Hair trigger relays were set to fall on detection of enemy fire. If Petrel was hit, a split second later, the Scotians would join her as molecular scrap.
It was a certain fragment to shore against time’s ruin; but not enough. Fletcher took another look at the communications desk. No dice. Duvorac was temporarily out of programme.
He gave him ten minutes and spent the time sorting through the communications locker for monitor gear.
A compressed air pistol, with a clip of pea-sized adhesive transmitter buttons was the handiest choice.
Range marked on the butt was two hundred metres; but he reckoned he would have to get nearer than that to hit even a frigate in the dark.
He shoved it in his belt to leave his hands free and let himself out by the main hatch.
Up aloft, there had seemed to be enough light to work by, with the nimbus thrown up by Kristinobyl and the stars, but at ground level, he was shadowed by solid structures. He allowed himself a miserly beam from a hooded torch to get clear of the gantry and dropped into a blast trench that ran towards the Scotians.
After three intersections, on a dog-leg course, he calculated that he was over half way and coming up to extreme range for the pistol. The rim of the trench was at finger-tip stretch and he went up in a silent heave.
Lying flat, he closed his eyes and opened them slowly. The frigates were dead ahead, a thickening of darkness on darkness. He went along on hands and knees feeling a way forward for the next intersection.
He hit it twenty metres on and the targets were clearer. Now it was possible to separate the slim cylinder of the nearer ship from its gantry. But not near enough to be sure. He dropped into the trench, and went up the other side.
This time, there was a long run, on the lip of a primary channel that fanned out from the pad and took the first surge of flame from the rocket motors.
Fifty metres from the tripod jacks, he knelt like a marksman with the pistol steadied by knee and arm and fired three times, spacing them out from the freight module to the cone.
Reaching the far ship took longer. There was more on the ground than he had seen from Petrel, storage crates, parked surface craft and a fuelling tender. When he checked his time disk, he found he had been two hours on the mission. He planted four, five and six and turned back.
Moving towards light was easier and he made better time. Petrel’s gantry was only twenty metres off, when the nudge of a sixth sense pulled him up short.
Back to the stone wall of his gully, he tried to sort out impressions. Petrel and the girder work of the gantry, were fused in a continuous blur. Imagination played tricks. There could be movement anywhere at all. He told himself he was being over-cautious and began to move forward. Then a tiny metallic click orientated him. Whatever was there, was at ground level.
Suddenly he knew how it would be. Two could play the eavesdropping game. It would have to be a party from the first ship, otherwise he would have met them head on. While he was circling farther out to get at the second rocket, they had gotten ahead. Then he must have followed along.
Instinct had him debating how to cut them down. But the ongoing implication of that held him back.
Successful or not, it would put a finger on Petrel for sure. So far, they would have no clue of what had happened to Hathor. He might have disappeared in Kristinobyl. They were just leaving no stone unturned. He could see the cold mind of a Scotian commander handling the problem and checking every angle, however improbable.
As of now, there was nothing to pick up from the Earth ship. They should be allowed to report back with a negative. All he needed to know was what kind of device they had fixed.
He got himself out of the channel, feeling the weight of his body. It was getting to be a hard night. At the top, he slipped out of his shoes, shoved one in either pocket of his tunic, and moved along making no sound, until he was fending off from the gantry cladding with the finger tips of both hands.
His ears picked up on a tonal dry clicking, very quiet, like a muted and slowed-down cicada.
There was some satisfaction in having a theory confirmed. Not that he could understand it. Scotian speech was one on its own, a grouping of palatal clicks in a code that only a semantics computer could crack.
They were over left by a gap in the structure through which he had left. Walking in through there, would have set him up as a target against the dim light.
Patiently, moving a centimetre at a time, Fletcher felt his way along the cladding to the next open section.
He was working round the freight elevator trunk and they were very close. More clicks, which carried a sense of finality. They were through. He heard the pad of feet moving away and swivelled round his corner.
Between the lattice of the cage, he picked out two shadowy forms going home.
It took all of fifteen minutes to find the box and when he had it, he was not sure that it was a recent plant or part of the existing circuits of the gantry. Fixed knee-high in the angle of a girder, it would be lost even in broad day. A fine multicore cable plugged into the case and ran aloft, neatly strapped every metre.
Confirmation came, when he traced the lead through and found a saucer-shaped suction cup at the business end like a blister on the underside of the freight bay.
They had gone in for substantial gear; a single unit, but powerful enough to pick up sound from anywhere in the ship. Also, with a remote-sited transmitter, it would not show, if the ship ran a check for a bug fixed to its outer skin.
He went back and disconnected the transmitter, then made his way through the main hatch.
Nothing had changed. He fixed himself some coffee and took it into the command module. Working with a hooded light on the communications desk, he clipped the bug to an amplifier circuit, that would deliver its catch through the tannoy and filter speech through the language cracker.
One at a time, he brought in the six transmitter buttons. One and two on the first ship were dead. Three brought in breathing and a slow heart beat. That figured. They were using the cone module as a watch tower. One man there. Two out an the mission. Duty detail of three. Maybe one changed each day. He had been lucky. Hathor’s relief man might have been right behind him.
Four, five and six were dead. So the second ship had no permanent crew. Back with number one button, he waited for the two men to come home. There was time to consider the strangeness of what he was doing, alone in the silent corvette. Earth was infinitely distant. He was a speck, an itinerant consciousness with no point of reference, performing bizarre actions for no reason. I think therefore I am. Or, I act therefore I am? Speculation cut off, as the whine of a winch sounded out startlingly close. A cable ran out and retracted. Brief speech, followed by the chatter of his own computer, as it punched out a translation.
He read it off as he tracked them through the ship.
“Report to Urion. I will switch the receiver to module one.”
“Check.”
Button two picked up the action in the command module. Button three brought in Urion, the executive in charge.
“Well?”
“It is done lieutenant. Norops is switching through. There was no sign that the Earth ship is manned.”
“No sign of Hathor?”
“No, lieutenant.”
“He said nothing to you before he left?”
“No, lieutenant.”
“Nevertheless, you will be interrogated.”
Fletcher found it hard to sympathize with a Scotian, but he recognized it was rough on the man.
Interrogation in that service could mean anything up to piecemeal dismemberment. In this case, with trained space crew thin on the ground, they would probably stop short of anything that would damage his efficiency. But it would be bad. It was an everlasting surprise that the rank-and-file never mutinied. As far as it was known, there was no case on record of a Scotian crew shedding a Captain Bligh and setting up on an atoll.
The printed dialogue remained cool. Discipline
was built in from an early age.
“I know nothing, lieutenant.”
“We shall see.”
A second delivery slot on the communications desk put out another tape. It was Duvorac, getting in on the act with an all-clear. “Screen reverted. Use next period. Report 1100.”
There was under seven minutes. Fletcher cleared away all traces of his visit with brisk economical movements. I act therefore I am. Maybe that was the truth for him. Purposeful occupation conferred identity, he was better following orders.
On the way out, he reconnected the Scotian transmitter. Let them drink their fill of silence. One thing was a stone hard certainty, there would be a round-the-clock vigil at the other end for as long as Petrel remained on her pad.
Kristinobyl was perking up for the night shift. The business quarter was blacked out, but the pleasure domes of the entertainment sector were taking a double ration of power from the grid. In the lobby of the Space Terminal Hotel, Fletcher debated whether or not to take an auto-shuttle and go out for a drink.
But the isolation of the last hours had cut back appetite for the social scene. Instead, he stopped off at the tenth floor Vista Bar and carried his glass out on the balcony.
Revellers were thin on the ground and he had it to himself. He leaned on the rail, looking out down a broad avenue, with illuminated fountains, towards the city centre where the action was. There was enough muted noise flowing in, to mask any sound at his back and the thin querulous voice, speaking in English that sounded a metre behind his left ear seemed to have arrived by spontaneous creation.
There was no doubt about the solidity of its owner, however. He had gained a full-sized Garamasian, all in black, with a high-crowned peaked cap, carrying the three intertwined rings of the security service.
“Commander Fletcher?”
“The same.”
“You are not easy to find. I have made two visits here today. No one was able to tell me where you had gone.”
If the statement concealed a question it was doomed to frustration. Fletcher said, “Well, now you have me. What did you want to see me about?”
“I am Colonel Pedasun, Government Security Service.”
It was his bad night for reactions. If he expected his hearer to drop his glass and clutch the balcony with both hands, he had another disappointment.
“You have done well.”
Pedasun’s black eye disks were unruffled by any cat’s-paw of emotion, but he had recognized the answer as frivolous.
“I understand that Earthmen are not serious minded. But you will find that the position of a foreigner in Garamas is not some joke. I have come myself so that you will appreciate the gravity of the situation you are in.”
“What situation?”
“In the first place you have made a bad choice of assistant. The girl Yola is unreliable. There is suspicion at least that she is involved with an extremist student group which will soon be on the proscribed list. She has been tolerated so far out of respect for her father, who is an important man.”
“She is a very efficient interpreter. As far as I know, she is also a very conscientious student. I would not see her as a danger to the state.”
“But then as an Earthman you would not know about the peculiar delicacy of our political scene. You have visited the Science Wing at the Polytech. Why was that?”
“To see how the other half live.”
“Where have you been today?”
“Around and about in Kristinobyl. No special place.”
“A long period for random sightseeing.”
“Places interest me.”
“I will be frank with you and expect frankness in return. As you will know, there are two Scotian frigates impounded in the port. Part of the crews are on open surveillance in the town. They have been here a long time and close captivity would be unreasonable. One of the men has disappeared. It is known that Earth and Scotia are bitterly opposed. It could be that you met this man and were provoked into combat.
If that is so and you can throw light on the affair, you should tell me now. It may be possible to hush it up.
The Scotian command naturally are pressing for a full investigation.”
“I can’t help you.”
“Cannot or will not? I can assure you, if you are involved and this comes out in an open enquiry, your organization will be powerless to assist you.”
“Why out of the millions in Kristinobyl do you come to me? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Pedasun walked to the rail and looked out over the city. Fletcher finished his drink and stood the glass on a handy table. His last question hung about unanswered. A group of Garamasians in animated discussion, like the overflow from a convention, came through to the balcony, saw the black uniform and went out in sudden silence.
It reminded Fletcher that he was pushing his luck. Duvorac might well be poking grapes through the bars at him by the time of tomorrow’s tryst.
On the other hand, there was no good way of handling a type like Pedasun. Take a conciliatory line and he would tramp all over the psyche. He soldiered on as if he had not noticed the hiatus in the dialogue.
“Nice to have met you, Colonel. Sorry I can’t help you with your problem. Check the zoo. Your missing man might have strayed into a reptile house and found it to his liking. See you again, no doubt.”
He was five metres off before Pedasun realised he was losing his audience. Garamasian facial geography was a natural for a mine of malice and Fletcher was lucky not to see it. The voice carried a harmonic of it, however, as the security man spoke over his shoulder. “I am quite sure, we shall meet again, Commander. Do not leave Kristinobyl without notifying my office.”
Duvorac looked as though he had not moved in the intervening hours. Given the Venusian’s ability to operate for several days without sleep, that could have been true. His first question was hardly more friendly in tone than Pedasun’s and Dag Fletcher had a case in wondering whose side he was on.
“Why did you find it necessary to kill the Scotian? It has caused serious diplomatic difficulty at a time when we do not want embarrassment.”
Fletcher reckoned he had been at the receiving end long enough. He had taken a seat opposite the human cuboid. It enabled him to stand up as though walking out. “I take it there would have been equal embarrassment in having to explain why I was found dead on the route to the military zone. If you do not trust me to use my discretion in any situation you should find someone else for your operation.”
Duvorac switched to conciliation and even tried to smile, knowing from a theoretical point of view that it was a sign of fair intent in the Earth culture.
The net product was an amalgam of the sinister and the malevolent; but clued in by the voice, it lost some of its visual shock. He said mildly, “Pray sit down again, Commander. You are too hasty. I have the highest regard for your abilities. Tell me how you found the ship.”
Fletcher took his time to get back to his seat, making it clear that he was still in doubt about going on.
Military assessment was a neutral field however and an I.G.O. Commissar had every right to his opinion.
“She’s sound. Ready to go. I had time to check her through. A very efficient unit.”
“And the Scotians?”
“I was coming to that. One with a watch detail. One not. I fixed pickups on both. They have no idea what happened to their man.”
“That was very enterprising of you.”
The tone was ambivalent. Fletcher took a sharp look at the Commissar to try to judge whether that was a straight comment. He might as well have searched for a ripple on an egg. He soldiered on with the plain tale. “They had the same idea. Petrel is hooked up on a monitor.”
Some animation crept into Duvorac’s tone. “That is bad. They will know that you were there.”
“Not so. As far as that goes they believe she is empty. We can diss their gear any time for a period.”
“Very good. You have a flai
r for this work, Commander.”
Fletcher waited for it. Flattery was ever a prelude for a dicey proposition. He was not wrong. Duvorac went on, “How would Yola react to an opportunity for helping some of the members of her group who are interned at the detention centre?”
It was pointless to ask what the man knew about Yola’s extra-curricular activities. Obviously, there was very little on Garamas that escaped his net.
“She would take it. But she shouldn’t be asked. Security already have her number. I had a visit from a certain Colonel Pedasun who left me in no doubt.”
“Pedasun is shrewd but limited. What I have in mind is a demonstration outside the centre, which would cause a certain amount of confusion. It would be timed to coincide with a visit you would make to the crew of Petrel. Our agent would take the chance to hide in your car. You would leave while the guards were still concerned in looking outwards for a threat.”
“Very psychological. Suppose they search?”
“That would be unfortunate. But the agent would not betray you. It would be an opportunist move. You would not be implicated.”
In spite of ceremonial rig and a plushy official car with the I.G.O. pennant streaming from the transom, Fletcher graded himself as the rat of all time, when he answered a smart salute and idled through the checkpoint at the internment camp.
Yola had been easy. Taken it as progress, to get a visitor interested in the cause. She had sold it to the group and it had spread to all who looked on the internment camp as a symbol of unpopular government and every faction could identify somewhere. They had worked day and night on a plan for Kristinobyl’s first essay in student demo. Small groups had been leaving the city for hours. They were to dress in white—the traditional colour of mourning—and assemble at the main gate, then walk in silence round the compound. Not revolution, red in tooth and claw; but a big step for people sold on the obedience ticket from the crib.
John Rankine - Dag Fletcher 01 Page 3
