space a full minute after the target had faded beyond the ultimate reach of their instruments.

  Things could have been much worse, Iliff admitted. And presently found himself wondering just what he had meant by that.

  He was neither conscious nor unconscious. Floating in a little Nirvana of first-aid treatment, he was a disembodied mind vaguely aware of being hauled back once more—and more roughly than usual—to the world of reality. And as usual, he was expected to be doing something there—something disagreeable.

  Then he realized the robot was dutifully droning a report of recent events into his mind while it continued its efforts to rouse him.

  It really wasn’t so bad! They weren’t actually crippled; they could still outrun almost anything in space they couldn’t outfight—as the pursuit had learned by now. No doubt, he might have foreseen the approximate manner in which the robot would conduct their escape under the guns of an alerted and a sizable section of that planet’s war fleet—while its human master and the eight men from Gull hung insensible to everything in the webs of the force-field that had closed on them with the closing of the ground lock.

  A clean-edged sixteen-foot gap scooped out of the compartment immediately below the lock was, of course, nobody’s fault! Through the wildest of accidents, they’d been touched there, briefly and terribly, by the outer fringe of a bolt of energy hurled after them by one of Gull’s giant moon-based guns.

  The rest of the damage—though consisting of comparatively minor rips and dents—could not be so simply dismissed! It was the result, pure and simple, of slash
ing headlong through clusters of quick-firing fighting ships, which could just as easily have been avoided.

  Dreamily, Iliff debated taking a run to Jeltad and having the insubordinate electronic mentality put through an emotional overhaul there. It wasn’t the first time the notion had come to him, but he’d always relented. Now he would see it was attended to! And at once—

  With that, he was suddenly awake and aware of the job much more immediately at hand. Only a slight sick fuzziness remained from the measures used to jolt him out of the force-field sleep and counteract the dose of paralysis rays he’d stopped. And that was going, as he bent and stretched, grimacing at the burning tingle of the stuff that danced like frothy acid through his arteries. Meanwhile, the robot’s steel tentacles were lifting his erstwhile captors, still peacefully asleep, into a lifeboat which was then launched into space, came round in a hesitant half-circle and started resolutely back towards Gull.

  “Here’s our next move,” Iliff announced as the complaining hum of the lifeboat’s “pick-me-up” signals began to fade from their instruments. “They didn’t get much of a start on us—and in an ordinary stellar-type yacht, at that! If they’re going where I think they are, we might catch up with them almost any moment. But we’ve got to be sure, so start laying a global interception pattern at full emergency speeds—centered on Gull, of course! Keep detectors full on and telepath broadcast at ultimate non directional range. Call me if you get the faintest indication of a pickup on either line.”

  The muted brazen voice stated:

  “That’s done!”

  “Fine. The detectors should be our best bet. About the telepath: we’re not going to call Pagadan directly, but we’ll try for a subconscious response. U-1’s got to be in charge by now, unless Correlation’s quit being omniscient, but he might not spot that—at least, not right away! Give her this—”

  Events had been a little too crowded lately to make the memory immediately accessible. But, after a moment’s groping, he brought it from his mind: the picture of a quiet, dawnlit city—seas of sloping, ivory-tinted roofs and slender towers against a flaming sky. The pickup came on the telepath an hour later.

  ‘They’re less than half a light-year out. Shall I slide in and put a tractor on them?”

  “Keep sliding in, but no tractors! Not yet.” Iliff chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “Sure she didn’t respond again?”

  “Not after that first subconscious reply. But the yacht may have been blanked against telepathy immediately afterwards!”

  “Well, anyway, she was still alive then,” Iliff said resignedly. “Give Headquarters the yacht’s location, and tell them to quit mopping their brows because U-1’s on his own now—and any Ceetal that gets within detection range of him will go free-stage the hard way. Then drop a field of freezers over that crate! I want her stopped dead. I guess I’ll have to board—”

  He grimaced uncomfortably and added, “Get in there fast, fella, but watch the approach! There couldn’t be any heavy armament on that yacht, but U-1’s come up with little miracles before this! Maybe that Ceetal was lucky the guy never got back to Lycanno to talk to him! It’s where he was pointed, all right.”

  “Headquarters is now babbling emotional congratulations!” the robot reported, rather coldly. “They also say two Vegan destroyers will be able to reach the yacht within six hours.”

  “That’s nice!” Iliff nodded. “Get just a few more holes punched in you, and we could use those to tow you in.”

  Inclosed in a steel bubble of suit-armor, he presently propelled himself to the lock. The strange ship, still some five minutes’ flight away in fact, appeared to be lying motionless at point-blank range in the port-screens—bow and flanks sparkling with the multiple pinpoint glitter of the freezer field which had wrapped itself around her like a blanket of ravenous, fiery leeches. Any ripple or thrust of power of which she was capable would be instantly absorbed now and dissipated into space; she was effectively immobilized and would remain so for hours.

  “But the field’s not flaring,” Iliff said. He ran his tongue gently over his lips. “That guy does know his stuff! He’s managed to insulate his power sources and he’s sitting there betting we won’t blast the ship but come over and try to pry him out! The trouble is, he’s right.”

  The robot spoke then, for the first time since it had scattered the freezer field in the yacht’s path. “Iliff,” it stated impersonally and somewhat formally, “regulations do not permit you to attempt the boarding of a hostile spaceship under such suicidal conditions. I am therefore authorized—”

  The voice broke off, on a note of almost human surprise. Iliff had not shifted his eyes from the port-screen below him. After a while, he said dryly:

  “It was against regulations when I tinkered with your impulses till I found the set that would let you interfere with me for my own good. You’ve been without that set for years, big boy—except when you were being overhauled!”

  “It was a foolish thing to do!” the robot answered. “I was given no power to act against your decisions, even when they included suicide, if they were justified in the circumstances that formed them. That is not the case here! You should either wait for the destroyers to come up or else let me blast U-1 and the yacht together, without any further regard for the fate of the Interstellar operative—though she is undoubtedly of some importance to civilization.”

  “Galactic Zones thinks so!” Iliff nodded. “They’d much rather she stays alive.”

  “Obviously, that cannot compare with the importance of destroying U-1 the instant the chance is offered! As chief of the Ghant Spacers, his murders were counted, literally, by planetary systems! If you permit his escape now, you give him the opportunity to resume that career.”

  “I haven’t the slightest intention of permitting his escape,” Iliff objected mildly.

  “My responses are limited!” the robot reminded him. “Within those limits I surpass you, of course, but beyond them I need your guidance. If you force an entry for yourself into that ship, you may logically expect to die, and because of the telepathic block around it I shall not be aware of your death. You cannot be certain then that I shall be able to prevent a mind such as that of U-1 from effecting his escape before the destroyers get here!”

  Iliff snarled, suddenly white and shaking. He checked himself with difficulty, drew a long, slow breath. “I’m scared of the guy!” he complained, somewhat startled himself by his reaction. “And you’re not making me feel any better. Now quit giving good advice, and just listen for a change!”

  He went on carefully:

  “The Lannai’s quite possibly dead. But if she isn’t, U-1 isn’t likely to kill her now until he finds out what we’re after. Even for him, it’s a pretty desperate mess—he’ll figure we’re Vegan, so he won’t even try to dicker! But he’ll also figure that as long as we think she’s alive, we’ll be just a little more cautious about how we strike at him.

  “So it’s worth taking a chance on trying to get her out of there. And here’s what you do! In the first place, don’t under any circumstances get any closer than medium beaming range to that crate! Then, just before I reach the yacht, you’re to put a tractor on its forward spacelock and haul it open. That will let me in close to the control room, and that’s where U-1’s got to be.

  “Once I’m inside, the telepath block will, of course, keep me from communicating. If the block goes down suddenly and I start giving you orders from in there, ignore them! The chances are I’ll be talking for U-1. You understand that—I’m giving you an order now to ignore any subsequent orders until you’ve taken me back aboard again?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Whatever happens, you’re to circle that yacht for twenty minutes after I enter, and at the exact end of that time you’re to blast it. If Pagadan or I, or both of us, get out before the time is up, that’s fine. But don’t pick us up, or let us come aboard, or pay attention to any instructions we give you until you’ve burned th
e yacht. If U-1 is able to control us, it’s not going to do him any good. If he comes out himself—with or without us, in a lifeboat or armor—you blast him instantly, of course! Lab would like to study that brain all right, but this is one time I can’t oblige them. You’ve got all that?”

  “I’ve got it, yes.”

  “Then can you think of any other trick he might pull to get out of the squeeze?”

  The robot was silent a moment. “No,” it said then. “I can’t. But U-1 probably could!”

  “Yes, he probably could,” Iliff admitted thoughtfully. “But not in twenty minutes—and it will be less than that, because’s he’s going to be a terribly occupied little pirate part of the time, and a pretty shaky one, if nothing else, the rest of it! I may not be able to take him, but I’m sure going to make his head swim!”

  It was going wrong before it started—but it was better not to think of that.

  Actually, of course, he had never listed the entering of a hostile ship held by an experienced and desperate spacer among his favorite games. The powers that hurled a sliver of sub-steel alloys among the stars at dizzying multiples of the speed of light could be only too easily rearranged into a variety of appalling traps for any intruder.

  U-1 naturally, knew every trick in the book and how to improve on it. On the other hand, he’d been given no particular reason to expect interception until he caught and blocked their telepath-beam—unless he had managed, in that space of time, to break down the Lannai’s mind-shields without killing her, which seemed a next to impossible feat even for him.

  The chances were, then, that the spacer had been aware of pursuit for considerably less than an hour, and that wasn’t time enough to become really well prepared to receive a boarding party—or so Iliff hoped.

  The bad part of it was that it was taking a full four minutes in his armor to bridge the gap between the motionless, glittering yacht and the robot, which had now begun circling it at medium range. That was a quite unavoidable safety measure for the operation as a whole—and actually U-1 should not be able to strike at him by any conceivable means before he was inside the yacht itself. But his brief outburst on the ship was the clearest possible warning that his emotional control had dropped suddenly, and inexplicably, to a point just this side of sanity!