Three Classic SF Novels: Plague Ship; Operation Terror; The Lani People

by Andre Norton, Murray Leinster, J. F. Bone

  Had he looked at her but once with that expression she would have come to him though fire barred the way. The Woman Eloise was a fool.

  Copper looked at him across the corner of the desk, the yellow hair, the bronze skin, firm chin, soft lips and long straight nose, the narrowed eyes, hooded beneath thick brows, scanning the papers in his lean-tendoned hands. His nearness was an ache in her body—yet he was far away.

  She thought of how his hands would feel upon her. He had touched her once, and that touch had burned like hot iron. For hours she had felt it. He looked up. Her heart choked her with its beating. She would die for him if he would but once run his fingers over her tingling skin, and stroke her hair.

  The naked emotion in Copper's face was readable enough, Kennon thought. One didn't need Sorovkin techniques to interpret what was in her mind. And it would have been amusing if it weren't so sad. For what she wanted, he couldn't give. Yet if she were human it would be easy. A hundred generations of Betan moral code said “never,” yet when he looked at her their voices faded. He was a man—a member of the ruling race. She was an animal—a beast—a humanoid—near human but not near enough. To like her was easy-but to love her was impossible. It would be bestiality. Yet his body, less discerning than his mind, responded to her nearness.

  He sighed. It was a pleasant unpleasantness, a mixed emotion he could not analyze. In a way it was poetry—the fierce, vaguely disquieting poetry of the sensual Santosian bards-the lyrics that sung of the joys of flesh. He had never really liked them, yet they filled him with a vague longing, an odd uneasiness—just the sort that filled him now. There was a deadly parallel here. He sighed.

  “Yes, sir? Do you want something?” Copper asked.

  “I could use a cup of coffee,” he said. “These reports are getting me down.” The banality amused him—sitting here thinking of Copper and talking about coffee. Banality was at once the curse and the saving grace of mankind. It kept men from the emotional peaks and valleys that could destroy them. He chuckled shakily. The only alternative would be to get rid of her—and he couldn't (or wouldn't?—the question intruded slyly) do that.

  Copper returned with a steaming cup which she set before him. Truly, this coffee was a man's drink. She had tried it once but the hot bitterness scalded her mouth and flooded her body with its heat. And she had felt so lightheaded. Not like herself at all. It wasn't a drink for Lani. Of that she was certain.

  Yet he enjoyed it. He looked at her and smiled. He was pleased with her. Perhaps—yet—she might find favor in his eyes. The hope was always there within her—a hope that was at once fear and prayer. And if she did—she would know what to do.

  Kennon looked up. Copper's face was convulsed with a bright mixture of hope and pain. Never, he swore, had he saw anything more beautiful or sad. Involuntarily he placed his hand upon her arm. She flinched, her muscles tensing under his finger tips. It was though his fingers carried a galvanic current that backlashed up his arm even as it stiffened hers.

  “What's the matter, Copper?” he asked softly.

  “Nothing, Doctor. I'm just upset."

  “Why?"

  There it was again, the calm friendly curiosity that was worse than a bath in ice water. Her heart sank. She shivered. She would never find her desire here. He was cold—cold-cold! He wouldn't see. He didn't care. All right—so that was how it had to be. But first she would tell him. Then he could do with her as he wished. “I hoped—for the past year that you would see me. That you would think of me not as a Lani, but as a beloved.” The words came faster now, tumbling over one another. “That you would desire me and take me to those worlds we cannot know unless you humans show us. I have hoped so much, but I suppose it's wrong-for you—you are so very human, and I—well, I'm not!” The last three words held all the sadness and the longing of mankind aspiring to be God.

  “My dear—my poor child,” Kennon murmured.

  She looked at him, but her eyes could not focus on his face, for his hands were on her shoulders and the nearness of him drove the breath from her body. From a distance she heard a hard tight voice that was her own. “Oh, sir—oh please, sir!"

  The hands withdrew, leaving emptiness—but her heartbeat slowed and the pink haze cleared and she could see his face.

  And with a surge of terror and triumph she realized what she saw! That hard bright look that encompassed and possessed her! The curved lips drawn over white, white teeth! The flared nostrils! The hungry demand upon his face that answered the demand in her heart! And she knew—at last-with a knowledge that turned her limbs to water, that she had found favor in his eyes!

  * * *

  CHAPTER XI.

  Mixed emotion! Ha! The author of that cliche didn't even know its meaning! Kennon strode furiously down the dusty road toward Station One trying to sublimate his inner conflict into action. It was useless, of course, for once he stopped moving the grim tug-of-war between training and desire would begin again, and no matter how it ended the result would be unsatisfactory. As long as he had been able to delude himself that he was fond of Copper the way a man is fond of some lesser species, it had been all right. But he knew now that he was fond of her as a man is of a woman—and it was hell! For no rationalization in the universe would allow him to define her as human. Copper was humanoid—something like human. And to live with her and love her would not be miscegenation, which was bad enough, but bestiality which was a thousand times worse.

  Although throughout most of the Brotherhood miscegenation was an unknown word, and even bestiality had become a loose definition on many worlds with humanoid populations, the words had definite meaning and moral force to a Betan. And—God help him—he was a Betan. A lifetime of training in a moral code that frowned upon mixed marriages and shrank appalled from even the thought of mixing species was nothing to bring face to face with the fact that he loved Copper.

  It was odd, Kennon reflected bitterly, that humans could do with animals what their customs and codes prohibited them from doing to themselves. For thousands of years-back to the very dawn of history when men had bred horses and asses to produce mules—men had been mixing species to produce useful hybrids. Yet a Betan who could hybridize plants or animals with complete equanimity shrank with horror from the thought of applying the same technique to himself.

  What was there about a human being that was so sacrosanct? He shook his head angrily. He didn't know. There was no answer. But the idea—the belief—was there, ingrained into his attitudes, a part of his outlook, built carefully block by block from infancy until it now towered into a mighty wall that barred him from doing what he wished to do.

  It would be an easier hurdle if he had been born anywhere except on Beta. In the rest of the Brotherhood, the color of a man's skin, the shape of his face, the quality and color of his hair and eyes made no difference. All men were brothers. But on Beta, where a variant-G sun had already caused genetic divergence, the brotherhood of man was a term that was merely given lip service. Betans were different and from birth they were taught to accept the difference and to live with it. Mixing of Betan stock with other human species, while not actually forbidden, was so encircled with conditioning that it was a rare Betan indeed who would risk self-opprobrium and the contempt of his fellows to mate with an outsider. And as for humanoids—Kennon shuddered. He couldn't break the attitudes of a lifetime. Yet he loved Copper.

  And she knew he did!

  And that was an even greater horror. He had fled from the office, from the glad light in her eyes, as a burned child flees fire. He needed time to think, time to plan. Yet his body and his surface thoughts wanted no plans or time. Living with a Lani wasn't frowned upon on Flora. Many of the staff did, nor did anyone seem to think less of them for doing so. Even Alexander himself had half-confessed to a more than platonic affection for a Lani called Susy.

  Yet this was no excuse, nor would it silence the cold still voice in his mind that kept repeating sodomite—sodomite—sodomite with a passionless infle
ction that was even more terrible than anger.

  The five kilometers to Station One disappeared unnoticed beneath his feet as he walked, and he looked up in surprise to see the white walls and red roofs of the station looming before him.

  “Good Lord! Doc! What's got into you?” the stationmaster said. “You look like you'd seen a ghost. And out in this sun without a helmet! Come inside, man, before you get sunstroke!"

  Kennon chuckled without humor. “Getting sunstroke is the least of my worries, Al,” he said, but he allowed Al Crothers to usher him inside.

  “It's odd that you showed up right now,” Al said, his dark face showing the curiosity that filled him. “I just had a call from Message Center not five minutes ago, telling me to have you call in if you showed up."

  Kennon sighed. “On this island you can't get away from the phone,” he said wryly. “O.K., where is it?"

  “You look pretty bushed, Doc. Maybe you'd better rest awhile."

  “And maybe it's an emergency,” Kennon interrupted. “And probably it is because the staff can handle routine matters—so maybe you'd better show me where you keep the phone."

  * * * *

  “One moment please,” the Message Center operator said. There were a few clicks in the background. “Here's your party,” she continued. “Go ahead, Doctor."

  “Kennon?” a nervous voice crackled from the receiver.

  “Yes?"

  “You're needed out on Otpen One."

  “Who is calling—and what's the rush?"

  “Douglas—Douglas Alexander. The Lani are dying! It's an emergency! Cousin Alex'll skin us alive if we let these Lani die!"

  Douglas! Kennon hadn't thought of him since the one time they had met in Alexandria. That was a year ago. It seemed much longer. Since the Boss-man had exiled his cousin to that bleak rock to the east of Flora there had been no word of him. And now—he laughed a sharp bark of humorless annoyance—Douglas couldn't have timed it better if he had tried!

  “All right,” Kennon said. “I'll come. What seems to be the trouble?"

  “They're sick."

  “That's obvious,” Kennon snapped. “Otherwise you wouldn't be calling. Can't you tell me any more than that?"

  “They're vomiting. They have diarrhea. Several have had fits."

  “Thanks,” Kennon said. “I'll be right out. Expect me in an hour."

  “So you're leaving?” Al asked as he cradled the phone.

  “That's a practitioner's life,” Kennon said. “Full of interruptions. Can I borrow your jeep?"

  “I'll drive you. Where do you want to go?"

  “To the hospital,” Kennon said. “I'll have to pick up my gear. It's an emergency all right."

  “You're a tough one,” Al said admiringly. “I'd hate to walk five kilos in this heat without a hat—and then go out on a call."

  Kennon shrugged. “It's not necessarily toughness. I believe in doing one job at a time—and my contract reads veterinary service, not personal problems. The job comes first and there's work to do."

  Copper wasn't in sight when Kennon came back to the hospital—a fact for which he was grateful. He packed quickly, threw his bags into the jeep, and took off with almost guilty haste. He'd contact the Hospital from the Otpens. Right now all he wanted was to put distance between himself and Copper. Absence might make the heart grow fonder, but at the moment propinquity was by far the more dangerous thing. He pointed the blunt nose of the jeep toward Mount Olympus, set the autopilot, opened the throttle, and relaxed as best he could as the little vehicle sped at top speed for the outer islands. A vague curiosity filled him. He'd never been on the Otpens. He wondered what they were like.

  * * * *

  Otpen One was a rocky tree-clad islet crowned with the stellate mass of a Class II Fortalice. But this one wasn't like Alexandria. It was fully manned and in service condition.

  “Airboat!” a voice crackled from the dashboard speaker of the jeep, “Identify yourself! You are being tracked."

  Kennon quickly flipped the IFF switch. “Dr. Kennon, from Flora,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir. You are expected and are clear to land. Bring your vehicle down in the marked area.” A section of the roof turned a garish yellow as Kennon circled the building. He brought the jeep in lightly, setting it carefully in the center of the area.

  “Leave your vehicle,” the speaker chattered. “If you are armed leave your weapon behind."

  “It's not my habit to carry a gun,” Kennon snapped.

  “Sorry, sir—regulations,” the speaker said. ‘"This is S.O.P."

  Kennon left the jeep and instantly felt the probing tingle of a search beam. He looked around curiously at the flat roof of the fortress with its domed turrets and ugly snouts of the main battery projectors pointing skyward. Beside him, the long metal doors of a missile launcher made a rectangular trace on the smooth surface of the roof. Behind him the central tower poked its gaunt ferromorph and durilium outline into the darkening sky bearing its crown of spiderweb radar antennae turning steadily on their gimbals covering a vast hemisphere from horizon to zenith with endless inspection.

  From the base of the tower a man emerged. He was tall, taller even than Kennon, and the muscles of his body showed through the tightness of his battle dress. His face was harsh, and in his hands he carried a Burkholtz magnum—the most powerful portable weapon mankind had yet devised.

  “You are Dr. Kennon?” the trooper asked.

  “I am."

  “Your I.D., please."

  Kennon handed it over and the big man scanned the card with practiced eyes. “Check,” he said. “Follow me, sir."

  “My bags,” Kennon said.

  “They'll be taken care of."

  Kennon shrugged and followed the man into the tower. A modern grav-shaft lowered them to the ground floor. They passed through a gloomy caricature of the Great Hall in Alexandria, through an iris, and down a long corridor lined with doors.

  A bell rang.

  “Back!” the trooper said. “Against the wall! Quick! Into the doorway!"

  “What's up?"

  “Another practice alert.” The trooper's voice was bored. “It gets so that you'd almost wish for a fight to relieve the monotony."

  A trooper and several Lani came down the corridor, running in disciplined formation. Steel clanged on steel as they turned the corner and moments later the whine of servos came faintly to their ears. From somewhere deep in the pile a rising crescendo of generators under full battle load sent out vibrations that could be sensed rather than heard. A klaxon squawked briefly. There was another clash of metal, and a harsh voice boomed through the corridors. “Fourteen seconds. Well done. Secure stations!"

  The trooper grinned. “That ties the record,” he said. “We can go now."

  The corridor ended abruptly at an iris flanked by two sentries. They conferred briefly with Kennon's guide, dilated the iris, and motioned for Kennon to enter. The pastel interior of the modern office was a shocking contrast to the gray ferromorph corridors outside.

  Douglas Alexander was standing behind the desk. He was much the same. His pudgy face was haggard with uncertainty and his eyes darted back and forth as his fingers caressed the knobby grip of a small Burkholtz jutting from a holster at his waist. There were new, unpleasant furrows between his eyes. He looked older and the indefinable air of cruelty was more pronounced. He had been frightened the last time Kennon had seen him, and he was frightened now.

  “I'm not sure whether I am glad to see you, Kennon,” he said uncertainly. “But I suppose I have to be."

  Kennon believed him.

  “How have you been?” Kennon asked.

  “Not too bad until this afternoon. Things have been going pretty well.” He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. “I suppose Cousin Alex will skin me for this, but there's nothing else I can do.” He licked his lips. “You've been here long enough—and you'll have to know eventually.” He fidgeted and finally sat down behind the desk. �
�We have trouble. Half the Lani were stricken about four hours ago. It was sudden. No warning at all. And if they die—” his voice trailed off.

  “Well—what are we waiting for? Get someone to bring my bags down here and we'll look them over."

  “Do you have to?—Can't you prescribe something?"

  “How? I haven't examined the patients."

  “I can tell you what's wrong."

  Kennon smiled. “I hardly think that's the way to do it. Even though your description might be accurate, you still might miss something of critical importance."

  Douglas sighed. “I thought that's what you'd say,” he said. “Oh—very well—you might as well see what we have out here."

  “You can't possibly believe that I don't already know,” Kennon said. “You have male Lani."

  Douglas looked at him, his face blank with surprise. “But—how did you know? No one on the main island does except the Family. And we never talk about it. Did Eloise tell you? I noticed she was struck with you the day you came, and the Lani who have come out here since have been talking about you two. Did she do it?"

  Kennon shook his head. “She never said a word."

  “Then how—"

  “I'm not stupid,” Kennon said. “That story you've spread about artificial fertilization has more holes in it than a sieve. That technique has been investigated a thousand times. And it has never worked past the first generation. If you had been using it, the Lani would long ago have been extinct. Haploids don't reproduce, and the only way the diploid number of chromosomes can be kept is to replace those lost by maturation division of the ovum. You might be able to keep the diploid number by using immature ova, but the fertilization technique would be far more complex than the simple uterine injections you use at Hillside Station."

  Douglas looked at him blankly.

  “Besides,” Kennon added, “I have a microscope. I checked your so-called fertilizing solution. I found spermatozoa, and spermatozoa only come from males. What's more, the males have to be the same species as the females or fertilization will not take place. So there must be male Lani. Nothing else fits. You've been using artificial insemination on the main-island Lani. And from the way this place is guarded, it's obvious that here is your stud farm."