Dark Benediction

by Walter Michael Miller

  “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. You’ll have to drop back down out of the C-component and 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.”

  Roki sized up the situation, measured the determination in the girl’s eyes, and decided that there was only one thing to do. He shrugged and looked away, as if admitting her authority. She glared at him for a moment, but did not press her demand that he leave the control room. As soon as she glanced back at the instruments, Roki padded his rough knuckles with a handkerchief, selected a target at the back of her short crop of dark hair, and removed her objections with a short chopping blow to the head. “Sorry, friend,” he murmured as he lifted her limp body out of the seat.

  He carried her to her quarters and placed her on the bunk. After removing a small needle gun from her pocket, he left a box of headache tablets in easy reach, locked her inside, and went back to the controls. His fist was numb, and he felt like a heel, but there was no use arguing with a Dalethian. Clubbing her to sleep was the only way to avoid bloodier mayhem in which she might have emerged the victor—until the screen gave way.

  The power-indication was threateningly high as Roki activated the C-drive and began piloting the ship downward through the fifth component. But with proper adjustments, he made the process analogous to freefall, and the power reading fell off slowly. A glance at the C-maps told him that the Idiot would emerge far beyond the limits of Sixty-Star Cluster. When it re-entered the continuum, it would be in the general volume of space controlled by another interstellar organization called The Viggern Federation. He knew little of its culture, but certainly it should have facilities for repairing a set of screen-synchronizers. He looked up its capitol planet, and began jetting toward it while the ship drifted downward in C. As he reached lower energy-levels, he cut out the screen altogether and went to look in on Daleth Incorporated who had made no sound for two hours.

  He was surprised to see her awake and sitting up on the bunk. She gave him a cold and deadly stare, but displayed no rage. “I should’ve known better than to turn my back on you.”

  “Sorry. You were going to—”

  “Save it. Where are we?”

  “Corning in on Tragor III.”

  “I’ll have you jailed on Tragor III, then.”

  He nodded. “You could do that, but then you might have trouble collecting my fare from Beth.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Suit yourself. I’d rather be jailed on your trumped-up charges than be a wisp of gas at ninety-thousand C’s.”

  “Trumped up?”

  “Sure, the pink pre-flight. Any court will say that whatever happened was your own fault. You lose your authority if you fly pink, unless your crew signs a release.”

  “You a lawyer?”

  “I’ve had a few courses in space law. But if you don’t believe me, check with the Interfed Service on Tragor III.”

  “I will. Now how about opening the door. I want out.”

  “Behave?”

  She paused, then: “My promise wouldn’t mean anything, Roki. I don’t share your system of ethics.”

  He watched her cool green eyes for a moment, then chuckled. “In a sense you do—or you wouldn’t have said that.” He unlocked the cabin and released her, not trusting her, but realizing that the synchronizers were so bad by now that she couldn’t attempt to go on without repairs. She could have no motive for turning on him—except anger perhaps.

  “My gun?” she said.

  Again Roki hesitated. Then, smiling faintly, he handed it to her. She took the weapon, sniffed scornfully, and cocked it.

  “Turn around, fool!” she barked.

  Roki folded his arms across his chest, and remained facing her. “Go to the devil,” he said quietly.

  Her fingers whitened on the trigger. Still the Cophian failed to flinch, lose his smile, or move. Daleth Incorporated arched her eyebrows, uncocked the pistol, and returned it to her belt. Then she patted his cheek and chuckled nastily. “Just watch yourself, commander. I don’t like you.”

  And he noticed, as she turned away, that she had a bump on her head to prove it. He wondered how much the bump would cost him before it was over. Treachery on Sol, perhaps.

  The pilot called Tragor III and received instructions to set an orbital course to await inspection. All foreign ships were boarded before being permitted to land. A few hours later, a small patrol ship winged close and grappled to the hull. Roki went to manipulate the locks.

  A captain and two assistants came through. The inspector was a young man with glasses and oversized ears. His eyebrows were ridiculously bushy and extended down on each side to his cheekbones. The ears were also filled with yellow brush. Roki recognized the peculiarities as local evolutionary tendencies; for they were shared also by the assistants. Tragor III evidently had an exceedingly dusty atmosphere.

  The captain nodded a greeting and requested the ship’s flight papers. He glanced at the pink pre-flight, clucked to himself, and read every word in the dispatcher’s forms. “Observation flight? To Sol?” He addressed himself to Roki, using the interstellar Esperanto.

  The girl answered. “That’s right. Let’s get this over with.”

  The captain gave her a searing, head-to-toe glance. “Are you the ship’s owner, woman?”

  Daleth Incorporated contained her anger with an effort. “I am.”

  The captain told
her what a Tragorian thought of it by turning aside from her, and continuing to address Roki as if he were ship’s skipper. “Please leave the ship while we fumigate and inspect. Wohr will make you comfortable in the patrol vessel. You will have to submit to physical examination—a contagion precaution.”

  Roki nodded, and they started out after the assistant. As they entered the corridor, he grinned at Daleth, and received a savage kick in the shin for his trouble.

  “Oops, sorry!” she muttered.

  “Oh—one moment, sir,” the captain called after them. “May I speak to you a moment—”

  They both stopped and turned.

  “Privately,” the captain added.

  The girl marched angrily on. Roki stepped back in the cabin and nodded.

  “You are a well-traveled man, E Roki?” the bushybrowed man asked politely.

  “Space has been my business.”

  “Then you need no warning about local customs.” The captain bowed.

  “I know enough to respect them and conform to them,” Roki assured him. “That’s a general rule. But I’m not familiar with Tragor III. Is there anything special I should know before we start out?”

  “Your woman, E Roki. You might do well to inform her that she will have to wear a veil, speak to no man, and be escorted upon the streets at all times. Otherwise, she will be wise to remain on the ship, in her quarters.”

  Roki suppressed a grin. “I shall try to insure her good behavior.”

  The captain looked defensive. “You regard our customs as primitive?”

  “Every society to its own tastes, captain. The wisdom of one society would be folly for another. Who is qualified to judge? Only the universe, which passes the judgment of survival on all peoples.”

  “Thank you. You are a wise traveler. I might explain that our purdah is the result of an evolutionary peculiarity. You will see for yourself, however.”

  “I can’t guarantee my companion’s behavior,” Roki said before he went to join Daleth. “But I’ll try my best to influence her.”

  Roki was grinning broadly as he went to the patrol vessel to wait. One thing was certain: the girl would have a rough time on Tragor if she tried to have him jailed for mutiny.

  Her face reddened to forge-heat as he relayed the captain’s warning.

  “I shall do nothing of the sort,” she said stiffly.

  Roki shrugged. “You know enough to respect local customs.”

  “Not when they’re personally humiliating!” She curled up on a padded seat in the visitor’s room and began to pout. He decided to drop the subject.

  Repairing the synchronizers promised to be a week-long job, according to the Tragorian inspector who accompanied the Idiot upon landing. “Our replacements are standardized, of course—within our own system. But parts for SSC ships aren’t carried in stock. The synchronizers will have to be specially tailored.”

  “Any chance of rushing the job?”

  “A week is rushing it.”

  “All right, we’ll have to wait.” Roki nudged the controls a bit, guiding the ship toward the landing site pointed out by the captain. Daleth was in her cabin, alone, to save herself embarrassment.

  “May I ask a question about your mission, E Roki, or is it confidential in nature?”

  Roki paused to think before answering. He would have to lie, of course, but he had to make it safe. Suddenly he chuckled. “I forgot for a moment that you weren’t with Sixty-Star Cluster. So I’ll tell you the truth. This is supposed to be an observation mission, officially—but actually, our superior sent us to buy him a holdful of a certain scarce commodity.”

  The captain grinned. Graft and corruption were apparently not entirely foreign to Tragor III. But then his grin faded into thoughtfulness. “On Sol’s planets?”

  Roki nodded.

  “This scarce commodity—if I’m not too curious—is it surgibank supplies?”

  Roki felt his face twitch with surprise. But he recovered from his shock in an instant. “Perhaps,” he said calmly. He wanted to grab the man by the shoulders and shout a thousand questions, but he said nothing else.

  The official squirmed in his seat for a time. “Does your federation buy many mercy cargoes from Sol?”

  Roki glanced at him curiously. The captain was brimming with ill-concealed curiosity. Why?

  “Occasionally, yes.”

  The captain chewed his lip for a moment. “Tell me,” he blurted, “will the Solarian ships stop for your patrol inspections?”

  Roki hesitated for a long time. Then he said, “I suppose that you and I could get together and share what we know about Sol without revealing any secrets of our own governments. Frankly, I, too, am curious about Sol.”

  The official, whose name was WeJan, was eager to accept. He scrawled a peculiar series of lines on a scrap of paper and gave it to Roki. “Show this to a heliocab driver. He will take you to my apartment. Would dinner be convenient?”

  Roki said that it would.

  The girl remained in her quarters when they landed. Roki knocked at the door, but she was either stubborn or asleep. He left the ship and stood for a moment on the ramp, staring at the hazy violet sky. Fine grit sifted against his face and stung his eyes.

  “You will be provided goggles, suitable clothing, and an interpreter to accompany you during your stay,” said WeJan as they started toward a low building.

  But Roki was scarcely listening as he stared across the ramp. A thousand yards away was a yellow-starred mercy ship, bearing Solar markings. The most peculiar thing about it was the ring of guards that surrounded it. They apparently belonged to the ship, for their uniforms were different from those of the base personnel.

  WeJan saw him looking. “Strange creatures, aren’t they?” he whispered confidentially.

  Roki had decided that in the long run he could gain more information by pretending to know more than he did. So he nodded wisely and said nothing. The mercy ship was too far away for him to decide whether the guards were human. He could make out only that they were bipeds. “Sometimes one meets strange ones all right. Do you know the Quinjori—from the other side of the galaxy?”

  “No—no, I believe not, E Roki. Quinjori?”

  “Yes. A very curious folk. Very curious indeed.” He smiled to himself and fell silent. Perhaps, before his visit was over, he could trade fictions about the fictitious Quinjori for facts about the Solarians.

  Roki met his interpreter in the spaceport offices, donned the loose garb of Tragor, and went to quibble with repair service. Still he could not shorten the promised time on the new synchros. They were obviously stuck for a week on Tragor. He thought of trying to approach the Solarian ship, but decided that it would be better to avoid suspicion.

  Accompanied by the bandy-legged interpreter, whose mannerisms were those of a dog who had received too many beatings, Roki set out for Polarin, the Tragorian capital, a few miles away. His companion was a small middle-aged man with a piping voice and flaring ears; Roki decided that his real job was to watch his alien charge for suspicious activities, for the little man was no expert linguist. He spoke two or three of the tongues used in the Sixty-Star Cluster, but not fluently. The Cophian decided to rely on the Esperanto of space, and let the interpreter translate it into native Tragorian wherever necessary.

  “How would E Roki care to amuse himself?” the little man asked. “A drink? A pretty girl? A museum?”

  Roki chuckled. “What do most of your visitors do while they’re here?” He wondered quietly what, in particular, the Solarian visitors did. But it might not be safe to ask.

  “Uh—that would depend on nationality, sir,” murmured Pok. “The true-human foreigners often like to visit the Wanderer, an establishment which caters to their business. The evolved-human and the nonhuman visitors like to frequent The Court of Kings—a rather, uh, peculiar place.” He looked at Roki, doubtfully, as if wondering about his biological status.

  “Which is most expensive?” he asked, although he
really didn’t care. Because of the phony “observation mission papers,” he could make Colonel Beth foot the bill.

  “The Court of Kings is rather high,” Pok said. “But so is the Wanderer.”

  “Such impartiality deserves a return. We will visit them both, E Pok. If it suits you.”

  “I am your servant, E Roki.”

  How to identify a Solarian without asking?—Roki wondered as they sat sipping a sticky, yeasty drink in the lounge of the Wanderer. The dimly lighted room was filled with men of all races—pygmies, giants, black, red, and brown. All appeared human, or nearly so. There were a few women among the crewmen, and most of them removed their borrowed veils while in the tolerant sanctuary of the Wanderer. The Tragorian staff kept stealing furtive glances at these out-system females, and the Cophian wondered about their covetousness.

  “Why do you keep watching the strange women, E Pok?” he asked the interpreter a few minutes later.

  The small man sighed. “Evidently you have not yet seen Tragorian women.”

  Roki had seen a few heavily draped figures on the street outside, clinging tightly to the arms of men, but there hadn’t been much to look at. Still, Pok’s hint was enough to give him an idea.

  “You don’t mean Tragor III is one of those places where evolution has pushed the sexes further apart?”

  “I do,” Pok said sadly. “The feminine I.Q. is seldom higher than sixty, the height is seldom taller than your jacket pocket, and the weight is usually greater than your own. As one traveler put it: ‘short, dumpy, and dumb’. Hence, the Purdah.”

  “Because you don’t like looking at them?”

  “Not at all. Theirs is our standard of beauty. The purdah is because they are frequently too stupid to remember which man is their husband.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “Not at all,” said Pok, whose tongue was being loosened by the yeasty brew. “It is our tragedy. We can bear it.”

  “Well, you’ve got it better than some planets. On Jevah, for instance, the men evolved into sluggish spidery little fellows, and the women are big husky brawlers.”