Andre Norton - Sargasso of Space

“Yes, first the getting out,” Mura cut in. “Also the matter of the installation—”

Dane glanced at the top of the wall. “How am I going to find you here again?”

“You will take bearings, Also,” Mura brought out his torch, set it up on end and snapped the low power button. “When you are aloft, see what kind of guide this makes—”

Once more Dane made use of the holds and scrambled up on the wall. He looked back. Yes, the beam from the torch cut straight up in the gloom. In a very inferior way it was not unlike the beacon on the Queen. He waved his hand to the two below and started out, heading for the centre of the maze where Ali believed the secret of the installation lay.

Walls angled, curved, took him right or left, so he had to retrace time and again. And nowhere did he see any hall below which led through the puzzle without interruption. If there was such a one, its doorways might be controlled by sonics and so hidden to the casual search.

But through his body coursed the heavy beat of the hidden machine. He must be nearing the source. Then he was conscious of a heightened glow in the greyness ahead. It had none of the sharp quality of a torch ray—rather it was as if the spectral radiance of the walls had been stepped to a more concentrated degree in that section. He slowed his pace to a shuffle as he neared that centre, afraid that the click of his metallic boot plates might betray him.

What he came to first was a double wall forming an oval area, a space of three feet between the two smooth surfaces. Determined to see what lay within, he made a risky jump from one to the next and then crouched on his hands and knees, creeping up to peer down into a room which was in stark contrast to the territory about it.

There were machines here—huge towering things—each sealed into a box coating. And a good third of the encircling wall was a bank of controls and dials, centred by a wide plate of smooth metal which bore a likeness to the visaplates he knew.

But that screen mirrored no scene from the outer world on its surface. Instead it was uniformly black and across it moved sparks of light.

Watching this were three men. And, by the brighter light, Dane was able to recognize Salzar Rich as well as the Rigellian who had come in on the Queen. The third man, in a seat just before the screen, his hands resting on a wide keyboard, was one he had never seen before.

This was it! This was the rotten heart of Limbo which rendered the blasted planet a menace to her particular corner of space! And as long as that heart beat, as it was doing now in waves which he could feel through his whole body, the Queen was tied to danger and her crew were helpless—

But were they? Dane felt a tiny thrill of excitement. Rich was making use of machines he did not really understand. And under other hands the whole set-up could be rendered harmless. Perhaps by watching now he himself could discover how to control the broadcast which kept the Queen a prisoner.

The points of light moved on the screen and the three men watched with a concentration of interest which argued of some anxiety. None of them made any move to touch the levers or buttons on the panel. Dane wriggled on his belly towards a point from which he could overhear any orders Rich might give. So he was flattened out of sight a few minutes later when the sound of running feet startled him. Someone was coming through the maze. It was one of the outlaws and he wove a path from the crooked hall to angled room in a manner which proved that he knew the secret. As he came up against the barrier he threw back his head and shouted, his voice ringing in the vast dome over their heads:

“Salzar!”

Rich whirled and then he flung out his right hand and made some adjustment on the panel. A section of the wall slid back to admit the newcomer.

Rich’s voice, chilly with irritation, floated up to the watcher above:

“What’s the matter?”

The runner was still puffing, his beefy face showing flushed. “Message from Algar, chief. He’s coming in—with the Patrol riding his fins!”

“Patrol!” the man at the keyboard half turned in his chair, his mouth slightly agape.

“Did you warn him that the pull was on?” demanded Rich.

“Sure we did. But he can’t evade much longer. He either earths or the Patrol nets him—”

Rich stood very still, his head slightly cocked so that he could see the vision plate. His other assistant, the Rigellian, spoke first:

“Always said we needed a com hook-up down here,” he stated, with some of the content of one who is at last proved to be right in a long argument.

The man at the controls had a quick answer for that. “Yes—and how are you going to cut through the interference to hear anything over it?” he began when Rich snapped an order to the messenger:

“Get back up there and tell Jennis to order Algar to go inert at once. In exactly two hours,” he was consulting his watch, “we’ll off the pull for an hour—an hour, that’s all. He’s to set down, make the best landing he can under power. It doesn’t matter if he smashes the ship—he’ll work to save his own skin all right. Then we’ll snap on the power and net the Patroller when she comes in for the kill. Get it?”

“Two hours and then off pull—keep it off for one, and he’s to make a landing then—then on pull,” parroted the messenger. “Got it!”

He turned and pounded out of the room, back into the maze. For a moment Dane longed to be twins so that he might follow that flight and so find the way out of the puzzle. But it was more important now to see how Rich was going to manipulate the installation to neutralize the power for the landing of his subordinate’s ship.

“Think he’ll make it?” asked the man at the control board.

“Twelve to two he does,” snapped the Rigellian. “Algar’s a master pilot.”

“He’ll have to take the pull coming in and be ready to snap on his braking rockets the minute it fades—tricky stuff—” It was plain that the other was dubious.

Rich was still watching the vision plate. Two new lights appeared on its surface. But their fluttering across it was so erratic that Dane, not being briefed on the use of this alien recorder, could make nothing of that weird dance.

Rich’s lips were moving, counting off seconds, his eyes going from his watch to the plate and back again. The atmosphere grew more tense. At the control board the man’s shoulders were hunched, his attention glued to the row of buttons at his finger tips. While the Rigellian strode with the peculiar gliding walk of his kind to the far end of the wall panel, his scaled, bluish six-fingered hand outstretched to one lever there.

“Wait—!” It was the man at the keyboard. “It’s pulsing again—!”

Rich spat a blistering oath. On the screen the dots were moving up and down in a crazy race. And Dane was conscious that the hum of the installation varied, that the beat had developed a tripping accent.

“Get it back!” Rich sped to the keyboard. “Get it back!”

The man showed a face damp with sweat. “How can I?” he demanded. “We don’t know why it does this.”

“Shorten the beam—that helped once before,” that was the Rigellian. Of the three he showed the least emotion.

The man pressed two buttons. All three stared at the screen for the results of that move. The wildly flying dots settled down to a pattern not far different from the one they had made when Dane had first come upon the scene.

“How far out does it pull now?” asked Rich.

“Atmosphere level.”

“And the ships?”

His underling squinted at the board and consulted some dials. “They won’t come into the pull for one—maybe two hours. When we cut like that it takes time to build up the power again. Anyway this doesn’t affect that blasted trader any—she can’t lift.”