Son of the Stars

by Raymond F. Jones

  “They treat me fine—except they keep me here. I shouldn’t have become so angry, but I felt so sick at the sight of what they had done. Do you know if they will go ahead as they planned?”

  “I’m terribly sorry that happened. My father got them to bury your people. You must believe me. All of our people are not like—those who—”

  “Perhaps not,” said Clonar sadly. “But I can’t live on your world, Ron. I couldn’t endure it for a lifetime. Even if all your people were as kind as you and Anne have been, it would be a lonely place.”

  He shut his eyes and gripped Ron’s hand tightly. A bright pool formed in the corner of the one unbandaged eye and broke and swiftly rolled across his cheek.

  “I wish we could do something about it,” Ron said. “There’s nothing on Earth we can do to get you back home.”

  Clonar opened his eyes, his voice steady once more. “Ron, when we were in the ship yesterday we passed the communications room. Maybe you remember there was a technician burning away some of the collapsed walls to open the corridors and rooms beyond?”

  “Yeah, I think I know the spot you mean.”

  “He had almost opened the communications room. I thought the whole interior had been crushed, but yesterday it looked as if half the room had been merely pinched together, like the corridor, and that the equipment was almost unharmed! I said nothing then because I wanted to ask you if you thought there might be a chance of using it.”

  “To reach the rest of your fleet?”

  “I’m sure I could, if I could get it in working order.”

  Ron considered silently. He knew Colonel Middleton and he knew Hornsby. Neither would let Clonar take anything from the ship, nor would they let him have access to anything which might enable him to leave, since they hoped to pick his brains of every bit of advanced knowledge he possessed, and there was little chance that the new officer in charge would be different.

  He shook his head. “They’d never let us.”

  “That’s what I thought. Has Hornsby started tearing the equipment apart already?”

  “He may have.”

  “Look, Ron! The one instrument I must have is the wave generator. This produces waves of near infinite velocity of propagation. If I had the generator, your equipment at home could power it sufficiently to catch the fleet if they come anywhere near this solar system. But without the generator, I’m lost.

  “Would it be possible for you to get aboard the ship at night and take the things I need? Every hour counts, because the fleet may abandon this sector and go beyond the range of any transmitter I could put together.”

  “That’s a big order,” said Ron soberly. “Heaven only knows what they will do to me if I’m caught.”

  “Of course,” said Clonar. “Forget it,” he added quickly. “Already I have caused you enough trouble.”

  “No—it isn’t that,” said Ron. “It’s a desperate chance, with almost zero odds on success. But I’ll try, Clonar. If that’s your only chance to go home, I’ve got to try.”

  Chapter 8 Disaster

  They were quiet in the hospital room for a long time. And then Ron said, “Where will I find this instrument? How will I know what to take?” Clonar rummaged in a drawer by the bed and drew out a pencil and pad. “I’ll draw a picture.”

  Carefully, he sketched the radial and concentric corridors. Then he drew the communications room, indicating the portions he’d observed to be crushed. A third sketch showed details of the panels on which the instrument was mounted.

  “It is fastened to the racks with snaps which can be dislodged by making half a turn. Cut away any wires which connect to other parts of the panel. I wish you could get it, but I don’t want you to put yourself in danger because of me.”

  Ron folded the papers and put them into his pocket. He had to admit to himself that he didn’t know how he was going to carry out the task, but he had to give it a try.

  “Have they talked to you much?” asked Anne. “Do they try to question you about the ship?”

  “Somebody came in this morning and asked a lot of silly questions. I didn’t answer and finally he went away. I don’t see why they make such a fuss over my ship. If there is anything useful there to your people, I would gladly give it. But they rush at me demanding the principle of this or that. They’re crazy!”

  “No, Clonar, only frightened because of the danger of war.”

  Clonar exhaled heavily. “How primitive your world must be! Our history tells of such things, but they happened so many generations ago that I cannot imagine how it must be.”

  “But isn’t there something you can do,” said Anne, “to teach us how to prevent war? Something your people have learned out of their long history?”

  Clonar shook bis head, “My people have been without this problem for so long that there is nothing I know which can heal such sickness.”

  At noon they were asked to leave. As they drove back home they remained silent most of the way, thinking about the request Clonar had made and how Ron was going to keep his promise.

  “Are you going to tell your father about getting the gadget for Clonar?” Anne finally asked.

  “I can’t do that. He’d never approve, and I wouldn’t blame him. It’s a fool thing to try to do, but Clonar’s situation is desperate. I’m afraid Hornsby will tear up everything in sight to see what makes it tick. Provided he hasn’t done it already. I’ll have to go it alone in that case.”

  “How are you going to get out of the house without them asking questions?”

  “I hadn’t even got that far in my stewing. I’m working from the other end—what will happen at the ship.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Anne. “We’ll tell the folks that we’re going to the new show down at the West End.”

  “Oh, no! I’m not going to ring you in on this. There’ll be trouble enough if I get caught alone.”

  “I don’t need to be in on it. I can wait in the car. You’ll have to park far away and go on foot. It won’t hurt anything if I stay with the car, and you’ll have an excuse to get out of the house.”

  It was logical, he thought, but he hated to bring Anne into any part of the thing.

  “Maybe—” he said.

  “But how will you get through the guards and into the ship?”

  “Well, if the technicians are working at night I’ll be sunk, but I’m counting on their not doing that. There’ll probably be a ring or two of guards outside, but they won’t expect much trouble since the general public doesn’t know about the ship. I think I can get through them. Doing it the second time with the instrument will be the tough one. I forgot to ask Clonar how much it weighs. The best way into the ship, I think, would be to climb up through the wrecked section.”

  “You can’t crawl over that jagged stuff in the dark!”

  “I’ll put on a couple of pairs of jeans and some heavy gloves.”

  “Oh, Ron—it seems too impossible. For once, I’m almost in favor of calling it ‘quits.’”

  “You and me both, Anne. But we’d kick ourselves forever after if it cost Clonar his one chance of getting home.”

  He pulled up to the curb in front of her house. “Be here in time for the last show!” she said. “Ill be ready.”

  “O.K. I can’t think of any better deal.”

  His announcement that he and Anne were going out to a show caused no stir at home except Francie’s monotonous song that “Ron’s going out with his girrrl again—”

  He ruffled her hair. “Wait until the boys come after you, kid. Will I give them a rough time if I’m still around!”

  He put the heavy gloves and jeans in the car early in the afternoon and changed to them later in the darkness of the evening before driving to Anne’s.

  The night felt warm as they drove toward the hills. Pete was along, lying on the floor in front of Anne.

  “With all these clouds, we won’t have a moon,” said Anne.

  “It would be a break if we got a thunderstor
m to cover some of my noise, but we couldn’t be that lucky.”

  Occasional moonlight broke through the low, swirling cloud masses as the car climbed into the bills. The wind picked up as if thunderstorm turbulence were not far away.

  Then Ron stopped, more than a mile from the turnoff point. “This will have to be it,” he said. “I don’t dare drive any closer. I’m going to take Pete with me. If I send him back alone that will mean I want you to bring the car up and I’ll meet you near the turn-off. Keep the motor running and have the car turned around. Otherwise, I’ll come back here with Pete.”

  “O.K., Ron,” she said quietly. “Do be careful and don’t take too many chances. Give it up if you have to.”

  “Keep track of the time. I shouldn’t be gone more than an hour and a half. If it goes beyond two and a half, go back to the house and tell Dad what I’ve done. The fat will really be in the fire then, but he’ll be the only one able to get it out. They’ll start wondering why we aren’t back from the show if they don’t hear from us by then.”

  He slipped the gloves on his hands, and patted Pete on the head. “Come on, boy. Stick with me and keep quiet.”

  Silently, the two figures vanished in the dark woods. He wore tennis shoes to deaden his footfall, and was skilled in moving quietly from long days of hunting. Pete had learned well, too. But the most important goal they’d ever had before was a jackrabbit or a deer.

  The very magnitude of their objective now seemed to load his feet with clumsiness that cracked every dry branch and rustled every leaf in the forest.

  He was approaching from the same direction he had come the first time, on the day of the discovery. He became aware that he had badly underestimated the time needed. It took him almost a half-hour to reach the spot above the ravine where the ship lay.

  He knew there ought to be a sentry somewhere in the vicinity.

  “Where is he, Pete?” he whispered. “Where’s the guard?”

  Pete’s head turned and he muttered low in his throat. Then Ron got a glimpse of a shadowy figure not fifty feet away. The guard was sitting on a log, his head against his arm and his rifle upright.

  It would be impossible to descend the slope without attracting the guard’s attention. Ron touched Pete. “Draw him away.”

  Pete hesitated a moment, then moved slowly away through the brush. In a few moments, from beyond the guard there came the rustle of trash as if Pete were kicking it around. The guard straightened instantly and moved cautiously toward the noise.

  As silently as possible, Ron worked his way down toward the ship. He came upon it from the wrecked side. Farther down the ravine, in front of the ship, two guards sat by a small fire.

  The light of their fire cast a yellow glow under the ship and onto the wreckage. It was faint, but any movement he might make would draw their instant attention, he knew.

  He kept to the darkness in the deeper part of the wreckage and felt of the jagged metal parts for handholds to draw himself up. He watched the guards out of the corner of his eye.

  He had taken a step when the guards leaped up and called into the darkness at the top of the ravine.

  “What’s up? What’s going on up there?”

  Ron froze into position to hear the other guard’s words. “Nothing but some animal. I chased him off into the brush.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. The two guards called back hearty derision to their comrade above.

  Then Ron was above the faint rays of the firelight and in the absolute darkness of the wreckage. He slipped, and half-fell a dozen times, and once the shriek of torn cloth betrayed him and left him panting in anxiety on a narrow girder for long minutes. But the guards did not appear.

  It took a full twenty minutes before he felt the smooth surface of the corridor floor. He pulled himself up on it and lay breathing a moment in anxious relief.

  From the edge he looked down and noted that he could lower the instrument straight to the ground in a shadowy spot. He had brought a stout cord for the purpose, but had not been sure it could be used. It would make the task a lot easier than having to carry possibly fifty pounds down the way he had come up.

  He rose after a brief rest, and moved on into the ship. From the map he felt sure he knew which corridor he was in. The room he needed was on one of the concentric branches that turned off halfway along this one.

  The map indicated how many he had to pass to reach it. Three of them. He counted them off in the darkness by feeling along the walls, not wishing to risk a light any sooner than necessary.

  There were markings in Clonar’s language on each corridor. When Ron reached the one he thought was correct, he risked a brief moment of light to read the mark which he had memorized from the map. Then he moved again in darkness along the new corridor.

  Once more he counted by noting the number of doors with his hands. He passed five and halted. This point was perilously close to the edge of the wreckage. The whole end of the corridor had been opened by a welder to get to the communications room on one side of it.

  Half-shading the flashlight with his hand, he turned it on. Ahead, the jagged opening led to the room he sought. His heart began beating more rapidly. Anxiety mounted that he would be caught before he finished his work.

  He suppressed a compulsion to flash the light down the corridor behind him. There was no purpose in it except to allay his fears, but its multiple reflections might draw any chance guard left in the ship.

  He moved on into the room and turned the light on the panels.

  They had been completely stripped.

  He almost cried aloud at the sight. Wooden benches had been set up around the room. On these were the panel units, dismantled to the last component part. Beside them were pieces of test equipment and cameras which had been used to photograph everything before it was touched.

  But such care would do Clonar no good now, Ron thought. He sagged against the wall, playing the fight slowly over the ruin. He felt as if the defeat were his own instead of Clonar’s.

  And it was! He had a responsibility to Clonar—and to his own race. A responsibility to show that Earthmen knew how to receive a guest from the stars.

  But they didn’t. They knew only how to grab and destroy.

  Ron turned the light on the diagram Clonar had drawn. The generator was indicated as the smallest of the panels. With this clue, he picked out a mass of components that he thought might have been it. The chassis was stripped. No two elements were left connected.

  He wondered if there were yet something here of worth to Clonar. He picked up as many of the components as possible and stuffed them into his pockets. He had no way of carrying them all, and somehow he felt certain that the entire mass held nothing of worth any longer.

  The shambles of the communication room seemed symbolical of all the hopes of Clonar, and there was nothing at all that Ron could do to bring order out of this ruin.

  He switched off the light and moved back along the corridor the way he had come.

  Chapter 9 Friend or Enemy?

  His apprehensions seemed to have doubled because of the failure of his mission. If he had been weighted down with the instrument on the return trip, the purpose would have overshadowed the danger. Now he had only danger left.

  In the darkness and silence he felt himself approaching panic and fought it back. He wanted to break and run as fast as he could down the radial corridor, flashing the light in all directions to make sure he was not watched by a hundred waiting guards.

  He forced himself to pad slowly and silently through blackness, counting the passageways he crossed. At last he came to the end and saw the firelit wreckage below. The voices of the chattering guards came faintly to his ears. And suddenly it seemed as if it were endless miles he had to go to reach the ground. The climb down through the twisted metal seemed an unbearable task.

  He glanced at his watch. More than an hour and a half had already passed since he left Anne.

  Wearily, he dropped over the edge of the
floor and hung in the darkness until his feet caught the narrow edge of a sloping girder. He clung to it and slid down.

  He groped and tested and moved from piece to piece. Halfway to the ground, he felt a sudden slash of fire along his right thigh. He groaned with the pain of it and lay flat, biting his hp in agony.

  A projecting spear of metal had slashed open the heavy jeans and the flesh of his leg.

  After endless minutes, he resumed the slow descent. Every step now seemed to throw the injured leg into contact with some object, and it was like touching it with a hot slab.

  As he came in range of the guards’ fire he noted with some relief that they seemed crouched in almost the same position he had last seen them. There was no sign of Pete. He felt a rising dread that the dog might have been shot, although he had heard no report.

  He reached the floor of the ravine at last and hurried from the wreck with cautious haste. He began ascent of the hill behind the ship. Numbness was creeping over his leg, and every minute increased the panicky desire to get away.

  Then, as he reached the top, he heard rustling in the brush above him. He flattened himself against the hillside. The rustling continued straight toward him as if he were spotlighted. He recognized the shaggy shape of the dog.

  “Pete,” he whispered softly. The dog nuzzled his face. “That was a good job, old boy. Now we’ve got to get out of here fast.”

  The reappearance of the dog was a break. He could send Pete to bring Anne closer and save him travel on the injured leg. Then, as he rose to continue, he clawed at a small, precariously balanced rock. The object overturned and hurtled through the underbrush.

  Almost at once a voice cried out from near by, “Halt, or I’ll fire.”

  Ron grew cold, but he seemed beyond panic now. He put an arm around the dog. “Stop him, Pete.”

  The dog slipped away. Ron looked down toward the guards at the fire. They seemed not to have heard. Abruptly, there was the sound of a scuffle in the brush, and the sound of a man’s cursing.