S.T.A.R. FLIGHT (8 page)

He ran towards the building with four others all wearing the vivid blue of the deltas. Like clowns, he thought with a strange detachment, or men in fancy dress — but, he reminded himself, this is no party you’re going to. This is serious. He thought of Lassiter and his severed hands. What, he wondered, would happen to him should his disguise be penetrated?

Unconsciously he slowed, falling back from the others towards the crowd following close behind. The perimeter guards were lost in the organized chaos. A strategic fire blazed to one side, a leaping column of dancing colours. Overhead helicopters whirled their belly-floods showering swathes of light. The voice of the mob was a hungry roar.

STAR, thought Preston, had done a good job. Good for him, if for no one else. Certainly not good for the old people who had been attracted to the Gate by lying propaganda, nor for those who must have been injured or killed. Did it always take the magic of blood, he wondered, to ensure the success of a plan?

He stumbled and almost fell. The delta just ahead of him turned, his face ashen. “Keep up, man,” he rapped. “Those people are animals.”

The man wore a flash of red which made him Preston’s
superior. He was glad of it. His own badge of yellow put him above the other three but the other man would give the orders. In a situation like this it was always easier to follow than to lead.

He stumbled again as they reached the building. The side doors were sealed, only the central opening with its ramp and unloading bays gave access to the Gate. A cluster of men in white, epsilons, worked stolidly at a pile of crates. Before them stood a null. He carried a squat-barrelled weapon and made an urgent gesture.

“This way, sirs. Hurry!”

Other nulls, similarly armed, appeared behind the first. Deploying, they dropped to one knee and aimed their weapons. From the rear of the crowd a magnesium flare climbed into the sky to hang a man-made star.

“Hold your fire!” The delta-alpha stared at the crowd. The front ranks were slowing, veering to either side, turning back so as to avoid the menace of the nulls.

“Shoot them!” One of the others, a delta-gamma, glared at the milling mass outside the opening. “They would have killed us,” he said. “Torn us to pieces. Kill them like the animals they are!”

“Hold your tongue, Egart!”

“Yes, sir, but —”

“They’re going,” said the delta-alpha. And then, to the null, “Is everyone inside?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Seal the Gate.” A slab of reinforced concrete fell from the roof and sealed the opening. “All right,” said the officer. “Report for interrogation.”

Preston followed the others calmly. His brain seemed to be alight with odd, seemingly unrelated scraps of information. Those epsilons, for example. They were loading crates onto a conveyor belt. The belt would carry them through the Gate but, before they reached it, they would pass through an electronic death trap which would take care of any bug, insect, vermin or unwanted stranger. There
would be no risk of tarantulas among the bananas, no snakes among the fruit. No insidious germ. And no men. Nothing living could resist the barrier.

Write off one method of crashing the Gates.

Preston kept moving, following the rest, knowing where they were going and gaining confidence from the knowledge. Gamma Eldon was at his desk as they entered his office. He leaned back, looking at the first man. “Well?”

“We were on vacation, sir. There was trouble, a riot of some kind, and we were advised to stay in our hotel.”

“Advised? By whom?”

“UNO men, sir,” he said, and Preston felt a perverse satisfaction. The men had been operatives of STAR but UNO would get the credit — as they would have got the blame.

“I see. Continue.”

“After a while we were advised to make a run for the Gate. We did so.” He turned and gestured to Preston. “He joined us on the way.”

Eldon nodded. “Very good. Go and report in.” He lifted a hand as Preston made to follow the others. “Not you. Name?”

“Leon Tonoch, sir. I’m from the Washington Gate,” he said quickly. “My details will not be on record here.”

“Why did you return to this Gate?”

“I’ve been very foolish, sir,” said Preston. He produced identifying papers from his pocket. The whip dangling from his wrist made a tapping sound on the edge of the desk as he laid them before the gamma. “As you see, I was on vacation. I parted from the rest of my party. There was a girl,” he explained. “I found her attractive. We travelled to New York together. I joined the others because I thought it best.”

The truth, he thought, the first rule of any successful agent. Never lie if it can be avoided. But, he told himself, you don’t have to tell all of the truth. Would the real Tonach? The thought was dangerous. He
was
Tonach. His
life depended on him remembering that.

Eldon looked at the papers and picked up a phone. It was almost exactly like any Earth instrument. “Get me the Washington Gate,” he said, and then to Preston. “Stand over there. On that black circle. Do not move.” He spoke into the phone. “Keyman? Eldon here. Do you have a Leon Tonach, delta-beta attached to you? Yes, I’ll wait.” Idly he examined the papers Preston had given him. “Yes. That’s right,” he said into the phone. “Yes. Very good, Gamma Keyman. I’ll attend to it immediately.”

He replaced the handset and stared at Preston. “You,” he said curtly, “are under arrest.”

The punishment was seven lashes of a major whip. Preston took them on his naked back, ceremoniously, watched by every delta attached to the New York Gate. A null delivered the punishment. He didn’t need to use much force. The barbs were sharp; the nerve-poison did the rest.

Preston lost consciousness at the second lash. He lost it again when they cut him down. He woke and screamed his throat raw before kindly blackness engulfed him for a third time. It didn’t last. He was dimly conscious of movement but all else was hidden by a red veil of pain. He became aware that he was in a cell eight feet square with a barred door, a single light, a cot and nothing else. The cot was of canvas stretched taut over a metal frame. Whimpering, he rolled over onto his face, blood running from bitten lips. The nails of his fingers dug crescent wounds into his palms.

From time to time a null brought water, watching incuriously as he fumbled it into his mouth. Finally he was able to speak.

“Where am I?”

“Washington Gate, sir.”

The use of a title was informative and so was his location. A race who moved between the stars would think nothing of transferring him to another city. The null had been respectful. Perhaps there was yet hope.

Food came with the water and, after a long time, a clean uniform. Then, when the pain had eased, the door swung open and he was free. Free of the cell if nothing else.

“The punishment was severe but you deserved it.” Gamma Keyman looked thoughtfully at Preston as he stood in his office. It was a twin to that used by Eldon. Even the black circle on the floor was in the same position. Preston stood on it knowing that a touch on a button and he would be dead. The Kaltich took no chances. “Do you agree that the punishment was merited?”

“Yes, sir.” To have argued would have been useless. Had Hilda Thorenson known what he was getting into? She tapped Tonach’s mind, thought Preston. Surely she must have known. Or perhaps she hadn’t bothered to find out. Or, he thought, perhaps she hadn’t told him for obvious reasons. No sane man would willingly suffer such agony.

“Aside from the fact that you deliberately left your party, that you fraternized with a local woman and that you travelled beyond your permitted area, you chose to return to the New York Gate. Four violations, three serious, one both unnecessary and undesirable.” Gamma Keyman leaned back in his chair. “It did not please me to have the transgressions of one of my subordinates known to others.”

“My apologies, sir,” said Preston humbly. He was beginning to understand. The Kaltich were human in their rivalries. “I lost my head,” he confessed. “I didn’t think of what I was doing. I deeply regret any inconvenience I may have caused. My punishment was more than just.” His voice was husky, strained from his recent ordeal.

Mollified, the gamma allowed himself to relax. “All right, Tonach. I understand. These local women …” He made an expressive gesture, “But rules are not made to be broken.”

“I realise that, sir.”

“You seem to have the correct attitude and that is to your credit,” mused Keyman. “I don’t think this need go any further.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.” Pile it on, thought Preston savagely. Be humble, eat dirt, but keep him happy.

“I’m returning you to duty,” the gamma decided. “Your back will be sore for a while, but that can’t be helped. You will also have to work an extra turn to make up for the time you were incommoded. I imagine,” he said dryly, “that it seemed a long ten days.”

It had seemed an eternity. “Very long, sir,” said Preston. “I can assure you sir, that it will never happen again.” Not, he mentally added, if I have to kill every last dammed one of you.

“That’s the spirit,” said Keyman. “Now report for duty.”

His luck held. Those who had been close to the original Tonach, the ones he had worked with and with whom he had gone on vacation, were no longer at the Gate. They had been moved elsewhere. Or perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t luck at all. Perhaps it had been a part of the plan. So far STAR had managed things well. Aside from the beating, of course, He could never forgive them for that.

The duty was simple and left plenty of time for thought. He had to check deliveries against manifests, a thing any bright moron could have done without difficulty, certainly the epsilon-alpha who was in charge of the unloading crews. It’s the system, he thought. Caste dictates who should do what. They unload, handle the crates, do the heavy work. I oversee. And investigate. That’s why I’m here. Well, he told himself, get on with it. You’re in. So far you’ve been accepted and are safe. Now make the Kaltich pay for what they’ve done.

And he reminded himself, earn two million units for doing it.

Gammas didn’t run the Gate. There were four of them working in six-hour turns of duty. Above them were two betas and somewhere was an alpha in supreme charge. The epsilons were the labour force; they carried no whips. The nulls did the dirty work. They were the wardens, the guards,
the military police. Like the epsilons they carried no whips but bore arms instead.

So much STAR had verified from Tonach and what they had learned Preston knew. It wasn’t enough. I’m like a noncommissioned officer, he thought. I can move around and I know enough of the system to play the part, but that’s about all. The real secret, the important thing, I don’t know. Would an ordinary NCO have known about the workings of a military computor? As yet he hadn’t seen the Gate and, apparently, neither had Tonach. And that didn’t make sense. The man had travelled through it; he must have known that at least. He had known it, Preston decided. Known it and, somehow, been prevented from relaying the information. Hypnosis, he thought. A fine tool — if you know exactly what questions to ask and how to ask them.

Irritably he slammed the door of his room. It was a comfortable room, the furnishings luxurious, the little, personal things showing a regard for fine quality. A record player and a stack of records. A projector and a heap of film. A fine camera. A collection of expensive liqueurs, some familiar, others not. A peculiar device with a helmet-like attachment and a studded keyboard. A transparent jar in which drifted slowly twisting strands of living crystal, growing, changing, a mobile kaleidoscope of shimmering colour. A three-dimensional photograph of a smiling, beautiful woman.

He picked it up and soft words whispered from the image.

“
Leon, darling, I love you so much. All the time I think of you so far away from me. It is your duty, I know, darling, and it will soon be over. But it seems so long to wait before we are together for always. I was at the emigration bureau the other day and they have such a wonderful selection of places. When you are home we must go down and register for one. Our own house, darling, with land and workers and everything. Oh, my dearest, when we are together I shall …”

The voice grew softer, more intimate. Preston put down
the photograph. The Kaltich women, at least, were far from inhibited. He wondered if she would sorrow too much at never again seeing her man.

Damn them, he thought. Among themselves they’re human enough — why can’t they be the same outside? He knew the answer. The colonial complex. Others were inferiors, savages, slaves. Only the Kaltich could be thought of as equals.

He picked up the helmet and slipped it on his head. Nothing. He punched buttons and, suddenly, the room was a swirling mass of colour. He punched more and a thin, high-pitched singing echoed in his ears. More and, with shocking abruptness, he was a terrified animal caught in hampering strands of sticky mesh. At the corner of his vision something horrible slowly advanced.

Preston ripped off the helmet and stood shaking. Mental recordings, he thought. The agony of a creature trapped, terrified, knowing what was to come. For amusement, he told himself. Titivation to pass time. How decadent could you get?

And how rich? The room reeked of money spent with a careless disregard. Nothing but the best, he noted. For the Kaltich, nothing but the best. The best from Earth and how many other worlds?

The helmet was alien. The jar of growing crystal. The photograph betrayed a technology higher than he knew. But he could learn nothing of use in this place. Toys, items to amuse, things to beguile the time. And he dared not waste time.

Impatiently he left the room, passed down a passage, entered the door of a recreation room. Men, deltas, sat at tables playing games of chance. One waved at him.

“Care to sit in, Leon?”

“No thanks.”

“Come on. You owe me a chance to get revenge.”

Preston shook his head. The man knew him, only casually perhaps, but it was enough. There could be references to
past activities, the mention of common acquaintances, a hundred little things including the game he did not know how to play.