Andre Norton - Postmarked the Stars

He was crawling on hands and knees through a world of steam, of greasy mud that sought to engulf him bodily. He could not breathe—yet he must go—get away—out—

His lanky body was sprawled across the bed, arms wide and spread. Hands clawed feebly at the wrinkled covering bunched under it as his head turned with slow, agonized steadiness back and forth on the slightly raised section at one end of that narrow shelf.

Humid heat, gluey mess holding him—but he must keep going. It was very necessary—he must!

He was breathing in gasps, which grew into shudders, shaking his whole lean length. And though his eyes were still closed, he endeavored to push himself up and away from the surface on which he lay.

He could see—his eyes relayed a message to his brain—that he was not crawling over any steam-pillared swamp. Instead, he lifted his head higher to look at walls that appeared to raise and lower rhythmically to his gasping.

Dane Thorson, assistant cargo master, the free trader Solar Queen, Terra registry 65-724910-JK—as if they were part of a flaming scarlet sign printed on the heaving surface before him, he read those words. And they made sense, although—did he see them? He—he was Dane Thorson. And the Solar Queen—

With a gasp that was half cry, he gave himself a push so he was seated, not lying, on the bed, though he had to hold on tightly while the surface, which should have offered solid security, bucked and swung under him.

But as if recognition of his identity unlocked some barrier, he could think. He was still deathly ill and dizzy, but he could force himself to sort out the events of the immediate past, or at least part of it. He was

Dane Thorson, acting cargo master of the Queen because Van Ryke, his superior, was off-world and would join them only at the end of this voyage. And this was the Solar Queen, a free trader—

But as Dane turned his head carefully, he knew that that was not true. He was not in his familiar cabin on board ship—this was a room. He forced himself to study his surroundings for some clue to aid limping memory. There was the bed on which he had been lying, two snap-down seats pulled out of the wall, no windows but an air plate near the ceiling, two doors, both closed. A wan light came from a ceiling set rod.

It was a bare room, not unlike a cell. A cell—memory spiraled back.

They had been Patrol Posted. This was a cell—No! That was all done with. They had finned down on Xecho, ready to ship out for Trewsworld on their first mail run—

Ship out! As if those two words were a spur, Dane tried to get to his feet. He nearly fell, but somehow he balanced along the wall, his stomach heaving for tortured moments of misery. He caught at the nearest door, his weight dragging it open, and found that some merciful instinct had brought him to the fresher. Then he proceeded to be thoroughly and violently ill.

Still shaking from racking spasms, he managed to get to water and splash it over his face and upper body, thus becoming aware for the first time that he was not wearing his uniform tunic, though breeches and space boots still clothed him.

The water and, oddly, the nausea, seemed to pull him farther out of the fog. He wavered back into the room, staring about him while he thought. His last clear memory was—what?

Message—what message? That there was a registered package to be picked up, under standard one priority. For a few seconds he had a clear mental picture of the cargo master’s office on the Queen, of Tang Ya, the com-tech, standing in the door.

Last-minute pickup—last minute! The Queen was set for takeoff!

Panic hit him. He did not know what had happened. The message—and he must have left the ship—but where was here? And—even more important—when was now? The Queen had a schedule all the more important because she was, if temporarily, a mail ship. How long had he been here? Surely they would not have lifted without him! And how and why, as well as where—

Dane rubbed a hand across his sweating forehead. Odd, he was dripping with sweat, and yet he shook with a chill inside. There was a tunic—He wavered to the bed and fumbled with the garment that had been tossed there.

Not his. It was not the sober brown of a spaceman but rather a gaudy, though faded, purple with raveling embroidery. But because he was so cold, he pulled it about him. Then he made for the other door, one that must get him out of here—wherever here was! The Queen set to lift and he not on board—

His legs still tended to buckle under him, but he kept on them and walking. The door gave to his weak shove, and he was in a corridor, with a long line of other doors, all closed. But at the far end was an arch and beyond that movement and sound. Dane headed for that, still trying to remember more. The message for a pickup—He must have left the Queen at once. Now he halted to look down at his body under the flapping of the unfastened tunic, too tight and short for him. His safe belt—yes, he was still wearing that. But—

With one hand he investigated. Its pockets were all empty except the one holding his ident disk, but no one would have any use for that. It was keyed to his body chemistry. Let another take it, and within minutes the information on it would be erased. So he had been robbed.

But why the room? If he had been jumped, they would have left him lying—Gingerly he felt his head—no painful bruise or lump. Of course there were nerve holds that knocked a man out, and if sleep gas had been blown in his face—But why the room?

Time for puzzles later. The Queen and takeoff—he had to reach the Queen! And where was he? How much time did he have? But surely when he had not returned, they would not have gone. Rather they would have come looking for him. The crew of the Solar Queen was too close-knit a companionship to leave one of their members planet-side without a search.

At least he could move better now, and his head was clear. Dane pulled the tunic close about him, though he could not seal it, as he reached the arch and looked beyond. The large room was familiar. Half of it had booths set along the wall with dials for quick meals in their tables. The other half had a registration robo, a message bank, and a newscast screen. This was the—the—

He could not remember the name, but it was one of the small, cheap inns at the port, catering mainly to crewmen who were waiting to ship out. He had eaten at that table right over there with Rip Shannon and Ali Kamil just yesterday—or was it yesterday?

The Queen and lift time—Panic-fed urgency clamped on him again. At least he was not miles from the port, though on this world where dry land was merely strings of islands set in shallow, steaming seas, one could not get miles from the port and still be on the same blob of land.

All that was of no consequence now. He must get back to the Queen. To hold to that was going to take all his concentration. Dane took one careful step after another, heading for the nearest door.

Had he or had he not seen one of those men seated in the nearest booth start up as if he wanted to stop him? Maybe he looked as if he needed assistance. But just let him get to the Queen—!

If he attracted any more attention, Dane neither knew nor cared. What filled his world was the supreme luck of seeing an unoccupied scooter just outside. He fumbled his ident disk out, and as he fell rather than sat on the seat, he fed that into the proper slot and punched out “go.”

Already he was straining to see the launch strip. One, two, three ships! And the last one in line was the Queen! He would make it. The scooter whirled him at its top speed, though he did not remember punching it. It was almost as if the machine sensed his fear and impatience.