S.T.A.R. Flight

by E. C. Tubb

  “Yes,” said Preson. “How much do I owe you?”

  “You figuring on getting out, buddy? Here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Man, you’re crazy!” The driver shook his head. “The gangs are out and on the rampage. What do you think this holdup’s for? You wanna get chased? Beaten to a jelly? Robbed and maybe killed? Take my advice, buddy, you sit it out and stay safe. So what if it costs a little? What’s dough against skin? This heap’s got shatterproof glass and locked doors. They may be able to dent us a little, sure, but that’s all they can do. Solid tyres, armoured gas tank, sealed hood. Man, we’re impregnable!”

  “How much,” said Preston tiredly. “For the ride,” he added. “I don’t figure on paying for anything else.”

  “Fifteen,” said the driver. He saw Preston’s face. “All right,” he corrected hastily. “Just give me a fin.” He tripped the door lock as Preston handed him five gu’s. “Luck buddy. Watch yourself.” He slammed the door as Preston left the cab.

  For the first half-mile there was no trouble. Rounding a corner, Preston saw a crowd and ducked back quickly before he was seen. Crossing the street, he ran the opposite way towards the glow of the fire. There would be police there and firemen. Soldiers too, perhaps. He turned another corner and ran smack into a group.

  “Hey there, man! Lookit what we got!” A youth, hair roached and dyed, naked but for moccasins, beads and a leather belt supporting an apron front and rear, jumped forward and gripped Preston by the arm. His other hand rested on the hilt of a knife tucked in his belt. “A square!” he yelled. “A regular square!”

  “Gimmealook!” A girl, tall, lithe, young, breathed on Preston. She wore a loose, sleeveless dress, sandals, beads and a knife. Long plaits hung over prominent breasts. Like the youth she was hideous with paint. “Hey, man!” she shrieked. “Howdylike?” She turned and flipped up the back of her dress. She wore nothing beneath.

  “You’re going to be scalped,” said the youth with roached hair. “Scalped but good!”

  “Let’s do it for real.” Others joined the few around Preston. A pimply-faced character came up and spat in his face. A badge the size of a saucer dangled on his shaved chest: No Trespass on Terra! A girl clung to his arm. She wore her badge lower down: Don’t Meditate_Copulate!

  “Ransom,” she shrilled. “How much can he pay?”

  “Take it all,” yelled a voice from the back of the crowd. “Strip him for the gauntlet.”

  “Scalp him!”

  “Skin him!”

  “Use him for a target!”

  “Who’s for long pig?”

  Preston breathed deeply as he heard the suggestions. These kids weren’t playing. Their knives weren’t toys. The paint they wore in emulation of the old Indians was put on for the same basic reason. They were on the warpath hunting for prey. He had fallen right into their lap.

  He looked at the youth with the roached hair. He was grinning, his grip not as tight as it had been, confident that the press of numbers would hold Preston safe. The girl leaned against him on the other side, pointed fingernails an inch from his eyes. She had, he thought absently, a nice figure. Washed, she would be really attreactive.

  Something hit him in the rear. He turned, spinning from the threatening nails, jerking his arm free of the youth’s grip. A bearded, filth-stained man of about twenty stood behind him. He wore what seemed to be a necklace of human ears around his neck and the pelt of a king-sized rat on his head. He carried a rusty pitchfork in both hands. He lifted it, aiming at the eyes, yelling as he jabbed it forward. Preston swung up one arm, knocking it upwards so that it passed over his head. The man swore. Preston kicked him in the groin.

  He jumped forward as the man fell, springing over the writhing body, landing on both feet. He fronted a knife, a pair of slanting eyes and a badge reading UP All Aliens! He drove his fist into the centre of the badge, dodged the knife, hit at the neck with the stiffened edge of his palm. Slant eyes made a grunting noise and toppled to one side. Two others rushed at Preston, saw his expression and changed their minds. Instead they joined the crowd chasing him as he raced down the street. Cheering, screaming, baying like hounds, they ran after him as if they were huntsmen after a fox.

  Head down, elbows tucked into his sides, he ran towards the fire.

  It was near the Yonkers Gate, a small block of once high-priced apartments, long ago converted to a still high-priced slum, now wreathed in flame. The dispossessed stood about with a few hastily salvaged belongings. Hoses snaked from hydrants and a couple of helicopters were dropping oxygen-absorbing foam. Above the engines, the noise, the roar of flames could be heard the thin, spiteful sounds of shots. An armoured police truck swung up its dual machine guns and blasted a nearby rooftop. One of the helicopters swung low and robbed the place of breathable air. There were no more shots.

  Preston skirted the fire, no longer running but still followed by the zanily dressed crowd. Somehow he had become the head of a yelling conga line. He led them towards the Gate where a triple line of armed soldiers stood on guard. The National Guard, he thought, or regular troops. They stood in a circle about the perimeter of the Gate and looked like they meant business.

  “Hey, lookit the boy scouts!” The youth with the roached hair ran past Preston and thumbed his nose at the guards. The girl followed, turning and flipping up the back of her dress in unmistakable insult.

  “Beat it,” snapped a guard. “Quick or you’ll get perforated.”

  “Says who?” sneered the youth.

  “Alien lover,” yelled the girl.

  “I mean it,” said the guard. “We got orders. Start shoving and you’ll be sorry. Now get the hell out of here before you get hurt.”

  He was on edge, sweating, the moisture running down his face from the inside of his helmet. His eyes were wild. The knuckles of both hands showed white where he gripped his gun. An automatic rifle, Preston noted. These boys were ready for anything.

  Quietly he turned and walked away.

  Off to one side a convoy of trucks stood with covered loads, the vehicles grouped in a tight echelon. Their drivers stood in a cluster, smoking, watching what was going on. Preston joined them and nodded towards the vehicles. “Waiting to unload?”

  One of the drivers took the cigarlet from his mouth. A number three size, Preston saw; driving for the Gates paid well. “What’s it to you?”

  “Fifty if you can get me inside.” It was a hopeless request but it served as an excuse. The zanies were still milling around and he didn’t want them to catch him alone. “Fifty,” he said again. “On!”

  “You’re crazy.” The driver was a big man with a mottled face and a wart on the side of his nose. “So we put you in the truck and drive you up to the Gate,” he said. “What happens when we unload?”

  “You put me in a crate,” said Preston. “Nail it tight. How are they going to know what’s in it?”

  “They check every item,” said another driver. He looked at Preston and shook his head. “You wouldn’t have a chance,” he insisted. “They’d find you for sure.” He kicked thoughtfully at a tyre. “You ever been beaten with one of those whips?”

  Preston didn’t answer.

  “Once over the line, pal, and you’re in Kaltich territory. They don’t take kindly to trespassers. You get whipped and you’ll wish that you’d never been born. Anyway,” he said, “why do you want to get to the Gate? You thinking of passing through?”

  “Maybe,” said Preston.

  “Why? Isn’t Earth good enough for you?”

  “That’s right,” said the driver with the wart on his nose. “You on the run, buster?”

  “No,” said Preston. “It isn’t that.”

  “Then what’s the idea of the bribe?” The driver glowered.

  “Nothing,” said Preston. He began to walk away. “I only asked,” he said. “That’s all.”

  “You a spot? You testing our loyalty or something?” The driver spat out his cigarlet and li
fted a clenched fist. “Why, for two pins I’d —”

  “Can it, Joe,” snapped the other driver. “So it was a test. We passed, didn’t we? So can it.”

  “He was trying to bribe us,” said Joe. He sounded aggrieved. “We should report it, turn him in.”

  Nice, thought Preston. One of your own kind, your own race, willing to do a thing like that. To tell an alien that you were trying to get close to his precious Gate. To open his big mouth and get you beaten and black-listed and maybe worse. Scum like that isn’t worth saving, he told himself. Let them rot in their own slime. But they aren’t all like that, he thought. Maybe not even them, not really. It’s just that they’ve got good jobs and don’t want to lose them. But the rancour remained.

  Earthmen, he thought, on their knees to the Kaltich. To hell with them.

  He walked quickly from the Gate, the fire, the suspicious drivers. The zanies had gone, running wild through the streets, probably looking for fresh prey, more mischief, something to hurt or destroy. Kids, he thought. Still wet behind the ears but all the more vicious because of it. Kids with the motivations of adults and the thoughtless cruelty of children.

  They’re bored, he told himself. Kept too long at school and with nothing to do when they leave. No work, no place in society, nowhere decent to live. Just waiting, killing time until the Kaltich open the Celestial Gates. If they ever opened them. If they ever let the teeming billions of Earth through the empty worlds they swore were waiting.

  And, thought Preston, in the meantime we wait, work, say yes, sire, no, sire, three bags full, sire. Eat dirt and grovel for the promise of what? Life, he admitted, that was real enough. The longevity shots they sold and which restored youth for a ten-year period. Spare parts for surgical implants. And the promise that, one day, they would open the Gates and give paradise to every man, woman and child on Earth.

  One day.

  Pie in the sky, he thought bitterly. Pie in the sky.

  Close to the rendezvous he took care to make certain that he was not being followed. He doubted if anyone could have climbed on his tail but it was always possible. And so was something else. Carefully he checked his pockets. Keys, wallet, folding knife, money, pen, handkerchief, comb, cigarlets and lighter. His luggage was at the airport waiting later collection. The weather was too mild for topcoat or hat. He looked curiously at a small, flat, disc-like object he’d found in the top outer pocket of his jacket.

  The girl, of course. She must have slipped it there while she threatened him with her nails. Now he came to think of it there had been nothing childish about her body. A UNO agent? It seemed like it. She would hardly belong to STAR. They would have no reason to load him with a bug.

  Hefting it in his hand he stood, eyes shadowed with thought. To dump it? Keep it? Render it inoperative?

  He looked around. He was standing before an old building made of brick. The mortar had crumbled leaving deep recesses. He located a place mark, counted, slipped the bug firmly into a crack low down close to the sidewalk. He would recover it later if he wanted. For now it would do no harm. It might even draw out whoever was tagging him.

  He glanced at his watch. He had no time to linger. He was late as it was.

  THREE

  Star had its New York special rendezvous in the cellar of a dilapidated restaurant owned by a member of the organization. Preston entered, walked to the bar and ordered a drink. “Lager. Brunmilch Black Label.”

  The bartender dumped bottle and glass on the counter, opened the bottle and took the money. He left the cap lying beside the glass. Preston palmed it as he picked up his drink. Sipping it he stared over the restaurant.

  Like most places it was open twenty-four hours a day and, no matter what the hour, there were always people eating, drinking, courting, reading or just sitting killing time. And always there was the resident bar-philosopher.

  “You got a light, pal?” He was thin with a soiled shirt and tie, his face covered with tiny red lines from broken capillaries. The stump of a number five cigarlet hung from the corner of his mouth. “Thanks,” He puffed smoke. “You look intelligent,” he said. “You look as if you could follow a line of reasoned argument. Name’s Daler,” he said. “Sam Daler.”

  Preston touched the proffered hand.

  “I was telling that creep behind the bar how to cure our problems,” said Daler. “You know what they are? Too many people,” he said. “That’s the trouble with the world now. Too many goddamned people.”

  Preston swallowed more of his lager.

  “So what should we do about it?” said Daler. “Kill ’em?” He shook his head. “Can’t do that,” he said with an alcoholic’s concern with detail. “That would be murder. We just can’t kill ’em like a lot of vermin. No. You know what we should do?”

  “Yes,” said Preston.

  “You know?”

  “Sure,” said Preston. “Let them all die of old age.” He winced at Daler’s roar of laughter.

  “Say, that’s good!” he yelled. “That’s real good!” He squinted at Preston’s glass. “Let’s have a drink on that. You want another of the same?”

  “No,” said Preston.

  “Something else, then?”

  Preston shook his head, finished his drink and walked from the bar. The toilets were upstairs. He reached them and looked behind. Nobody was watching. He passed the twin doors and ducked behind a curtain. It covered another, heavier door with a slotted box-lock. He slipped the bottle cap into the slot, waited three seconds, then pushed the door open. Beyond lay a flight of stairs leading to the cellar. At the foot was a door with a judas window. He knocked, waited, passed through as the door opened.

  “You’re late,” accused Oldsworth. He slammed and barred the door. “We’ve been waiting. What held you up?”

  “I ran into a bunch of zanies.” Preston told what had happened. “I was also bugged,” he said mildly. “Did it come from here?”

  “Bugged?” Jim Raleigh turned white. “Did you —”

  “I dumped it,” explained Preston. “I hid it somewhere safe. Maybe we can find out who is interested in my movements. My guess is that the UNO is getting nosy. Maybe the whole thing was a mistake.” He walked to the table in the centre of the room and sat down. Deliberately he looked around.

  Raleigh, the local chief, sat beside Oldsworth, who owned an electronics factory. He looked older than Preston remembered. He must be about due for another treatment, he thought. Jim too, no wonder he acted so scared. The third man was Bernard King, head of local security. The fourth person at the table was a woman.

  “Hilda Thorenson,” she introduced herself. “We haven’t met. I’m a doctor.”

  “Medicine, divinity or philosophy?”

  “Medicine. I’m a surgeon. And you, of course are Martin Preston. One of STAR’s best agents. Did you enjoy your vacation?”

  “Sure,” he said. “The whole seventeen hours of it.” Leaning back he lit a cigarlet and studied the woman. She had attractive, Nordic features and thick blonde hair. She also, thought Preston, had remarkably beautiful hands. “While we’re on the subject,” he said flatly. “Someone owes me some money. You don’t cancel bookings at the Schloss Steyr. You wanted me to get here in a hurry so you can make good the damage.”

  “Money,” said Oldsworth. “Is that all you think about? Money!”

  “Now, Harry, take it easy.” Raleigh laid a soothing hand on Oldsworth’s arm. “Martin has a right to say what he did. But he doesn’t mean it.”

  “Think again,” said Preston coldly. “Look,” he said. “You’re laughing. Oldsworth has his own business, you’re something high up somewhere, King isn’t exactly broke.” He looked at the woman. “You’re all right, doctors come high. What have I got?” He answered his own question. “A half-share in a crummy debt collecting agency. Do you know how long it took me to save for that vacation?”

  “Never mind,” said the woman. “You’ll get your money.”

  “It’s not just that,”
he said, mollified. “I had to bounce an alien.” He looked into their startled eyes. “That’s right. One of the Kaltich picked me to act as guide. I had to let him down. How much do I get paid for losing my chance at longevity?”

  “Now really, Martin.” Oldsworth ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. He reminded Preston of a snake. “You can hardly blame that on us. In any case,” he added hopefully, “I doubt if he would remember you.”

  “Talk sense.” Preston was irritated, the more so because the situation was of his own making. He had forgotten all about the alien until he was packed aboard the ICPM. At least he could have pleaded sick or something. “He doesn’t have to remember me. All he needs to do is to notify their computer and it’s curtains for yours truly. Anyway,” he said. “It’s done now. What’s the urgency?”

  “This,” said King. He threw a box on the table. It slid along, stopping just before Preston. He opened it.

  It contained a neatly severed pair of human hands.

  “Lassiter,” said King. He had a broad, flat face which diguised all emotion. He could have been talking about the weather. “I’ve checked the prints and there’s no doubt about it.”

  “How did you get them?” Preston didn’t touch the contents of the box. They rested flaccid, pale pink on the palms, deep ebony the rest, strong, long-fingered, sensitive hands. Lassiter had liked to play the guitar and had been good at it. What was the point of a guitar player without hands? “How did you get them?” he said again.

  “You don’t have to shout,” said Oldsworth.

  “All right, Harry.” Again Raleigh quietened his friend, “They were sent to UNO,” he explained. “By normal post. We have contact there. One of them passed the box to me. To deliver,” he added. “Lassiter has a sister.”

  “Chloe.” Preston slammed the lid back on the box. “You were going to give them to her?”

  “No, of course not, but I had to let her know he was dead.”

  “And when you’d done that, then what?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “What were you supposed to do with the hands?” Preston was impatient. “Bury them? Cremate them? Hang them out to dry?”