Closed System

by Zach Hughes

  "The problem is that this is a very young planet,and still in upheaval," O'Shields said. "You locate a likely diamond pipe, start digging, and there's aquake and you lose all the work you've done. A fewdiamonds have been found near the surface, likethe other stones. If there are any big ones, we'llhave to find a way to dig through earthquakes toget to them."

  "Still, you have a few here," Pat said.

  "Capcor is the government monopoly," O'Shieldssaid. "We own all the diamondiferous areas onthis planet."

  Curious, Pat thought, as he tallied up all theoffers. Either the old man was lying or there was adiamond producing pipe somewhere unknown toCapcor.

  Capcor's bid, written in the neat, precise hand ofT. O'Shields, listed sizes and weights, so that itwasn't necessary for Pat to tabulate. He worked onall the other offers and grinned when he saw thatby splitting the cargo into small lots, giving someof the independent traders a share, he'd bestO'Shields offer by a few carats, even if some of thestones were of lesser quality. He wasn't greedy.For some reason emeralds and rubies were com­mon on most UP planets. He wasn't going to be­ come independently wealthy on this deal. It wouldbe a nice bonus, as he'd hoped, but that was all.Too many rubies and emeralds, beautiful as theywere.

  But diamonds. The rarest. The king of stones.

  Pat had a sudden flash of insight. T. O'Shieldsreminded him of his department head back atXanthos U. That clinched it for him.

  "All right, gentlemen," he called out. "I've ac­cepted the following offers. By lot number here weare. . . ."

  Before Pat could finish reading off the names,O'Shields pushed his way through the grinning, back-slapping independents. "Dammit," O'Shieldssputtered. "You can call for a second round ofbidding and I'll top these boonie rats."

  "Where I come from," Pat said, meeting O'Shield'sgaze with a smile, "an honest trader makes his top offer first time around." That was an outright lie, for all traders lived to haggle, but he didn't care if O'Shields knew it was a lie.

  The knight in shining armor, soaring around the galaxy rooting for the underdog.

  Pat accepted John Hook's official-sounding invi­tation to have lunch. The restaurant windows over­looked the not very scenic space port. The restaurantwas a popular place, crowded with executive types in business dress, a few of the independent traders in their worn outdoor clothing, working-class peo­ple in neat blue uniforms.

  Taratwo's women seemed to average on theskinny side, with the predominant hair coloringsbeing shades of red and black. The men were alsouniformly spare, solemn, mostly unsmiling, butthen there didn't seem to be much to smile abouton Tara, planet of ashes, smoke, half-light. But thegreen salad was tangy. the dressing good sourcream, the meat slightly tough but well flavored.

  Hook's conversation between bites was banal.He hoped that the morning's trading had beenprofitable. Pat assured him that it had been. Hookmentioned that there was no export tax on gem-stones. Pat said that was good news indeed. With­out a government bite into his profits he just mightbe able to pay for a complete refitting of theSkim­mer,make her more comfortable, put in a new storage capsule in the library, decontaminate thecloud chambers in the cranky computer.

  Pat thought only once that afternoon of the oldman. He tended to believe T. O'Shields, especially when he asked Hook about diamonds and was toldthat Taratwo wasn't a good diamond planet. The chances of Murphy's having a king-size diamondseemed slim. Maybe the old man was a victim oftoo many nights alone in Taratwo's dismal outback,a little mixed up in the head.

  Pat asked Hook a few questions about local con­ditions, and as long as his curiosity did not touchon politics, personal freedom, or the quality oflife-style he was answered. Hook's response to asensitive question was to cough, look away, andchange the subject immediately.

  Pat had finished his meal and was having a taste of a very good local brandy. "Excellent," he said."Very good."

  "Grapes like a volcanic soil," Hook said.

  "Make a good export, this."

  Hook laughed. "First we have to make enoughfor local consumption."

  The buzz of conversation died around them. Thesudden silence was a silence of attention. Pat lookedup, saw that all eyes were directed to the win­dows. A sleek, modern atmospace yacht was waftingdown onto the largest space-port pad.

  "The Man," someone at a nearby table said.

  "Not likely," someone else said.

  "We'll know soon enough."

  "More likely the Man's redheaded friend."

  "The Man's whore, you mean."

  John Hook shifted nervously. He cast a glaretoward the voice, then looked quickly away. Thevoices died into whispers. Then there was silencethroughout the dining room as the port of thesleek yacht hissed open and a female figure dressedin purple skirts emerged and walked gracefully to a luxurious ground

  car. "Definitely not the Man," someone said, andthere was a burst of relieved, nervous laughter. "The Leader's yacht?" Pat asked Hook. "But not Himself. He values his privacy. He's seldom seen in public these days." He pushed him­self

  away from the table. "My duty calls. I hope that you enjoyed your lunch." "I did," Pat said. "Should you wish to visit our city I have leftword at the terminal to arrange transport for you,"Hook said. "Thanks, but I think I'll go back aboard. I haven'tyet adjusted to Taratwo time." The street outside the restaurant was cordonedoff by lines of neatly uniformed men, tall, strong-looking

  men armed with the latest in sidearms. Acaravan of big ground cars came blasting sud­denly around the corner of the building, the leadvehicle wailing a warning. A late-model Zede exec­utive limousine was sandwiched in between twoarmored police cars. As it swept past, Pat got justa glimpse of a pale, feminine face framed by fieryred hair. The Man's redheaded friend? The Man'swhore?

  It was none of his affair. All he wanted fromTaratwo now was a passenger and a clear blinkroute for

  space. Pat wasn't really sleepy, but he had no desire to go into the city. He stretched his legs by walkingtoward the passenger terminal. Inside there was dusty luxury in leather seats and wide spaces, allempty. Only one counter was manned. Pat caughtthe eye of the stiff-faced young man there andnodded.

  "May I help you, sir?" the young man asked. "No, no.I'mjust having a bit of a walk." "Not much to see around here, sir. If you'd liketo go into the city, Captain Hook has arranged avehicle

  for you."

  "Very kind of him," Pat said. "But I think I'lljust have a walk and go back aboard." He turnedaway and started out of the terminal area. "Sir," the man behind the counter said, "it looksas if we're in for an ashfall this afternoon. I seethat you

  don't have a breather. If you'll permit me. . ." He came out from behind the counter with alightweight

  respirator unit in his hands. "I think I can make it to the ship without that,"Pat said, although the sky had darkened consider­ably in the short time since he'd left the restaurant.

  "If you're not familiar with the effects of anashfall you've got an unpleasant surprise coming." Pat decided to humor the man, stood still whilethe mask was fitted to his face with adjustablestraps. He reached for his pocket. "Oh, no, sir," the young man said. "No charge.All visitors are furnished with breathers throughthe

  generosity of Brenden."

  Brenden was the Man, the ruler.

  "Tell Brenden when you see him that I thank him," Pat said.

  A brief smile crossed the young man's stiff face."That's not likely," he said. "But you're welcometo the breather. It's about the only thing that's free on this planet. Just leave it with the customs manwho checks you off."

  Before he reached theSkimmer he was glad he'dtaken the mask. Ash was drifting in little windrowson the surface of the port, jetting up around hisfeet at each step. The decontaminator in the airlockwhined and puffed getting rid of the ash whichclung to his clothing and his shoes.

  John Hook arrived late in the afternoon, escortedby four armed guards. By then the ashfall was sodense that although theSkimmer's instrumentswarned him of the approach of
the vehicle, hedidn't see it until it was within a hundred feet ofthe ship. The decontaminator had to puff and whineagain, and then his gemstones were aboard. Hookwatched in silence as he checked the contents ofthe small cases.

  Pat offered coffee. "I wish I had time, CaptainHowe," Hook said. He turned to the armed guardswho were standing by in the airlock, made a mo­tion of dismissal. When the guards were outside,the lock closed. Hook held out his hand. "Have apleasant trip, Captain." He leaned close. "Fivea.m.," he whispered. Pat nodded. Paranoia was catching. Unless Taratwo had techs of incredible cleverness there wasn't a chance of being spied onaboardSkimmer, because Pat had spent a lot ofmoney to make the ship impervious to any pene­tration.

  Early evening seemed to be the time for earth tremors. A shock hit the space port just after darkness gave additional impenetrability to the ashfall. Pat could not even see the lights of the cus­toms building.

  A piece of nut pie made from an ancient recipeput Pat over his allowance of carbohydrates forthe day, and he tried to work it off in the exercisegym. What the heck. A man had to celebrate nowand then. He quit the exercise early, before he'deven worked up a sweat, and drew another ancientrecipe from the nutrition servo, a concoction of gin, vermouth, and a touch of bitters. Restless,impatient, not at all sleepy, he punched up thefilm list. It was going to be a boring trip home, because there wasn't a film he hadn't seen at leasttwice.

  Suddenly he had a mind picture of the redheadedZedeian actress, and, remembering his vivid andrather erotic dream about her, punched up thefilm and settled back.

  Corinne Tower was, he decided, as he ignoredaction and dialogue, the most beautiful womanhe'd ever seen. Her hair was a blazing fall of lus­trous glory when she let it hang to shoulder length.Her medium-heavy eyebrows merely drew atten­tion to her emerald-green eyes.

  Curious thing, the mind. Were Corinne Tower'semerald-green eyes the reason why he'd almost ignored Taratwo's fine rubies in favor of the emer­alds? Had the Zedeian beauty been there, lurkingin his subconscious with those glowing green eyestelling him, buy emeralds, buy emeralds?

  It was going to be a long night. He didn't un­dress fully to get into bed, but lay there with hishands under his head watching the holographicimage, dozed with Corinne Tower dominating hismind. She was a touchingly beautiful girl, givingthe impression of old-fashioned vulnerability, mostprobably as the result of the role she was playingin the film.

  He awoke to the persistent buzzing of an alarm, came into full awareness instantly, leaped to checkthe telltale on the panel as his adrenal glandspumped. His heartbeat decreased slowly when herealized that he was not, after all, in space, where an alarm can mean quite a number of things, notmany of them pleasant. He was still on solid groundon glorious Taratwo, and the alarm had been from an outside motion detector. He activated the night-vision scanners. The ashfall had lessened. Therewas at least three inches of ash drifted on the tarmac, and it showed tracks. The old miner, Mur­phy, was standing in front of the main hatch withthat same leather bag in his hand. Pat glanced athis watch. Four a.m. He'd slept a long time. Hispassenger was due in an hour. He'd have to makeMurphy's visit a short one. He turned on the out­side speaker.

  "I'll be with you in a minute, Murphy," he said.

  He pulled on shirt and jacket, turned off the holoprojector, and was on his way to the controlbridge to open the hatch when another alarmbuzzed. Something big was moving swiftly towardtheSkimmer through the drifting ash. The camerasshowed nothing, but caution told him to delayopening the hatch. He checked the screens, look­ing for Murphy. The old man was no longer stand­ing before the hatch, but his footprints were clearlyvisible in the ash.

  A blinding light caused all active cameras to show white before they could close aperture.Skimmerwas surrounded by four armored vehi­cles. He flipped the armament ready switch andreached for the fire-control helmet just as a man burst into view, running from the shelterof Skim­mer'sstern into the glare of the spotlights from thefour vehicles. The running man took only a few strides before projectile weapons spat from two of the ground cars and then two more faltering, wilt­ing steps before falling limply into the ash, send­ing up a small cloud.

  Pat had the four vehicles targeted. One directedthought and they'd be smashed into junk. TheSkim­mer'sshield was up. It caused the hair on the headof a uniformed policeman to stand straight up ashe walked to the hatch and began to pound on thehull with the butt of a weapon.

  "Hull contact," the computer said aloud.

  "I know, I know," Pat said.

  He deliberately waited a few seconds, then openedthe outside speakers. "Yeah? Who is it?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound sleepy.

  "Security police, captain. There has been a slightdisturbance. Please open your hatch."

  Pat checked the targeting of the laser beams on the four vehicles, adjusted the fire-control helmet, walked slowly back, and opened the hatch. The security man was tall, well-built. He had bolsteredhis weapon.

  "Sorry to disturb you, sir," he said. "Port Secur­ity detected a prowler near your ship." He wastrying to see past Pat. There wasn't much to see,just a bulkhead. Pat wasn't about to invitehim in."Were you expecting company, sir?"

  Pat didn't lie. "Man, it's the middle of the night."He looked at his watch, yawned, brushed his hand through his mussed hair. The passenger was duein less than an hour and Murphy was dead, killedjust for being there near theSkimmer. What thehell was going on? He hoped that Hook knew whathe was doing. The policeman who stood in theairlock with him looked capable. He'd certainlyarrived in a hurry to kill the old man.

  "Your detectors did not warn you of a prowler?"the security man asked.

  "Well, I didn't have them on," Pat lied. "Beinghere on a civilized planet . . ."

  The policeman's eyes did not smile with his lips. "Well, sir, I think we'd better take a look around.

  Taratwo is an orderly, peaceful planet, but therehas been some resentment growing over the UP's

  high-handed actions."

  This was the first Pat had heard of that. NeitherX&A nor Control had indicated any anti-UP feel­ing on Taratwo.

  "I'll join you," Pat said, acting as if he automati­cally assumed that the security man meant to take a look aroundoutside the ship.

  "Do you always wear your fire-control helmet?"the security man asked.

  Pat looked him dead in the eyes. "Only whenarmed vehicles start shooting men around my ship,"he said.

  "I assume you have your laser beams aimed atmy vehicles."

  "Too close to the ship to use explosives," Patsaid.

  "You put it on the line, don't you, Captain?"

  "When necessary," Pat said.

  "There will be no problem."

  The ashfall was finer, more pervasive in creep­ing into any opening in clothing. It sifted down hisneck, crawled up his sleeves. He led the securityman on a circuit ofSkimmer. The officer knew hisstuff; he ran his gloved hands into crevices, intothe tubes of the flux drivers. Pat examined theportside thrusters, and his heart leaped as his handcontacted something soft inside a tube. He squeezed,pushed, recognized the feel of the old man's small leather bag. He could not have explained why heremained silent about the bag.

  Murphy's body was being casually loaded ontoone of the ground vehicles. A young security manwalked

  up, steps puffing ash, saluted. "There is noidentification on the body, sir."

  "Humm," the officer said. He looked at Pat, hiseyes squinted in the glare of the white spotlights."During your trading session this morning did any­one say anything unusual to you, sir? Perhaps askfor transportation off the planet?"

  "No, no," Pat said thoughtfully.

  "Would you mind taking a look at the body,sir?"

  "Any particular reason?"

  "To see if you know the man."

  "I'll do that," Pat said.

  He followed the officer to the ground vehicle.The old man was heaped in a sad, slack pile on the floorboards. The officer used one gloved hand to flip Murphy onto his back an
d expose his face.

  "I think he was one of the traders," Pat said,bending over, thinking, hell, Murphy, oh, hell. "Yes,I'msure of it. I even remember his name. He had the first number, bought a case of stress relievers.Name's Murphy. He had some very good emeraldsand rubies."

  "Why do you suppose he approached your shipin the dead of night?" the officer asked.

  "I have no idea," Pat said. "I've never been herebefore. I know no one on this planet except Cap­tain John Hook, of customs, whom I met aboutthirty-six hours ago on landing. I saw this man in the customs shed during trading. I have his signa­ture on a bill of sale for his gemstones. That's thesum total of my knowledge."

  There was a moment of strained silence. Thenthe security officer made a slight bow. "On behalfof my government, sir, I hope you will forgive thisbother."

  "No big deal," Pat said. But in the back of hismind there was, surprisingly, a little prayer form­ing for the old man. "But do you always shoot onsight?"

  "When a man is in a restricted area, and he runsfrom the police, he is taking his chances." Thesecurity man gave Pat a sloppy salute. "Well, goodnight, sir. I understand you're leaving at dawn."

  "Right."

  "Have a pleasant trip. I hope that you won't letthis incident keep you from making a return tripto our planet soon."

  "The trading is good," Pat said.

  He closed the airlock, waited for decontamina­tion. A suspicion hit him. The hatch had been openall the time he was out there with the securityman. Had the whole incident been staged in orderto steal his cargo of gems? He ran to the cargoarea, opened one small case after the other. All thegems were there.

  He sat in the command seat, a cup of coffeesteaming in his hand. Well, Pat, he told himself.Thinking time. The old man had wanted off theplanet very badly, badly enough to offer him halfof a fabulous diamond which might or might nothave existed. Now the old man was dead. May he rest in peace. And there was a small bag thrust upinto the tube of a portside flux thruster. Suddenlyhis hands shook. What if it was a bomb? What ifMurphy had fooled hell out of him, acting the part of the underdog to get his sympathy in order to get close enough to theSkimmer to blow her open andget back the gems?