by E. C. Tubb
It had seemed an eternity. “Very long, sir,” said Preston. “I can assure you sir, that it will never happen again.” Not, he mentally added, if I have to kill every last dammed one of you.
“That’s the spirit,” said Keyman. “Now report for duty.”
His luck held. Those who had been close to the original Tonach, the ones he had worked with and with whom he had gone on vacation, were no longer at the Gate. They had been moved elsewhere. Or perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t luck at all. Perhaps it had been a part of the plan. So far STAR had managed things well. Aside from the beating, of course, He could never forgive them for that.
The duty was simple and left plenty of time for thought. He had to check deliveries against manifests, a thing any bright moron could have done without difficulty, certainly the epsilon-alpha who was in charge of the unloading crews. It’s the system, he thought. Caste dictates who should do what. They unload, handle the crates, do the heavy work. I oversee. And investigate. That’s why I’m here. Well, he told himself, get on with it. You’re in. So far you’ve been accepted and are safe. Now make the Kaltich pay for what they’ve done.
And he reminded himself, earn two million units for doing it.
Gammas didn’t run the Gate. There were four of them working in six-hour turns of duty. Above them were two betas and somewhere was an alpha in supreme charge. The epsilons were the labour force; they carried no whips. The nulls did the dirty work. They were the wardens, the guards, the military police. Like the epsilons they carried no whips but bore arms instead.
So much STAR had verified from Tonach and what they had learned Preston knew. It wasn’t enough. I’m like a noncommissioned officer, he thought. I can move around and I know enough of the system to play the part, but that’s about all. The real secret, the important thing, I don’t know. Would an ordinary NCO have known about the workings of a military computor? As yet he hadn’t seen the Gate and, apparently, neither had Tonach. And that didn’t make sense. The man had travelled through it; he must have known that at least. He had known it, Preston decided. Known it and, somehow, been prevented from relaying the information. Hypnosis, he thought. A fine tool — if you know exactly what questions to ask and how to ask them.
Irritably he slammed the door of his room. It was a comfortable room, the furnishings luxurious, the little, personal things showing a regard for fine quality. A record player and a stack of records. A projector and a heap of film. A fine camera. A collection of expensive liqueurs, some familiar, others not. A peculiar device with a helmet-like attachment and a studded keyboard. A transparent jar in which drifted slowly twisting strands of living crystal, growing, changing, a mobile kaleidoscope of shimmering colour. A three-dimensional photograph of a smiling, beautiful woman.
He picked it up and soft words whispered from the image.
“Leon, darling, I love you so much. All the time I think of you so far away from me. It is your duty, I know, darling, and it will soon be over. But it seems so long to wait before we are together for always. I was at the emigration bureau the other day and they have such a wonderful selection of places. When you are home we must go down and register for one. Our own house, darling, with land and workers and everything. Oh, my dearest, when we are together I shall …”
The voice grew softer, more intimate. Preston put down the photograph. The Kaltich women, at least, were far from inhibited. He wondered if she would sorrow too much at never again seeing her man.
Damn them, he thought. Among themselves they’re human enough — why can’t they be the same outside? He knew the answer. The colonial complex. Others were inferiors, savages, slaves. Only the Kaltich could be thought of as equals.
He picked up the helmet and slipped it on his head. Nothing. He punched buttons and, suddenly, the room was a swirling mass of colour. He punched more and a thin, high-pitched singing echoed in his ears. More and, with shocking abruptness, he was a terrified animal caught in hampering strands of sticky mesh. At the corner of his vision something horrible slowly advanced.
Preston ripped off the helmet and stood shaking. Mental recordings, he thought. The agony of a creature trapped, terrified, knowing what was to come. For amusement, he told himself. Titivation to pass time. How decadent could you get?
And how rich? The room reeked of money spent with a careless disregard. Nothing but the best, he noted. For the Kaltich, nothing but the best. The best from Earth and how many other worlds?
The helmet was alien. The jar of growing crystal. The photograph betrayed a technology higher than he knew. But he could learn nothing of use in this place. Toys, items to amuse, things to beguile the time. And he dared not waste time.
Impatiently he left the room, passed down a passage, entered the door of a recreation room. Men, deltas, sat at tables playing games of chance. One waved at him.
“Care to sit in, Leon?”
“No thanks.”
“Come on. You owe me a chance to get revenge.”
Preston shook his head. The man knew him, only casually perhaps, but it was enough. There could be references to past activities, the mention of common acquaintances, a hundred little things including the game he did not know how to play.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to know me now?”
“Leave him alone.” Another player leaned over and said something in a low voice.
The first man shrugged. “All right. I didn’t know. But how long’s it going to be before he gets over it?” And then, to Preston, “Sorry, Leon. Some other time, uh?”
Outside he paused, thinking. The Gate itself must lie in the centre of the complex; that seemed the most logical place for it to be. The living accommodation and offices must be built around it, both for protection and for quick access. That meant a passage must lead to where he wanted to go. He began to search for it, using both Tonach’s information and his own instinct. Both let him down. He found a promising door but it was firmly locked. The alternative was obvious.
Quickly he retraced his steps back to the central opening, the ramp and unloading bays. The conveyor belt must lead directly to the Gate. He followed it until it ran into a tunnel. Back again he looked thoughtfully at the ramp. Trucks, he thought, could be driven along it. It was obvious that those same trucks must go somewhere and, if it was ever decided to move heavy equipment, it would have to travel by truck. The reasoning was excellent — but the ramp was sealed further in by heavy doors.
And to go by the tunnel was to pass through the death trap.
There was only one thing left to do.
The null was easy, relaxed, standing a routine honour guard. He looked at Preston as he approached, automatically stiffening into a position of respect. “Sir?”
“Medical.”
“A moment, sir. Your name, please?” Preston told him, waiting as the man did things with a wall-communicator. “Very good, sir. You may pass.”
Tight, thought Preston as he walked past the guard. They don’t like the lesser ranks walking about in certain areas. The epsilons, he knew, were housed in subterranean apartments. The nulls had their own barracks. Only the higher command, apparently, had direct access to the Gate.
They made a mistake, he thought. STAR didn’t think this thing through far enough. I should have taken the place of a gamma at least. But no, he told himself. That wouldn’t have worked either. There aren’t enough of them. Or perhaps they couldn’t find one who looked enough like me. He was speculating, a waste of time. Now he needed all his concentration.
The medical room was ahead. He had to enter it. He was expected and to fail to show up would be to start an alarm. The doctor was a gamma-alpha. He looked at Preston as an assistant took down details.
“The trouble, sir?”
“My back.” It was a genuine excuse. “It’s hurting and I wondered —”
“You are the man who was punished?” The doctor was curt.
Preston nodded. “That’s right, sir. Leon Tonach.”
“Yo
u must know that the after-effects of the whipping are an integral part of your discipline. I shall report you for having wasted our time.”
“Yes, sir.” Well, thought Preston, that was soon over. He turned left as he left the medical room, walking in the opposite direction to which he had came. Quickly he ran down stairs, along a passage, pushed open a door. It led to another a few feet away. He opened it and stared at the Gate.
It could be nothing else.
But it was like nothing he had expected.
It was a double arch, rounded, fifteen feet from stem to stem and twenty high. A gigantic letter m. One half of it was blank, the entire arch filled with nothing but a dead, flat black surface which hurt his eyes as he looked at it. The other was clear, aside from a peculiar shivering as of air disturbed by rising currents of heat. He looked through it and saw the ramp, the walls leading to the central opening. The tilt of the ramp prevented him from seeing outside. Penetrating it in an unbroken line, the length of the conveyor-belt tunnel marred the symmetry of the arch.
A man walked through the black surface.
He came as if walking through mist, stepping from the arch as a man would step from one room into another, casual, doing a thing to which he was long accustomed. He wore red, an alpha. He halted as he saw Preston.
“You! What are you doing here?”
Preston bowed, gesturing towards the door through which he had come.
“I asked you a question!” The alpha let his hand fall to his whip. The lash made a thin, vicious sound as it cut through the air. “Answer me!”
“I was about to pass through the Gate, sir.”
“Alone?” The man glanced at the other arch. “There is something wrong,” he decided. “You will turn and walk before me.” The whip almost touched Preston’s cheek. “Move!”
Preston hit him in the stomach.
The man was soft, flabby; his stomach felt like dough. He doubled, gasping and Preston slammed the stiffened edge of his palm hard against the nape of his neck. The alpha fell, turning a little so that the outflung whip fell against the blackness of the arch.
Preston ripped at his clothes.
Camouflage, he thought. I’ve got to take the chance. A delta’s nothing in this setup. I need more weight, more authority. Luck, he told himself. You’ve had the luck of the devil so far. Let’s hope that it lasts just a little longer. Long enough for me to change clothes with this character and get away from here.
The red uniform was a little too large but the belt took up most of the slack. He picked up the man’s whip then paused, looking at it. The tip had been severed as though with a knife, the metal bright and perfectly flat. He frowned at it, then at the blackness of the arch. Cautiously he reached out with the whip and touched the surface. He felt a slight resistance and pressed harder. The metal of the whip dissolved as he watched. He shoved and looked at the stump in his hand. At his feet the dead man stared at him as if guessing what was in his mind.
Thirty seconds later Preston stepped boldly through the clear archway. He felt a momentary tingle and that was all. Turning, he saw blackness, while now the other arch was clear. He swallowed, forcing himself to look, but didn’t see what he’d expected. No limp body in delta blue. No head and upper torso, hands and shoulder in red and vanished ruin.
He shook his head, impatient with himself. This was war. The alpha had been an enemy and had died as Lassiter had died. The fact that he couldn’t be seen was something to worry about in the future. Now he had to make good his escape.
He walked from the Gate, past bowing nulls, past working epsilons, striding from the building and out into the clean, unsullied air.
Unsullied because there was no mass of sprawling buildings, no snarling traffic, no stench of fumes and dirt and too many people in too small a space. Instead there were slender pyramidical structures, tall and graceful in the bright sunshine. The green of grass and trees, the bright touches of colour from massed flowers.
By God, he thought with rising excitement. I’ve done it. I’ve really done it. I’m the first Earthman to set foot on another world!
EIGHT
A low musical note sounded from behind. Preston turned. A hover-truck, the rear stacked high with crates, came sighing down the ramp. It slowed as it drew level as if the driver expected a signal then, as Preston continued walking, it passed him to vanish behind some trees. Ten minutes later, when he was wishing he’d flagged a lift, he came to the first of the pyramidical structures.
They were tents, a whole village of tepees, tall, sheeted plastic drawn over thin aluminium tubes and daubed with primitive designs to glaring colour. The people he saw grouped about the tents or walking the unpaved ground between had a strange familiarity. Zanies, he thought, then corrected himself. Not zanies but those the kids tried to emulate. Indians. Red Indians from the old North American west.
Slowly he walked through the village. There was an absence of smells generally associated with such a place. The few dogs were well-fed and well-behaved. The children were restrained. He halted beside a man and examined his equipment. The bow was of steel, the arrows feathered with nylon. The knife and hatchet were of polished metal. The clothes, fringed and painted, had the appearance of synthetic fibre. He looked into a tent. A woman, wide-eyed, held back a small child. The floor was covered with rugs and blankets. Pieces of equipment hung from the walls.
Preston looked at the man. “What world is this?”
“Sire?” The Galactic was thick guttural, but perfectly understandable.
“This world — what is its name?”
“Sire, forgive me, but I do not understand.”
Dumb, thought Preston. He looked at the stolid brown face, the dull eyes. Unconsciously his hand fell to the whip dangling from his wrist. His own whip — that belonging to the alpha had been destroyed. The man cringed.
“Forget it,” said Preston, and walked on through the village.
The tents were clustered to either side, leaving a broad central avenue. Midway along stood a group of solid buildings made of unpeeled logs. One looked as if it might be a grain store. Another was obviously a blacksmith’s. A third looked like a livery stable. Facing it was a long, low cabin with unwindowed extensions at the rear. A hitching rail faced it and a water trough stood to one side. The place had a wide veranda on which stood tables and chairs. It was an uneasy blend of an old western trading post and a French sidewalk cafe. Kaltich were at the tables, eating, drinking or just sitting engaged in conversation. Native women moved between them carrying drinks and plates of food. The sight woke Preston’s hunger.
He climbed on the veranda, sat at a table, gestured to a waitress. “Food,” he demanded. “And something to drink.”
“Yes, sire.” The girl was pretty in a swarthy kind of way. She wore a fringed garment, belted around her waist, coming to just above the knee. A rope of cut-glass beads hung around her neck. “We have steak, sire. Would that be satisfactory?”
Preston nodded.
“And wine, sire? Or would you prefer tiswin?”
“Wine,” decided Preston. “Red. And something to smoke,” he added. “Cigarlets. Number one size.” What the hell, he thought, let’s make the most of this while we can.
The food was delicious: steak, french fried potatoes, peas, tomatoes and mushrooms, sweet corn. The dessert was deep-dish apple pie spiced with cloves and cinnamon. The wine was French, chateau bottled. The cigarlets bore a familiar brand name.
Preston smoked, brooding, wishing that it were night so he could see alien constellations. He felt deflated. This place was too much like Earth. The gravity, the food and wine, the same plants even as far as he could tell. And the natives! Quiet, hygienic, dressed in leatherette and beads.
And yet was it so strange? A similar world would surely have a similar development. The chemical combination of aminoacids and DNA would combine to produce much the same sort of life. The local conditions would serve to mould it into familiar shapes. And the Kaltich wo
uld hardly bother with planets unsuitable to their kind of life.
This was a primitive world, he decided, much the same as Earth was a couple of hundred years ago. The Kaltich had discovered it, set up their Gates and engaged in trade. That was why so many things were familiar. They came from Earth. The Gate had come directly from Washington to here and so had the crates he had seen, the boxes of supplies.
Satisfied, he relaxed in his chair. The natives would only have a Stone Age culture. They couldn’t make anything worth having and so could only exchange their services for essential items. A vacation planet, he thought. Something like the schloss but much larger. A world wide camping place where the Kaltich can pretend to rough it and, perhaps, do a little hunting.
Preston crushed out the cigarlet and lit another. A group of deltas further down the veranda rose and walked toward the livery stable. They made no attempt to pay and no one seemed to bother. Why should they? thought Preston. Does a soldier pay for his food? That’s true wealth, he told himself, the ability to take whatever you want when you want it. If nothing else the Kaltich were incredibly wealthy. On planets like this money was something they simply didn’t bother to use.
But, on planets like this, he would never find the things for which he was searching.
He drew thoughtfully at his cigarlet, stiffening as a hand fell on his shoulder. He turned, looking upwards. The hand belonged to an alpha.
“Well,” he said, looking down at Preston. “This is a stroke of luck. Mind if I join you?”
Preston gestured to an empty chair. “Help yourself.”
“It’s not often a man meets one of his own class in a place like this,” said the alpha sitting down. “Name’s Maddule.”
“Tulan,” said Preston. “Jay Tulan.”
“Jay?” Maddox beamed. “That puts us both in the upper half. I’m a Dee myself.”
