Sutton_Jean_Sutton_Jeff_-_Lord_Of_The_Stars

by Unknown

  “I believe so,” Zandro answered gravely.

  “My people…” He had another thought. “You told me about my own planet once…Earth. Can they tell me about that?” He waited expectantly.

  “There are libraries, Danny.”

  “Libraries?”

  “Places where they keep the written and visual records. Yes, there would be a lot about Earth there.”

  “But would they know? My friends, I mean?”

  “We could send them to the library.”

  “Send them?”

  “They will go wherever we send them,” Zandro replied.

  “Why would they do that?” he asked wonderingly. No answer came; Zandro had withdrawn from his mind.

  Standing indecisively in the shade of the trees, he felt a great joy, yet with it sensed a tinge of unease. If Zandro could arrange for him to talk with people on one of his own worlds, why hadn’t he done it a long time ago? And why was he doing it now? It was all very strange; quite disturbing when he thought of it.

  Who were Iku 214J and Iku 998W? The question came back, adding to his unease. It was almost as if Zandro were playing some kind of game with him. That was foolish, of course. But still…

  He looked across the meadow toward the swamp, remembering his dream of the monster in the pool. The same monster he had seen in Zandro’s mind! And the metal bird? Did it really exist? At times he found it difficult to separate truth from imagination, dreams from reality. Which was which? There was really no way of knowing.

  “Zandro?” He whispered the name in his mind, listening. When no answer came, he repeated the call. Again there was silence. Assured that Zandro was gone, to wherever it was that he went, he called silently, “Iku 214J?”

  Listening, there was only the silence of the mind.

  “Iku 998W?” he called.

  “Iku 998W…” The answer came with an abruptness that startled him.

  “Who are you?” Danny asked urgently.

  Silence.

  “Iku 998W?” he repeated.

  “Iku 998W…”

  “Who are you?” he asked again. The silence lay heavier than before. “Iku 998W?” he persisted.

  “Iku 998W…”

  “Can you hear me?”

  Silence.

  Danny asked desperately, “Who is Subcommander Gobit?”

  Silence.

  “Why don’t you answer?”

  Silence.

  “Iku 998W?”

  “Iku 998W…”

  “Is that all you can say?” he blurted. When no answer came, he looked at the trees, the meadow, the sky, wondering if it were all a dream. A crazy sense of unreality gripped him, but he shook it aside. The trees were real, the meadow was real, and he was real; so was the voice in his mind. Pondering it, he tried again. “Iku 998W?”

  “Iku 998W…”

  “I want to speak to Iku 214J,” he said firmly.

  “Iku 998W to Iku 214J…” The voice came like a lonely wind in Danny’s mind. Waiting, he clenched his fists so tightly that his nails cut his skin. Was this reality? Suppose it were all a horrible dream?

  “Iku 214J…”

  “I want to speak to Subcommander Gobit,” Danny quavered.

  “Iku 998W to Iku 214J for Subcommander Gobit,” the first voice cut in.

  “Hold.”

  The single word, like a faint sigh in his mind, made Danny think of immeasurable distances.

  “Silence!” Zandro’s voice broke into Danny’s mind with a roar like thunder. Terrified at the sudden intrusion, Danny broke the contact, shutting Zandro from his mind as he fled toward the ship. Reaching it, he leaped through the narrow hatch, slamming and bolting it behind him. Leaning against it, he fought to regain his breath while, slowly, the terror ebbed from his mind.

  At least there was an Iku 998W and an Iku 214J, he reflected. They existed, were real; that much, at least, wasn’t imagination. And there was a Subcommander Gobit! Whoever he was, wherever he was, he existed.

  Waiting fearfully for Zandro to burst into his mind, he shuddered at what the other might say or do. Suppose Zandro refused to let him talk to his friends? The thought staggered him. But Zandro wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t, he couldn’t. Zandro was his friend.

  That night, lying in his pallet, Danny felt a growing tension. Zandro would come again; he knew it. Zandro would come and try to erase his thoughts. Why didn’t Zandro want him to know about Ikus 998W and 214J? Well, he wouldn’t let him erase his thoughts. He wouldn’t!

  Staring upward into the blackness, he fought to stay awake. Zandro would come, Zandro would come. The words ran through his mind again and again. Zandro would come; he knew that he would.

  Finally he did.

  4

  RON ERLAND, chief of the Obi Station watch, peered lackadaisically at the cloud-splotched sky of Makal, some 27,000 miles beneath him. With the city of Gylan just sliding into the dusk, the angled pinkish-gray rays of the sun, reflecting off the billowing cloud masses, appeared like giant bonfires raging in a murky valley.

  Inasmuch as Space Station Obi revolved around Makal in an equatorial orbit in exactly the same length of time that it took the planet to complete one revolution, his view differed only with the changing cycles of day and night or as vagrant storms wiped out the Wasach Sea or obliterated the lights of cities.

  “Four days till go-down,” he mused. He’d be glad when the shift was ended. Perhaps he’d pick up the wife and kids, rough it in the air-conditioned Herclon Forest for a week or two. The camps there had three-view color screens, pleasure rooms that never closed, and mechanical animals the kids could ride among the trees. It would be good to get out into the open, enjoy nature.

  He swung around at the beep of an instrument; a small lighted dot was moving across the grid of a cathode tube. “Incomer,” he remarked disinterestedly.

  Deckel, his first assistant, gazed lazily at the screen, then jerked erect. “That baby’s coming in from the Ebon Deeps,” he exclaimed disbelievingly.

  “Yeah.” Erland’s mouth suddenly felt cottony; Regulation CO1404B had placed the Ebon Deeps out of bounds to all travel. Military and survey vessels were not excluded. The dot shouldn’t be there; but it was. That baby was coming out of the Ebon Deeps, all right. And she was decelerating at a rate that was all but impossible. That dot spelled trouble.

  Gazing perplexedly at the scope, he barked, “Query her.”

  Deckel swung toward Prager, the second assistant. “Query her,” he

  instructed.

  Prager fiddled with his instruments before calling into the communicator. When no answer came, he tried again to no avail. He repeated the call several times before he finally looked helplessly at Deckel. “She won’t answer,” he complained.

  “She won’t answer,” Deckel repeated.

  “Keep trying,” Erland instructed. He felt his perturbation grow; he’d never had a ship fail to acknowledge a station call.

  Deckel glanced at his assistant. “Keep trying, Prag.”

  Prager flipped a switch to transfer the vessel’s course and velocity data into a computer that returned a constant trajectory profile while he queried into the mouthpiece. A low crackle of static rose and died, leaving an ominous silence. “No use,” he said at last.

  “No use,” Deckel echoed.

  “Regulation 4L3325 requires them to answer,” Erland snapped.

  “But they don’t. You can see for yourself.” Erland studied the scope, wondering what to do. He’d never before faced a situation like this. Regulation SR426LX specifically stated that all incoming vessels had to be identified and reported, but how could he identify a vessel that wouldn’t respond to interrogation? Could he report the vessel without giving its identification? Not according to Reg SR426LX. The language was clear on that point. To complicate matters, the ship was in violation of Reg CO1404B, which prohibited penetration of the Ebon Deeps. That made double trouble. He stared at the blip.

  “She’s headed toward Gylan
,” Prager offered, “and baby, she’s really decelerating.”

  “Decelerating fast,” Deckel confirmed.

  “Yeah.” Erland weighed his predicament and struggled to a painful decision. “Pass the word to the Gylan Tower,” he instructed.

  “Without the identification?” asked Deckel.

  “How can we identify her if she doesn’t respond?” he demanded irritably.

  “We can’t notify Gylan without the identification,” Prager objected. “Reg SR426LX states that clearly. It’s your decision, of course.”

  “That’s right,” Deckel confirmed. “We can’t violate Reg SR426LX. Do that, and we’ll be up before the board.”

  “Not me,” Prager exclaimed quickly. “I just follow orders.”

  The price of command, Erland reflected bitterly. He’d always heard the expression; now he knew what it meant. Why did it have to happen to him? He fidgeted uneasily. “Is there anything in the book that might cover this?” he demanded.

  “Check the book,” Deckel instructed Prager.

  “Which one? We have twelve of them.”

  “Which book shall I have him check?” Deckel asked.

  “Doesn’t one of them cover unidentified spacecraft? I seem to recall the heading.”

  “Yeah, but which book?”

  “Try the index,” Erland snapped.

  “Good idea,” Deckel agreed. “Try the index, Prag.”

  Prager flipped through the index, then ran a finger down a column. “Book Five,” he finally reported.

  “Does it give the section?”

  “Just a moment.” He returned his gaze to the page. “Yeah, Section Three. At least it’s headed ‘Unidentified Spacecraft.’ I imagine that’s the one.”

  “Sounds right,” Deckel acceded. “Check it.”

  Erland waited tensely as the second assistant pulled Book Five from the information file and began thumbing through it. If anything went wrong, it could cost him a neg in his record; ten negs and he could lose his automatic

  pay increase. He could appeal it, of course. Civil service regulations provided plenty of protection in that respect. And if the board turned him down, he could carry it to higher review — all the way to the top, if necessary. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “We can do it,” Prager finally announced.

  “Without violating Reg SR426LX?” asked Deckel.

  “Under certain circumstances, yes.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “If the challenged vessel fails to respond.”

  “That fits.” Deckel swung toward Erland. “We definitely can do it.”

  “Good, then do it.” Erland felt relieved.

  “How about the violation of Reg CO1404B?” asked Deckel. “Should I have Prag report that or just give the vessel’s course?”

  “The violation would complicate it,” Prager observed. “There’s nothing in the regulation that requires us to report it.”

  “Isn’t that implicit in the wording?” Erland asked uneasily.

  “It might be interpreted that way,” Deckel conjectured.

  Erland stared disconcertedly at the scope. The ship’s captain certainly wouldn’t have penetrated the Ebon Deeps without a proper clearance from someone somewhere. If he didn’t report it and the fact became known, it would be the board for sure. He debated it anxiously. “We’d better report it,” he finally decided.

  “My thought exactly,” Deckel agreed.

  “Good, then report it.” Erland felt relieved at his decision. Putting him in command of the station hadn’t been a mistake; his superiors would realize that soon enough. He looked at his subordinates. “No, I’ll do it myself. I don’t want this one fouled up.”

  Taking Prager’s place at the communicator, he adjusted the seat and called, “Obi Station to Gylan Tower…come in, Gylan Tower.” He tried several times without response.

  “You have to open the switch,” Deckel finally reminded.

  “Yeah, sure.” Erland flipped the switch and tried again, with the same result. “They don’t answer,” he fretted.

  “They’re plenty incompetent down there,” Deckel offered.

  “They sure are.”

  “A fortune in equipment and no one manning it.” He snickered.

  “If I pulled that, they’d yank me before the board,” Erland complained. He tried several more times, then got up. “See if you can get them, Deck. I’m going for coffee.”

  “Sure.” Deckel glanced at his assistant. “See if you can raise the Gylan Tower, Prag.”

  Ralph Gorman was in the lounge pouring a cup of coffee when the communicator in the control tower bleated to signal an incoming message. “Obi Station to Gylan Tower…come in, Gylan Tower.” The words crackled suddenly from a wall speaker.

  “Right in the middle of your coffee break,” Jackson, the station engineer, observed. Sprawled comfortably in an easy chair facing the three-view, he smiled smugly. “That’s twice they’ve hooked you today.”

  “Yeah, it’s a madhouse with Colley off.”

  “Seems to me he’s always off.”

  “Well, you’re allowed fifty sick days a year.” Gorman shrugged. “Can’t say that I blame him.”

  “I’m letting mine accumulate.”

  “So am I.” Gorman nodded wisely. “One of these days I’m going to hit them for a whole year, do nothing but loaf.”

  “My idea exactly,” Jackson agreed. “This grind gets you after awhile.”

  The wail speaker burped, and Gorman growled, “They can wait.”

  “Those guys up in Obi got it plenty soft.”

  “Yeah, we handle ten times the amount of traffic down here.”

  “They can have it,” Jackson commented. “I don’t like that two weeks at a crack business. I like my days off.”

  “It’s not bad,” Gorman reflected. “They get a full month off between duty cycles. That two-for-one policy makes it plenty nice, especially with the sick leave benefits.”

  “They still have it,” Jackson affirmed. “They tried to transfer me to satellites some years back, but I wangled out of it.”

  “Oh, how’d you manage that?” Gorman eyed him interestedly.

  “Dug up a regulation.”

  “What kind?”

  “Well, I’m a stationary engineer. That’s how I’m carried on the books. So when I got the assignment, I dug around until I found a regulation that stated I couldn’t be assigned outside of my classification.”

  “What’s that got to do with satellite duty? I don’t get it.”

  Jackson smiled knowingly. “There’s nothing stationary about those birds,” he declared.

  “But that’s not what stationary engineer means,” Gorman objected. “There’s no connection.”

  “That’s what Wilton — he was my chief at the time — tried to claim,” Jackson acceded. “When I told him I’d take it to the board, he backed down. That board threat gets ‘em every time.”

  “It sure does. I’ve worked that one myself.”

  “You’ve gotta know your regulations,” Jackson asserted.

  “If you don’t, they sure take advantage of you.”

  “Yeah, every time.”

  “Go by the book, I say. It’s the only way.” As the wall speaker crackled, Gorman glanced at his watch and lazily got up. “Time to see what Obi wants,” he remarked.

  Refilling his coffee cup, he started leisurely toward the stairs. Obi was still calling when he entered the control room. Setting the cup on the edge of a console, he sat down and flipped a switch. “Gylan Tower to Obi…come in,” he responded.

  “Where have you been?” the Obi operator asked querulously. Gorman recognized the voice as Prager’s.

  “Coffee break,” he explained. “Colley’s on the sick list. What’s doing up there?”

  “We’ve got an unidentified incomer on the scope,” Prager explained.

  “Unidentified?”

  “Yeah, but we can report it under Section Three of Book
Five, covering unidentified spacecraft. That’s Page 286.”

  “Does that override SR426LX?”

  “Yeah, I checked it out,” Prager acknowledged. “The language is clear enough.”

  “How come it’s unidentified?”

  “It won’t respond.”

  “No response, eh? The captain can get stuck with a violation of Reg 4L3325,” Gorman warned.

  “I hope he does,” Prager asserted. “It’s been a real headache. I’m sure glad it’s not my responsibility.”

  “Those spacers are all the same, Prag. They all think the regs were written for someone else.”

  “The penalty could cost him half a dozen negs,” Prager declared. “On top of that, he’s coming in from the Ebon Deeps.”

  “In violation of CO1404B?” Gorman asked. “I don’t like that.”

  “It’s a violation, all right.”

  “What does Erland say about it?”

  “He ordered me to report it. He’s going by the wording of Section Three of Book Five.”

  “I can’t see where that covers Reg CO1404B,” Gorman objected.

  “Neither can I, but it’s his decision.”

  “Well, they can’t hang me, Prag. Let’s have it.”

  “One second.”

  “Take your time. We’ve got plenty of it.” Gorman sipped his coffee while he waited.

  “Whaddya know, we lost her,” Prager announced a moment later. “She’s off the scope.”

  “Already?”

  “She was moving pretty fast. She must be lost in the ground pattern. There must be a hundred blips down there.”

  “What was her vector?”

  “She was headed your way, Gorm. You might pick her up on the low-level sweep.”

  “With all this traffic?”

  “You might give it a try.”

  “Okay, will do.”

  “Thanks, Gorm. Obi out.”

  A buzzer sounded on Samul Smith’s desk; he flipped a switch, watching the wall screen come to life. Sol Houston’s craggy face took form. The first glimpse of the Overlord’s grim expression alerted him.

  “Good morning, sir.” Samul’s voice betrayed none of his speculation.

  “I’m not so certain that it is,” Sol Houston rebutted. “An unidentified vessel from the Ebon Deeps came in yesterday around dusk — apparently made a run above Gylan or perhaps landed on the outskirts. We don’t know. The report just reached my desk,” he added wryly.