by Jerry
“About your Frostrees,” I said, “we can’t help you destroy them—and we don’t advise you to try, either. The lab boys discovered they’re a part of your ecological setup, and you can’t spare them.”
“——the ecological setup, Mister!” The rage was back in his sunken eyes. “These things are killing our crops as fast as we can grow ’em. We don’t hardly have the strength to burn ’em back!”
I nodded. “There’s something in the carton for that. Tiger wheat. It Worked pretty well on Ogirra. They had a problem very similar to yours.” His temper dropped a few degrees, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What you figure something called Tiger wheat’ll do to people, mister? Or did you think of that?”
“Shouldn’t do anything,” I told him. “Unless you’re part plant. It should poison the Frostrees or anything else that tries to grow near it. Won’t bother people. Just stay away from it until after it loses its strength at harvest time. It’s all in the microbook in the seed pack.”
He glared at me and shook his fists tight against his sides. “We don’t want any part of the stuff,” he hissed. “We’ll make out ourselves somehow. Without Starpath handouts!”
The gong sounded softly behind us. I said, “You might change your mind when you get back on your feet. I hope so. Good-by—and the best of luck.”
He tried to mouth a curse, then dropped on his thin knees to the ground. I jumped through the hatch and let the seal sigh behind me. I was in the cushion as OPERATIONAL green turned to amber.
DeLuso’s eyes were welded to the bright, blinking READY.
“Everything operational, sir.”
I gave him a curt, military-type nod, then added: “Watch the throat muscles; I might see you next stop. . . .”
II
DeLuso gasped as we stepped out of the dome. It was night, and Vara Vara’s purple moon filled half the sky, spotting the landscape with soft, violet shadows. A slight breeze carried the odors of exotic blossoms and dusty pollen.
DeLuso said something, softly, but I didn’t catch his words. Still, I understood. Vara Vara is that kind of world.
“Makes you feel kind of guilty,” he said absently. “I mean, sir—after Gellhell—the things they have to go through just to stay alive.”
I grinned in the darkness. “Uh-huh. Seems that way, doesn’t it? You know anything about Vara Vara, son?”
He turned, and I picked up his face in the violet shadows.
“It’s Paradise, DeLuso. At least, if there’s a paradise anywhere in this Universe, Vara Vara comes closest to filling the bill. It’s rather old, for a colony. Discovered nearly 150 years before Starpath. Long-sleep colonists—some of the few on record that ever landed anywhere in those days. They took one look at Vara Vara, and decided this was it. So they mutated—and made Vara Vara theirs.”
I could feel the boy’s surprise. Somewhere a night bird broke into its trilling cry. “Sir—mutated? But—”
I nodded. “Mutation equipment was standard on every colony ship those days just in case. Then as now, it’s pretty hard to turn back. This was one of those cases. They thought it was worthwhile, and I can’t say that I blame them. As to why they made the change, the answer is down there.”
I walked to the edge of the field and pointed into purple darkness.
“Below, Cadet. We’re in the top of a planet-wide forest, three miles high. Up here is where the colonists live. This is the paradise part of Vara Vara. Two miles down is the hell.”
I walked back to the dome and turned up outside volume as high as it would go, aiming the directional pickups straight down. DeLuso hadn’t moved.
“Now,” I said. “Listen.”
There was really very little to hear at this distance, but it was enough to stand a man’s hair on end. It wasn’t so much what you could hear. . . .
I looked at the cadet. He was a purple statue with a marble-white face. I turned the volume back to low.
“Don’t ask what’s making those noises,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Anyway, the Vara Varans don’t mind. Needless to say, they don’t wander around down there.”
I stopped, and faced DeLuso. His eyes were turned to the leafy darkness. I knew what he was doing; he was trying to pinpoint the soft, velvety hum that had suddenly filled the night. I smiled to myself, remembering the night that almost alien sound had first reached my own ears.
“There,” I said, “Look.” I raised a hand toward the dim purple moon. A bright ball of cold fire was pulsing toward us through black leaves. The soft hum turned to a definite, whirring beat. Then the fluttering of wings filled the night. A blur of violet flowed across the surface of the field, then settled lightly on a loop of twisted vine. DeLuso’s eyes widened.
“Hello, Lyrerae,” I said.
“Hellooooooooooooo, Keith Waldermann, my Starpather!” Her voice was a high, golden song. She touched the coldlight bug nestling on her shoulder, and it purred into dimness.
All of the women of Vara Vara are beautiful, each in their own way. The expression of beauty is a part of the Vara Vara way of living. None of the others—to me—can touch the beauty of Lyrerae.
She smiled, glanced at me warmly, then turned her eyes searchingly on DeLuso.
“And this one, Keith? I have not seen him with you before?” Lyrerae’s’ voice made her simple statement sound like a declaration of love.
“Lyrerae. This is Cadet Matt DeLuso. This is his first trip, but we may be able to make a Starpather out of him.”
“I’m—pleased to meet you,” Matt mumbled.
Lyrerae laughed. “He’s pretty, but not as pretty as you, Keith.”
“Of course not,” I said seriously, “he’s just a cadet. Maybe when he’s an old Starpather, he’ll be as pretty as I am’. And what can we do for you, Lyrerae? Any problems?”
A light breeze ruffled the soft surface of her wings, and she made quick adjustments of balance. “There are no problems on Vara Vara, Keith. We left our problems behind many years ago. But,” she said brightly, “I am going to find a problem for you, Keith. I promise. I think you will stop coming if I cannot find a problem. Yes?”
“No,” I grinned, “I won’t stop coming, Lyrerae.”
“I know,” she laughed. “I know! And you, Matt DeLuso? You will come back, too?”
“I’d like that,” said Matt. “Very much.”
Lyrerae winked at him and stretched high on her long legs, spreading slim arms and delicate wings. The light down that covered her body fluttered briefly, then flattened slowly into place. It was something to see. It was simply WOMAN, spelled in capital letters.
“I said, “Be nice to the customers, Cadet. Smile or something.” DeLuso wasn’t listening. His gaze was lost in golden eyes, and Lyrerae had made another conquest.
Then she left us with a high, singsong laugh and rose out of sight beyond violet shadows.
I touched DeLuso’s arm. “Okay, son, come on. We’ve got calls to make.”
He blinked hard and brought his eyes back from the purple moon. “Sorry, sir, I—”
I turned him around and grinned. “Don’t be, Cadet. You get used to a lot of things on Starpath. You never get used to Vara Vara. Now, let’s get hopping.”
We had time for two more.
Gresticbor was a dawn world full of scaly beasties, but nothing the well established colony there couldn’t handle. Then Styrxx, a mining planet dug in half a mile under a white sun we’d never see. They had a nice revolution brewing there, and both sides wanted arms from Starpath to, as they put it, “guarantee law and order.” Arms, of course, they didn’t get. Starpath figures talk is cheaper than arms and certainly a lot less lethal in the long run. So talk I gave them.
Styrxx is very heavy on rare earths, and they’re almost ready to afford the luxury of a two-way Starpath terminal. I let them know that the paperwork on two-ways for a world without a stable government had a way of getting shuffled around a bit. They got the general idea, but I Was glad w
e had a nice, firm field around us. Mining isn’t entirely automated out there yet, and some of those guys looked ready and able to take a couple of Starpathers apart. Field or no field.
We’d hit four worlds in a little under 3 hours. Travel time: Zero Plus. Light-years: say, five hundred, five forty. Then suddenly the schedule was broken for us, and we were shuttled off the circuit and into stasis at Primera.
I caught DeLuso’s puzzlement as we stepped out into the busy station at Primera Starpath Control. I let it go for the moment. There was nothing I could really tell him—not yet. Anyway, I didn’t feel much like talking.
Breaking schedule is part of the game, but it always pulls that permanent knot in your stomach a little tighter. You know that each time you make a schedule, chances are good that other stomachs are having fits so your particular emergency can be smoothed over.
It isn’t easy. And we never get used to it, in spite of what we tell ourselves: that someone else needs shuttle time more than we do. That they’ll be waiting on the sidelines for you to finish up next time around. It doesn’t work that way. Those are your worlds out there, and some of them are in big trouble. Some of them might not make it if you miss your next call. Some of them are so critical you should try to get scheduled for a call every month or so. But you know it might be a year—or two years—and you wonder what’s happening out there.
But there just isn’t enough power to keep all the circuits open. There just aren’t enough men who can ride the Starpaths. Not yet.
III
By the book, Primera goes down as a Class-A world. By definition, that means it’s old enough and rich enough to have an industrial export-import situation, a large population and a stable political setup. Most important, it means Primera qualifies as a Starpath Crossroads, a world where the power plants can handle the mainlines and shuttles for a Starpath sector—one of those unfathomable slices of the galactic pie.
There are more than enough diversions on Primera to keep a man from boredom, if you happen to be in the state of mind that allows you to enjoy them. It was, I reflected wryly, about half true what they said about members of the Corps. An off-duty Starpather is no damn good to anyone. It’s a pretty fair appraisal. The men who qualify for Starpath duty are not men who easily shrug off the burden of the worlds that depend on them. It isn’t a responsibility you cast aside one day and pick up the next.
There’s really no such thing as a Starpather on leave.
I guess I’m a little dense. We’d been on Primera two days before I figured out what was wrong with DeLuso. The standards I easily and naturally applied to myself could mean little to him. I had an idea he’d make a good Starpather in time. Experience would take care of that. But for now, he was a fresh, raw cadet who had been Earthbound all his life until 48 hours ago. Since then he had crossed 500-odd light-years of space and walked on five strange worlds. Not a hell of a long Starpath career—but not bad for two days out of Earth!
As yet, I realized, Matt DeLuso was not overly interested in tradition. He was, normally enough, interested in what any healthy character of 20 or 21 years should be interested in. To put it mildly, he was straining at the bit to get at the sights of Primera—and doing his best to keep his impatience from an obviously ancient superior officer!
As we crossed the warm, sundrenched mall to the Grand Primera’s dining area, DeLuso kept his jaw clenched and eyes straight ahead, stonily ignoring the open admiration of the two dark-eyed beauties tanning themselves at poolside. Seated at our table, he gave the oversized menu the same degree of concentration I’d expect from an astrogator pouring over his charts.
Even when a trio of silvermasked Fungirls brushed by, tall, statuesque creatures who moved with unworldly grace, DeLuso merely clutched his menu tighter.
So I know when I’m beaten.
“DeLuso!”
The menu dropped, and my cadet jerked into a full sitting brace. “Sir!”
“All right. Take it easy,” I said. “We might as well get it over with, Cadet. It’s either you or me, and I figure you win the deal hands down.” DeLuso managed to maintain innocent bewilderment.
I let out a deep breath. “Come off it, Mister. You’ve got dancing girls and nightclubs written on your eyeballs. Order something for me and hang on a little longer. I’ve get a couple of calls to make.”
DeLuso brightened slightly. But I’ve been around long enough to catch those not so subtle hints of—what? Disbelief? Doubt? I stood up, leaned my hands on the table, and stared down at him with my best parade ground scowl.
“Son, you really think I’m too palsied to make it to the phone by myself—or find a number when I get there?”
DeLuso paled. “Oh, no, sir!”
“Fine. In that case, Cadet—”
“Keith, all your numbers are doddering grandmothers by now. I know—you stole about half of them from my book!”
I jerked around to face the deep voice behind me and looked up into a leather face slit by a broad smile. “Walt! Walt, for the—!” We were pumping hands and slapping backs, and DeLuso was standing at stiff attention across the table.
“They told me at Command you were out on shuttle. I dropped by as soon as we were scheduled off.” The tall man winced. “I know. Took my adjutant half a day to get the office girls back in harness. I had an idea Keith Waldermann was in town.”
I grinned. Good old Walt. “Sir,” I said gravely, “you have just saved an old Starpather’s creaking image. Oh, Sector Commander Martin, meet Cadet Matt DeLuso.”
Martin grabbed Matt’s hand, sizing up the cadet in that rapid and remarkably accurate manner that amazed everyone who had ever worked with him. It was the kind of ability you’d expect in a Starpath Commander—but it was certainly no less remarkable for that.
“Glad to have you aboard,” said Walt. “Been with us very long, Cadet?”
“Two days, sir,” Matt said. “I’m kind of a newcomer, sir.”
“What he didn’t mention,” I told Walt, “is that he made his first and fifth jump during that period. Which is a little rough, Cadet,” I grinned. “Didn’t tell you that before. Afraid it might go to your head.”
Matt reddened suddenly, and Walt smiled. At the same time, the sector commander’s brow raised, and he exchanged a quick glance with me, obviously impressed.
“It looks as if you may have a Starpather on your hands, Major,” he said evenly. Walt gave DeLuso another searching look as he spoke, and the tone of his voice changed slightly. Matt didn’t catch it, certainly. But I’d known Walt Martin a long time.
He said, “I think a man’s fifth jump calls for a drink from his sector commander. I, ah, will also include a lunch on the deal, since the chits will find their way to my office eventually, anyway. Might as well make sure they’re honest. And Cadet.” He turned to DeLuso. “If you think an even older Starpather might be able to come up with a few decent numbers, I suggest you get yourself fitted with some dress greens this afternoon. Now if we can be seated, gentlemen, I think we might be able to make a small but significant dent in the Starpath budget. . . .”
Nobody loves a Starpather. They envy us because we’re the glory boys, the danger corps, the top rung on the ladder. Sometimes they respect us, because they know what kind of a job we’re doing. But nobody loves us. I guess that’s really asking a little too much.
Phimera City is big—class conscious, wealthy, sophisticated. It’s a city full of old money, the kind that’s hard to shake up and difficult to impress.
There is one thing, though, that’s guaranteed to do the job: three Starpathers in full dress uniform, plus a trio of the best-looking girls in town.
We took the full tour. Matt DeLuso’s eyes seemed to grow wider at every stop. We made several of the most popular spots in town and ended up at a place accurately described at the best steak house in the known universe. And everywhere, of course, we were the center of attention. If you’re a Starpather, you’re supposed to get used to that.
M
e, I never do. I don’t think many of us do.
You see, it’s not quite the same as being a planet-wide, stereo star, or a high, government official. It’s not like that at all. A better analogy would be the attitude most people have toward their police force: necessary, maybe, but not overly welcome—until you need them.
Take the analogy a bit further, and you have the general feeling toward Starpathers. We’re the highest paid, most privileged cops in history. We go places no one else is allowed to go, see things not one in a million will see in their lifetimes. We patrol the known segments of the galaxy—that small arm of stars lost on the edge of the Milky Way’s rim.
It’s dangerous, sure. Not too many of the people who complain about our so-called status would trade places with us for a day. But who thinks of that part of the job when they see a cop out spending the taxpayers’ money?
Matt DeLuso seemed to find a a great deal to consider on the black surface of his morning coffee. I had an idea his silence wasn’t entirely due to the effects of wine, women and song. I thought—and I was right—that he had managed to glimpse a few of the negative aspects of Starpath service.
“You’d have to be pretty dense not to see it, wouldn’t you, sir?”
I knew what he meant, but I asked, anyway. “You’ve discovered that we’re liked—but not well liked. Right, Cadet?”
DeLuso nodded. “We heard about it in school. You know the way things filter down, sir. But that was just talk. When you see it out here—the way they look at you. . . .”
I smiled to myself and poured a fresh round of coffee. “There’s something else, too,” I told him. “Another factor. You don’t get so much resentment when you are where people have everything—and that’s the situation back home. Old Mother Earth is riding high—has been for a long, long time. Why feel bad about Starpath? No, Cadet, the formula works this way: a Starpather is loved in direct proportion to the current amount of comfort available on Homeworld ‘X’. Primera tolerates us; Gellhell hates us. You’ve seen both worlds, and it’s not too difficult to follow their reasoning. Look at it this way. At about 20 times light speed which is the best we can manage so far, a Longsleeper still takes 20 years to cover the distance out to Deneb. Subjectively the colonists haven’t missed a thing. They haven’t aged; that 20 years was spent in blissful sleep.
