The Stars, Like Dust

  Biron said, “I’ve got to see Commissioner Aratap.”

  “Is that what you’re making a noise about?” The guard was not in the best of humors. The night watch was unpopular and he was losing at cards. “I’ll mention it after lights-on.”

  “It won’t wait.” Biron felt desperate. “It’s important.”

  “It will have to wait. Will you get back, or do you want a bit of the whip?”

  “Look,” said Biron, “the man with me is Gillbret oth Hinriad. He is sick. He may be dying. If a Hinriad dies on a Tyrannian ship because you will not let me speak to the man in authority, you will not have a good time of it.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know. Will you be quick or are you tired of life?”

  The guard mumbled something and was off.

  Biron watched him as far as he could see in the dim purple. He strained his ears in an attempt to catch the heightened throbbing of the engines as energy concentration climbed to a pre-Jump peak, but he heard nothing at all.

  He strode to Gillbret, seized the man’s hair, and pulled his head back gently. Eyes stared into his out of a contorted face. There was no recognition in them, only fear.

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s only me—Biron. How do you feel?”

  It took time for the words to penetrate. Gillbret said, blankly, “Biron?” Then, with a quiver of life, “Biron! Are they Jumping? Death won’t hurt, Biron.”

  Biron let the head drop. No point in anger against Gillbret. On the information he had, or thought he had, it was a great gesture. All the more so, since it was breaking him.

  But he was writhing in frustration. Why wouldn’t they let him speak to Aratap? Why wouldn’t they let him out? He found himself at a wall and beat upon it with his fists. If there were a door, he could break it down; if there were bars, he could pull them apart or drag them out of their sockets, by the Galaxy.

  But there was a force field, which nothing could damage. He yelled again.

  There were footsteps once more. He rushed to the open-yet-not-open door. He could not look out to see who was coming down the corridor. He could only wait.

  It was the guard again. “Get back from the field,” he barked. “Step back with your hands in front of you.” There was an officer with him.

  Biron retreated. The other’s neuronic whip was on him, unwaveringly. Biron said, “The man with you is not Aratap. I want to speak to the Commissioner.”

  The officer said, “If Gillbret oth Hinriad is ill, you don’t want to see the Commissioner. You want to see a doctor.”

  The force field was down, with a dim blue spark showing as contact broke. The officer entered, and Biron could see the Medical Group insignia on his uniform.

  Biron stepped in front of him. “All right. Now listen to me. This ship mustn’t Jump. The Commissioner is the only one who can see to that, and I must see him. Do you understand that? You’re an officer. You can have him awakened.”

  The doctor put out an arm to brush Biron aside, and Biron batted it away. The doctor cried out sharply and called, “Guard, get this man out of here.”

  The guard stepped forward and Biron dived. They went thumping down together, and Biron clawed up along the guard’s body, hand over hand, seizing first the shoulder and then the wrist of the arm that was trying to bring its whip down upon him.

  For a moment they remained frozen, straining against one another, and then Biron caught motion at the corner of his eye. The medical officer was rushing past them to sound the alarm.

  Biron’s hand, the one not holding the other’s whip wrist, shot out and seized the officer’s ankle. The guard writhed nearly free, and the officer kicked out wildly at him, but, with the veins standing out on his neck and temples, Biron pulled desperately with each hand.

  The officer went down, shouting hoarsely. The guard’s whip clattered to the floor with a harsh sound.

  Biron fell upon it, rolled with it, and came up on his knees and one hand. In his other was the whip.

  “Not a sound,” he gasped. “Not one sound. Drop anything else you’ve got.”

  The guard, staggering to his feet, his tunic ripped, glared hatred and tossed a short, metal-weighted, plastic club away from himself. The doctor was unarmed.

  Biron picked up the club. He said, “Sorry. I have nothing to tie and gag you with and no time anyway.”

  The whip flashed dimly once, twice. First the guard and the doctor stiffened in agonized immobility and dropped solidly, in one piece, legs and arms bent grotesquely out from their bodies as they lay, in the attitude they had last assumed before the whip struck.

  Biron turned to Gillbret, who was watching with dull, soundless vacuity.

  “Sorry,” said Biron, “but you, too, Gillbret,” and the whip flashed a third time.

  The vacuous expression was frozen solid as Gillbret lay there on his side.

  The force field was still down and Biron stepped out into the corridor. It was empty. This was space-ship “night” and only the watch and the night details would be up.

  There would be no time to try to locate Aratap. It would have to be straight for the engine room. He set off. It would be toward the bow, of course.

  A man in engineer’s work clothes hurried past him.

  “When’s the next Jump?” called out Biron.

  “About half an hour,” the engineer returned over his shoulder.

  “Engine room straight ahead?”

  “And up the ramp.” The man turned suddenly. “Who are you?”

  Biron did not answer. The whip flared a fourth time. He stepped over the body and went on. Half an hour left.

  He heard the noise of men as he sped up the ramp. The light ahead was white, not purple. He hesitated. Then he put the whip into his pocket. They would be busy. There would be no reason for them to suspect him.

  He stepped in quickly. The men were pygmies scurrying about the huge matter-energy converters. The room glared with dials, a hundred thousand eyes staring their information out to all who would look. A ship this size, one almost in the class of a large passenger liner, was considerably different from the tiny Tyrannian cruiser he had been used to. There, the engines had been all but automatic. Here they were large enough to power a city, and required considerable supervision.

  He was on a railed balcony that circled the engine room. In one corner there was a small room in which two men handled computers with flying fingers.

  He hurried in that direction, while engineers passed him without looking at him, and stepped through the door.

  The two at the computers looked at him.

  “What’s up?” one asked. “What are you doing up here? Get back to your post.” He had a lieutenant’s stripes.

  Biron said, “Listen to me. The hyperatomics have been shorted. They’ve got to be repaired.”

  “Hold on,” said the second man. “I’ve seen this man. He’s one of the prisoners. Hold him, Lancy.”

  He jumped up and was making his way out the other door. Biron hurdled the desk and the computer, seized the belt of the controlman’s tunic, and pulled him backward.

  “Correct,” he said. “I’m one of the prisoners. I’m Biron of Widemos. But what I say is true. The hyperatomics are shorted. Have them inspected, if you don’t believe me.”

  The lieutenant found himself staring at a neuronic whip. He said, carefully, “It can’t be done, sir, without orders from Officer of the Day, or from the Commissioner. It would mean changing the Jump calculations and delaying us hours.”

  “Get the authority, then. Get the Commissioner.”

  “May I use the communicator?”

  “Hurry.”

  The lieutenant’s arm reached out for the flaring mouthpiece of the communicator, and halfway there plummeted down hard upon the row of knobs at one end of his desk. Bells clamored in every corner of the ship.

  Biron’s club was too late. It came down hard upon the lieutenant’s wrist. The lieutenant sna
tched it away, nursing it and moaning over it, but the warning signals were sounding.

  Guards were rocketing in upon the balcony through every entrance. Biron slammed out of the control room, looked in either direction, then hopped the railing.

  He plummeted down, landing knees bent, and rolled. He rolled as rapidly as he could to prevent setting himself up as a target. He heard the soft hissing of a needle gun near his ear, and then he was in the shadow of one of the engines.

  He stood up in a crouch, huddling beneath its curve. His right leg was a stabbing pain. Gravity was high so near the ship’s hull and the drop had been a long one. He had sprained his knee badly. It meant that there would be no more chase. If he won out, it was to be from where he stood.

  He called out, “Hold your fire! I am unarmed.” First the club and then the whip he had taken from the guard went spinning out toward the center of the engine room. They lay there in stark impotence and plain view.

  Biron shouted, “I have come to warn you. The hyperatomics are shorted. A Jump will mean the death of us all. I ask only that you check the motors. You will lose a few hours, perhaps, if I am wrong. You will save your lives if I am right.”

  Someone called, “Go down there and get him.”

  Biron yelled, “Will you sell your lives rather than listen?”

  He heard the cautious sound of many feet, and shrank backward. Then there was a sound above. A soldier was sliding down the engine toward him, hugging its faintly warm skin as though it were a bride. Biron waited. He could still use his arms.

  And then the voice came from above, unnaturally loud, penetrating every corner of the huge room. It said, “Back to your places. Halt preparations for the Jump. Check the hyperatomics.”

  It was Aratap, speaking through the public-address system. The order then came, “Bring the young man to me.”

  Biron allowed himself to be taken. There were two soldiers on each side, holding him as though they expected him to explode. He tried to force himself to walk naturally, but he was limping badly.

  Aratap was in semidress. His eyes seemed different: faded, peering, unfocused. It occurred to Biron that the man wore contact lenses.

  Aratap said, “You have created quite a stir, Farrill.”

  “It was necessary to save the ship. Send these guards away. As long as the engines are being investigated, there’s nothing more I intend doing.”

  “They will stay just awhile. At least, until I hear from my engine men.”

  They waited, silently, as the minutes dragged on, and then there was a flash of red upon the frosted-glass circle above the glowing lettering that read “Engine Room.”

  Aratap opened contact. “Make your report!”

  The words that came were crisp and hurried: “Hyperatomics on the C Bank completely shorted. Repairs under way.”

  Aratap said, “Have Jump recalculated for plus six hours.”

  He turned to Biron and said coolly, “You were right.”

  He gestured. The guards saluted, turned on their heels, and left one by one with a smooth precision.

  Aratap said, “The details, please.”

  “Gillbret oth Hinriad during his stay in the engine room thought the shorting would be a good idea. The man is not responsible for his actions and must not be punished for it.”

  Aratap nodded. “He has not been considered responsible for years. That portion of the events will remain between you and me only. However, my interest and curiosity are aroused by your reasons for preventing the destruction of the ship. You are surely not afraid to die in a good cause?”

  “There is no cause,” said Biron. “There is no rebellion world. I have told you so already and I repeat it. Lingane was the center of revolt, and that has been checked. I was interested only in tracking down my father’s murderer, the Lady Artemisia only in escaping an unwanted marriage. As for Gillbret, he is mad.”

  “Yet the Autarch believed in the existence of this mysterious planet. Surely he gave me the co-ordinates of something!”

  “His belief is based on a madman’s dream. Gillbret dreamed something twenty years ago. Using that as a basis, the Autarch calculated five possible planets as the site of this dream world. It is all nonsense.”

  The Commissioner said, “And yet something disturbs me.”

  “What?”

  “You are working so hard to persuade me. Surely I will find all this out for myself once I have made the Jump. Consider that it is not impossible that in desperation one of you might endanger the ship and the other save it as a complicated method for convincing me that I need look no further for the rebellion world. I would say to myself: If there were really such a world, young Farrill would have let the ship vaporize, for he is a young man and romantically capable of dying what he would consider a hero’s death. Since he has risked his life to prevent that happening, Gillbret is mad, there is no rebellion world, and I will return without searching further. Am I too complicated for you?”

  “No. I understand you.”

  “And since you have saved our lives, you will receive appropriate consideration in the Khan’s court. You will have saved your life and your cause. No, young sir, I am not quite so ready to believe the obvious. We will still make the Jump.”

  “I have no objections,” said Biron.

  “You are cool,” said Aratap. “It is a pity you were not born one of us.”

  He meant it as a compliment. He went on, “We’ll take you back to your cell now, and replace the force field. A simple precaution.”

  Biron nodded.

  The guard that Biron had knocked out was no longer there when they returned to the prison room, but the doctor was. He was bending over the still-unconscious form of Gillbret. Aratap said, “Is he still under?”

  At his voice the doctor jumped up. “The effects of the whip have worn off, Commissioner, but the man is not young and has been under a strain. I don’t know if he will recover.”

  Biron felt horror fill him. He dropped to his knees, disregarding the wrenching pain, and reached out a hand to touch Gillbret’s shoulder gently.

  “Gil,” he whispered. He watched the damp, white face anxiously.

  “Out of the way, man.” The medical officer was scowling at him. He removed his black doctor’s wallet from an inner pocket.

  “At least the hypodermics aren’t broken,” he grumbled. He leaned over Gillbret, the hypodermic, filled with its colorless fluid, poised. It sank deep, and the plunger pressed inward automatically. The doctor tossed it aside and they waited.

  Gillbret’s eyes flickered, then opened. For a while they stared unseeingly. When he spoke finally, his voice was a whisper. “I can’t see, Biron. I can’t see.”

  Biron leaned close again. “It’s all right, Gil. Just rest.”

  “I don’t want to.” He tried to struggle upright. “Biron, when are they Jumping?”

  “Soon, soon!”

  “Stay with me, then. I don’t want to die alone.” His fingers clutched feebly, and then relaxed. His head lolled backward. The doctor stooped, then straightened. “We were too late. He’s dead.”

  Tears stung at Biron’s eyelids. “I’m sorry, Gil,” he said, “but you didn’t know. You didn’t understand.” They didn’t hear him.

  They were hard hours for Biron. Aratap had refused to allow him to attend the ceremonies involved in the burial of a body at space. Somewhere in the ship, he knew, Gillbret’s body would be blasted in an atomic furnace and then exhausted into space, where its atoms might mingle forever with the thin wisps of interstellar matter.

  Artemisia and Hinrik would be there. Would they understand? Would she understand that he had done only what he had to do?

  The doctor had injected the cartilaginous extract that would hasten the healing of Biron’s torn ligaments, and already the pain in his knee was barely noticeable, but then that was only physical pain, anyway. It could be ignored.

  He felt the inner disturbance that meant the ship had Jumped and then the worst tim
e came.

  Earlier he had felt his own analysis to be correct. It had to be. But what if he were wrong? What if they were now at the very heart of rebellion? The information would go streaking back to Tyrann and the armada would gather. And he himself would die knowing that he might have saved the rebellion, but had risked death to ruin it.

  It was during that dark time that he thought of the document again. The document he had once failed to get.

  Strange the way the notion of the document came and went. It would be mentioned, and then forgotten. There was a mad, intensive search for the rebellion world and yet no search at all for the mysterious vanished document.

  Was the emphasis being misplaced?

  It occurred to Biron then that Aratap was willing to come upon the rebellion world with a single ship. What was that confidence he had? Could he dare a planet with a ship?

  The Autarch had said the document had vanished years before, but then who had it?

  The Tyranni, perhaps. They might have a document the secret of which would allow one ship to destroy a world.

  If that were true, what did it matter where the rebellion world was, or if it existed at all.

  Time passed and then Aratap entered. Biron rose to his feet.

  Aratap said, “We have reached the star in question. There is a star there. The co-ordinates given us by the Autarch were correct.”

  “Well?”

  “But there is no need to inspect it for planets. The star, I am told by my astrogators, was a nova less than a million years ago. If it had planets then, they were destroyed. It is a white dwarf now. It can have no planets.”

  Biron stared. “Then——”

  Aratap said, “So you are right. There is no rebellion world.”

  22. THERE!

  All of Aratap’s philosophy could not completely wipe out the feeling of regret within him. For a while he had not been himself, but his father over again. He, too, these last weeks had been leading a squadron of ships against the enemies of the Khan.

  But these were degenerate days, and where there might have been a rebellion world, there was none. There were no enemies of the Khan after all; no worlds to gain. He remained only a Commissioner, still condemned to the soothing of little troubles. No more.