“The priests use sextants, watches, compasses. And, just to make it worse, we have one video recording of a priest laying out a course on an accurate chart. He was using a protractor, which was divided into Galactic degrees. That was the clincher. Somebody’s out of place, and we’ve got to find him—or them.”
He took the sword from Banasel. “I think we’d better go on to the eastern continent, see what we can find, then we can deal with our friends. But first, Ban, you’d better run out a call for one of the Sector Guardsmen to back us up if necessary. We could run into something too hot for us to handle.”
Banasel nodded and turned to the communicator. Lanko dropped into the pilot seat, glanced at the screens, and moved controls. In the viewscreen, the sea tilted, drew farther away, then became a level, featureless blue expanse.
“Well, here’s your eastern continent, In fact, this is the city of Kneuros. It’s where you wanted to go, isn’t it?”
Musa looked at Banasel thoughtfully.
“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s where I thought I wanted to go, but now I really know what I wanted in the first place.”
“Oh?”
“Certainly. I was restless. I thought I liked being a trader in Karth, and I was a fairly good trader, too. But I was just getting things at secondhand. I turned down just what I really wanted, because it scared me. That was a long time ago.” He looked at the control panel. He’d understood such panels once, some years ago.
“How do you plan to find your aliens—if there are any?”
“Search pattern.” Lanko shrugged. “We’ll cruise around in a grid pattern until we pick up some sort of reading, or until we spot something abnormal.” He pointed at a series of instruments.
“They’re bound to have a ship somewhere, and we’ll pick up a small amount of power radiation from their screens. If their ship were orbiting in space, we’d have picked it up long ago, so we must assume it’s grounded. I think we’d better go right into a pattern. We can use Kneuros as origin.” He stared at the plotting instruments.
“Let’s see. If I wanted to hide a ship, I’d use the most inaccessible location I could find. We do that ourselves, in fact. And there are some mountainous regions inland.” He set up course and speed.
“Yeah,” Banasel added, “and I’d worry a lot more about ground approach than air accessibility, at least on this planet.”
The ship gained altitude, accelerated, and sped eastward.
Day by day, the course trace built up, the cameras recorded the terrain under the ship, and the two guardsmen built up their mosaic. The ship crossed and re-crossed the continent, mapping as it went.
From time to time, Lanko made careful comparison of the new mosaic with an earlier survey, noting differences. There were new settlements. Where members of a nomadic culture had roamed the prairie, an industrial civilization was rapidly growing.
Lanko tapped on the map. “Two cultures,” he observed. “Two cultures, separated by mountains and desert. Absolutely no evidence of contact, but considerable similarity between them. This pattern begins to look familiar.”
He picked a tape from the shelves, ran it through a viewer, then reversed it, and picked out various portions for recheck. Finally, he made a superposition of some of their observation tape, examined it, and turned. Banasel held up a hand.
“Don’t tell us,” he growled. “I studied about drones, too.”
“Drones?” Musa looked at him, then glanced back at the viewer.
“Yes. Characters from one of the advanced cultures, who feel frustrated, and fail to fit in. They often turn into pleasure seekers, and frequently end up by monkeying with primitive cultures, to prove their ability to themselves, at least.”
“Things like this happen often?”
“Oh, not too often, I suppose, but often enough so that people like us are stationed on every known primitive planet, to prevent activity of the type. You see, the drones usually start out simply, by setting up minor interference in business or government on some primitive planet. Usually, they’re caught pretty quickly. But sometimes they evade capture. And they can end up by exerting serious influence in cultural pattern. Some planets have been set back, and even destroyed as a result of drone activity. Although their motives are different, drones’re just as bad and just as dangerous as any other criminal.”
Lanko grinned a little. “Only difference is, they’re usually easier to combat than organized criminal groups with a real purpose. Generally, they’re irresponsible youngsters who don’t have the weapons, organization, or ability that the real criminals come up with.” He shrugged.
“Of course,” he added, “we’ve called for help just in case. But well probably be able to take care of this situation by ourselves. In fact, unless there are unusual features, we’d better, if we don’t want to be regarded as somewhat ineffectual.” He paused, glanced toward the detector set, and tapped on the map again, then slowly traced out an area.
“We should be picking up something pretty soon,” he said, thoughtfully. “Better set up a pattern around here, in the mountain ranges, Banasel. We can worry about settled areas later.”
A needle flickered, rose from zero, then steadied.
Somewhere, back of the instrument panel, a tiny current actuated a micro relay, and an alarm drop fell.
As the warning buzz sounded, both Lanko and Banasel looked over at the detector panel.
“Well, it’s about time.” Lanko leaned to his right, setting switches. A screen lit up, showing a faint, red dot. He touched the controls, bringing the dot to center screen, then checked the meters.
“Not too far,” he remarked. “A little out of normal range, though. He must have all his screen power on.”
Banasel turned back to the workbench, studied the labels on the drawers for a moment, then opened one.
“Guess we’ll need a can opener?”
“We might. If he’s aboard, we may have to get a little rough.” Lanko leaned back.
“Check the power pattern. Sort of like to know what we’re running into before we commit ourselves.” He glanced again at the indicators, then poked at switches.
“In fact, I think we’d better wait right here, till we get this boy identified.”
Banasel was whistling tunelessly as he set up readings on a computer. Finally, he poked the activator bar, and watched as the machine spat out tape. Above the tape chute, a series of graphs indicated the computations, but Banasel ignored them, feeding the tape into another machine.
“I suppose there are some characters who could make a positive identification from the figures and curves. But I’m just a beginner. That’s why they furnish integrator directories, I guess.”
Lanko smiled. “I don’t know anything, either,” he agreed. “But I generally know where I can look up what I need.” He set a compact reel of tape into the computer.
They watched the directory as its screens glowed. Figures and descriptions shimmered, and there was a rapid ticking. A sheet flowed out toward them, and Banasel tore it off as the ticks ceased.
“Type seventeen screens,” he read. “Probably Ietorian model Nan fifty-seven generators. Strictly a sportster setup. He’s got electromagnetics and physical contact screens, but there’s nothing else. And, with the type of readings I’ve got here, I’d say he’s running all the power he’s got. Do we go in?”
“Sure we do.” Lanko nodded confidently as he slapped the drive lever.
“This thing we’ve got’s only an atmosphere flier, but it’s made to take care of tougher stuff than luxury sportsters. Set up your can opener, just in case our boy wants to argue with us.”
Banasel nodded silently.
The small sportster was parked between two peaks. Before it was a tiny level space, too small for any ship. Above it, towered bare rock, tipped with eternal snow. Lanko examined the scene disgustedly.
“Inhospitable, isn’t he?” he grunted. “He could at least have had enough front yard for a visitor to land.” He p
icked up a microphone, touched a stud, and turned a knob. A faint hiss sounded from the speaker before him.
“Philcor resident calling sportster,” he snapped. “Come in, Over.”
The hiss continued. Lanko punched another stud, and listened. The hiss remained unchanged.
“Open him up, Banasel,” he finally ordered. “I’m going in.”
He rose from his chair, crossing to the exit port. For an instant, he stood, checking his equipment belt. Then, he reached to a cabinet, to pick up a tool kit. He opened the box, examined its contents, then turned and nodded to Banasel.
The port opened wide, and he stepped through.
He dropped lightly to the space before the sportster, then stepped away, crouching behind a rock outcrop, and turned his body shield to full power.
“Screens down,” he ordered.
A faint haze grew about the sportster. At first, it was a barely perceptible fluorescence. Then, it became a fiercely incandescent glow. It flamed for a few seconds, then faded, becoming green, yellow, red, and at last, blinking to invisibility.
“They’re damped,” Banasel’s voice announced. “Shall I give him some more and knock out the generators?”
“Not necessary,” Lanko told him. “Just hold complete neutralization. I’ll cut them from inside.”
He rose from his position behind the rock, idly kicking at the face of it as he walked past. A shower of dust crumbled to the ground.
“Good thing there aren’t any trees around here,” he laughed. “We’d have to put out a forest fire.”
He pulled his hand weapon from his belt, made a careful adjustment, then walked over to the ship. After a quick examination, he directed the weapon toward a spot in the hull.
“Lot of credits here,” he commented laconically. “Shame to hurt the finish too much.”
A few minutes later, he stepped back, examining his work. Then, he nodded and removed another instrument from his tool kit. He focused it on the ship’s port, flicked a switch on his belt, then snapped the instrument on.
For a few seconds, nothing happened, then there was a grinding screech of tortured metal, and the port swung open.
As Lanko stepped inside, he examined the control room with care. At last, satisfied that no booby traps were set, he crossed to the control panel. He located the communicator controls, and picked up the microphone.
“All’s well, Ban,” he reported. “Ease off.”
He watched as the overloaded generator recovered. When the needles were at normal readings, he flicked the screen controls off, then picked up the microphone again.
“Haul out, Banasel,” he ordered. “I’m going to fix this can up again, close the port, run up the screens, and wait for our boy to come home. Like to talk to him.”
The sportster had a well stocked galley. Lanko ate with enjoyment, studying the tapes he had found interestedly. Finally, he pushed the last reel aside, then sat back to gaze at the wall.
A low tone sounded, and the viewscreen activated. Lanko nodded to himself, then went to the control room aperture, turning off the alarm as he went through. A few strides took him to the entry port, where he waited, weapon in hand.
The door swung open and Lanko touched his trigger. The newcomer’s screen flared briefly, then collapsed. Lanko stepped forward, examining his prisoner.
He was humanoid. There were some differences from the usual type encountered on the planet, but they were not serious. He could have passed in most of the Galenkar, if not anywhere. Some might even be attracted by his slightly unusual appearance. Lanko drew him into the ship, and closed the port.
He took his time, making a complete search of the captive’s clothing, and removing equipment and weapons. At last, he drew back, satisfied that the being was harmless. He waited. It wouldn’t be too long before the business could begin.
As the paralysis effect wore off, the man on the floor flexed his muscles, then got to his feet. Lanko watched him, his weapon resting on his knees. As the man tensed to spring, Lanko raised the weapon a little.
“You are Genro Kir?”
“Who are you? What’s the idea?” Kir reached for his belt, then dropped his hand again as he found nothing there.
“Resident Guardsman. Name’s Lanko. You seem to be a little out of place on this planet.”
“I’m not responsible to some native patrolman.” Kir’s face became stubborn. “I’m a Galactic Citizen.”
“Possibly. We’ll leave that to the Sector authorities;” Lanko shrugged, his face expressionless. “Meantime, you’ll have to accept things as they are. Or would you rather be paralyzed again?”
Genro Kir tensed again, making an obvious mental effort.
Lanko grinned at him in real amusement. “I took it. Wouldn’t do you much good anyway. They gave me heavy-duty equipment, you know.” He waved toward a chair with his weapon. “Might as well sit down and talk about it. I’ve been through your tapes, of course.”
Kir looked around unhappily, then sank into a chair. “What’s there to talk about, then? You know what we were doing.”
“In general, yes, we do. A good deal was on your tapes. But we need more detail, and we’ve got to pick up your companions, you know. It would be a lot better if we knew where they were.”
“I don’t know where they are myself. They’re building up their forces, and working for position. This is just the opening, you see. The real game won’t start for quite a while.”
Lanko laughed shortly. “Frankly, I don’t think it will start. But it would make it simpler for all concerned if you’d help us find the players.”
“I told you. I don’t know where they are. They don’t have to tell the referee every move they make, unless they want a consultation as to legality. I was just keeping watch on the general picture, to see that neither of them broke a rule, or took an unfair advantage.”
“You may not know where they are,” Lanko admitted, “but you can certainly contact them.”
Genro Kir smiled tightly. “But I won’t.”
“They’ll be hunted down, you know. We’ll have them eventually. Be a lot easier for all concerned if you’d cooperate.”
“Cooperate with a bunch of half savage natives, against my own friends? Don’t be more stupid than you have to be!”
“I see.” Lanko glanced away. “All very ethical, of course. Well, in that case, we’ll have to go to work.” He pulled a fine chain from a case at his belt, and walked over to his captive, weapon ready.
“Just hold still,” he ordered. He slipped the delicate looking necklace over the man’s head, squeezed the pendant, and jumped back.
“I don’t know whether you’re familiar with this device,” he said, “so I’ll explain it to you. It’s a type ninety-two gravitic manacle, and is designed to hold any known being. You can move about freely, so long as you don’t make any sudden or violent motion. The device is keyed to my shield, and you’ll suffer temporary paralysis if you get within my near zone. You’re safe enough a couple of meters from me.” He walked back to the control console.
“Oh, yes,” he added, “don’t try to take it off. It’s designed to prevent that action by positive means. It won’t do you any permanent damage, but it can make you pretty uncomfortable. And, remember, if it becomes necessary, I can activate the manacle. It’ll put you into full paralysis and send out a strong homing signal.”
Genro Kir looked at him sourly. “I won’t try to escape,” he promised.
“That’s immaterial to me.” Lanko flicked switches and the ship rose from the ground, swung, and started westward. “I was merely describing the capabilities or the manacle.”
On the way over the sea, Lanko noted the positions of a few of the trading ships, and approached them closely, examining them. As he approached a small archipelago, his communicator screen brightened.
“Resident Guardsman to Sportster. Identify yourself. Over.”
Lanko picked up the microphone. “ILs all right, Ban. Got one. Two more to
go.”
“Fair enough. Come on in. I’ve got a beam on you.”
Lanko checked the approach scope. The small circle was a trifle out of center. He touched the control bar, and as the circle centered, he snapped a switch and sat back.
The sportster dipped over an island, crossed a narrow lagoon, and settled to the ground beside the guard flier. Lanko started pulling tools from his kit. Working carefully, he removed the cover from the control console, examined the terminal blocks, then attached a small cylinder between two terminals.
He closed the console again and walked over to the exit port, where he pressed the emergency release. The port swung wide. For an instant, the control console was blurred. Lanko waited, then as the panel returned to focus, he walked back to it. He snapped the drive switch on and pushed the drive to maximum. Nothing happened. He punched the emergency power button, and waited an instant There was no result He nodded to his prisoner.
“Come on, Genro Kir. We may want you to talk to someone.” He pointed to the port. Kir hesitated, then went through. He managed a sneer as he did so.
The port of the flier opened, and Banasel looked out “Need any help?”
“No. This spaceship won’t fly till someone from Sector comes out to pull the block.” Lanko pointed. “This is Genro Kir. He was refereeing a sort of battle game between a couple of his companions.”
Lanko herded Kir in front of him, and entered his own flier. He placed the equipment kit on a shelf, and sat down. Banasel perched on his workbench.
“What kind of a setup did these jokers have?”
“Well, you can review the tapes later and get a few of the details, but here’s the general idea:
“Genro Kir and his two companions made planetfall some years back. They didn’t know it was a discovered planet, and failed to note any evidence of our presence. Somehow, we missed them, too, for which we should hang our heads.
Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 23
