Secret of the Stars

by Andre Norton

  “You have an argument which counts over this.” Sa pointed with his chin to the tangle on the floor.

  “And that?”

  “We do not have time to spare, Gentlehomo. An hour ago, Lennox thought he had what he wanted. Without that particular advantage on his side, the whole government policy, even our way of life, may crack wide open. No, Lennox is not top, you are!”

  Hogan held the mirror steady, his face still wore an urban half-smile, but Joktar knew he was on guard.

  “Your information sources appear extremely efficient.”

  “I assure you that they are, Hogan. And this, too, I will concede: we of the companies must change course or cease to cruise space. You dare not continue to hammer down a cap upon the forces the vips have tried to control. So I tell you, Lennox will move to take back what he wants. He’s preparing to move against you tonight.”

  There was an odd strangled sound out of Samms. Hogan’s finger tapped the code key of the mike. A face flashed on the mirror, its eyes regarded Hogan briefly before it disappeared. Now a code pattern of interwoven light followed. Hogan spoke twice, unknown words, into the mike and the pattern swirled in answer.

  “Hogan here, Councilor, we have information that Lennox—”

  He did not add another word. He could not. Out of the walls, the floor under them, the very air of the room, the enemy struck.

  “Vibrator!” Joktar got that word out, his body twisting involuntarily as he fought against the agonizing pull of the energy beam which must be near, judging by the intensity of its torturing volume.

  Rysdyke was already on the floor, writhing, small choking moans being wrung from him as he rolled. Hogan fought, beads of moisture gathering on his forehead, trickling down his flat cheeks. He clutched the mike close to his lips, tried to force out words as his limbs jerked and twitched.

  Joktar staggered halfway toward the door panel. The action was like trying to run through thick mud, a mud which in addition sent fiery whips up his body in great stinging cuts. But somehow he kept his feet, was able to take his blaster from the holster and bring its barrel up in line with the door.

  An inarticulate cry from Hogan made him look around. The other was signaling with his eyes, demanding. In his hands the mike oscillated back and forth but somehow he made the gesture of holding it out. Joktar stumbled back, to half-collapse beside Hogan. His right arm lay across the other’s thighs, the blaster held still to face the door.

  Then, using all his will power and what remained of his control over his own muscles, Joktar pulled the mike to his mouth. Whether the vibrator had already muted him he did not know, but this was their one chance for help. He worked his lips, trying to conquer their spasmodic fluttering.

  “Vi-vibrator here,” that was ragged about the edges but the words made sense. If they only did the same for the unseen listener!

  There was a ripple of light on the mirror. For one long moment, Joktar looked at a face, as the other must sight him. Then the mirror went blank, the hum of an open com died. And the device flew across the room as an involuntary convulsion of Hogan’s muscles hurled it.

  They must have stepped up the vibrator to the outer limit. Hogan rolled, Rysdyke was drooling blood, and Sa had gone entirely limp, supported by the tangle. While the patrolman was moaning and only half-conscious. Of them all Samms clung to some measure of awareness.

  And yet, though he was in agony, Joktar could still move. He knew a dim and fleeting wonder at that. The only thing was to use this partial immunity to the utmost. He began to crawl, avoiding Rysdyke, heading for a table he could use as a crutch to regain his feet. He clawed his way up. Before he could again face the door squarely, the panel moved.

  Hogan lay on the eazee-rest. He was inert, only his eyes still had a small spark of consciousness. Now he made a convulsive struggle to rise as a figure in a protective non-vi suit strode into the room.

  Joktar, seeing that suit, knew how pitiful his own hopes of defiance were. A blaster beam, unless snapped up to a concentration which made it dangerous to its user, could make no impression on that kind of armor. Nevertheless, the Terran was on his feet and able after a fashion to use a weapon and the stranger in the suit would be expecting no opposition.

  The newcomer stooped over Rysdyke, examined him briefly, and kicked him aside, to advance on Hogan. His hand was half-raised and flat against the palm Joktar caught the glisten of metal. There were several very small, very deadly arms which could be carried that way. Suddenly he knew that this was not a matter of taking prisoners, but of murder!

  There was no way of crossing the space between them in time, not with most of his muscles knotted by the vibrator. But—

  Using both hands, he swung the blaster around, aimed it, not at the man advancing on Hogan, but at one vital spot on the floor. That crack of bolt was followed by a spurt of white fire leaping from the carpet. Joktar had already lunged forward as men, suddenly released from the destroyed tangle, slumped to the floor, bearing with them the startled stranger.

  Joktar lay half-across Hogan and his blaster, brought down as a club, had dazed the man in the non-vi suit. But the blow had not landed clean and the other was not stunned as the Terran had gambled. His own reflexes were so slowed by the vibrator that he could not raise his hand in time to ward off a return blow, the force of which sent him rolling to the floor and rendered him so weak he could not struggle up again.

  He saw that hand sweep up with the bright spark cupped in the palm, swing over him. Then the other paused. Through the transparent face mask his face wore an expression of complete astonishment. With his other hand he jerked Joktar into a sitting position, slammed him back against the eazee-rest and tore open the front of his tunic. But whatever he sought, he did not find. Instead he stared at the burn scar on the Terran’s shoulder and his gaze was bleak as his lips moved, he was speaking into the throat mike of his suit.

  His answer came in the halting of the vibrator waves. Only none of the men freed from that torture were able to move and most of them were unconscious. The man in the suit spun Joktar around, whipped the Terran’s limp hands behind him, and made fast his wrists, before shoving him roughly back to floor level. So Joktar’s attack had been a forlorn hope after all.

  Others were entering the room. Hands on his shoulders, pulling him up to face the gray-clad man he had last seen in the clinic. The commander surveyed him coldly, nodded. Joktar looked around. They were all prisoners, it would seem. Sa, Rysdyke, the patrolman were still out. Of Samms and Hogan, he was not so sure.

  Lennox went to the latter. He reached down, caught a fistful of the trader’s hair and pulled his head around. Hogan’s eyes were still open, now his lips moved in a wry grimace. The commander smiled thinly.

  “This is the end, snooper.”

  Again Hogan’s lips moved without sound. But Lennox appeared to read some protest.

  “We’ll take you to headquarters where we know how to keep mouths shut. I’d like to know how your employer will keep on with his plans after we finish mopping up. Nobody, nobody, you understand,” his mouth tightened, the hand entangled in Hogan’s hair moved so that the head on which that hair grew, thumped hard against the chair, “nobody makes fools of the scouts! Nor dirties their records, present or past.” He looked past Hogan to Joktar with the same deadly coldness he had displayed at the clinic. “We’ll run our tests, and if you have found your monster . . . well, he won’t survive long! Kelse!” At his call another gray-clad man stepped forward. “The ’copter on the west terrace, see these are loaded in that and get them to headquarters at once.”

  “You sound in a hurry, Commander.”

  Bluecoats were pushing aside the gray at the door. Lennox whirled, half-crouching, a fighting man ready for an attack. But the man who had spoken wore no weapons, his official cloak, thrown back over one shoulder, had the star within star of the Council, and his face was the one Joktar had last seen on the com-mirror.

  “This is a service matter, no civi
l rights, Councilor.”

  “No civil rights? Yet to my certain knowledge none of these prisoners of yours are enlisted in the scouts. Let me see . . . that is Gentlehomo Sa Kim, one of the directors of the Harband Company, and that one is a patrolman. Correct me, of course, if I am not right, Commander, but the patrol is not answerable to the scouts, though you are answerable to their admiral. And these here,” he glanced at Samms, Hogan and Rysdyke, “are all petitioners in council from Fenris. I was to interview them tomorrow, or rather today, since it is now past midnight. No, you cannot in truth claim any of these gentlehomos as members of the scouts, subject to your discipline.”

  Lennox’s hand shot out, fastened on the collar of Joktar’s tunic, dragging him to his wavering feet. “This one I can and do!”

  “So?” Cullan advanced deliberately across the room, gave Joktar a measuring stare, beginning at his tousled head and descending to his scuffed boots. “Dober!” One of the patrolmen at the door came to him. “Correct me if I am wrong, do the scouts not wear special ident-discs at all times!”

  “Yes, Gentlehomo.”

  “Will you please search this man for his disc.” The patrolman hesitated. Lennox had pulled Joktar half-behind him and seemed ready to resist such action.

  “Come now, Commander, do not be difficult. If this man is one of yours, he will wear such a disc; if he is not and is masquerading as a member of the service, then he has committed an offense which it is my duty as Councilor to investigate.”

  Lennox’s heavy space tan was darkened by a greenish undercast. He moved with a vast reluctance, and the patrolmen pulled Joktar’s tunic half-off his shoulders, the undershirt following.

  “No disc, Gentlehomo,” he reported woodenly.

  “Ah, then, I must be right. This man is an impostor and so will be dealt with along proper channels. I think we must get to the bottom of this whole strange business as soon as possible. Patrolmen, escort all these civilians, and Commander Lennox, to my quarters. You need have no fear concerning escapes, Commander, I have been granted a maximum security apartment. Also, medical attention must be provided for those in need of it. We shall assemble later for an informal inquiry.”

  At that inquiry, an hour or so later, Joktar occupied a seat he had chosen for himself, the ledge of a window. Behind him, the wide sweep of unbreakable op-glass framed the pink-orange of dawn. He raised the cup he balanced between his two hands to his lips and drank. The liquid was cool, but inside him warm, mellow; it was relaxing and renewing. Over the rim of that cup he watched the other occupants of the room with wary intentness.

  Rysdyke half-reclined in an eazee-rest. The dribble of blood was gone from his chin, but his face was that of a spent runner from whose body the last precious spark of energy had been drawn. And next to him was Samms, far more alert, his flat, silver, platelike eyes moving slowly from one face to the next. Sa was sipping at a cup, a little shrunken in his finely cut, lusterless silks, but ready. Then a small space and Lennox—Lennox who sat as if he had been forced into that seat by external pressure, held there by a tangle. Beyond Lennox, next to his own perch, Hogan. Only the patrolman was missing from their first company and his place was taken by the strange man wearing the plum tunic of a bureau chief, the man who had tapped Hogan lightly on the shoulder with the familiarity of old camaraderie when he had entered the room minutes earlier, to take his place at Cullan’s right, facing the others, and to be introduced as Director Kronfeld.

  The Councilor turned his head to the view from the second window behind his chair. “Dawn,” he remarked, “symbolically fitting in a way that we should have a dawn hour for this particular discussion.” He picked up a sheet of petition parchment. “I have here a petition in order from a body calling themselves ‘Free Men of Fenris,’ represented here by Gentlehomos Samms, Rysdyke and Hogan. Do you, Gentlehomo Sa, offer any reasons why the complaint set forth here should not be investigated?”

  Sa smiled wearily. “Councilor, one does not win a race by flogging a dead horse. I have already agreed with Gentlehomo Hogan to negotiate terms with those he represents. I can speak only for Harband, but—”

  “But with their united front broken, the other companies will be moved to follow your example? Very well, negotiations will be ordered, to be carried out by a representative of the Council within the legal term of time. May I congratulate you, Gentlehomo Sa, upon your reasonable and sensible handling of a difficult situation.”

  Again Sa smiled. “Which is more than any of my conferees shall do,” he remarked.

  “Now we come to the next point,” Cullan’s manner changed abruptly. “Your liberty was threatened, your persons put into danger, through the misguided efforts of a service officer. Do you wish to register an official complaint?”

  Sa’s smile grew broader. He put down his cup. “Councilor, it is my impression that this particular matter is none of my affair, not does it concern matters on Fenris in any way. I beg your leave to withdraw. The overzealous officer I leave to your discretion.” He stood up, put out one hand to Samms.

  “Gentlehomo, since our business here is complete, shall we go?”

  Samms evaded that touch. He leaned forward, to stare past Sa . . . at Hogan? Or Lennox? It was Cullan who broke the momentary silence.

  “Gentlehomo, if you believe that you have a private understanding with this officer, its provisions are now cancelled. You do not control anything or anyone that he desires. Furthermore, he is no longer in a position where he can hope to bargain. Correct me if I am wrong, Commander.”

  Lennox continued to look straight ahead, past Cullan, out at the advance of the dawn. As Sa had appeared a few moments earlier, now he in turn was a little shrunken, diminished. Samms got to his feet.

  “What about you?” the Fenrian’s voice was ragged as he asked that of Hogan.

  The ex-trader rested one hand as if to wave farewell. “Samms,” he replied with all his old lazy lightness of tone, “I am about to make you a gift, a large, enticing gift, which no growing boy could possibly resist—Fenris. You will make a good deal now for those who backed us, of that I am reasonably sure . . . for two reasons. First, because Gentlehomo Sa has admitted he sees the writing on the wall of outer space and is ready to lead a vanguard of pioneers into a bright new era . . .”

  Sa bowed urbanely, with a gentle chuckle.

  “And second, since Fenris is now your undisputed preserve, you will do all you can to make yourself vip there. Which entails a certain continuing regard for the rights of your future co-workers and liege men. You leave with my blessing and a free field. Don’t bother to inform me in return that you hate my insides, and now all the more for this withdrawal on my part. We are both well aware of that.”

  A flicker of light in Samms’ eyes. He ignored Hogan, bowed to Cullan. With a dignity Joktar could not deny him, he then took Sa’s arm and they left together, already linked more than physically by a future both could visualize, even if those visions did not exactly coincide.

  As the door panel closed behind them, Hogan added more briskly: “End of chapter, perhaps of book.”

  “That one,” amended Kronfeld.”

  “Now,” Cullan once more regarded the spreading blanket of color in the sky. He watched that display a long moment before he spun his chair around to face Lennox. “We know,” he said quietly, but with an emphasis which bit, “everything, including much that you do not, Commander. But by what right under all the stars of this galaxy, or the next, dare you move against the Ffallian?”

  13

  Lennox lost his detachment. His face screwed into a mask of hate.

  “If you know everything, then you also know why.”

  “Yes, I know why. Because twenty years ago a man who was bringing with him an offer of the greatest gift our species could have, appealed to you for help in the name of friendship, and you betrayed him to his death.”

  “Oh, no,” Lennox shook his head, “you can’t fasten what you claim to be a crime on me, Councilor. I
did what I had to do, what my loyalty, not only to the service, but all our kind, demanded of me. Nor will I deny that I agreed with every word of the orders I obeyed when I turned Marson in. He wasn’t even human anymore! What I did, I did for the good of every human being, in or out of space.

  “That traitor,” his mouth twisted, “was a monster. What he came to offer was vile. You should thank whatever gods you believe in, on your knees, that he did not carry out his mission.”

  “One way of looking at it,” Kronfeld’s judicial evenness of speech was the more impressive in contrast to the other’s hot vehemence. “That fanaticism has had official approval for quite a while. Only there’s another side to the same story. Marson had, in the pursuit of his scout duty, made contact with the Others who we have long-known shared our galactic space. The period of Marson’s contact began involuntarily on his part because he answered a strange distress signal and became involved in a rescue. He could not be as inhuman as his orders demanded he be; therefore, he discovered that this other species was entirely different from the official descriptions circulated by his superiors. He then joined them, lived among them, and only because he learned something which would benefit both races equally, did he volunteer to return to human-held territory, knowing that such an act might well mean his death. He hoped that some man of good will would listen and examine his proof.

  “He came as an ambassador. But before he had a chance to reach those who might have understood, he was caught and killed, the whole affair covered up. This ended the matter—for all time your service believed. Then, fifteen or so years ago, there came a second attempt at communication. Because the situation on the other side was growing critical, though our short Terran life span does not limit those Others. This time the volunteer ambassadors numbered two, with a third individual brought to prove their point.”

  Lennox’s fingers plucked at the empty blaster’s holster on his belt.