The Murray Leinster Megapack

by Murray Leinster

  The bearded man said humbly:

  “I have waited until you said all was well. Will you come with us?”

  “No-o-o,” said Hoddan. He yawned again. “I’ve got my work here. There’s an…obligation I have to meet.”

  “It must be very admirable work,” said the old man wistfully. “I wish we had some young men like you among us.”

  “You have,” said Hoddan. “They will be giving you trouble presently.”

  The old man shook his head, looking at Hoddan very affectionately indeed.

  “We will deliver your letters,” he said warmly. “First to Krim, and then to Walden. Then we will go on and let down your letter and gift to your grandfather on Zan. Then we will go on toward Thetis. Our mechanics will work at building machines while we are in overdrive. But also they will build new tool shops and train new mechanics, so that every so often we will need to come out of overdrive to transfer the tools and the men to new ships.”

  Hoddan nodded exhaustedly. This was right.

  “So,” said the old man contentedly, “we will simply make those transfers in orbit about the planets for which we have your letters. But you will pardon us if we only let down your letters, and do not visit those planets? We have prejudices—”

  “Perfectly satisfactory,” said Hoddan. “So I’ll—”

  “The mechanics you have trained,” said the old man proudly, “have made a little ship ready for you. It is not much larger than your spaceboat, but it is fit for travel between suns, which will be convenient for your work. I hope you will accept it. There is even a tiny tool shop on it!”

  Hoddan would have been more touched if he hadn’t known about it. But one of the men entrusted with the job had harassedly asked him for advice. He knew what he was getting. It was the space yacht he’d used before, refurbished and fitted with everything the emigrants could provide.

  He affected great surprise and expressed unfeigned appreciation. Barely an hour later he transferred to it with the spaceboat in tow. He watched the emigrant fleet swing out to emptiness and resume its valiant journey. But it was not a hopeless journey, now. In fact, the colony on Thetis ought to start out better-equipped than most settled planets.

  And he went to sleep. He’d nothing urgent to do, except allow a certain amount of time to pass before he did anything. He was exhausted. He slept the clock around, and waked and ate sluggishly, and went back to sleep again. On the whole, the cosmos did not notice the difference. Stars flamed in emptiness, and planets rotated sedately on their axes. Comets flung out gossamer veils or retracted them, and space liners went about upon their lawful occasions. And lovers swore by stars and moons—often quite different stars and moons—and various things happened which had nothing to do with Hoddan.

  But when he waked again he was rested, and he reviewed all his actions and his situation. It appeared that matters promised fairly well on the emigrant fleet now gone forever. They would remember Hoddan with affection for a year or so, and dimly after that. But settling a new world would be enthralling and important work. Nobody’d think of him at all, after a certain length of time. But he had to think of an obligation he’d assumed on their account.

  He considered his own affairs. He’d told Fani he was going to marry Nedda. The way things looked, that was no longer so probable. Of course, in a year or two, or a few years, he might be out from under the obligations he now considered due. In time even the Waldenian government would realize that deathrays don’t exist, and a lawyer might be able to clear things for his return to Walden. But—Nedda was a nice girl.

  He frowned. That was it. She was a remarkably nice girl. But Hoddan suddenly doubted if she were a delightful one. He found himself questioning that she was exactly and perfectly what his long-cherished ambitions described. He tried to imagine spending his declining years with Nedda. He couldn’t quite picture it as exciting. She did tend to be a little insipid—

  * * * *

  Presently, gloomy and a trifle dogged about it, he brought the spaceboat around to the modernized boatport of the yacht. He got into it, leaving the yacht in orbit. He headed down toward Darth. Now that he’d rested, he had work to do which could not be neglected. To carry out that work, he needed a crew able and willing to pass for pirates for a pirate’s pay. And there were innumerable castles on Darth, with quite as many shiftly noblemen, and certainly no fewer plunder-hungry Darthian gentlemen hanging around them. But Don Loris’ castle had one real advantage and one which existed only in Hoddan’s mind.

  Don Loris’ retainers did know that Hoddan had led their companions to loot. Large loot. He’d have less trouble and more enthusiastic support from Don Loris’ retainers than any other. This was true.

  The illusion was that the Lady Fani was his firm personal friend with no nonsense about her. This was a very great mistake.

  He landed for the fourth time outside Don Loris’ castle. This time he had no booty-laden men to march to the castle and act as heralds of his presence. The spaceboat’s visionscreens showed Don Loris’ stronghold as immense, dark and menacing. Banners flew from its turrets, their colors bright in the ruddy light of near-sunset. The gate remained closed. For a long time there was no sign that his landing had been noted. Then there was movement on the battlements, and a figure began to descend outside the wall. It was lowered to the ground by a long rope.

  It reached the ground and shook itself. It marched, toward the spaceboat through the red and nearly level rays of the dying sun. Hoddan watched with a frown on his face. This wasn’t a retainer of Don Loris’. It assuredly wasn’t Fani. He couldn’t even make out its gender until the figure was very near.

  Then he looked astonished. It was his old friend Derec, arrived on Darth a long while since in the spaceboat Hoddan had been using ever since. Derec had been his boon companion in the days when he expected to become rich by splendid exploits in electronics. Derec was also the character who’d conscientiously told the cops on Hoddan, when they found his power-receptor sneaked into a Mid-Continent station and a stray corpse coincidentally outside.

  He opened the boatport and stood in the opening. Derec had been a guest—anyhow an inhabitant—of Don Loris’ castle for a good long while, now. Hoddan wondered if he considered his quarters cozy.

  “Evening, Derec,” said Hoddan cordially. “You’re looking well!”

  “I don’t feel it,” said Derec dismally. “I feel like a fool in the castle yonder. And the high police official I came here with has gotten grumpy and snaps when I try to speak to him.”

  Hoddan said gravely:

  “I’m sure the Lady Fani—”

  “A tigress!” said Derec bitterly. “We don’t get along.”

  Looking at Derec, Hoddan found himself able to understand why. Derec was the sort of friend one might make on Walden for lack of something better. He was well-meaning. He might be capable of splendid things—even heroism. But he was horribly, terribly, appallingly civilized!

  “Well! Well!” said Hoddan kindly. “And what’s on your mind, Derec?”

  “I came,” said Derec dismally, “to plead with you again, Bron. You must surrender! There’s nothing else to do! People can’t have deathrays, Bron! Above all, you mustn’t tell the pirates how to make them!”

  Hoddan was puzzled for a moment. Then he realized that Derec’s information about the fleet came from the spearmen he’d brought back, loaded down with cash. Derec hadn’t noticed the absence of the flashing lights at sunset—or hadn’t realized that they meant the fleet was gone away.

  “Hm-m-m,” said Hoddan. “Why don’t you think I’ve already done it?”

  “Because they’d have killed you,” said Derec. “Don Loris pointed that out. He doesn’t believe you know how to make deathrays. He says it’s not a secret anybody would be willing for anybody else to know. But…you know the truth, Bron! You killed that poor man back on Walden. You’ve got to sacrifice yourself for humanity! You’ll be treated kindly!”

  Hoddan shook his head. I
t seemed somehow very startling for Derec to be harping on that same idea, after so many things had happened to Hoddan. But he didn’t think Derec would actually expect him to yield to persuasion. There must be something else. Derec might even have nerved himself up to something quite desperate.

  “What did you really come here for, Derec?”

  “To beg you to—”

  Then, in one instant, Derec made an hysterical gesture and Hoddan’s stun-pistol hummed. A small object left Derec’s hand as his muscles convulsed from the stun-pistol bolt. It did not fly quite true. It fell a foot or so to one side of the boatport instead of inside.

  * * * *

  It exploded luridly as Derec crumpled from the pistol bolt. There was thick, strangling smoke. Hoddan disappeared. When the thickest smoke drifted away there was nothing to be seen but Derec, lying on the ground, and thinner smoke drifting out of the still-open boatport.

  Nearly half an hour later, figures came very cautiously toward the spaceboat. Thal was their leader. His expression was mournful and depressed. Other brawny retainers came uncertainly behind him. At a nod from Thal, two of them picked up Derec and carted him off toward the castle.

  “I guess he got it,” said Thal dismally.

  He peered in. He shook his head.

  “Wounded, maybe, and crawled off to die.”

  He peered in again and shook his head once more.

  “No sign of ’im.”

  A spearman just behind Thal said:

  “Dirty trick! I was with him to Walden, and he paid off good! A good man! Shoulda been a chieftain! Good man!”

  Thal entered the spaceboat. Gingerly. He wrinkled his nose at the faint smell of explosive still inside. Another man came in. Another.

  “Say!” said one of them in a conspiratorial voice. “We got our share of that loot from Walden. But he hadda share, too! What’d he do with it? He could’ve kept it in this boat here. We could take a quick look! What Don Loris don’t know don’t hurt him!”

  “I’m going to find Hoddan first,” said Thal, with dignity. “We don’t have to carry him outside so’s Don Loris knows we’re looking for loot, but I’m going to find him first.”

  There were other men in the spaceboat now. A full dozen of them. Their spears were very much in the way.

  The boat door closed quietly. Don Loris’ retainers stared at each other. The locking-dogs grumbled for half a second, sealing the door tightly. Don Loris’ retainers began to babble protestingly.

  There was a roaring outside. The spaceboat stirred. The roaring rose to thunder. The boat lurched. It flung the spearmen into a sprawling, swearing, terrified heap at the rear end of the boat’s interior.

  The boat went on out to space again. In the control room Hoddan said dourly to himself:

  “I’m in a rut! I’ve got to figure out some way to ship a pirate crew without having to kidnap them. This is getting monotonous!”

  XI

  There was a disturbing air which was shared by all the members of Hoddan’s crew, on the way to Walden. It was not exactly reluctance, because there was self-evident enthusiasm over the idea of making a pirate voyage under him. So far as past enterprises were concerned, Hoddan as a leader was the answer to a Darthian gentleman’s prayer. The partial looting of Ghek’s castle, alone, would have made him a desirable leader. But a crew of seven, returned from space, had displayed currency which amounted to the wealth of fabled Ind. Nobody knew what Ind was, any longer, but it was a synonym for fabulous and uncountable riches. When men went off with Hoddan, they came back rich.

  But nevertheless there was an uncomfortable sort of atmosphere in the renovated yacht. They’d transshipped from the spaceboat to the yacht through lifeboat tubes, and they were quite docile about it because none of them knew how to get back to ground. Hoddan left the spaceboat with a triggerable timing-signal set for use on his return. He’d done a similar thing off Krim. He drove the little yacht well out, until Darth was only a spotted ball with visible clouds and ice caps. Then he lined up for Walden, direct, and went into overdrive.

  Within hours he noted the disturbing feel of things. His followers were not happy. They moped. They sat in corners and submerged themselves in misery. Large, massive men with drooping blond mustaches—ideal characters for the roles of pirates—tended to squeeze tears out of their eyes at odd moments. When the ship was twelve hours on its way, the atmosphere inside it was funereal. The spearmen did not even gorge themselves on the food with which the yacht was stocked. And when a Darthian gentleman lost his appetite, something had to be wrong.

  He called Thal into the control room.

  “What’s the matter with the gang?” he demanded vexedly. “They look at me as if I’d broken all their hearts! Do they want to go back?”

  Thal heaved a sigh, indicating depression beside which suicidal mania would be hilarity. He said pathetically:

  “We cannot go back. We cannot ever return to Darth. We are lost men, doomed to wander forever among strangers, or to float as corpses between the stars.”

  “What happened?” demanded Hoddan. “I’m taking you on a pirate cruise where the loot should be a lot better than last time!”

  Thal wept. Hoddan astonishedly regarded his whiskery countenance, contorted with grief and dampened with tears.

  “It happened at the castle,” said Thal miserably. “The man Derec, from Walden, had thrown a bomb at you. You seemed to be dead. But Don Loris was not sure. He fretted, as he does. He wished to send someone to make sure. The Lady Fani said; ‘I will make sure!’ She called me to her and said, ‘Thal, will you fight for me?’ And there was Don Loris suddenly nodding beside her. So I said, ‘Yes, my Lady Fani.’ Then she said; ‘Thank you. I am troubled by Bron Hoddan.’ So what could I do? She said the same thing to each of us, and each of us had to say that he would fight for her. To each she said that she was troubled by you. Then Don Loris sent us out to look at your body. And now we are disgraced!”

  Hoddan’s mouth opened and closed and opened again. He remembered this item of Darthian etiquette. If a girl asked a man if he would fight for her, and he agreed, then within a day and a night he had to fight the man she sent him to fight, or else he was disgraced. And disgrace on Darth meant that the shamed man could be plundered or killed by anybody who chose to do so, but he would be hanged by indignant authority if he resisted. It was a great deal worse than outlawry. It included scorn and contempt and opprobrium. It meant dishonor and humiliation and admitted degradation. A disgraced man was despicable in his own eyes. And Hoddan had kidnaped these men who’d been forced to engage themselves to fight him, and if they killed him they would obviously die in space, and if they didn’t they’d be ashamed to stay alive. The moral tone on Darth was probably not elevated, but etiquette was a force.

  Hoddan thought it over. He looked up suddenly.

  “Some of them,” he said wryly, “probably figure there’s nothing to do but go through with it, eh?”

  “Yes,” said Thal dismally. “Then we will all die.”

  “Hm-m-m,” said Hoddan. “The obligation is to fight. If you fail to kill me, that’s not your fault, is it? If you’re conquered, you’re in the clear?”

  Thal said miserably:

  “True. Too true! When a man is conquered he is conquered. His conqueror may plunder him, when the matter is finished, or he can spare him, when he may never fight his conqueror again.”

  “Draw your knife,” said Hoddan. “Come at me.”

  Thal bewilderedly made the gesture. Hoddan leveled a stun-pistol and said:

  “Bzzz. You’re conquered. You came at me with your knife, and I shot you with my stun-pistol. It’s all over. Right?”

  Thal gaped at him. Then he beamed. He expanded. He gloated. He frisked. He practically wagged a nonexistent tail in his exuberance. He’d been shown an out when he could see none.

  “Send in the others one by one,” said Hoddan. “I’ll take care of them. But Thal—why did the Lady Fani want me killed?”
r />   Thal had no idea, but he did not care. Hoddan did care. He was bewildered and inclined to be indignant. A noble friendship like theirs—A spearman, came in and saluted. Hoddan went through a symbolic duel, which was plainly the way the thing would have happened in reality. Others came in and went through the same process. Two of them did not quite grasp that it was a ritual, and he had to shoot them in the knife arm. Then he hunted in the ship’s supplies for ointment for the blisters that would appear from stun-pistol bolts at such short range. As he bandaged the places, he again tried to find out why the Lady Fani had tried to get him carved up by the large-bladed knives all Darthian gentlemen wore. Nobody could enlighten him.

  But the atmosphere improved remarkably. Since each theoretic fight had taken place in private, nobody was obliged to admit a compromise with etiquette. Hoddan’s followers ceased to brood. They developed huge appetites. Those who had been aground on Krim told zestfully of the monstrous hangovers they’d acquired there. It appeared that Hoddan was revered for the size of the benders he enabled his followers to hang on.

  But there remained the fact that the Lady Fani had tried to get him massacred. He puzzled over it. The little yacht sped through space toward Walden. He tried to think how he’d offended Fani. He could think of nothing. He set to work on a new electronic setup which would make still another modification of the Lawlor space-drive possible. In the others, groups of electronic components were cut out and others substituted in rather tricky fashion from the control board. This was trickiest of all. It required the home-made vacuum tube to burn steadily when in use. But it was a very simple idea. Lawlor drive and landing grid force fields were formed by not dissimilar generators, and ball lightning force fields were in the same general family of phenomena. Suppose one made the field generator that had to be on a ship if it was to drive at all, capable of all those allied, associated, similar force fields? If a ship could make the fields that landing grids did, it should be useful to pirates.

  Hoddan’s present errand was neither pure nor simple piracy, but piracy it would be. The more he considered the obligation he’d taken on himself when he helped the emigrant-fleet, the more he doubted that he could lift it without long struggle. He was preparing to carry on that struggle for a long time. He’d more or less resigned himself to the postponement of his personal desires. Nedda, for example. He wasn’t quite sure—Perhaps, after all—