by Andre Norton
“I don’t understand . . .”
The medic produced a capsule. Dropping it into Joktar’s hand he ordered: “Bite that and wake up a little. You’ll need a clear head.”
Joktar bit. The sharp sting of the enclosed drop of liquid spread through his mouth and, in some odd fashion, up into his head, clearing away the haze which had hung a curtain between him and the world.
“You have visitors. The wrong kind, if I’m any judge.”
What had gone wrong? The Terran was alerted now with that old uneasy feeling which had preceded terror in the streets. Had controls slipped from Hogan’s grasp?
“What visitors?”
There was a sharp buzz. The medic pressed Joktar back into the enfolding embrace of the foam plast-bed. Obediently, the Terran relaxed, allowed his head to roll to one side in what he hoped was a realistic pose of weakness, watching the door warily through slits beneath drooping eyelids.
Again the shimmer of a force fading. Another medic stood there. And behind him a spaceman, slight, deeply browned, wearing a gray tunic with a constellation badge. The gleam of stars on his shoulders drew Joktar’s notice. A sub-sector commander at least!
From those stars, Joktar’s eyes arose to the brown face, to the other’s eyes. His shoulder hurt as muscles tensed. He had faced enmity of his own kind before, the dull hatred of the streets, the wild malice of a smoke-drinker on a binge, the stupid but dangerous brutality of a bully. But what he read now was so chilling that his hand moved under the covers in a frantic, subconscious search for a weapon he no longer possessed. The medic standing beside the bed had gripped the Terran’s other wrist and that hold tightened in a quick squeeze which could be a warning. He was not facing direct and open anger, but an emotion beyond that; it was cold, lasting, and completely deadly. The spaceman was regarding him as if he were not really human.
“He’s the one,” the identification was delivered in a monotone. As the officer raised his hand, two more uniformed figures began to move in.
The medic by the bed spoke over his shoulder. “I protest this intrusion. This man is suspected of fungoid fever.”
The advance on the bed halted. Fungoid fever was not only highly contagious, it was one of the most terrifying specters of the spaceways.
“This is an isolation ward, preserved by force fields—” the medic continued, and his colleague broke in:
“I have already warned Commander Lennox, sir. He has a Class A warrant.”
The medic dropped Joktar’s wrist and turned to face the officer squarely.
“I don’t care,” he paced his words slowly and with emphasis, “if you have the whole patrol below to back you up, Commander. A patient suspected of fungoid is not going to be released from isolation until we are sure, and I have the backing of the Council on that. Shaw,” he spoke to the other medic, “take these men down to Unit C and see that each one of them has the full course of preventive shots . . . they’ve been inside the door. Now get out of here!”
Somehow, the force of his authority sent them away and the door shimmered into place. Joktar sat up. The medic rubbed his hand down his face, he was smiling a little.
“That will give them something to think about,” he commented with satisfaction. “Preventive shots will busy them for about four hours and they don’t dare refuse them. This is only a temporary respite, you know. If you don’t produce fungoid patches in ten hours, Lennox can lift you right out of here. We’ll have to make some other move before that time limit. Lennox’s no fool, he’ll have every inch of this building staked out expecting an escape try. Why is he gunning for you?”
“I honestly don’t know. As far as I can remember, I never saw him before.” But he wears a gray coat, Joktar’s thoughts drummed, and that gray tunic is trouble for me. Why? If he only knew why!
“Hogan! I wish that man would do a little straight talking once in a while. This leaving people in the dark makes for complications.”
“Can you get in touch with him?”
“My dear Gentlehomo,” the medic’s irritation was rooted in very apparent exasperation, “I have been trying to reach Hogan for over an hour. He isn’t to be found at any of the three contacts he gave me.”
“Picked up?” Joktar asked. Having swept up Hogan, the authorities might now be gathering in all his followers in a general sweep. Though it was difficult to fit Commander Lennox into a routine police roundup.
“No. We would have been warned of that. Meanwhile, we have to think you out of here, and into hiding somewhere else. And with the guards outside that is going to be a star-class problem.”
Joktar, his head clear now, was perfectly willing to tackle what seemed to him not unlike setting up a bolt hole from the SunSpot. But time would pressure them and he had no map of the district in his mind. The islands were connected by bridges and these bridges would be discouragingly easy to close.
“Air transport?” he asked and the medic shook his head.
“The scooters are all powered by beam broadcast. They need only snap that off and every machine would be grounded on the nearest landing surface. And that would be one of their first moves.”
“Hogan’s supposed to be at the Seven Seas. Where is that in relation to this clinic?”
The medic produced a small hand-video cast, centered its beam on the nearest wall. Instantly a small, clear map snapped into view, each detail vivid.
“We’re here. The Seven Stars is the plush hostelry for vips, second island to the left and up, that one which is roughly triangular. The building covers almost the whole island, except for a garden strip to the west, makes it easier to guard. It’s a full city within itself; they’ve got shops, cafes, theaters, everything. Most of the visiting vips never leave it until they are ready to return to the spacefield. A series of conferences can be booked for meetings.”
“Who could get in without any questions?”
“The staff are all recorded on ident tapes. It would require an operation and too long a time to let you impersonate any one of them. Most of the guests are taped, too.”
Joktar was startled. “With their consent?”
“Oh, most of them agree when it is presented to them as a protective measure. Loki is a central meeting place, not only for this system, but for the planets of Beta Lupi and Alpha Lupi as well. There are some big deals put over under the roof of the Seven Stars and a good many of the visitors are sensitive about personal safety.”
Joktar began to feel at home; the situation was quite like that of the streets.
“So, staff impersonation is out and guests are taped. Wouldn’t anyone at all get in without a recorded checking?”
“Patrol and our friends, the scouts.”
“Patrol is out.”
“Yes, with their inner ident we couldn’t possibly plant one of those in you. And the first patrolman you met would have you under control when you didn’t respond. On the other hand, the scouts aren’t so equipped. The only trouble is there are fewer of them and those few are now out for you.”
Joktar got out of bed. He stood before the map, studying, impressing details upon his memory. “Got any skin dye,” he held up his too-pale hands.
“That could be the least of your worries. I can’t produce a uniform.”
“No. I’ll have to handle that. What time is it? And how long until dark?”
“Dark? They’ll keep the big light on the islands tonight. You won’t have much dark for a cover. What are you going to do?”
Joktar shook his head. “Just give me a plan of this building and some skin stain, that’s all I want. What you don’t know, you can’t spill later under any talk-shot.”
“Entirely correct.” The medic became all business. “Your force field is sealed to open only to me or my assistant. I’ll be back with what you need as soon as I can. Your ‘dark’ is due in about an hour.”
Joktar paced back and forth across the small room. Whatever drug the medic had given him had finished the fever Hogan had earli
er induced, and he was fast regaining his strength. Now he was trying to think his way off the island to the Seven Stars. To wear a scout uniform as his means of entrance there was to court trouble, but that was the simplest and quickest answer to his problem. And if the scouts were few, there would be just that many less to threaten his masquerade.
He throttled his impatience until the medic returned and then went to work with swift efficiency. Liquid applied to his face, neck and hands, gave him a brown skin that could not be distinguished from the heavy tan of the spacemen. And the medic had brought, in addition, a drab set of breeches, seal tunic, and soft boots.
“Maintenance man’s suit,” he informed Joktar. “You can use the grav-drop at the end of this corridor straight to the first undersurface level and be in the maintenance quarters.”
Joktar spread out the rough sketch of the clinic the other had supplied.
“How many undersurface levels?” he asked abruptly. Since his mishap on the roofs of JetTown, he was inclined to try for escape underground.
“Four. Level one is utilities; level two, staff quarters; level three, records and storage; level four, power.”
“Outside entrances to any?”
For the first time since he returned, the medic smiled. “You may just have something. Here,” he tapped level two, “there was some enlarging done this year and there is a blind corridor going this way,” he traced it on the sketch. “They expect to add a half-dozen more rooms along there sometimes in the future. I have a small suite there, myself.”
“That runs close to the edge of the island.”
“Right. That’s why they didn’t add living space here . . . or here. But this last room on this side is empty and see how it lies in relation to the outside?”
Joktar saw. “It must be almost under the bridge.”
“Yes. Now here on level one,” he made another quick dab at the sketch, “is stored emergency bore equipment. You find a portable chewer and bring it down to cut through just below the bridge . . . well, that’s as safe a path as I can see.”
“What about you? They’ll know I had inside help.”
“What they think and what they can prove may be two different things. For some reason the scouts aren’t parading their reason for wanting to pick you up. And the minute you leave here, we’ll have another patient in this room, one with every symptom of fungoid fever. As even your own mother couldn’t recognize you once the swelling starts, they won’t be able to prove for several days that he isn’t you. And if you can get to Hogan tonight you’ll be all right . . . unless he has been picked up. If that has happened you’ll have to manage on your own anyway.”
The medic snapped the force field button and Joktar went into the hall. The pale green walls were blank, though they must conceal other doors. He found the grav-plate at the end of the corridor and pressed the controls to take him to the service level. When he stepped off into another corridor five floors down, he caught the murmur of voices and flattened against the wall to listen intently.
According to the sketch, he had a hall, a large room, and another hall, to transverse. Then came a door which could be unlocked by a small cone he cupped in his hand. From the racked equipment on the other side of that, he must take a chewer and with it get down to the next level, through a maze of living quarters, to the room where he could use the stolen machine. So much depended upon how well-populated these lower regions were, though the time for the evening meal was close and most of those off duty would be in the dining rooms.
The murmur of voices died, Joktar strode on, halting again just inside the large room. Two chairs were occupied by a man wearing a drab tunic akin to his own and a girl. They were intent upon a video screen, a tray of drinks and dishes on a table beside them. Could he cross unnoticed? He must, for by all indications they were settled for some time. The video picture switched to a fantastic display of no-weight ballet and under the floor of the accompanying off-beat rhythm, Joktar forced himself to walk at an ordinary pace to the far door. Once there, he glanced back. Neither of the viewers had moved, he was safe so far.
Breathing a little faster, he sprinted down the hall to bring up against the door panel he wanted, wasting no time in digging the point of the cone into the lock hole. The panel moved, and he dodged inside.
Racks of machines faced him in bewildering profusion as he hurried along the shelves in search of the one the medic had described. But when he found it he was dismayed. It could be termed portable, but certainly one could not conceal it. And remembering the distance he had to transport it, Joktar was uneasy.
He explored the room, hoping for some inspiration, and so came upon the cart, already hung with a creeper floor polisher and two dust suckers. To unbolt the former required time he hated to spare, but at length he was able to trundle the compact machine back into hiding under one of the shelves and shove the chewer into its place.
Pushing the cart before him, Joktar left the room, relocking the door panel. Now everything depended on whether he could pass through the service and personnel quarters without awaking suspicion. And that was a gamble he had to take. He looked into the lounge once again. The shrill thump-thump of the ballet still rang out there. As all devotees of that particular skull-wracking rhythm, the two watchers apparently liked reception at maximum. Joktar had never cared for no-weight ballet, but at the moment, he recognized its worth. Masked by the video clamor he got the cart to the other side of the room.
The hall again . . . then the grav-plate. He thumped the descent button and sighed. So far, so good. Though he mustn’t relax now; there was still the personnel quarters to be transversed and the chances of meeting others here were ten to one against them.
As the grav-plate halted, Joktar tugged the cart forward again. Through the third door, to the left, down a corridor, then straight right to the end and right again. He was sure of his path even if he wasn’t sure of having it all to himself. He would simply have to move along it as if he were employed on some legitimate errand and the medic had made a suggestion or two which could help him there.
More voices. He had just time to jerk the cart away from the corridor door when two young men wearing the tunic insignia of junior interns entered. They were arguing some point and the first never noticed Joktar, but the second gave him a glance and then asked: “Aren’t you behind time coming down here now?”
“Yes, Gentlehomo. Special job; the aquarium in the sea lounge, it is leaking.” To his heartfelt relief, it looked as if that excuse was going to get by.
“That thing’s been cracked for a week; now they send someone to look at it!” grumbled the other intern.
Joktar shoved the cart through the door, allowing himself the faster pace of a man on his way to deal with a leaking aquarium.
11
Joktar hunched over the cart, trotting, dreading a challenge, already half-able to feel the sizzling agony of a blaster bolt against the area of skin above his mid-spine. Yard by yard, he won his way past closed doors, half-open doors, doors from which came the sound of voices, of laughter, of music, of video casts. If the personnel had been summoned to an evening meal, either most of the inhabitants of his level were dilatory or they disliked the food.
He made the first turn and saw two more open doors to pass. Now he could no longer give his repair excuse, for the lounge lay in the opposite direction. Exerting a force of will which left him almost physically weak, the Terran kept to an even pace.
Another corridor end, now into the last turn of all. Before him all the doors were closed. This was the newly opened section and there was only one permanent resident: the medic who had given him his directions. He had only to reach the last room and turn the chewer loose on its wall.
Joktar bolted, slamming the cart ahead of him. The door resisted and he pounded until the latch gave stiffly. He wheeled the cart inside the bare room and leaned against the wall, his eyes already seeking the most likely spot on which to work with the chewer.
With
the door panel closed, the cart wedged against it as an additional safeguard, Joktar unloaded the machine, turning its dial to the highest frequency. He centered the blunt nose on the point he had selected and pressed the button.
Its low wailing whine tormented the ears; its vibration jarred through his body and set his half-healed shoulder to throbbing. On the wall there was a point of white light. Joktar closed his eyes against the glare, stiffened his body against the beat of the machine. Warmth grew, feeding back to his middle, spreading upward to his shoulders, down his thighs. The warmth was becoming heat, punishing heat. He held fast as that heat scorched until he could smell the fabric of his tunic charring. When he could stand it no longer he leaped back, raised his finger from the control button.
Safe in a far corner of the room, Joktar dared to open his eyes. The white sore of eating energy was dulled, but around it rock crumbled. As he blinked against the tears in his eyes, he saw a piece of the wall disappear outward. He turned, loosed the cart, and, with all his strength, rammed it against the broken wall.
There was a moment of resistance before the corrosion of the chewer prevailed and the cart pierced into the open. Joktar jerked it back to use it again and again as a battering ram until he had a hole which was more doorway than window. The roar of surf came from below and a wind carrying the damp of sea spray beat in, dispelling the fumes of the chewer, cooling the rock of the broken wall.
Once more he set the battered cart to act as a door lock before climbing through the hole. Outside, above and slightly to the right was the illuminated line of the bridge link to the next island. The point where he now crouched was well below the ground surface of the clinic island, and Joktar could hear the slap and lick of the waves not too far away. Returning to the cart he unrolled one of the dust sucker hoses. Quickly he fed the line through the hole and then climbed out to use the coil in support.
