The Game of Stars and Comets

by Andre Norton

  "This is the only place?" Iskug's description was too graphic to be reassuring. The Ikkinni agreed that the described crater was the best and safest landing the range had to offer.

  Later Kade, standing at the end of a grueling climb and looking down into that hole, was not sure. There was floor space enough, yes, to set a scout down. And the surface appeared as level as any ground. But the fitting of the ship into the hollow required skill such as only a veteran pilot would possess. However Trade pilots were top men.

  They made their way to the floor of the crater. The eruption which had caused the blowout must have been a cataclysmic one. Kade held the signal at shoulder level, triggered a thumb button, and slowly turned, giving the hidden lens the complete picture of this rock-walled well for broadcasting. Then he walked to what he judged was the center of the open space and secured the tube on the ground with latching earth spikes. Last of all he brought his hand down sharply on the pointed tip of the cone. There was no way for him to know whether the broadcaster was really working; his answer could only come, in time, from off-world.

  Kade sat outside the crude hut at the lip of the crater. His calendar was a series of scratches on the boulder which served as a section of wall. By that reckoning he had been doing sentry duty here more than a month.

  His thoughts were series of ifs now. If the signal, lonely in the crater, had somehow been damaged during their journey here, then the broadcaster had never been beamed starward at all.

  If the Ikkinni lost patience they might turn on him. Styor parties were raiding unceasingly into the lower valleys driving many clans. from their villages. The spring hunting was interrupted. Hunger stalked the refugees. Let some chieftain pin the blame on the presence of the off-world fugitive and Kade might be delivered to the aliens for a truce.

  If the Styor continued to bore in they would force his own withdrawal from here.

  If—if—if—

  A whistle from below broke his moody thoughts. Dokital, his dark-haired body hardly distinguishable from the rocks until he moved, came up at a pace suggesting trouble.

  "Slavers!" The Ikkinni reported curtly.

  "Where?"

  "The water valley. They make camp."

  Never before had any Styor-controlled party come this close to the crater. And if the aliens were establishing a camp this early in the day, they meant a stay of more than one night's duration.

  "Kakgil—the horses?"

  "They move north taking the kwitu trail."

  That was a slight lifting of the Terran's burden of responsibility. Kakgil would move his people and the off-world animals they now cherished to safety, putting a stretch of rough and easily defended country between themselves and the invaders.

  "It goes?" Dokital fidgeted by the hut. Having once worn a collar he was not minded to be trapped again.

  "It must stay for a while." Within the hour, before sunset, at any moment, the Terran ship could land. He must remain here. "Let Dokital go."

  "Not so." The Ikkinni sat down, laid his spear across his knee. "From this place the evil ones can be seen, they can not creep up as if they net the musti."

  Maybe they could not bring a net, Kade thought grimly, but the aliens had other and more potent ways of bringing the hunted to terms. And he was sure that the Styor had provided these servants with them.

  Once they sighted a group of collar slaves searching for fire wood. But there was no indication that their own perch was under suspicion. In the hut they had water, two day's rations of seed cakes. And they could stretch that supply if need be.

  "One comes."

  "Whereso?"

  "By the rock of the kwitu horn."

  Kade followed the line of Dokital's pointing spear tip. The newcomer was no Ikkinni, collared or free, nor the Overman of a squad. Away from a carrying-chair, the other marks of his Klorian godship, a Styor was climbing stiffly up the rugged slope. He held one arm bent at chest level and divided his attention between his footing and a band about his wrist. In his other hand he carried the ultimate in the aliens' armament—the needler!

  Flight was cut off. The Terran judged that the wristband was some kind of tracking device, perhaps centered on his own thought waves. He could walk backward, step out into the space of the crater, and crash down to end near the signal. Only then the Styor might use that signal for bait.

  On the other hand, suppose he was needled down. Would the alien pass the signal unnoticed? The Styor was astute enough to investigate why the off-worlder had camped here. Either way the bejeweled, slim humanoid had all the cards on his side. Kade had overestimated the sloth of the pampered lords, underestimated their desire to make sure of the last Terran.

  About the Styor's middle was an anti-person belt. No overlord would risk his precious skin with the slightest chance of a counterattack. The spear in Kade's hold, any Ikkinni net, a rock thrown by a desperate man, would rebound from the aura now about the alien as from a dura-steel wall.

  Unless—Kade searched the ground about him for some suggestion of offence or defense. The Styor could probably track them if they tried to run for it. He did not know the range of the instrument the alien wore. On the other hand he was not going to be needled down without some counterattack, no matter how feeble.

  More to gain time than by any plan the Terran signalled Dokital away from the hut, along the edge of the crater. The rough terrain hid them from actual sighting by the Styor, though his locator would bring him on their track.

  Single file the two walked a narrow line along the drop. An idea grew in Kade's mind. A chance he was now desperate enough to try.

  The Styor reached the hut, did not even glance into its empty interior, but came on, treading the same way the fugitives had taken. Again Kade signed to Dokital, sending the Ikkinni away from him. Then the Terran halted, balancing his spear in his hand. A few feet beyond, the ancient bowl of the crater was split with a crack wide enough to offer protection to a slender Terran body. He marked that down.

  He was waiting as the Styor's head arose, the alien's eyes raised from the device on his wrist to the man before him. Then Kade hurled his spear.

  The aim was true, though the point struck that invisible guard a good six inches away from the Styor's chest. And the involuntary reaction of the other carried through even as Kade had hoped. A flinch backward set the alien's booted heel on a patch of smooth stone. There was a wide flail of arms as the Styor went backward into thin air.

  His safety belt would save his life, but now he would have the inner wall of the crater to climb. The Terran's attack had bought them a measure of time. Kade sped to the crevice, Dokital joining him. The Styor was floating down, settling to the floor of the crater. But they had only gained a few moments of time, no real escape. Only—

  Kade's arm went about Dokital, he carried the native with him in a rush as from overhead came a clap of sound louder than any thunder. Stone scraped skin raw as they tumbled into the rock crack. Above there was a flare of blinding light, and Kade hid his eyes with one bruised arm. The roar of a ship's tail flames as it braked into the heart of the crater was deafening.

  Perhaps the Styor had had one instant of horror, a second's realization of descending death—then nothing at all. The same end he or his fellows had visited on the Trade post had already been his.

  As the Terran and the Ikkinni crawled from their refuge the fumes of molten sand arose from that cup. Set neatly in the center was the star-ship. Kade climbed to the rim of the rock wall, waved at that expanse of pitted metal although no hatch had yet opened. But the response came soon enough, a ramp swung out to ground against the mountain some feet below him. He slid down, hearing his boots clang against its surface, hardly yet able to believe in that opportune arrival.

  Somehow he was not surprised to be met by Abu in the cabin adjoining the control section. Nor was he more than mildly interested in the fact that the Commander's companion there wore five ticks of gold on the collar of his tunic.

  "That's a
bout it, sir." He had cut his report to the pertinent facts as best he could. Reaction was beginning to undermine the exultant self-confidence which had accompanied him into that cabin. There was a black list of sins of omission and commission which could be charged against him. What had Ristoff said on Lodi? If he fouled this last chance—And now the Book-of-Rules boys could pick Kade Whitehawk into little bits.

  "Most reprehensible!" The five tick VIP pressed the button to turn off his recorder. "Now," the officer pushed away the machine with a gesture of repudiation. "Let us consider our real business."

  "Most satisfactory." Abu's tone mimicked that used only moments before, but the words were different.

  Somehow the formality of their meeting was gone as if the VIP had skinned off a tight tunic. He grinned and punched refreshment keys in the tabletop.

  "A nice piece of work, one to keep rolling, Whitehawk."

  "Roll right along," Abu joined the approbation. "Harder to stop now than a meteor with a musti net."

  Kade was almost brave enough to demand an explanation.

  "The time has come, sir," Abu added, "to initiate another fledgling into the fold."

  Kade accepted the drink bubble the VIP extended, sucked a full mouthful of Stardew, Mars-side proof, without knowing just what he swallowed.

  "Yes, a tale to unfold." The VIP drank. He bore, Kade decided critically, a not too distant resemblance to Che'in at that Trader's blandest and most irritating.

  "The answer to your leading question," the officer continued blandly, "is that you've passed a little test with all jets flaming. You were handpicked for a job, sent here to use your wits. And you did. You see, there is the Policy—and the Plan."

  "Seldom do the twain meet," Abu intoned piously.

  His superior chuckled. "Be glad, Commander, that the right hand and the left do not shake too often. This is the way of it, young man. We have our loyal servants of Trade, who live and breathe by the Book, never, never make a mistake, and are a shining glory to the Service. Then we have some black sheep who also serve in their rebellious fashion. We call them the warrior breed." He paused, sucked at his drink bubble. "Their first general testing is to be sent to a planet where the Styor are really unbearable. If they can scrape through an 'incident' without being too far damned by the resultant publicity, then they are promoted to a Team on such a world as Klor.

  "As you know, each Team is selected from widely different basic Terran racial stocks with a few of the normal "Tradetype" for cover. It is always our hope that one of our undercover 'warriors' will find inspiration in his new environment and manage to pull off a coup which will give another nudge toward the upsetting of Styor power. A pinch here, a prod there, little irritations breaking out all over the galaxy, yet nothing they can actually connect with us or any plan. That is the Plan!"

  Kade saw. It was looking at a familiar landscape from an angle so bizarre he might indeed be viewing a new world.

  "But the Styor burnt the post. Why?"

  "There is such a thing as coincidence. Here your bit of pushing worked into the High-Lord-Pac's own bid for fame and fortune. He is trying out a formula for getting rid of unwelcome Terrans and building up a reputation for law enforcement at one and the same time. We'll let him think he got away with it—for a while. Long enough for your experiment to get a good start. What have you in mind for these Ikkinni? Mounted raids and guerrilla warfare?"

  Kade nodded. He had a feeling that the VIP was far ahead of him, that his one or two bright discoveries were a matter of kindergarten games in an obscure backyard playground.

  "He might be persuaded to see it through," Abu remarked. "That's the third step in our real Service, Whitehawk."

  "Five horses—and the mountains crawling with Styor. How many years do you think it would take to make Cor uneasy?" Kade roused himself to demand.

  "Oh, you don't have to have it quite as rugged as all that." The VIP clicked open a wall storage compartment, brought forth a belt and holstered stunner. He drew the weapon, slid it across the table to Kade's hand.

  "Now that is something you will find useful. We've pushed through a rush order at the base, and can let you have about fifty now, with a drop of more to arrange for later. Try that on a collar control and you'll see some pleasing results, without obnoxious side features. Horses—well, another drop of those will take some doing. But clear us a plains-side place and we'll oblige. That is, of course, if you stay on here."

  Kade fingered the stunner. He did not in the least doubt that it would act just as promised. Fifty of those to hand—why, they could free the slave packs now hunting them here, use the knowledge of the freed men against their masters—Open a section of plain—Yes, it could be done. A raid in the outer fringe, a landing site far enough from Cor that they could keep it open for two Klorian days, maybe longer. He heard Abu laugh.

  "The relay is clicking, sir. Already he marches to unmask the High-Lord-Pac."

  Kade grinned. "Not quite as fast as all that, sir."

  The VIP nodded. "Start small, and don't push too hard. This may be your big war, it's only a small skirmish in the Plan."

  Kade buckled on the stunner belt. "Tell me, sir, how long has the Plan been in operation."

  For the first time since he clicked off the recorder the officer lost his genial air of satisfaction. "For about two hundred years."

  Kade stared. "And how long—"

  "Until," Abu answered softly, "a push here, a push there topples a star empire. An event I am beginning to doubt any of us here will live to see. Not that that matters."

  And, thought Kade, perhaps it did not. But one could get a lot of satisfaction out of a good stiff push—with the Styor on the receiving end.

  EYE OF THE MONSTER

  Chapter 1

  Rees Naper opened his eyes. He had come into almost instant consciousness from the night's sleep as he always did. But there was something about his awakening this time, and he lay without any other movement save the raising of eyelids, trying to hear, to sense, to think what was different this morning.

  A faint breeze shifted through the sonic net across the window to stir the rustling inner drapery within touching distance. That was it! The sounds, or rather the lack of the right ones for this place and hour. Those he had awakened to hear about the mission for months were missing this morning.

  Rees moved swiftly, his hand burrowing into the chink between the foam plasta mattress and the bunk frame, reaching for what he had put there last night after hearing the last urgent warning on the com. Leather, satin smooth and silk supple, curled about his fingers as he pulled out the blaster belt with its holstered weapon. He clasped it to his chest as he rolled off the bunk and went to look through the sonic designed to keep out jungle insect life.

  The courtyard of the mission lay open in Ishkur's greenish sunlight. A hoobra hen pecked at a bug, then made a running leap to capture the escaping victim before it took wing. Otherwise that space between the buildings was empty, save for the small creatures that lived in the ornamental flower beds and circular pool.

  Rees hurriedly pulled on shirt and the breeches with their attached jungle boots. He was chilled in spite of the day's warmth. You could smell it, sniff it up as surely as if it were the perfume of the violet tipped toofaa reeds out there in the water garden. Trouble—bad! Uncle Milo was wrong, and they were going to have to face up to the result of that error in judgment, that ingrained stubbornness on the part of the head of the mission.

  Now with the blaster riding on his hip, Rees glanced over his other emergency preparations; the trail bag he had packed last night. It was too late to hope to get away with more than a survival kit. Again, because of Uncle Milo and his refusal to face facts as they were and not as he decreed them to be.

  Rees slapped his palm on the hand lock by the corridor door. In the hall he paused for a long moment, his back against the wall, to listen and smell. Six months as Duggan Vickery's hunting assistant had given him some training with which to fac
e this crisis.

  No sound of any the Ishkurians about nor any trace of the distinctive body odor of the natives, so easy to detect when their emotions were aroused. Instead the beckoning scent of Terran coffee. Rees followed that quickly. No Ishkurian would drink coffee. The off-world beverage was rank poison as far as they were concerned and even to smell it upset their insides. Which meant the natives must have cleared out of the mission completely or Dr. Naper would not be brewing a pot now.

  Rees sped past three rooms to the door at the end of the hall. The man seated at the table in the room beyond glanced up from the recorder-reader, a faint trace of frown automatically lining the space between his deep-set eyes.

  "Good morning, Rees." His tone was precise and, as always, disapproving. Milo Naper and the nephew who shared his quarters shared very little else, neither ideas, emotions nor interests.