Her breath gushed out of her in a sound of rage, and she tore at the wounds again. Then, when he did nothing but look at her coldly, she fled.
Eli Roki, born to the nobility of Coph, dedicated to the service of the Sixty-Star Cluster, suddenly found himself something of an outcast. As he strode down the corridor away from Beth's office, he seemed to be walking into a thickening fog of desolation. He had no home now; for he had abdicated his hereditary rights on Coph in order to accept a commission with the SSC Patrol. That, too, was gone; and with it his career.
He had known from the moment he pressed the firing stud to blast the mercy freighter that unless the freighter proved to be a smuggler, his career would be forfeit. He was still morally certain that he had made no mistake. Had the freighter been carrying any other cargo, he would have been disciplined for not blasting it. And, if they had had nothing to hide, they would have stopped for inspection. Somewhere among Sol's planets lay the answer to the question—"What else was aboard besides the cargo of mercy?"
Roki shivered and stiffened his shoulders as he rode homeward in a heliocab. If the answer to the question were "Nothing," then according to the code of his planet, there was only one course left to follow. "The Sword of Apology" it was called.
He waited in his quarters for the colonel to fulfill his promise. On the following day, Beth called.
"I've found a Dalethian ship, Roki. Privately owned. Pilot's willing to fly you out of the Cluster. It's going as an observation mission—gather data on the Sol System. The commissioners vetoed the idea of sending a diplomatic delegation until we try to contact Solarians by high-C radio."
"When do I leave?"
"Be at the spaceport tonight. And good luck, son. I'm sorry all this happened, and I hope—"
"Yeah, thanks."
"Well—"
"Well?"
The colonel grunted and hung up. Ex-Commander Roki gathered up his uniforms and went looking for a pawn shop. "Hock 'em, or sell 'em?" asked a bald man behind the counter. Then he peered more closely at Roki's face, and paused to glance at a picture on the front page of the paper. "Oh," he grunted, "you. You wanta sell 'em." With a slight sneer, he pulled two bills from his pocket and slapped them on the counter with a contemptuous take-it-or-leave-it stare. The clothing was worth at least twice as much. Roki took it after a moment's hesitation. The money just matched the price tag on a sleek, snub-nosed Multin automatic that lay in the display case.
"And three hundred rounds of ammunition," he said quietly as he pocketed the weapon.
The dealer sniffed. "It only takes one shot, bud—for what you need to do."
Roki thanked him for the advice and took his three hundred rounds.
He arrived at the spaceport before his pilot, and went out to inspect the small Dalethian freighter that would bear him to the rim of the galaxy. His face clouded as he saw the pitted hull and the glaze of fusion around the lips of the jet tubes. Some of the ground personnel had left a Geiger hanging on the stern, to warn wanderers to keep away. Its dial indicator was fluttering in the red. He carried it into the ship. The needle dropped to a safe reading in the control cabin, but there were dangerous spots in the reactor room. Angrily he went to look over the controls.
His irritation grew. The ship—atly named the Idiot—was of ancient vintage, without the standard warning systems or safety devices, and with no armament other than its ion guns. The fifth dial of its position-indicator was calibrated only to one hundred thousand C's, and was redlined at ninety-thousand. A modern serviceship, on the other hand, could have penetrated to a segment of five-space where light's velocity was constant at one hundred fifty thousand C's and could reach Sol in two months. The Idiot would need five or six, if it could make the trip at all. Roki doubted it. Under normal circumstances, he would hesitate to use the vessel even within the volume of the Sixty-Star Cluster.
He thought of protesting to Beth, but realized that the colonel had fulfilled his promise, and would do nothing more. Grumbling, he stowed his gear in the cargo hold, and settled down in the control room to doze in wait for the pilot.
A sharp whack across the soles of his boots brought him painfully awake. "Get your feet off the controls!" snapped an angry voice.
Roki winced and blinked at a narrow frowning face with a cigar clenched in its teeth. "And get out of that chair!" the face growled around its cigar.
His feet stung with pain. He hissed a snarl and bounded to his feet; grabbing a handful of the intruder's shirt-front, he aimed a punch at the cigar—then stayed the fist in midair. Something felt wrong about the shirt. Aghast, he realized there was a woman inside it. He let go and reddened. "I . . . I thought you were the pilot."
She eyed him contemptuously as she tucked in her shirt. "I am, Doc." She tossed her hat on the navigation desk, revealing a sloe-cropped head of dark hair. She removed the cigar from her face, neatly pinched out the fire, and filed the butt in the pocket of her dungarees for a rainy day. She had a nice mouth, with the cigar gone, but it was tight with anger.
"Stay out of my seat," she told him crisply, "and out of my hair. Let's get that straight before we start."
"This . . . this is your tub?" he gasped.
She stalked to a panel and began punching settings into the courser. "That's right. I'm Daleth Shipping Incorporated. Any comments?"
"You expect this wreck to make it to Sol?" he growled.
She snapped him a sharp, green-eyed glance. "Well listen to the free ride! Make your complaints to the colonel, fellow. I don't expect anything, except my pay. I'm willing to chance it. Why shouldn't you?"
"The existence of a fool is not necessarily a proof of the existence of two fools," he said sourly.
"If you don't like it, go elsewhere." She straightened and swept him a clinical glance. "But as I understand it, you can't be too particular."
He frowned. "Are you planning to make that your business?"
"Uh—uh! You're nothing to me, fellow. I don't care who I haul, as long as it's legal. Now do you want a ride, or don't you?"
He nodded curtly and stalked back to find quarters. "Stay outa my cabin," she bellowed after him.
Roki grunted disgustedly. The pilot was typical of Daleth civilization. It was still a rough, uncouth planet with a thinly scattered population, a wild frontier, and growing pains. The girl was the product of a wildly expanding tough-fisted culture with little respect for authority. It occurred to him immediately that she might be thinking of selling him to the Solarian officials—as the man who blasted the mercy ship.
"Prepare to lift," came the voice of the intercom. "Two minutes before blast-off."
Roki suppressed an urge to scramble out of the ship and call the whole thing off. The rockets belched, coughed, and then hissed faintly, idling in wait for a command. Roki stretched out on his bunk, for some of these older ships were rather rough on blast-off. The hiss became a thunder, and the Idiot moved skyward—first slowly, then with a spurt of speed. When it cleared the atmosphere, there was a sudden lurch as it shed the now empty booster burners. There was a moment of dead silence, as the ship hovered without power. Then the faint shriek of the ion streams came to his ears—as the ion drive became useful in the vacuum of space. He glanced out the port to watch the faint streak of luminescence focus into a slender needle of high-speed particles, pushing the Idiot ever higher in a rush of acceleration.
He punched the intercom button. "Not bad, for a Dalethian," he called admiringly.
"Keep your opinions to yourself," growled Daleth Incorporated.
The penetration to higher C-levels came without subjective sensation. Roki knew it was happening when the purr from the reactor room went deep-throated and when the cabin lights went dimmer. He stared calmly out the port, for the phenomenon of penetration never ceased to thrill him.
The transition to high-C began as a blue-shift in the starlight. Distant, dull-red stars came slowly brighter, whiter—until they burned like myriad welding arcs in the black vault.
They were not identical with the stars of the home continuum, but rather, projections of the same star-masses at higher C-levels of five-space, where the velocity of light was gradually increasing as the Idiot climbed higher in the C-component.
At last he had to close the port, for the starlight was becoming unbearable as its wave-length moved into the ultra-violet and the X-ray bands. He watched on a fluorescent viewing screen. The projective star-masses were flaring into supernovae, and the changing continuums seemed to be collapsing toward the ship in the blue-shift of the cosmos. As the radiant energy increased, the cabin became warmer, and the pilot set up a partial radiation screen.
At last the penetration stopped. Roki punched the intercom again. "What level are we on, Daleth?"
"Ninety thousand," she replied curtly.
Roki made a wry mouth. She had pushed it up to the red line without a blink. It was O.K.—if the radiation screens held out. If they failed to hold it, the ship would be blistered into a drifting dust cloud.
"Want me to navigate for you?" he called.
"I'm capable of handling my own ship," she barked.
"I'm aware of that. But I have nothing else to do. You might as well put me to work."
She paused, then softened a little. "O.K., come on forward."
She swung around in her chair as he entered the cabin, and for the first time he noticed that, despite the close-cropped hair and the dungarees and the cigar-smoking, she was quite a handsome girl—handsome, proud, and highly capable. Daleth, the frontier planet, bred a healthy if somewhat unscrupulous species.
"The C-maps are in that case," she said, jerking her thumb toward a filing cabinet. "Work out a course for maximum radiant thrust."
Roki frowned. "Why not a least-time course?"
She shook her head. "My reactors aren't too efficient. We need all the boost we can get from external energy. Otherwise we'll have to dive back down for fuel."
Worse and worse!—Roki thought as he dragged out the C-maps. Flying this boat to Sol would have been a feat of daring two centuries ago. Now, in an age of finer ships, it was a feat of idiocy.
Half an hour later, he handed her a course plan that would allow the Idiot to derive about half of its thrust from the variations in radiation pressure from the roaring inferno of the high-level cosmos. She looked it over without change of expression, then glanced at him curiously, after noting the time.
"You're pretty quick," she said.
"Thank you."
"You're hardly stupid. Why did you pull such a stupid boner?"
Roki stiffened. "I thought you planned to regard that as none of your business."
She shrugged and began punching course-settings into the courser. "Sorry, I forgot."
Still angry, he said, "I don't regard it as a boner. I'd do it again."
She shrugged again and pretended a lack of interest. "Space-smuggling could be the death of the galaxy," he went on. "That's been proven. A billion people once died on Tau II because somebody smuggled in a load of non-Tauian animals—for house pets. I did only what history has proven best."
"I'm trying to mind my own business," she growled, eyeing him sourly.
Roki fell silent and watched her reshape the radiation screen to catch a maximum of force from the flare of energy that blazed behind them. Roki was not sure that he wanted her to mind her own business. They would have to bear each other's presence for several months, and it would be nice to know how things stood.
"So you think it was a stupid boner," he continued at last. "So does everyone else. It hasn't been very pleasant."
She snorted scornfully as she worked. "Where I come from, we don't condemn fools. We don't need to. They just don't live very long, not on Daleth."
"And I am a fool, by your code?"
"How should I know? If you live to a ripe old age and get what you want, you probably aren't a fool."
And that, thought Roki, was the Dalethian golden rule. If the universe lets you live, then you're doing all right. And there was truth in it, perhaps. Man was born with only one right—the right to a chance at proving his fitness. And that right was the foundation of every culture, even though most civilized worlds tried to define "fitness" in terms of cultural values. Where life was rough, it was rated in terms of survival.
"I really don't mind talking about it," he said with some embarrassment. "I have nothing to hide."
"That's nice."
"Do you have a name—other than your firm name?"
"As far as you're concerned, I'm Daleth Incorporated." She gave him a suspicious look that lingered a while and became contemplative. "There's only one thing I'm curious about—why are you going to Sol?"
He smiled wryly. "If I told a Dalethian that, she would indeed think me a fool."
Slowly the girl nodded. "I see. I know of Cophian ethics. If an officer's blunder results in someone's death, he either proves that it was not a blunder or he cuts his throat—ceremonially, I believe. Will you do that?"
Roki shrugged. He had been away from Coph a long time. He didn't know.
"A stupid custom," she said.
"It manages to drain off the fools, doesn't it? It's better than having society try and execute them forcibly for their crimes. On Coph, a man doesn't need to be afraid of society. He needs only to be afraid of his own weakness. Society's function is to protect individuals against unfortunate accidents, but not against their own blunders. And when a man blunders, Coph simply excludes him from the protectorate. As an outcast, he sacrifices himself. It's not too bad a system."
"You can have it."
"Dalethian?"
"Yeah?"
"You have no personal anger against what I did?"
She frowned at him contemptuously. "Uh-uh! I judge no one. I judge no one unless I'm personally involved. Why are you worried about what others think?"
"In our more highly developed society," he said stiffly, "a man inevitably grows a set of thinking-habits called 'conscience.' "
"Oh—yeah." Her dull tone indicated a complete lack of interest.
Again Roki wondered if she would think of making a quick bit of cash by informing Solarian officials of his identity. He began a mental search for a plan to avoid such possible treachery.
They ate and slept by the ship's clock. On the tenth day, Roki noticed a deviation in the readings of the radiation-screen instruments. The shape of the screen shell was gradually trying to drift toward minimum torsion, and assume a spherical shape. He pointed it out to Daleth, and she quickly made the necessary readjustments. But the output of the reactors crept a notch higher as a result of the added drain. Roki wore an apprehensive frown as the flight progressed.
Two days later, the screen began creeping again. Once more the additional power was applied. And the reactor output needle hung in the yellow band of warning. The field-generators were groaning and shivering with threatening overload. Roki worked furiously to locate the trouble, and at last he found it. He returned to the control cabin in a cold fury.
"Did you have this ship pre-flighted before blast-off?" he demanded.
Her mouth fluttered with amusement as she watched his anger. "Certainly, commander."
He flushed at the worthless title. "May I see the papers?"
For a moment she hesitated, then fumbled in her pocket and displayed a folded pink paper.
"Pink!" he roared. "You had no business taking off!" Haughtily, she read him the first line of the pre-flight report. " 'Base personnel disclaim any responsibility for accidents resulting from flight of Daleth Ship—' It doesn't say I can't take off."
"I'll see you banned from space!" he growled. She gave him a look that reminded him of his current status. It was a tolerant, amused stare. "What's wrong, commander?"
"The synchronizers are out, that's all," he fumed. "Screen's getting farther and farther from resonance."
"So?"
"So the overload'll get worse, and the screen'll break down. So you'll have to drop back out of the C-component an
d get it repaired."
She shook her head. "We'll chance it like it is. I've always wanted to find out how much overload the reactor'll take."
Roki choked. There wasn't a chance of making it. "Are you a graduate space engineer?" he asked.
"No."
"Then you'd better take one's advice."
"Yours?"
"Yes."
"No! We're going on."
"Suppose I refuse to let you?"
She whirled quickly, eyes flashing. "I'm in command of my ship. I'm also armed. I suggest you return to your quarters, passenger."
Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire Page 26
