The Planet Killers

  According to present figures, there were some three thousand Terrans on Lurion, all of them private citizens there of their own accord. Diplomatic relations had not yet been established between Earth and Lurion, which saved Karnes from the additional guilt of knowing that he had destroyed fellow members of the civil service.

  The three thousand included students, tourists, writers, and more than a hundred jewel merchants. The Lurioni were eager purchasers of almost every sort of bauble. Choosing that as his profession would help to make Gardner that much less conspicuous as he waited for the arrival of the other members of his team.

  The entire project had been planned very carefully. Of course, the first team had had the benefit of careful planning too. And where were they? Gardner knew he would have to be sure to avoid their mistakes.

  The three remaining members of his team, Leopold, Weegan, and Archer, were scheduled to arrive on Lurion at intervals of approximately one week, each at a different spaceport on a different continent. Gardner had the arrival times of each man etched carefully into his memory. He didn’t dare entrust any detail of the project to paper. So far as history was concerned, Lurion’s violent death was going to be attributed to natural causes, and woe betide Gardner if the Lurioni, the Terran people themselves, or any other race of the galaxy got wind of exactly what was taking place.

  The murder of a planet was the most damning crime a race could commit. No matter that the murder was being committed solely to rid the galaxy of a potential plague spot. The act itself was infamous. Discovery of it would mean the end of Earth’s dominion in the universe. More than that, it might mean the end of Earth itself if the other planets of the galaxy chose to mete out to Earth what Earth had taken upon itself to mete out to Lurion.

  Five generators were to be set up at specified spatial intervals to resonate with the same deadly note. The moment those five generators were attuned to each other, Lurion would crumble in on itself and would be no more.

  It was simpler, Gardner thought, to declare all-out war. But a war required a real, not merely a potential provocation, and Terra preferred not to let itself be cast in the role of the aggressor.

  Or Lurion might be disposed of subtly by dropping a fission bomb into Betelgeuse to trigger a nova. But Betelgeuse was far too huge a star to toy with so casually. The consequences might not be so easy to deal with.

  No, Gardner thought. This was the only way.

  The cab came to a halt in front of a dark, gloomy-looking building designed very much in the ponderous style of Terran twenty-first century architecture.

  “Here we are,” the cabbie said. “That’ll be half a unit for the trip.”

  Pulling out a fistful of shiny Lurioni coins, Gardner counted out half a unit, added a ten-segment piece to it by way of tip, and climbed out of the cab. Gripping the handle of his suitcase tightly, he entered the lobby of the hotel.

  It had the atmosphere of a first-rate, second-class hotel. The lobby chairs looked old and comfortably overstuffed: the Lurioni on duty at the desk wore the eternally frozen mask of hotel desk-clerks all over the civilized galaxy.

  “You have a reservation for me,” Gardner said. “Roy Gardner, Earthman.”

  “A moment, Earthman.”

  The clerk scowled over his reservation forms. At last he looked up. “Yes. Your room is ready. The boy will show you to it.”

  It was on the fifth floor, a curious three-sided room, with the entrance at the base of the triangle. Lurioni architecture seemed to utilize the layout of triangular rooms, back-to-back to form larger squares. The room was small, not very well lit, and its air smelled stale.

  When the bellboy had left, Gardner sat down tiredly in the chair next to the bed. He glanced at the indicator on his wrist. The red panel and the white were lit. Next week Weegan would arrive, then Leopold the week after, and finally Archer three weeks hence. That would complete the team. That would seal Lurion’s doom.

  Until Archer’s arrival, there was nothing to do but wait.

  Chapter Three

  After refreshing himself with a quick vibrobath, Gardner donned a fresh tunic, checked his room for spy devices and left, carefully locking and sealing his door. The seal insured that nobody would be able to enter and prowl through his belongings while he was gone, a natural precaution for a jewel merchant, and a sensible one for someone carrying the sonic generator. Harmless though the device looked to a layman, there were those on Lurion who might conceivably be able to guess its dread purpose.

  The room sealed, Gardner rode down in the ancient lift-shaft, getting off at the second floor, where, a sign told him, the hotel dining room was located. It was after the normal Lurioni dinner hour, and the restaurant was practically deserted. An elderly Lurioni, surprisingly potbellied for one of his race, sat in one corner sleepily shoving yellowish noodles into his mouth. At another table, a bleak-faced Trigonian sipped juice. Two waiters lounged in the back, obviously waiting for the last customers to clear out so they might go off duty.

  One came shambling over to Gardner and dropped a grease-specked menu in front of him. The dishes were listed by their Lurioni names, with no attempt at an explanation of their contents.

  Gardner picked one out at random and said, “What do they make this Varr Kinash out of?”

  The waiter shrugged. “It is good. You will like it.”

  “Yes, but what’s it made of?”

  “Meat with vegetables.”

  Scowling, Gardner realized he wasn’t going to get any specific details from the Lurioni. “All right, let’s have some,” he said.

  Service was abysmally slow. When the food finally came, Varr Kinash turned out to be a sort of stew; chunks of pale-looking meat and gobbets of fat were afloat on a glutinous mass of vegetables and sticky sauce. The actual flavor was much less repugnant than the appearance of the dish had promised, but Gardner was hardly pleased by his first encounter with Lurioni cuisine. Grimly, he ate his way through three-quarters of the stuff, out of sheer hunger if nothing else. But he told himself that if this were a fair sample of the local cooking, the gourmets of the universe would be losing very little through the destruction of Lurion.

  When the waiter finally brought Gardner his check, the Earthman signed it, covered it with what he hoped was an adequate tip, and left. The waiters returned to lounging in the back. The plump Lurioni was still gravely devouring noodles.

  It was still fairly early in the evening, with several hours yet to go before midnight. But Gardner was tired; he had already had a very active day, and there was nothing he could accomplish now that would serve him better than getting some rest.

  He undressed, darkened his lights, and got into bed. But hardly had he shut his eyes and begun to doze than he was awakened almost immediately by the annoying buzz of his door-announcer.

  He sat up and blinked irritably.

  “Yes?”

  A high-pitched Lurioni voice said, “There’s a call for you, ser Gardner. You’ll have to take it at the main phone downstairs.”

  “Thanks,” Gardner said wearily. He felt tension quicken his pulse. There was only one person on Lurion who would try to get in touch with him this evening. “I’ll be there right away,” he said, struggling out of bed and switching on the light again.

  It took him several minutes to dress. When he finally opened the door, he saw a grinning Lurioni boy waiting in the hall with long arms folded in an improbable knot. He was obviously still waiting for a tip.

  Persistent devil , Gardner thought. He gave the boy a coin.

  The youngster took it grudgingly and stepped aside while Gardner once again locked and sealed his door. The boy was studying the mechanics of the seal with great interest.

  “Will you show me where the phone is?”

  “Maybe.”

  Gardner scowled and surrendered another coin, muttering a few unprintable words of Terran under his breath.

  “This way,” the boy said.

  The Earthman followed him down the
narrow corridor to the lift-shaft, and they rode down to the main lobby. There, Gardner was led to a tiny alcove in a corner near the registration desk. The boy drew aside a moth-eaten cloth curtain, bowed mockingly, and departed.

  The phone was of the public-communicator type that had been obsolete on Earth for more than fifty years. It lacked a visi-screen. Gardner thumbed the switch and said, “Hello?”

  “Am I talking to Mr. White? ”

  “No—that is, yes! Yes; this is white,” Gardner said hastily, realizing that the reference was to his color on the indicator band. “Who am I talking to, please?” he asked.

  “I’m a friend of yours from the old country, Mr. White. Perhaps you don’t remember me, but I’d like very much to get to see you. If we could meet, you’d realize that I had red blood in my veins.”

  He accented red . Red was Smee’s color on the indicator band. So that was the confirmation.

  “That would be a very good idea,” Gardner said, coming awake rapidly. “But isn’t it too late tonight? I’ll abide by yours wishes, of course.”

  “Tonight would be best,” Smee said. “It’s been so long since the last time I heard a fellow countryman’s voice that I don’t think I care to wait. Would that be terribly inconvenient for you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Gardner said. “I can always relax some other time. Where can we get together?”

  “There’s a bar that I’m very fond of on One Thousand Six and the Lane of Light,” Smee said. “Any cab driver will be able to get you there. It’s in North City. Would you care to meet me there in … say, an hour?”

  “Fine,” Gardner said. “I’ll be there.”

  “How are you enjoying your stay on Lurion so far, Mr. White?”

  “It’s been very instructive. Thanks ever so much for getting in touch with me tonight. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  Gardner hung up. He hadn’t bothered to arrange any identification signals with Smee. The other agent was smart enough to find some way of identifying himself, and, since the phone might, very well be tapped, the less there was between them byway of signals and other cloak-and dagger hocus-pocus, the less suspicious the Lurioni authorities were likely to be.

  He went back upstairs and, before entering his room, checked the seal on his door to satisfy his curiosity. Sure enough, it had been approached, probably by the same houseboy who had brought him the message.

  But the seal hadn’t been tampered with; it had merely been pressed and prodded and investigated a little. There was absolutely no way to get that single giant molecule off the door without the key, and since the key happened to be Gardner’s breath he wasn’t particularly worried about being robbed. Thumbprints could be imitated, but it was a little harder to match a man’s breath. And he doubted that anyone wanted to get into his room desperately enough to pull the wall apart.

  Gardner exhaled, and the patch of seal that prevented entry slid together into a globe no bigger than his fist. Putting his thumb to the conventional doorplate lock underneath, he opened it and went in.

  The room was as he had left it. The Earthman checked briefly, examining the sonic generator and his wallet and the jewels. All were intact. He slipped a few bills out of his wallet and put the rest away. Then, popping an anti-fatigue tablet in his mouth to keep him going the rest of the evening, he left, locking up again and sealing the door.

  “Where can I get a taxi?” he asked at the desk.

  “We will have to summon one.”

  Gardner waited. At length, a cab appeared in front of the hotel. It was an old model, scarred and paint-patched, but the Earthman had no choice. Wearily tipping the desk clerk, Gardner got in.

  “One Thousand Six and the Lane of light,” Gardner told the driver.

  “Ten-segment extra for crossing into North City, ser Earthman.”

  “All right,” Gardner said. He slouched irritatedly back in his seat. These Lurioni could bleed a man white with their endless demands for tips and bonuses and special charges.

  The cab ride was jouncy and uncomfortable. They wound northward through desolate slums, then through more imposing residential areas, and finally across a massive bridge that arched across a dark, sluggish little river.

  The neighborhood brightened considerably on the north side of the stream. The cab came to a halt finally in a neighborhood studded with brilliant glow-signs; the boulevard stretched brightly off into the distance as far as Gardner could see. The Lane of Light had been well named.

  Paying the cabbie, Gardner dismounted and found himself at a triangular wedge of streets all intersecting at the Lane of Light. He chose the one that bore the number-sign One Thousand Six, turned left, and was confronted immediately with the leaded glass windows of a bar.

  Gardner entered and stood for a moment just within the doorway, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dim light. He plucked the image of Smee out of his memory and searched for someone here who matched that picture of a short, tough-faced, balding man.

  On his second sweep around, Gardner saw him. The register in the back of his mind clicked and instinctively said, There he is .

  Smee was sitting by himself in the back corner of the bar, sipping a greenish drink. He was not looking at Gardner.

  Gardner walked toward him and stood to one side of the table.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  Smee looked up casually from his drink, evidencing neither surprise nor warmth. “Suit yourself, friend. There’s plenty of room for both of us at this table.”

  Gardner wondered whether he had been recognized. Terran espionage channels had been able to get his name to Smee, and the place where he was staying, but not necessarily a physical description. He sat down and said, “Mighty white of you, Mister.”

  The other grinned. “Hello, Gardner. Glad you’re here.”

  “Smee?”

  “Of course.”

  A Lurioni bartender appeared, fawned servilely, and inquired elaborately after the state of Gardner’s health. But behind the courteous facade was an easily visible barrier of scorn, hatred, and contempt.

  “Would the noble Earthman care for a drink?”

  “The Earthman would,” Gardner said. “Suppose you give me … ah …” He fumbled, not knowing what to order, and finished up lamely, “Suppose you give me the same thing my friend here is having.”

  “Certainly. One khall , at once. Do you drink it cool or warm?”

  A quick glance at Smee provided no helpful hint. “Cool,” Gardner bluffed.

  “Your taste is excellent, ser Earthman. The drink is at its finest when cool.”

  After the waiter had gone to place the order, Smee muttered, “He’s a lying scoundrel. If you had ordered it warm, he would have told you the same thing.”

  “Professional courtesy?”

  “Just a love of lying,” Smee said. “You’re a prince among humanoids so long as there’s a segment in your pocket; then he’ll flatter you from here to Orion. But once you run out of cash, your existence ceases to matter here.”

  The drink arrived. It was served in a tall colorless glass, topped with a sprinkling of spice. Some sort of sliced fruit dangled limply over the rim. The drink itself was deep green in color.

  Gardner stared at the glass reflectively before sipping. He had read Smee’s report on the unhappy fate of his predecessor Davis. Davis had sampled khall on his first night on Lurion, too, and it had been his immediate undoing. He had even pawned his sonic generator eventually to buy more khall . Smee had redeemed the pawn at once, but by that time it was obvious that the first destruction team was doomed to failure.

  Smee was watching him curiously.

  “An unfortunate predilection for drinking khall was the downfall of a friend of ours,” Smee remarked in a detached, ironic way.

  “I know,” Gardner said. “I was just thinking about the same thing. But I’m curious to see what stuff the vintners sell, etc. It must have been pretty potent to ruin Davis like that.”

 
Gardner touched the glass hesitantly to his lips and let a small amount of the beverage enter his mouth. He frowned, swirled it around critically on his tongue, finally swallowed it.

  The khall was sweet on first taste, he thought, with an immediate aftertaste of sourness. It was a subtle sort of drink, but not one that Gardner would care to drink very often.

  “Interesting,” he said. “But I’d hardly feel the loss if I never had any again.”

  The short man smiled. “Each man has his own poison. The fondness for khall grows on you in direct proportion to the quantity you consume. Davis liked khall to a fault. It … it made him forget things.”

  “I see you’re drinking it,” Gardner said. “Do you want to forget things too?”

  “I’ve been here six months,” Smee said. “For six months I’ve been in the position of a jailer who lives right in the cell with the condemned man. I won’t get forgetfulness out of a bottle that easily.” He took a deep draught of his drink, none the less, and said, “When are your friends due here?”

  “One, two, and three weeks, respectively. It’ll be good to have the whole gang of us together, won’t it?” Gardner said.

  “Downright jolly.” Smee ventured a funereal grin, but replaced it immediately with a cold frown. “Have you had any trouble yet?”

  “Trouble?”

  “Inside, I mean.” He tapped his chest. “Inflammation of the conscience. Swollen guilt glands. That sort of trouble.” Gardner saw what Smee meant, and shook his head.

  “No. I haven’t had that sort of trouble yet. But there’s three weeks, yet, isn’t there?”

  “Yes. Three weeks. At least.” Smee sipped again at his drink, and ran thick, stubby, powerful fingers through the comic fringe of fuzz on his scalp. In a muzzy voice Smee said, “Long time, three weeks, Gardner. Very long time. And maybe something will go wrong. Maybe we both stay here another six months. Or six years. Or sixty years. Or six hundred sixty …”

  Gardner suddenly made the discovery that Smee was drunk. It was a quiet sort of drunk, that didn’t show from without.