Barrington Bayley - The Star Virus

Could it be, he thought, that the final understanding of history was to be found in atomics? The science of inciting atoms was very ancient, beginning with the utilization of electricity well over a thousand years ago. Even now, electronics was the basis of nearly all control systems, but in addition other atomic particles, and whole atoms, were induced to agitate, to migrate, to change places instantaneously, to give up scores of different kinds of energies and effects. Rodrone doubted if the engineer or physicist lived who knew everything that was being done with atomic science, for there were no such things as universities these days.

If Rodrone was right, the lens contained the ultimate use of the atomic world, implying absolute knowledge. It was no wonder that the Streall wanted it. But Rodrone wanted it for himself, to be the one to know the meaning of events. All he needed was the key; but that was becoming increasingly difficult to find.

Clave jerked him out of his revery. “What makes those Guild creeps so keen on making a present of this gadget?”

“Appeasement. Most people don’t realize how the Streall regard us, Clave. We’re something on the level of vermin, or perhaps domestic animals. The merchants do know this, but it suits them. They’re rich, so why should they worry? The result is, they don’t want trouble.”

He glanced at the slanting sunlight. “We’ve got to get away from here. As soon as it’s dark I’ll go back to the ’ground and try to get us passage on a ship. You’d better stay here.”

“What about the rest of the gang?”

“We can’t do anything for them without losing the lens. They won’t be harmed. Jal-Dee will have to let them go eventually and they can take the Stond back to the squadron.”

He paced the room, stroking his beard, and sank into himself. For a few moments he gazed at himself in a mirror, intrigued as usual by his own soft, mournful brown eyes and the perennial question: an unusually strong man, or an unusually weak one?

They did not talk much for the rest of the afternoon. Rodrone spent most of it seated on a stool, watching the pictures in the lens. When it became night, he went out.

Activity on the spaceground underwent no abatement at night, but there were plenty of shadows and if anything it was even more crowded. Rodrone did not think he would have to worry much about being arrested unless he was careless; the local police would not dare to throw too much weight around in the presence of freemen from all over the Hub.

Of the first ten captains he approached, seven were not going his way and the other three laughed at him when he mentioned an item of luggage that had to be loaded in secret. News had got around.

The eleventh captain was more promising. To begin with, he was not particularly sober. Rodrone judged him to be approaching sixty years of age, but he seemed to have stopped maturing mentally about fifty of those years ago, and as a child he must have been uncontrollable. Rodrone had met men of his type before and he got on well with them. His face was cragged and seamed, surmounted by unkempt tufts of graying hair. He wore no uniform, but the individual dress of a free trader.

Cordially he invited Rodrone up to his quarters and poured him out a glass of pale blue foment . “Name’s Shone,” he said. “Gael Shone. This ship’s called the Stator . A fine ship—got her just recently, damned cheap too.” Draining his glass, he offered Rodrone more foment , then poured himself another. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m heading for the Skelter Cluster. I want passage for myself, a friend, and a small cargo. We’ll pay well, if you’re leaving soon.”

“Dammit, we’re leaving tonight, but Skelter’s a bit out of our way. We’ve got a cargo for Tithe.”

Rodrone rose to leave, nodding in disappointment. “I see. Well, sorry to have bothered you.”

“Hey, wait a minute.” Shone waved him back to his seat. “What’s doing in Skelter? Anything I can cash in on? There’s no hurry with our delivery and we’ve got no more work.”

“Nothing special, but we can manage.”

“Yes? What’s the cargo, anyhow?”

Rodrone became tight-lipped. “That’s a secret.”

Shone cackled in delight. “I thought so!” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Trouble with the Guild, eh?”

Rodrone took a chance. He nodded.

“Good,” the captain said in satisfaction. “ I hate those swine. They took your ship apart by the beams, incidentally.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yup. Well they did. Whatever they wanted, they wanted it bad.”

“It’s no use to anybody but me.”

Shone studied him. “Well, I can believe that. Skelter’s quite a few degrees off course for us, Mister, but we’ll detour for a mere fifty thousand credits.”

Rodrone lost his breath at the exorbitant fee. The decision was out of his hands, however. “I’ll pay at the other end,” he said. “You can’t expect me to carry that money in my pocket.”

“I’ll trust you.” Gael Shone stood up. “Welcome aboard, then. You’ll like it here; my crew are good lads, some of them have been with me for years. Now, if we’re to get off Stundaker in one piece we’ll have to move fast. Jermy will go with you in our runabout and you can collect this thing of yours together with your mate. Then we’ll be off.” He lowered his voice warningly. “I’ve heard the Guild are asking the ’ground owners for a ship-to-ship search.”

Jermy, a small dark dapper man who was also rat-faced, met them at ground level by the cargo portal—situated where the drive unit was in most ships. Shone waved them goodbye as they drove off in the runabout, and then disappeared inside.

Although there had not been time for Shone to say more than a few cursory words to Jermy, he nevertheless seemed to be imbued with the urgency of the situation. Rodrone guessed that such was his usual mode of operation. He leaned tensely forward over the steering bar, darting through the semidarkness and too intent to say a word.

It was not until they burst in on Clave that the spacer spoke. Clave lifted his lank form off the couch where it had been draped, took a look at Rodrone and a more absorbed one at Jermy.

“Okay,” Jermy rasped, his eyes darting about like a rodent’s. “Is that it? Throw a blanket over it and let’s get it out.”

It was Rodrone and Clave who carried the lens, handling it carefully while being herded and snapped at by Jermy all the time. Rodrone felt glad at his efficiency—he had been well-trained as a criminal somewhere—as they bore the clumsy blanket-draped object through the brightly lighter foyer and on to the street. Soon they were hurtling back to the ’ground, Rodrone anxious for the safety of the lens which was bouncing dangerously in the back.

They arrived at the spaceground to find that a situation had developed that must have been in the making all the afternoon. The police had begun the search, and a group of three ships was resisting. Enfiladed by police cars, the ships were answering an attack by rifles and handguns with similar fire. Rodrone noticed a heavy-weapons blister halfway up one of the ships. It wouldn’t be long, he thought, before the spacemen became angry enough to resort to that.

The whole spaceground was in an uproar. Some of the ships were warming up to lift off if the trouble spread, and the sound of engines was deafening.

“What the hell—”

Jermy swerved to avoid a bunch of excited crewmen who were slapping their hip holsters and handing out energy charges. The runabout drove through a blast of hot gases from the pre-takeoff vent of an interplanetary freighter, and then they were in sight of the Stator . Jermy accelerated over the final stretch, nearly crushing them with his sudden stop at the cargo portal.