"SURRENDER! IN THE name of the Federation—”
the voice boomed from the walls about them.
“Patrol!” Ali identified the order.
All right—so the Patrol had landed, Dane was willing to
accept that. But which of the parties before them represented law
and order? Those waiting attack, or those behind the light,
waiting to deliver it?
The light steadily advanced—until one of those in wait
shot straight into its heart. There was answering fire through the
resulting dark and someone screamed.
If they had any sense, Dane thought, they would now retreat to
the maze until the fight was over. This was no time to get caught
in a mix-up between Rich’s forces and the Patrol. But he made
no move to pass that bright thought on to Ali. Instead he found
himself levelling his blaster, taking aim through the dark at the
roof of the hall in which they lay. He pressed the trigger.
The voltage was still set on “low” but the beam
struck the roof and bit in. And he had not misjudged the distance
too badly—that burst of light revealed the men who had shot
out the Patrol light—he was sure that the Patrol were the
light party now. Their white faces, mouths agape, stared up at the
glowing core of destruction over their heads as if they were
hypnotized by it. Only one moved, throwing himself back, passing
under that coruscating splotch, towards the men from the Queen. But
he did not get past them.
Kosti launched his body out of the shadows, barely visible
in the fading gleam from the roof. He should have struck
the fleeing man head on. Instead the other made an unbelievably
swift twist of his body which carried him almost by the contact point. Had the jetman’s fingers not caught in the
fugitive’s belt, he would have made it.
Dane fired again, sending a second bolt of fire up beside the
first to give Kosti light for his fight. But the flash revealed a
far different scene. A figure as tall as the jetman was getting to
hands and knees for a second forward dash, while Kosti lay limp and
still.
Ali moved, clumsily but at all the speed he could muster,
rolling out so that the other stumbled over his body and went down
once more. And then Dane used the blaster for the third time,
aiming at a point behind them, bracketing the would-be escapee with
the blaze.
“Stop!” again the voice boomed about them.
“Stop firing or we’ll bring a flamer in and sweep this
whole hall!”
A wild beast’s snarl from the shadows answered. And at the
edge of the last glowing splotch, the one meant to barricade the
passage, a dark shape prowled back and forth, its crouching outline
suggesting something not human.
Then the light went on again, catching them all in its glare.
Nearest to the source of it three outlaws stood, their empty hands
rising above their heads. But the beam reached on, past them, to
reveal Kosti. The big jetman lay still, a trickle of blood on his
chin. On the radiance swept pinpointing Mura as he hurried to
Kosti, bringing Ali into focus as he hunched over, clutching at his
chest, coughing.
Dane, his back to the glare, was alert, his blaster ready for
the next move of that other thing. The thing with slavering lips
and slack jaw who prowled up and down at the edge of the burning
ring which cut it off from the dark safety beyond, that thing who
had once been Salzar, lord of this forgotten kingdom—the
thing who had retreated into the Hell of the crax user until it was
no longer a man at all!
It turned as the light caught it, snarled and spat at the beam,
and then whirled and leaped over the burning area, squalling at the
lick of fire, heading for the maze.
“Thorson! Mura!”
Dane shivered. He should be after Salzar but he couldn’t
force himself to cross those flames to hunt down that thing in the
dark. It was with real thankfulness that he heard that sharp call.
He looked over his shoulder to its source, but the glare of the
light dazzled him and he blinked painfully at the figures advancing
around it, able at last to make out the black and silver of the
Patrol, the drabber tunics of Trade. He holstered his blaster and
waited for them to come up.
It was some time later that he sat at a table in a strange room.
A room with furnishings which betrayed the nature of the trap which
was Limbo in bald openness, things which had been looted from
fifty—a hundred ships—crowded together to provide a
tawdry luxury for the private quarters of the man they had known as
Salzar Rich.
Dane wolfed down a meal of real food—no
concentrates—as he listened half dreamily to Mura deliver a
concise report of their activities for the past three days. He
fought an aching fatigue which ordered him to put his head down on
the table and sleep—just sleep. Instead he sat and chewed on
delicacies he had not tasted since he left Terraport.
Black tunics slipped in and out of the room, delivering reports,
taking orders from the Squadron Commander who sat with Captain
Jellico listening to Mura’s often interrupted story. It was
rather like the end of a Video serial, decided Dane groggily, all
wrapped up in a neat little package. The Patrol had arrived, the
situation was now well in hand—
“As nasty a set up as we’ve ever come across,”
that was the Patrol officer.
“I take it,” Van Rycke observed, “that this is
going to clear up a great many disappearances—”
The Patrolman sighed. “We’ll have to comb these
hills, maybe chop into them, before we have the roll complete.
Though we can do a lot just listing the loot they gathered in. Yes,
it’s going to clear a lot of records at Headquarters. Thanks
to you, we have the chance to do it.” He arose and favoured
Jellico with a sketch of salute. “My compliments, Captain, if
you will be free to join me in about—” he consulted his
watch—”three hours, we can have a conference. There are several points to be
considered.”
He was gone. Dane drank from a mug engraved with the Survey
crest. And at the sight of those crossed comets, he shuddered and
pushed the container from him. It reminded him too vividly of
strange relics found here. Somehow he was glad that he did not have
the task of sorting out and listing them.
“That maze now,” Van Rycke’s calm seemed
ruffled. “That’s worth looking over.”
Jellico gave a snort of humourless laughter. “As if the
Patrol is going to let anyone but themselves and the Fed experts in
there!”
The mention of the maze triggered Dane’s memory and for
the first time he spoke:
“Rich ran back into that. Have they caught him yet, sir?”
“Not yet,” Jellico replied. He did not appear
much interested in the problem of the missing outlaw leader.
“Crax chewer, isn’t he? Went right over the edge when
we caught up with you—”
“Yes, he was insane at the last, sir,” Mura agreed.
“However I trust that the Patrol are not discounting him. To
hunt a madman through that puzzle without precautions of a most
serious kind—that is a task I would not care to
assume.”
“Well,” the Captain got up, “we’re not
asked to do it. The whole thing’s in Patrol hands now, let
them worry about it. The sooner we lift ship from this misbegotten
place, the better I’ll be satisfied. We’re Trade, not
police.”
“Hmm—” Van Rycke still lounged in a chair
which had been ripped from some liner captain’s cabin,
“yes, Trade—a matter of Trade. We must keep our minds
on business.” But none of Jellico’s impatience lurked
in his limpid blue eyes. He was bland and, Dane thought, about to
go to work. Van Rycke, Patrol or no Patrol, was not yet through
with Limbo.
In spite of Jellico’s chaffing to be gone, the Captain did
not suggest a return to the Queen. Instead he paced warily about
the room, stopping now and again to inspect some particular
fitting Salzar had fancied enough to have installed there. Van Rycke
looked over at Dane and Mura.
“I would suggest,” he said mildly, “that you
make use of Dr. Rich’s bedroom. I think you’ll find his
bunk soft—”
Still wondering why they were not ordered back to the Queen
where the injured Kosti and Ali had been sent hours before, Dane
followed the steward into the second room of Rich’s private
suite. Van Rycke had been right about the luxury, but it was no
bunk which fronted them, only a wide, real Terra-side bed equipped
with self-warming foam blankets and feather down puffs.
Dane shed his helmet, bulky belt, and boots to lie back in the
fleecy softness. He was dimly aware of Mura’s weight settling
down on the other edge of the broad expanse and then he was
instantly and deeply asleep.
He was in the control cabin of the Queen, it was necessary for
him to compute their passage into hyper. And yet across from him
sat Salzar Rich, his face disciplined, hard as it had been on that
day back on Naxos when they had first met. He, Dane, must get them
into hyper, yet if his calculations were wrong Salzar would blast
him—and he would fall down, down out of the Queen into the
maze where something else crouched and yammered in the darkness
waiting to hunt him!
Dane’s eyes opened, he stared up at a greyness above. His
body was shaking with chill, his hands icy cold and wet as he
groped for some reality among the soft billowy things which melted
at his touch. He willed his hands to be still, he dared not even
shift his eyes now. There was something here, something which
broadcast such a threat of menace that it tore at his nerves.
Dane forced himself to breathe deeply, evenly. Mura was there,
but he could not turn his head to make sure—A fraction of an
inch at a time he began to shift his position. He had no idea of
what he had to face as yet, but fear was there—he could
almost taste it, see it as a murky cloud in the air.
He could see the door now, and from beyond he could hear the
murmur of voices. Perhaps both the Captain and Van Rycke were still
in the outer room. Yes, the door, and now a scrap of the wall by it. His eyes took in a Tri-Dee painting, a vivid
landscape from some eerie world, a world dead, sterile of life, and
yet in its way beautiful. Now he dared to move his hand, burrowing
under those feather-weight covers, striving to arouse Mura, sure
that the other would not betray himself, even when waking.
Hand moved, head moved. The picture—and beyond it a strip
of woven stuff hanging, glittering with threads which might have
been spun of emerald and diamond, a bright, too bright thing which
hurt the eyes. And now by that, his shoulders blotting out part of
it—
Salzar!
Only an exercise of will such as he had not known he could
command kept Dane immovable. Luckily the outlaw was not watching
the bed. He was taking a serpent’s silent way to the
door.
To all outward appearances he was a man again, but there was no
sanity in those dark fixed eyes. And in his hands he fondled a
weird tube set on an oddly shaped handstock, a thing which must be
a weapon. He was gone from in front of the hanging, his head cut
the picture. Three feet more and he would be at the door. But the
hand Dane had sent to warn Mura was met, enfolded in a warm grasp.
He had an ally!
Dane tried to plan the next move. He was on his back, muffled in
the thick covers of the bed. It would be impossible to jump Salzar
without warning. Yet the outlaw must not be allowed to reach the
door and use that weapon.
The hand which Mura had grasped now received a message—it
was pushed back towards him forcefully. He hoped that he
interpreted that correctly. He tensed and, as a wild cry broke from
the throat of his bedmate, Dane rolled over the edge to the
floor.
Lightning rent the air, fire burst from the bed. But
Dane’s hand closed on a strip of Paravian carpet and he gave
it a furious tug. Salzar did not lose his balance, but he fell back
against the wall. He swung the weapon towards the scrambling
cargo-apprentice. Then hands, competent, unhurried, closed about
his throat from behind and dragged him to Van Rycke’s
barrel chest as the cargo-master proceeded to systematically choke him
into submission. Dane and Mura got up from the floor, the blazing
bed between them.
There was more confusion, an eruption of Patrolmen, the removal
of Salzar and some hasty firefighting. Dane settled down on a bench
with a confirmed distaste for beds. Just let him get back to his
bunk on the Queen—that was all he asked. If he could ever
bring himself to try and sleep again.
Van Rycke laid the captured weapon down on the table.
“Something new,” he commented. “Perhaps another
Forerunner toy, or maybe just loot. The Feds can puzzle it out. But
at least we know that the dear doctor is now under
control.”
“Thanks to you, sir!” Dane gave credit where it was
due.
Van Rycke’s brows raised. “I only supplied the
end—there might have been another had we not had warning.
Your voice, I believe, Frank,” he nodded to the steward.
Mura yawned politely behind his hand. His tunic was hanging
open, he had a slightly dishevelled air, but his emotions were all
neatly under cover as always.
“A joint enterprise, sir,” he returned. “I
would not have been awake to cry out had not Thorson attended to
it. He also delivered the motive power with the carpet. It is a
wonder to me why Salzar did not burn us first, before he tried to
get at you—”
Dane shivered. The smell of the burned bed clothing was strong
enough to turn his stomach. He wanted fresh air and lots of it.
Also he did not want to think of such alternatives as Mura
had just spoken about.
“That seals it up,” Captain Jellico came back into
the room followed by the Patrol Commander. “You’ve got
Rich—what do we do—continue to sit on our fins while
you comb the mountains to discover how many ships he smashed up
here with that hellish gadget of his?”
“I don’t think, Captain, that you will have to stay
much longer,” began the Commander when Van Rycke
interrupted:
“Oh, we’re in no great hurry. There is the problem
of our rights on Limbo. That hasn’t been discussed as yet. We
have a Survey Auction claim, duly paid for and registered,
reinforced by an “All Rights” claim good for twelve Terran
months. How much these cover salvage and disposal of wrecks found
here, and their contents, must be decided—”
“Wrecks as a result of criminal activity,” began the
Commander once more, only to have the cargo-master cut in smoothly
for the second time:
“But there were wrecks here before Salzar found the
planet. The machine appears to have run erratically since the
Forerunners left. Historically speaking there must be a mine of
priceless relics buried in the soil of these mountains. Since
those smash-ups cannot be considered the result of
criminal activity, I do not doubt we can advance a very legal claim
to them. Our men discovered—and without much of a
search—at least two ships which antedate Salzar’s
arrival here. Two—there may be hundreds—” he
beamed good naturedly at the Commander.
Captain Jellico, listening, lost much of his impatience. He came
to sit down beside his cargo-master as if ready to conduct a
perfectly normal trade conference.
The Patrolman laughed. “You’re not going to pull
me into any such squabble, Cargo-master. I can relay your
claim and protest to Headquarters—but at the same time I can
send you off to quarantine station on Poldar—that’s our
nearest post—at once—under escort if necessary. I
don’t think that the Federation is going to turn over any
Limbian rights to anyone for some time to come.”
“If they move to cancel contracts made in good
faith,” Van Rycke pointed out, “they are going to pay
for it. In addition there will be Video men on Poldar—and we
are not Patrol—your rule of silence does not in any way
prevent us from answering questions as to our activities of the
past few days. This is colourful news, Commander—in a manner
of speaking a legend come to life. ‘The Sargasso of
Space’—a planet filled with a treasury of long lost
ships. The romance of it—” Van Rycke’s eyes half
closed, as if he were slightly overcome by the romantic aspects of
his own speech. “You will draw sightseers from all over the
Galaxy.”
“Yes,” Captain Jellico chimed in, “and
they’ll come equipped with digging apparatus too. Van,” he spoke to the
cargo-master, “this is going to be a big
thing—”
“How true. Luxury hotels—guided tours—claims
staked out for digging. A fortune—a veritable
fortune.”
“No one will land here without official permission!”
The Commander struck back.
“Then I do not envy you the patrol you’ll have to
keep. How the Video boys will love this story,” Van Rycke
went back into his daydream. “And,” he opened his eyes
wide and stared straight at the Commander, “you needn’t
have any thoughts about putting us in cold storage either. We shall
appeal to Trade in Hyper code—that you can’t
jam.”
The Patrolman appeared hurt. “Have we given you any
indication that we intend to treat you as criminals?”
“Not at all—just some hints here and there. Oh,
we’ll go off to quarantine like the good, honest, law-abiding
Galactic citizens that we are. But as good, honest, law abiding
citizens we shall also tell our story far and wide—unless
some adequate arrangements may be made.”
The Commander came directly to the point: “And what is
your idea of an ‘adequate arrangement’?”
“Suitable reparation for our loss of claims
here—along with reward money.”
“What reward?”
Van Rycke ticked points off on his fingers. “You landed
here intact because men from the Queen had turned off that
installation. The same party from our ship discovered the Rimbold.
I believe you have been feverishly seeking her for some time now.
And we also delivered Salzar to you, neatly done up in a package. I
can undoubtedly make other additions to this list—”
Once more the Patrolman laughed. “Who am I to argue with a
Trader over his proper profit? I’ll post your claim at
Headquarters if you promise to hold your collective tongues at
quarantine—”
“For a week,” Van Rycke answered. “Just seven
Terran days. Then Video shall have the story of our lives. So tell
your big brass to get moving. We’ll lift today—or
rather tonight—and we’ll go to Poldar. Also we shall notify Trade just where
we are and how long we shall be there.”
“I’ll let you fight it out with the big boys.”
The Commander sounded resigned. “I have your word
you’ll go directly to Poldar?”
Captain Jellico nodded. “You need not send for an escort.
Good hunting, Commander.”
Dane and Mura followed their officers out of the room, but the
cargo-apprentice was troubled. To be shut up in a Patrol quarantine
station was the usual result of a flight to a new and unknown
planet. There would be all the poking and prying of doctors and
scientists to make sure that neither men nor ship had brought back
any deadly disease. But this had overtones of a longer
imprisonment. Yet neither the Captain nor Van Rycke appeared in the
least cast-down. In fact they were at peace with their world as
they had not been since that auction on Naxos.
“Have something in mind, Van?” Jellico’s voice
could be heard above the rumble of the crawler taking them back to
the Queen.
“I looked over Salzar’s loot pretty carefully.
Remember Traxt Cam, Captain?”
“Traxt Cam—he operates out on the
Rim—”
“Operated,” Van Rycke’s voice lost some of its
lightness.
“You mean he was one of Salzar’s victims?”
“I don’t see how else his private record box got in
Salzar’s general catch. Traxt was on his way in from a very
good thing when he smashed here. He’d bid for Sargol. Got it,
and was doing all right there—”
“Sargol,” repeated the Captain.
“Sargol—isn’t that planet where they found the
Koros—the new jewels?”
“Yes. And Traxt’s claim has a year and a half yet to
go. We shall point that out to the powers that be. They might well
be ready to settle with us even—our Limbo papers turned in
without any back chat from us—a full shipment of supplies for
the Queen—and the rest of Traxt’s claim to exploit. How
does it sound, Captain?”
“Just like one of your better deals, Van. Yes the big
boys might go for that. It would cost them little and get us out of
their hair—put us out on the Rim where we can’t talk
too much—”
“Might work?” Van Rycke shook his head solemnly.
“Captain, give me more credit. Of course it will
work. Sargol and the Koros—they’re waiting for
us.”
His confidence built a feeling of security. Dane stared out over
the bare bones of Limbo without seeing that seared waste, he was
trying so hard to picture Sargol. A mining planet with a rich
strike and the Queen’s Trade claims paramount! Maybe Limbo
had brought them luck after all. They’d be able to answer
that better in a month or two.
"SURRENDER! IN THE name of the Federation—”
the voice boomed from the walls about them.
“Patrol!” Ali identified the order.
All right—so the Patrol had landed, Dane was willing to
accept that. But which of the parties before them represented law
and order? Those waiting attack, or those behind the light,
waiting to deliver it?
The light steadily advanced—until one of those in wait
shot straight into its heart. There was answering fire through the
resulting dark and someone screamed.
If they had any sense, Dane thought, they would now retreat to
the maze until the fight was over. This was no time to get caught
in a mix-up between Rich’s forces and the Patrol. But he made
no move to pass that bright thought on to Ali. Instead he found
himself levelling his blaster, taking aim through the dark at the
roof of the hall in which they lay. He pressed the trigger.
The voltage was still set on “low” but the beam
struck the roof and bit in. And he had not misjudged the distance
too badly—that burst of light revealed the men who had shot
out the Patrol light—he was sure that the Patrol were the
light party now. Their white faces, mouths agape, stared up at the
glowing core of destruction over their heads as if they were
hypnotized by it. Only one moved, throwing himself back, passing
under that coruscating splotch, towards the men from the Queen. But
he did not get past them.
Kosti launched his body out of the shadows, barely visible
in the fading gleam from the roof. He should have struck
the fleeing man head on. Instead the other made an unbelievably
swift twist of his body which carried him almost by the contact point. Had the jetman’s fingers not caught in the
fugitive’s belt, he would have made it.
Dane fired again, sending a second bolt of fire up beside the
first to give Kosti light for his fight. But the flash revealed a
far different scene. A figure as tall as the jetman was getting to
hands and knees for a second forward dash, while Kosti lay limp and
still.
Ali moved, clumsily but at all the speed he could muster,
rolling out so that the other stumbled over his body and went down
once more. And then Dane used the blaster for the third time,
aiming at a point behind them, bracketing the would-be escapee with
the blaze.
“Stop!” again the voice boomed about them.
“Stop firing or we’ll bring a flamer in and sweep this
whole hall!”
A wild beast’s snarl from the shadows answered. And at the
edge of the last glowing splotch, the one meant to barricade the
passage, a dark shape prowled back and forth, its crouching outline
suggesting something not human.
Then the light went on again, catching them all in its glare.
Nearest to the source of it three outlaws stood, their empty hands
rising above their heads. But the beam reached on, past them, to
reveal Kosti. The big jetman lay still, a trickle of blood on his
chin. On the radiance swept pinpointing Mura as he hurried to
Kosti, bringing Ali into focus as he hunched over, clutching at his
chest, coughing.
Dane, his back to the glare, was alert, his blaster ready for
the next move of that other thing. The thing with slavering lips
and slack jaw who prowled up and down at the edge of the burning
ring which cut it off from the dark safety beyond, that thing who
had once been Salzar, lord of this forgotten kingdom—the
thing who had retreated into the Hell of the crax user until it was
no longer a man at all!
It turned as the light caught it, snarled and spat at the beam,
and then whirled and leaped over the burning area, squalling at the
lick of fire, heading for the maze.
“Thorson! Mura!”
Dane shivered. He should be after Salzar but he couldn’t
force himself to cross those flames to hunt down that thing in the
dark. It was with real thankfulness that he heard that sharp call.
He looked over his shoulder to its source, but the glare of the
light dazzled him and he blinked painfully at the figures advancing
around it, able at last to make out the black and silver of the
Patrol, the drabber tunics of Trade. He holstered his blaster and
waited for them to come up.
It was some time later that he sat at a table in a strange room.
A room with furnishings which betrayed the nature of the trap which
was Limbo in bald openness, things which had been looted from
fifty—a hundred ships—crowded together to provide a
tawdry luxury for the private quarters of the man they had known as
Salzar Rich.
Dane wolfed down a meal of real food—no
concentrates—as he listened half dreamily to Mura deliver a
concise report of their activities for the past three days. He
fought an aching fatigue which ordered him to put his head down on
the table and sleep—just sleep. Instead he sat and chewed on
delicacies he had not tasted since he left Terraport.
Black tunics slipped in and out of the room, delivering reports,
taking orders from the Squadron Commander who sat with Captain
Jellico listening to Mura’s often interrupted story. It was
rather like the end of a Video serial, decided Dane groggily, all
wrapped up in a neat little package. The Patrol had arrived, the
situation was now well in hand—
“As nasty a set up as we’ve ever come across,”
that was the Patrol officer.
“I take it,” Van Rycke observed, “that this is
going to clear up a great many disappearances—”
The Patrolman sighed. “We’ll have to comb these
hills, maybe chop into them, before we have the roll complete.
Though we can do a lot just listing the loot they gathered in. Yes,
it’s going to clear a lot of records at Headquarters. Thanks
to you, we have the chance to do it.” He arose and favoured
Jellico with a sketch of salute. “My compliments, Captain, if
you will be free to join me in about—” he consulted his
watch—”three hours, we can have a conference. There are several points to be
considered.”
He was gone. Dane drank from a mug engraved with the Survey
crest. And at the sight of those crossed comets, he shuddered and
pushed the container from him. It reminded him too vividly of
strange relics found here. Somehow he was glad that he did not have
the task of sorting out and listing them.
“That maze now,” Van Rycke’s calm seemed
ruffled. “That’s worth looking over.”
Jellico gave a snort of humourless laughter. “As if the
Patrol is going to let anyone but themselves and the Fed experts in
there!”
The mention of the maze triggered Dane’s memory and for
the first time he spoke:
“Rich ran back into that. Have they caught him yet, sir?”
“Not yet,” Jellico replied. He did not appear
much interested in the problem of the missing outlaw leader.
“Crax chewer, isn’t he? Went right over the edge when
we caught up with you—”
“Yes, he was insane at the last, sir,” Mura agreed.
“However I trust that the Patrol are not discounting him. To
hunt a madman through that puzzle without precautions of a most
serious kind—that is a task I would not care to
assume.”
“Well,” the Captain got up, “we’re not
asked to do it. The whole thing’s in Patrol hands now, let
them worry about it. The sooner we lift ship from this misbegotten
place, the better I’ll be satisfied. We’re Trade, not
police.”
“Hmm—” Van Rycke still lounged in a chair
which had been ripped from some liner captain’s cabin,
“yes, Trade—a matter of Trade. We must keep our minds
on business.” But none of Jellico’s impatience lurked
in his limpid blue eyes. He was bland and, Dane thought, about to
go to work. Van Rycke, Patrol or no Patrol, was not yet through
with Limbo.
In spite of Jellico’s chaffing to be gone, the Captain did
not suggest a return to the Queen. Instead he paced warily about
the room, stopping now and again to inspect some particular
fitting Salzar had fancied enough to have installed there. Van Rycke
looked over at Dane and Mura.
“I would suggest,” he said mildly, “that you
make use of Dr. Rich’s bedroom. I think you’ll find his
bunk soft—”
Still wondering why they were not ordered back to the Queen
where the injured Kosti and Ali had been sent hours before, Dane
followed the steward into the second room of Rich’s private
suite. Van Rycke had been right about the luxury, but it was no
bunk which fronted them, only a wide, real Terra-side bed equipped
with self-warming foam blankets and feather down puffs.
Dane shed his helmet, bulky belt, and boots to lie back in the
fleecy softness. He was dimly aware of Mura’s weight settling
down on the other edge of the broad expanse and then he was
instantly and deeply asleep.
He was in the control cabin of the Queen, it was necessary for
him to compute their passage into hyper. And yet across from him
sat Salzar Rich, his face disciplined, hard as it had been on that
day back on Naxos when they had first met. He, Dane, must get them
into hyper, yet if his calculations were wrong Salzar would blast
him—and he would fall down, down out of the Queen into the
maze where something else crouched and yammered in the darkness
waiting to hunt him!
Dane’s eyes opened, he stared up at a greyness above. His
body was shaking with chill, his hands icy cold and wet as he
groped for some reality among the soft billowy things which melted
at his touch. He willed his hands to be still, he dared not even
shift his eyes now. There was something here, something which
broadcast such a threat of menace that it tore at his nerves.
Dane forced himself to breathe deeply, evenly. Mura was there,
but he could not turn his head to make sure—A fraction of an
inch at a time he began to shift his position. He had no idea of
what he had to face as yet, but fear was there—he could
almost taste it, see it as a murky cloud in the air.
He could see the door now, and from beyond he could hear the
murmur of voices. Perhaps both the Captain and Van Rycke were still
in the outer room. Yes, the door, and now a scrap of the wall by it. His eyes took in a Tri-Dee painting, a vivid
landscape from some eerie world, a world dead, sterile of life, and
yet in its way beautiful. Now he dared to move his hand, burrowing
under those feather-weight covers, striving to arouse Mura, sure
that the other would not betray himself, even when waking.
Hand moved, head moved. The picture—and beyond it a strip
of woven stuff hanging, glittering with threads which might have
been spun of emerald and diamond, a bright, too bright thing which
hurt the eyes. And now by that, his shoulders blotting out part of
it—
Salzar!
Only an exercise of will such as he had not known he could
command kept Dane immovable. Luckily the outlaw was not watching
the bed. He was taking a serpent’s silent way to the
door.
To all outward appearances he was a man again, but there was no
sanity in those dark fixed eyes. And in his hands he fondled a
weird tube set on an oddly shaped handstock, a thing which must be
a weapon. He was gone from in front of the hanging, his head cut
the picture. Three feet more and he would be at the door. But the
hand Dane had sent to warn Mura was met, enfolded in a warm grasp.
He had an ally!
Dane tried to plan the next move. He was on his back, muffled in
the thick covers of the bed. It would be impossible to jump Salzar
without warning. Yet the outlaw must not be allowed to reach the
door and use that weapon.
The hand which Mura had grasped now received a message—it
was pushed back towards him forcefully. He hoped that he
interpreted that correctly. He tensed and, as a wild cry broke from
the throat of his bedmate, Dane rolled over the edge to the
floor.
Lightning rent the air, fire burst from the bed. But
Dane’s hand closed on a strip of Paravian carpet and he gave
it a furious tug. Salzar did not lose his balance, but he fell back
against the wall. He swung the weapon towards the scrambling
cargo-apprentice. Then hands, competent, unhurried, closed about
his throat from behind and dragged him to Van Rycke’s
barrel chest as the cargo-master proceeded to systematically choke him
into submission. Dane and Mura got up from the floor, the blazing
bed between them.
There was more confusion, an eruption of Patrolmen, the removal
of Salzar and some hasty firefighting. Dane settled down on a bench
with a confirmed distaste for beds. Just let him get back to his
bunk on the Queen—that was all he asked. If he could ever
bring himself to try and sleep again.
Van Rycke laid the captured weapon down on the table.
“Something new,” he commented. “Perhaps another
Forerunner toy, or maybe just loot. The Feds can puzzle it out. But
at least we know that the dear doctor is now under
control.”
“Thanks to you, sir!” Dane gave credit where it was
due.
Van Rycke’s brows raised. “I only supplied the
end—there might have been another had we not had warning.
Your voice, I believe, Frank,” he nodded to the steward.
Mura yawned politely behind his hand. His tunic was hanging
open, he had a slightly dishevelled air, but his emotions were all
neatly under cover as always.
“A joint enterprise, sir,” he returned. “I
would not have been awake to cry out had not Thorson attended to
it. He also delivered the motive power with the carpet. It is a
wonder to me why Salzar did not burn us first, before he tried to
get at you—”
Dane shivered. The smell of the burned bed clothing was strong
enough to turn his stomach. He wanted fresh air and lots of it.
Also he did not want to think of such alternatives as Mura
had just spoken about.
“That seals it up,” Captain Jellico came back into
the room followed by the Patrol Commander. “You’ve got
Rich—what do we do—continue to sit on our fins while
you comb the mountains to discover how many ships he smashed up
here with that hellish gadget of his?”
“I don’t think, Captain, that you will have to stay
much longer,” began the Commander when Van Rycke
interrupted:
“Oh, we’re in no great hurry. There is the problem
of our rights on Limbo. That hasn’t been discussed as yet. We
have a Survey Auction claim, duly paid for and registered,
reinforced by an “All Rights” claim good for twelve Terran
months. How much these cover salvage and disposal of wrecks found
here, and their contents, must be decided—”
“Wrecks as a result of criminal activity,” began the
Commander once more, only to have the cargo-master cut in smoothly
for the second time:
“But there were wrecks here before Salzar found the
planet. The machine appears to have run erratically since the
Forerunners left. Historically speaking there must be a mine of
priceless relics buried in the soil of these mountains. Since
those smash-ups cannot be considered the result of
criminal activity, I do not doubt we can advance a very legal claim
to them. Our men discovered—and without much of a
search—at least two ships which antedate Salzar’s
arrival here. Two—there may be hundreds—” he
beamed good naturedly at the Commander.
Captain Jellico, listening, lost much of his impatience. He came
to sit down beside his cargo-master as if ready to conduct a
perfectly normal trade conference.
The Patrolman laughed. “You’re not going to pull
me into any such squabble, Cargo-master. I can relay your
claim and protest to Headquarters—but at the same time I can
send you off to quarantine station on Poldar—that’s our
nearest post—at once—under escort if necessary. I
don’t think that the Federation is going to turn over any
Limbian rights to anyone for some time to come.”
“If they move to cancel contracts made in good
faith,” Van Rycke pointed out, “they are going to pay
for it. In addition there will be Video men on Poldar—and we
are not Patrol—your rule of silence does not in any way
prevent us from answering questions as to our activities of the
past few days. This is colourful news, Commander—in a manner
of speaking a legend come to life. ‘The Sargasso of
Space’—a planet filled with a treasury of long lost
ships. The romance of it—” Van Rycke’s eyes half
closed, as if he were slightly overcome by the romantic aspects of
his own speech. “You will draw sightseers from all over the
Galaxy.”
“Yes,” Captain Jellico chimed in, “and
they’ll come equipped with digging apparatus too. Van,” he spoke to the
cargo-master, “this is going to be a big
thing—”
“How true. Luxury hotels—guided tours—claims
staked out for digging. A fortune—a veritable
fortune.”
“No one will land here without official permission!”
The Commander struck back.
“Then I do not envy you the patrol you’ll have to
keep. How the Video boys will love this story,” Van Rycke
went back into his daydream. “And,” he opened his eyes
wide and stared straight at the Commander, “you needn’t
have any thoughts about putting us in cold storage either. We shall
appeal to Trade in Hyper code—that you can’t
jam.”
The Patrolman appeared hurt. “Have we given you any
indication that we intend to treat you as criminals?”
“Not at all—just some hints here and there. Oh,
we’ll go off to quarantine like the good, honest, law-abiding
Galactic citizens that we are. But as good, honest, law abiding
citizens we shall also tell our story far and wide—unless
some adequate arrangements may be made.”
The Commander came directly to the point: “And what is
your idea of an ‘adequate arrangement’?”
“Suitable reparation for our loss of claims
here—along with reward money.”
“What reward?”
Van Rycke ticked points off on his fingers. “You landed
here intact because men from the Queen had turned off that
installation. The same party from our ship discovered the Rimbold.
I believe you have been feverishly seeking her for some time now.
And we also delivered Salzar to you, neatly done up in a package. I
can undoubtedly make other additions to this list—”
Once more the Patrolman laughed. “Who am I to argue with a
Trader over his proper profit? I’ll post your claim at
Headquarters if you promise to hold your collective tongues at
quarantine—”
“For a week,” Van Rycke answered. “Just seven
Terran days. Then Video shall have the story of our lives. So tell
your big brass to get moving. We’ll lift today—or
rather tonight—and we’ll go to Poldar. Also we shall notify Trade just where
we are and how long we shall be there.”
“I’ll let you fight it out with the big boys.”
The Commander sounded resigned. “I have your word
you’ll go directly to Poldar?”
Captain Jellico nodded. “You need not send for an escort.
Good hunting, Commander.”
Dane and Mura followed their officers out of the room, but the
cargo-apprentice was troubled. To be shut up in a Patrol quarantine
station was the usual result of a flight to a new and unknown
planet. There would be all the poking and prying of doctors and
scientists to make sure that neither men nor ship had brought back
any deadly disease. But this had overtones of a longer
imprisonment. Yet neither the Captain nor Van Rycke appeared in the
least cast-down. In fact they were at peace with their world as
they had not been since that auction on Naxos.
“Have something in mind, Van?” Jellico’s voice
could be heard above the rumble of the crawler taking them back to
the Queen.
“I looked over Salzar’s loot pretty carefully.
Remember Traxt Cam, Captain?”
“Traxt Cam—he operates out on the
Rim—”
“Operated,” Van Rycke’s voice lost some of its
lightness.
“You mean he was one of Salzar’s victims?”
“I don’t see how else his private record box got in
Salzar’s general catch. Traxt was on his way in from a very
good thing when he smashed here. He’d bid for Sargol. Got it,
and was doing all right there—”
“Sargol,” repeated the Captain.
“Sargol—isn’t that planet where they found the
Koros—the new jewels?”
“Yes. And Traxt’s claim has a year and a half yet to
go. We shall point that out to the powers that be. They might well
be ready to settle with us even—our Limbo papers turned in
without any back chat from us—a full shipment of supplies for
the Queen—and the rest of Traxt’s claim to exploit. How
does it sound, Captain?”
“Just like one of your better deals, Van. Yes the big
boys might go for that. It would cost them little and get us out of
their hair—put us out on the Rim where we can’t talk
too much—”
“Might work?” Van Rycke shook his head solemnly.
“Captain, give me more credit. Of course it will
work. Sargol and the Koros—they’re waiting for
us.”
His confidence built a feeling of security. Dane stared out over
the bare bones of Limbo without seeing that seared waste, he was
trying so hard to picture Sargol. A mining planet with a rich
strike and the Queen’s Trade claims paramount! Maybe Limbo
had brought them luck after all. They’d be able to answer
that better in a month or two.