Roose stretched. “As neat a job as I ever had a hand in. The chief might have been taking company compounds all his life.”
Rysdyke stirred. “He might just have to take over more than this compound.”
Joktar leaned back, his slung seat swayed a little. “Trouble with Samms?”
“Yes.” With an overflow of furs, Roose fitted his bulk into another of the cabin seats. “I kinda thought Samms was shaping up into a lord-high-what-have-you, but, again, he isn’t too solid with his own mob. The Perks deal still smells as far as some of the boys are concerned. I’d say if our chief raised his finger and said, ‘Boys, I’m taking over, as of here and now,’ Samms could only ask for a blast out to settle it. Then he’d have as much chance as a snowball in a vorp beam. The chief moves slow when he’s not being snarled at, but I’ve seen him take two call-outs against top men. He’s alive: they aren’t.”
“Who is Hogan?” Joktar asked impulsively.
Rysdyke’s voice was chill. “We don’t ask a man here on Fenris what he was off-world. Hogan was a trader in Siwaki. When the trade was pinched off, he turned woods-runner.”
“Sure,” Roose nodded. “Only me, I don’t think he was ever trader, or hunter. He gets a big kick out of blasting the companies where it hurts the most. But he knows a lot about what’s going on off-world. You heard how he spouted off at the meeting. I think he’s an undercover man for someone big—”
“Ship!”
This time they all recognized the voice. Rysdyke caught for the mike eagerly.
“Ship here.”
“This is Hogan. The deal’s complete, visitors coming, be ready to open ports.”
“That we will, chief.”
Roose sent his seat bobbing with a stir. “Wonder what kind of a deal they made. Might circulate a little and find out.”
“We stick here. Too easy for someone to sneak in and take over, the same way we did.” Rysdyke put down the mike.
“When do you take off for Loki?” Roose wanted to know.
The pilot shrugged. “It’ll have to be soon. Hogan wants to planet before Cullan arrives.”
“Loki. Fenris is cold, Hel hot, and Loki bare of rock and water. This is a damn twister of a system.”
“You chose to come here.”
“Sure, but then me, I’m second-generation from Westlund. We’re used to cold there. It’s not as bad as Fenris, but still cold. I came here for the first alibite rush. Staked me a good claim down on the Frater. That was before the companies rigged registration. I was doing pretty good ten years ago, then they started the freeze-out. My stamper broke down in a cold clip, couldn’t get me a new one through their shipping regulations. So . . .” he spread out his mittened hands, “I lost time on the claim, couldn’t deliver my tax quota and they took over. They did the same with all the early boys—those who weren’t burned trying to fight it out.
“Well, I’d done some lamby hunting on the side, so I made a fresh start that way, dealing through the chief. When they tried to stamp him flat, we both hit the outlands together. I figure the companies owe me about eight years’ living. Maybe now I can collect some of that.”
“Party coming.” Joktar had been watching the plate.
Roose squinted at the view of the outside. “Yeah, the chief’s leading them. I’ll go down and open the door.”
Joktar lay on a narrow bunk, pressure straps anchoring him. The ship strained now to break the planetary bounds of gravity. Had he felt this before?
Those hazy memories which could not be recaptured, yet existed far inside his brain, answered yes.
Weight crushed him, lay heavy on his bones, lungs, flesh. He fought back in his own way, striving to relax nerve and muscle. They were heading out from Fenris. Slowly, he turned his head to glance at the other occupant of the small cabin.
Hogan lay still, his eyes closed. He must still be anesthetized by the take-off shot. Joktar’s private wonder grew. Why hadn’t he, himself, succumbed to that anodyne which eased passengers and crew alike, save for the pilot, through the discomfort of the first upward thrust? In these small ships, the break shot was mandatory and he had thought it always worked.
The vibrations reaching him through the walls, the bunk on which he lay, the very air of the cabin was not the punishment he had feared, but rather something more—an energizing revitalizer. He was more alert and alive in spite of the pressure than he had ever remembered being before. It was as if this environment was for him the normal and rational one.
As the pressure lessened, he wanted out of the confines of the cabin. He unfastened the buckles of the straps, sat up on the bunk. The magnetic soles of his looted crew boots anchored him. He took four steps out of the cabin to the ladder. There he paused, making a new discovery. This too was familiar, yet he was no spaceman.
Joktar went to the control cabin. Rysdyke half-lay, half-sat in the pilot’s chair, within finger reach of the manual controls. The ship was on auto, but any slip must be instantly rectified by human training and intelligence.
The Terran dropped into the matching seat before the com-unit, watching the vision plate. There was Fenris covering three-quarters of the screen, silver, dark blue, as cold to the sight as it was to all the other senses of the men who battled its forbidding land masses. Joktar closed his eyes, reopened them. That blue and silver ball . . . the color was wrong . . . some long-repressed memory shouted so vigorously that he stirred uneasily.
“Gold,” he murmured, unaware that the spoke aloud, “a golden world . . .”
Rysdyke was relaxed in the embrace of his chair, the strain of take-off beginning to fade from his young-old face.
“A golden world,” he repeated softly. “There is one golden world, or so they say. The Ffallian know . . .” Again he slid into that other unknown tongue with its singing lilt, “Ffal, yruktar llyumn, Ris syuarktur mann . . .”
To Joktar, the sounds sang, he could almost make sense of them. But because he could not break the barrier within himself, a small spark of rage glowed. He was being deprived of something truly his own, and until he regained that lost treasure he could not live as did other men.
“Who are the Ffallian and where is the golden world?” His demand was as sharp as a blaster bolt.
Rysdyke answered the second part of his question: “Not on any map of ours.”
“Why?”
“Because when it was offered to us, we threw it away. Or rather it was thrown away for us.” The frustration in Rysdyke’s answer matched the bitterness Joktar knew.
“Why?”
“Because,” the pilot brought his fist down upon the edge of the control panel as if he were beating against a firmly closed door, “our vips will not admit that we have superiors in space!”
“But the Kandas, the Thas, the Zaft,” Joktar told the roll of the planet civilizations the Terrans had found, “none of them have galactic ships, and only the Tlolen are free in their own solar system.”
“Yes, those who are not to our own level, we can acknowledge them,” Rysdyke sneered. “But you haven’t heard of the Ffallian, have you, nor of the others . . . those who claim the golden world? We knew . . . we in the service. I myself saw a video tape and heard . . .” his voice softened. “And I tried to go out there. That’s why they blasted me out of space! Proper scouts see nothing, hear nothing, and never tell anything which is not covered by regulations!”
“Scouts?”
“Those in exploration service. But that had its Bluebeard chambers. You stayed in the limits of your assigned sector; some sectors were off-limits altogether. I found a beacon on an asteroid. The signal called me in. And I wasn’t the first who had answered. There was a scout ship anchored there, an obsolete type. And in it was a message tape; I ran it for reading, against orders. Then I wanted to go, too.”
“To go where?”
“To where the beacon gave a course, as the other scout had before me. Only I’d signaled in when I first found the beacon and the patrol was after me
before I could relay to the Others that I was waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For those who set the beacon. It was all down there on the tape. We knew of the Ffallian, we’d seen their ships. The patrol had tried to blast them, only they can’t touch them. But the Ffallian are only the messengers—guides—the helping hands we slapped away. For learning that, I was cashiered and sent to Hel in a labor battalion. Hogan got me out because he had need for a pilot. I think he was planning to run an old tramp bucket in here for trading. But he knows about the Ffallian, too, and he doesn’t believe in the quarantine.”
“What about the scout in the ship you found?”
“He was lucky, he went out there. Quite a few scouts have over the years.”
“Perhaps they were captured.”
“No!” Rysdyke’s answer was emphatic. “Those tapes . . . they were the real thing. There’s no reason to fear the Ffallian. Why, they’ve tried over and over to make contact with us peacefully. And one of our scouts came back and he was shot by command of his own officer.”
“Why?”
“Because he had been out there, because he could prove it was all true. He was reported on the records as having been killed by the Others. But you can’t shut up a whole post personnel and there was talk. Yes, Marson had been with the Ffallian, and the Others . . . those who roam the stars we have never explored. And he came back.”
“Why?”
“He brought a concrete offer from them.”
“Why don’t the services want anything to do with these aliens?”
“Because they are afraid, the vips are anyway. Those Others have what we do not—immortality.” Rysdyke stared at the vision plate as if he saw there something other than the harsh disc of Fenris. “Mortals and immortals. The mortals fear and hate the Others for the futures we do not have. We made contact years ago and the vips were frightened, frustrated, felt like children trying to be men. They lashed out, killed, withdrew our forces. But the war has been on our side only.”
“Very true. Except that the Others are not immortal.”
Hogan emerged from the stairwell. Wearing the tunic of a ship’s officer, he had become a man who might pass unnoticed in the trade section of N’Yok itself.
“No, they are not immortal. That is one thing we have learned, and the truth has been concealed by those of our kind who must build monsters to hold their own power. The aliens only have a longer life span.”
“But why?”
Hogan dropped into the third seat. “Oh, it’s all of a piece. We made our first contact fifty years ago. Some men had the facts—Morre, Ksanga, Thom (the Great Thom’s grandfather), Marson . . .”
“Morre?” repeated Joktar. Morre was long-dead, his star empire built upon his personal charm and brilliance had collapsed speedily.
“Just so Morre was a fanatic, a dangerous one. He was outraged by what he learned at the first contact. The superiority upon which his whole nature was secured was threatened. To him, the aliens were a horrible threat, not only to mankind at large, but to him personally, which was worse. So he took steps. Reports were faked, distorted. We were told stories, such as Thom was spaced and murdered by the Others. There were atrocity tales spread among the services, if not the public. Morre had the power to do it. Over a period of a very few years, he produced the monsters he believed in. And even after his death, the faked evidence stood. In his way, Morre was a genius, but we have to suffer for his sins.”
“So we fought them,” Rysdyke’s voice was tired and bleak.
“Yes, in a one-sided way. The Ffallian understood. They withdrew for their own safety—which for at least one reason is more precious than we knew until recently. But they never gave up their hope for a meeting between our species and the aliens they represent. They set up beacons, subtly tuned to attract only men with whom they could establish contact. So men did disappear . . . traders, scouts. Only the Ffallian are not our problem. We have plans to make for Loki!”
“To meet Cullan . . .”
Hogan sat quietly, there was a peculiar quality to his silence. He was making up his mind, Joktar believed, being hurried into a decision he would have liked to consider more leisurely.
“On the surface Cullan . . .”
“On the surface?” It was Joktar who applied the prod.
“We have Sa and Minta on board. Their proposition is to see Cullan with them. He will stay at the Seven Stars in Nornes. I’ll be with them and so will Samms. And we’ll all be under surveillance every moment of the time. So we’ll keep one line free. You,” he turned to Joktar, “are going to have some more trouble with that shoulder of yours. Let’s have a look at it now.”
Joktar unsealed his tunic and stripped it off. His undershirt followed. As far as he himself could judge, the new pink skin looked healthy enough. He would bear a scar but the burn was well on the way to healing and it was only tender now to direct pressure. Hogan inspected the wound frowningly.
“Looks too good,” he commented. “But we can touch it up some. And see that you run a temperature. When we set down on Loki, you’re to be sent to the clinic.”
“Why?”
“Because I want one of us in position to move without being tailed. And secondly, I want to be sure of keeping you.”
Joktar pulled up his shirt. “I’m not likely to try to ship out without papers or credits.”
“Ship out, no; be shipped out, maybe.” Hogan was, he saw, entirely serious.
“You mean the patrol would pick me up as an emigrant escapee?”
“Listen,” Hogan stood before him, hands on hips, scowling a little, “if what I think is true, you have more than the patrol to fear now, boy.”
Rysdyke’s eyes were narrowed, he nodded in agreement.
“But what have I got to do with your quarrel with the companies on Fenris?”
“Fenris! Fenris is the first, but perhaps the least of our objectives. We’re snarled up in half a dozen webs, all being spun by some busy spiders working for opposite ends and with the stickiest means they can manufacture out of their devious minds. If we come through the next week or so and take away even one one-hundredth of the stakes on the table, there’ll be action to rock more than one system. Freedom for Fenris . . . great nebulae! We’re fighting for freedom for a whole species—our own!”
10
Hogan stood looking down at his own hands, broad hands, pale-skinned through lack of exposure, but strong and tough. His fingers moved. Almost, Joktar decided, as if he were gathering up a hand of kas-cards and spreading out those narrow strips to assess their potential value.
“When do we planet?” he asked.
Rysdyke patted the edge of the panel. “With this little beauty . . . a week, space time. She’s built for speed and I’ll push her.”
“A week . . .” Hogan repeated, but his tone suggested that he desired to cut that in half.
“Our passengers happy?”
“They hadn’t come out of break-off sleep when I looked in on them,” Hogan answered absently. “Sa is the one to watch. Minta’s a bull-headed man but Sa’s subtle. He gave in at once when we jumped the compound. His retreat is no sure victory for us.”
“What about Samms?”
Hogan grinned. “Samms is busy spinning plans, probably damn good ones. Give that boy another five years and a free hand on Fenris, and perhaps even Sa would have second thoughts about backing him.”
“Samms wants Fenris.”
“Samms is apt to want a lot of things. Whether he’ll be moderately successful in getting them is another matter.”
Joktar made his first contribution. “He’s dangerous.”
“You rate him that?” Hogan favored him with full attention. “Now that’s interesting. But there’s one thing about Samms, his appetite is bigger than his capacity. He may not be far from discovering that himself the hard way. Now, my wounded hero,” Hogan’s hand closed upon Joktar’s fit shoulder, “you are coming with me to begin languishing
in your cabin with a serious relapse. And I warn you, this isn’t going to be just an act, it will be a very uncomfortable fact!”
There Hogan was correct. Aided by supplies from the ship’s dispensary and a proficiency in their use, which led Joktar to believe that this was not the first time such a program had been in force, the outlaw leader produced results which were lamentable as far as his victim was concerned. By the time they set down on Loki, Joktar was almost oblivious of everything save his own discomfort. Shortly after Rysdyke had brought them in for a perfect three-fin landing, Hogan stood over his bunk to deliver a series of last-minute instructions in a voice which pierced all sick self-preoccupation.
“We’re taking off now and you’re being sent straight to the clinic. They have orders to put you in isolation. Roll with the beam; you’ll hear from us later.”
So Joktar’s first sight of Nornes was necessarily limited as he was bundled out of the ship into an air scooter, and flown across the maze of islands linked together to form the semi-stable base for the major city of Loki. The buildings were all low, not more than four or five stories high, and the sea beat eternally about the scraps of rock they occupied, making a ceaseless murmur which Joktar found lulling once he was established in a room near the top of one of those structures.
He sat up in bed as the door in the opposite wall became a shimmer of force and then snapped out of existence. The medic who entered was the same who had seen him safely installed in that bed only a short time earlier, but this time he moved with a hint of urgency and the face he turned to his patient was sober.
“What’s Hogan’s game?” The demand held a hint of hostility.
“Game?” repeated Joktar, the fever artificially induced on board ship still slowed his thinking.
“I agreed to take you in,” the medic continued. “I didn’t agree to stick my neck out for the big brass to take a swing at.”
Joktar’s incomprehension must have been mirrored on his face, for the medic paused and then laughed, harshly and without humor. “This is a typical Hogan play. Apparently, he didn’t brief you either. But it begins to look, fella, as if you’re playing bait and the trap’s about to be sprung before Hogan expects it—the wrong way.”