The Planet Killers: Three Novels of the Spaceways (Planet Stories (Paizo Publishing) Book 32)

by Silverberg, Robert

  “Very well,” Pouin Beryaal said with obvious reluctance. “The delegate from Earth is, of course, free to conduct investigations wherever he pleases. We’ll manage to carry on by ourselves until your return, Catton.”

  “Glad to hear it,” the Earthman snapped. The meeting was rapidly degenerating into a backbiting contest; and, though the Arenaddin had attempted to act as a kind of moderator, Catton was aware that the true alignment was Beryaal, eMerikh, and Uruod against him. These aliens obviously did not want an Earthman stealing their thunder. He was on the Commission solely for the sake of appearances, because it was felt to be a measure of loosening the tension that bound the galaxy since the emergence of Earth as a major power. But they had never expected the Earth delegate to go charging around investigating such worlds as Skorg.

  Well, they had no choice, Catton thought. They had agreed to accept a delegate from Earth, and now they were stuck with him.

  “Do you plan to make the trip alone?” Beryaal asked. “Or will you accept the use of the Commission staff?”

  “I could use a few assistants,” Catton said. “I’ll need an interpreter, for one thing—I’m anything but fluent in the Skorg language. I’ll also need an administrative adjutant, and a personal secretary. Three men; that ought to be sufficient.”

  “Will you make the necessary travel arrangements yourself?”

  “I’ll arrange for the passage, yes, out of my allotted expense fund,” said the Earthman. “My passport isn’t validated for Skorg, merely because I wasn’t originally planning to go there, but I’m certain that my colleague eMerikh will help me make the necessary visa arrangements, and that there’ll be no difficulties on that score.”

  Catton glanced inquisitively at the Skorg, who nodded stiffly. Catton was certain that the tortured Morilaru had let slip something about their source of supply being on Skorg, and that Beryaal and eMerikh had agreed between themselves to keep that fact from the records. No wonder they were annoyed at having Catton pop up with the same information, and, worse, embedding it inextricably in the Commission minutes. It was too late for Beryaal and eMerikh to do anything but acquiesce, now. Catton had successfully boxed them in.

  Catton rose.

  “Is there any further business to be discussed at this meeting?” he asked.

  “No,” Beryaal said. “I merely wished to present the results of the interrogation.”

  “Those results having duly been presented,” Catton said, “I intend to leave now. You can reach me at the Terran Embassy, eMerikh, when you’ve obtained a visitor’s permit for me.”

  “I will contact you then,” the Skorg said.

  Catton nodded to them, turned, and left the meeting room. It was late in the day, now. Some of the heat had left the air. He smiled as he thought of how discomforted his fellow Commission members had been. But their motives troubled him. Why hide information? Why object to his going to Skorg? It was a poor prognosis when he couldn’t even trust the alleged forces of crime prevention on these worlds.

  He decided to leave for Skorg on the first available flight. Perhaps, he thought, the trail might be less muddy there. But he doubted it. He realized that forces were operating on levels deeper than he suspected; the only thing certain was that Earth stood to lose in the coming maneuver for galactic power, if these worlds had their way.

  Chapter Eight

  Two days later, a Terran Embassy automobile deposited Catton at the passenger desk of the Dyelleran Spaceport. In the Earthman’s pocket was a ticket for a first-class passage, round trip from Morilar to Skorg and back, aboard the Skorg Spacelines vessel, Silver Spear . Two days of feverish preparation had preceded Catton’s arrival at the spaceport.

  It had been necessary to obtain an entry visa for Skorg; some fast sub-radio communication had taken care of that matter, with the more or less willing cooperation of Merikh eMerikh and the local Skorg Ambassador. It had also been necessary, for Catton’s own protection, for him to receive a neural block inhibiting his sense of smell; the planetary odor of Skorg was something to make strong men blanch. And, for the same reason and at the same time, he had received a metabolic booster shot designed to reduce production of the bodily secretions that made an Earthman’s smell so intolerable to a Skorg.

  Thus fortified, Catton was ready to go. Three Morilaru attaches accompanied him, as he requested. Untroubled by budget restrictions, Catton had lightheartedly purchased first-class passages for the four of them on the twelve-day voyage—a matter of some eight thousand thrones, or better than $10,000 Terran, for the four tickets. The Silver Spear was a luxury liner. It was virtually a spaceborne city, holding nearly eight hundred passengers.

  Catton and his three men, with their diplomatic visas, passed through the emigration desks with no trouble, and boarded the ship two hours before blastoff. The three aides said little as they inspected their magnificent staterooms. Either they were not impressed, or else they were too overwhelmed by the luxury to be able to comment.

  Alone, Catton surveyed his room with awe. It was twice the size of the cabin he had occupied on the Terran liner coming to Morilar, and that had been one of Earth’s finest passenger vessels. On the Silver Spear his room was carpeted with thick broadloom, hung with noise-cushioning drapes, furnished with a handsome record player, a supply of music tapes, a video set which could tap the ship’s immense library of Skorg films, and other elegant appurtenances. He sprawled out on the oversized bed, clamped his learning-disk of Skorg to his ear, and settled down for a couple of hours of intensive study of the Skorg language before blastoff time came.

  An hour later, his cabin door chimed; Catton nudged the remote-wave opener and the door slid into its oiled niche. A Skorg in the uniform of a crewman waited in the corridor outside his room.

  The Skorg bowed obsequiously, a gesture that looked strange coming from a member of that austere-faced species. “I am your steward, Mr. Catton,” the Skorg said, in Morilaru. “If you lack anything, be sure to call upon me.”

  “Thanks,” Catton said, using the Skorg word.

  “Blastoff is in thirty minutes. When the signal comes, please go to your bed and remain on it until we enter free nulldrive. Dinner will be served one hour after the entry into warp, sir.”

  The steward bowed again and moved off down the hall. Catton closed the door, resetting his learning-disk and focusing his concentration once again on the difficult inflections of the Skorg tongue.

  Blastoff was right on schedule. A speaker grid in the ceiling of his stateroom came to sudden life and advised him purringly in Skorg, Morilaru, and Arenaddin to remain on his bed until further word. Catton wondered what happened if you didn’t understand any of the languages the instructions had been delivered in. You didn’t travel the Skorg lines, in that case, he decided.

  There was a countdown, in Skorg numbers. When it got down toward the final numbers Catton tensed involuntarily, waiting for the thrust of blastoff to jam him down against the spun foam of his bed.

  “… drog …”

  “… halk-segan …”

  “… zhuur …”

  “… naal .”

  Naal . Zero! But there was no fist of acceleration on the final count. Catton felt a momentary pressure, flattening him gently against the bed, but it was so light a push that he could have remained upright through it without difficulty. Evidently on a Skorg luxury liner, one traveled in luxury . Blastoff had been so thoroughly cushioned, probably by contragrav, that it almost seemed like an inertialess drive was at work.

  Ten minutes after blastoff, the voice from the speaker grid advised Catton that it was now safe to leave one’s bed, as the ship was now in nulldrive and would remain there until reaching Skorg. Dinner, the voice added, would be served in one hour.

  Catton went on an exploratory trip through the vessel in the hour before dinner. He attracted a great deal of attention, as might have been expected; there were still few Earthmen in this part of the galaxy, and one traveling on a Skorg luxury liner was an
extreme curiosity.

  The ship was lavish. There was a grand ballroom, a smaller auditorium, two great dining halls (one reserved exclusively for Skorgs, the other open to all comers—a bit of deservedly instituted discrimination, considering the distinctive Skorg odor). Catton also saw a library of book-tapes, mostly in Skorg, with a scattering of Morilaru and Arenaddin volumes, and a recreation room designed to serve the recreational needs of several different species.

  He ate that evening in the unrestricted dining room, since he had no entry into the Skorg room nor much desire to enter it; the bulk of his companions in the room were Morilaru, though he noted a few Arenaddin and even another Earthman. Catton resolved to introduce himself to the Earthman after the meal.

  The food was Skorg food, mostly yellow vegetables and stringy lean meat—probably it was superbly prepared, but the raw materials were nothing much. The main dish was preceded by a cocktail which tasted astonishingly like a Terran martini, though Catton knew the Terran liquor industry had not yet established trade channels through to Skorg. During the meal Skorg wine was served—a bitter but palatable green liquid.

  Catton encountered the other Earthman in the lounge after the meal. It was more of a simultaneous coinciding of orbit than a one-sided pursuit; the other Earthman, it seemed, had been anxious to meet Catton, too.

  “My name is Royce, H. Byron Royce. I don’t suppose you remember me, Mr. Catton.”

  Catton didn’t. The Earthman was in his sixties, tall and weatherbeaten, with blunt, open features and faded pale-blue eyes. He was dressed conventionally in a Terran business suit. Catton had no idea who H. Byron Royce might be, but he hazarded a guess. “You were at that reception given for me at the Embassy in Dyelleran, weren’t you?”

  Royce smiled. “That’s right. We exchanged a couple of words then, if you remember—”

  “I’m afraid I’ll need my memory refreshed,” Catton confessed. “There were so many strange faces that night, you realize—”

  “Sure, I know how it is. A hundred people come up and shake your hand, you can’t remember all of ’em. Well, I’m Byron Royce of Royce Brothers, Terra. Does that ring any bells now?”

  Catton nodded. Royce Brothers was an enterprising export firm; through holding companies, it controlled most of Terran trade over a span of fifty light-years out from Earth, and now, no doubt, was looking to extend its sway to Morilar, Skorg, and Arenadd. Catton realized he was talking to a billionaire. It was a slightly unsettling thought.

  “Bound for Skorg on diplomatic business, Mr. Catton?”

  “Yes,” Catton said. “I’m not at liberty to reveal anything, of course.”

  “Wouldn’t think of prying,” Royce said cheerily. “Naturally, if there’s anything involved that might possibly have an effect on Royce Brothers, I’d greatly appreciate a leetle hint, but—”

  “I’m afraid it’s a matter of considerable secrecy,” Catton said, perhaps a bit too brusquely. “But I can tell you that it’s of no commercial interest to you.”

  Royce took the hint and changed the subject immediately. “Too bad about the Ambassador’s daughter, wasn’t it? Pretty little girl like that running away to nowhere. You think they’re going to find her, Mr. Catton?”

  Catton shrugged. “It’s unlikely, unless she wants to be found. The galaxy’s too big for an efficient search to be carried on.”

  “Funny, that note she left.”

  “Oh, you heard about it?”

  “The Ambassador himself told me, with tears in his eyes. Ran away with the man she loved. He didn’t have any idea who that might be. Damned if they didn’t run a checkup on every Earthman who’d been on Morilar in the past six months, and there wasn’t one of them missing.”

  “So there’s no notion whom she ran off with, eh?” Catton asked.

  “Not a touch. Mr. Seeman half figured she’d made the whole part up, about her lover. But he couldn’t understand why she’d want to run away.”

  A Skorg steward passed, carrying a tray of drinks. He paused in front of Catton and Royce and inquired in Morilaru if they were interested. Catton helped himself to a highball which tasted vaguely peppery; Royce, protesting that he never drank, declined the tray.

  Catton sipped his drink. The lounge was crowded; there were life-forms of a dozen kinds in it, including, Catton noted with some amusement, a Dargonid who might have been the twin of the one who had purchased the hypnojewel from Nuuri Gryain’s unfortunate friends. Catton also noticed two of his attaches nearby—keeping an eye on him, no doubt.

  Suddenly he heard a distant dull booming sound, reverberating as if far away. A moment later it was repeated, slightly louder but still muffled and faint. Conversation in the lounge was unaffected.

  But H. Byron Royce was standing on tiptoes, head cocked to one side for better hearing. He looked worried.

  “What’s the matter?” Catton said. There was a third boom—still louder.

  Muscles tightened suddenly in Royce’s cheeks. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here, Catton.”

  “Out of here? Why?”

  “Hurry up!”

  Mystified, Catton followed the tall, old Earthman through the crowd of chatting passengers and out into the companionway that fronted the lounge. A fourth time the sound came—and, out here, Catton could hear it distinctly and clearly.

  It sounded like an explosion.

  “What’s going on?” Catton asked.

  “I don’t know,” Royce replied. “But every time I hear loud booms on a space-liner, I get out into the hall and start looking for a lifeship. I was aboard the Star of the Night when it blew up off Capella in ’83.”

  A fifth boom came rippling up from the depths of the ship—and this time Catton fancied he could hear girders giving way, strutwork ripping loose, engines exploding, men dying. A drive-room explosion aboard a faster-than-light spaceliner was a dreadful thing. Even if the ship survived the blast, it would no longer have means of propulsion, and would drift helplessly, unlocatable, until its food supply ran out. There would be nightmarish frenzy before that time, culminating in cannibalism.

  Royce began to run, and Catton followed him. Other people were coming out of the lounge, now. Footsteps echoed in the companionway.

  A loudspeaker voice said, “There is no cause for alarm, ladies and gentlemen.” The voice was speaking in Skorg, but it hastily repeated the words in Morilaru. “Please remain where you are. Members of the crew will aid you. Do not panic. Do not panic.”

  It might just as well have been an order to the tides to hold back. A mass of screaming people came sweeping out of the lounge, crowding desperately into the narrow companionway. The loudspeaker’s shouted exhortations were drowned out by the cries of the crowd. Another explosion sounded, this one larger than the others.

  “That was the central drive chamber blowing,” Royce muttered. “This ship is done for.”

  He paused at a doorway, flung it open, and went racing down a ramp toward the lifeships. A ship the size of the Silver Spear was probably equipped with fifty or seventy-five tiny lifeships, each capable of holding a dozen passengers, fifteen or twenty in an emergency. The lifeships had miniature warp-drives and enough fuel to get them to a nearby planet.

  Royce swung over the hatch of the nearest lifeship with the amazing self-preservation impulse of a man to whom life is very important indeed, and hurled himself in. Catton followed. A moment later five other people rushed into the small ship.

  Catton was surprised to see that one of them was the Morilaru who had accompanied him as his administrative adjutant. Another was an enormous Arenaddin who was bleating like a frightened cow. Two others were Morilaru women clad in costly gowns—and, astonishingly, they had dragged aboard the ship a man in the uniform of a member of the crew. The Skorg was writhing and protesting, trying to free himself. “Crewmen must not board lifeships until all passengers are safe,” he was insisting.

  “Quiet, you idiot,” one of the Morilaru women snapped. “You w
ant to stay alive, and so do we. We need a skilled spaceman aboard this ship.” They fastened their fingernails into the Skorg’s shirt, and held him fast.

  The lifeship hatch opened again, and a Morilaru entered, wild-eyed and frantic.

  “The ship’s blowing up,” he gasped. “Let’s blast off out of here before we get killed!”

  Catton started to protest. There were only eight people in the lifeship—nine, giving the Arenaddin double credit for his bulk. There was room for three or four more passengers, as many as ten if need be. It was grossly unfair to blast off half full.

  But as he moved forward, one of the Morilaru women stepped in front of him and blocked his path. The male Morilaru hastily dogged the hatch shut and yanked down on the red-handled lever that released the lifeship from its fastenings.

  A hatch in the side of the wounded mother ship opened as the lifeship glided down its passageway and into space. Instants later, a gigantic explosion split the Silver Spear apart. The lifeship, with its eight occupants, rocked and tossed in the shock wave caused by the explosion—and then righted itself and sped off into space.

  Chapter Nine

  A lifeship has only rudimentary controls. There was a viewscreen, a plot-tank, a simplified course-computer, and a book of instructions, trilingual. As Catton thought back over it, half an hour after the explosion, he was grateful that a crewman had come along.

  But the crewman was unhappy about it. His name was Nyaruik Sadhig, and he brooded loudly about his plight. “If I ever survive this, I’ll be sacked,” he muttered. “Think of it—a crewman entering a lifeship and letting passengers remain behind!”

  “You were coerced,” Catton pointed out. “They can’t hold that against you.”