Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire (37 page)

"Throw out your weapon first!" he barked. A gun fell through the crack and to the floor. A Solarian slipped through, sneezed, and rubbed his eyes. "Turn around and back down the corridor." The crewman obeyed slowly. Roki stood a few feet behind him, using him for a shield while the others emerged. The fight was gone out of them. It was strange, he thought; they were willing to risk the danger of the
Idiot
's C-drive, but they couldn't stand being locked up with a runaway reactor. They could see death coming then. He throttled back the reactors, and prodded the men toward the storage rooms. There was only one door that suggested a lockup. He halted the prisoners in the hallway and tried the bolt.

"Not in there, manthing!" growled one of the Solarians.

"Why not?"

"There are—"

A muffled wail from within the compartment interrupted the explanation. It was the cry of a child. His hand trembled on the bolt.

"They are wild, and we are weaponless," pleaded the Solarian.

"How many are in there?"

"Four adults, three children."

Roki paused. "There's nowhere else to put you. One of you—
you
there—go inside, and we'll see what happens."

The man shook his head stubbornly in refusal. Roki repeated the order. Again the man refused. The predator, unarmed, was afraid of its prey. The Cophian aimed low and calmly shot him through the leg.

"Throw him inside," he ordered tonelessly.

With ill-concealed fright for their own safety, the other two lifted their screaming comrade. Roki swung open the door and caught a brief glimpse of several human shadows in the gloom. Then the Solarian was thrown through the doorway and the bolt snapped closed.

At first there was silence, then a bull-roar from some angry throat. Stamping feet—then the Solarian's shriek—and a body was being dashed against the inside walls while several savage voices roared approval. The two remaining crewmen stood in stunned silence.

"Doesn't work so well, does it?" Roki murmured with ruthless unconcern.

After a brief search, he found a closet to lock them in, and went to relieve Daleth at the key. When the last signal came, at the end of the four hours, she was asleep from exhaustion. And curled up on the floor, she looked less like a tough little frontier urchin than a frightened bedraggled kitten. He grinned at her for a moment, then went back to inspect the damage to the briefly overloaded reactors. It was not as bad as it might have been. He worked for two hours, replacing fused focusing sections. The jets would carry them home.

The
Idiot
was left drifting in space to await the coming of a repair ship. And Daleth was not anxious to fly it back alone. Roki set the Solarian vessel on a course with a variable C-level, so that no Sol ship could track them without warp lockers. As far as Roki was concerned the job was done. He had a shipful of evidence and two live Solarians who could be forced to confirm it.

"What will they do about it?" Daleth asked as the captured ship jetted them back toward the Sixty-Star Cluster.

"Crush the Solarian race immediately."

"I thought we were supposed to keep hands-off non-human races?"

"We are, unless they try to exploit human beings. That is automatically an act of war. But I imagine an ultimatum will bring a surrender. They can't fight without warp lockers."

"What will happen on Earth when they do surrender?"

Roki turned to grin. "Go ask the human Earthers. Climb in their cage."

She shuddered, and murmured, "Some day—they'll be a civilized race again, won't they?"

He sobered, and stared thoughtfully at the star-lanced cosmos. "Theirs is the past, Daleth. Theirs is the glory of having founded the race of man. They sent us into space. They gave the galaxy to man—in the beginning. We would do well to let them alone."

He watched her for a moment. She had lost cockiness, temporarily.

"Stop grinning at me like that!" she snapped. Roki went to feed the Solarian captives: canned cabbage.

The Philosophical Corps has the task of guarding young cultures and allowing them to develop without killing themselves.

Arthur C. Clarke's Law states: "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." Commander A-Riman of the Philosophical Corps has good reason to know this.

Commander Kar Walzen looked up from his desk as Hal Carlsen came in.

"I'm told you had some trouble with my Operations Officer."

Carlsen shook his head. "No real trouble, sir. He wanted to schedule us for a C.A. assignment. I explained to him that I had an assignment that would take some time. Suggested that he pick one of the regular Criminal Apprehension teams to handle it."

The Sector Criminal Apprehension Officer frowned. "You refused an assignment, then. Right?"

"No, sir. I simply explained to Captain Koren that my detachment would be tied up for a while. His assignment would be delayed if he waited for us to get back."

"That constitutes a refusal in my book. Now, let's get this clear right at the start. You and your people are not a bunch of prima donnas. You've turned in some good assignments, but you were sent to C.A. to work, not to go haring off any time you happened to feel like it. Is that clear?"

"Sir, we have a Philosophical Corps assignment. It came in through Sector this morning. According to our orders, it takes priority."

"Nonsense! You're assigned to me." Walzen exhaled loudly and regarded the junior officer angrily.

Carlsen reached into his tunic and took out a folded sheaf of papers. He pulled one off and extended it. "You should have received a copy of this, sir. I gave one to the captain."

Walzen grabbed the sheet, scanning it. Finally, he threw it down and reached for his communicator switch.

"I'll get this rescinded and set those people straight once and for all. Now you get back to Operations. Get your instructions from Captain Koren. I want to see a completed operational plan on this desk not later than tomorrow morning." He rapped at the communicator switch.

"You may go."

Carlsen hesitated for a few seconds, then went out to the outer office and sat down. The clerk looked at him curiously.

"You need something, sir?"

Carlsen shook his head. "No. The commander'll be wanting to see me in a few minutes. No point in making him wait."

The clerk looked doubtful. "Yes, sir."

Carlsen sat back and relaxed. A low murmur came from the inner office. Walzen's voice raised almost to a shout.

"I tell you, I can't perform my mission if my people are going to be constantly pulled out of service for some errand." The murmur went on. Carlsen waited.

There was a harsh, grating sound and Walzen's door slammed open. The commander strode out, glaring at his clerk.

"Get Mr. Carlsen back in here on the double."

He turned, then saw Carlsen.

"Oh. You're still here, eh? Come inside."

The commander slammed down in his chair and looked up angrily.

"Headquarters tells me that assignment of yours has priority. Now I won't go against definite orders. Never have, and never will. So you can go ahead this time. But let me tell you this: Next time you sneak over my head to the front office, I'm going to see to it that your career in the Stellar Guard is short, brutal, and nasty. Is that clear?"

Carlsen nodded, waiting.

"How long is this little junket of yours going to take?"

"It's hard to say, sir. We've got the Exploratory team's field notes, but we've no idea what sort of detailed situations we may run into."

Walzen snorted. "Bunch of amateurs! I'll give you a week. Then I'll expect you to report back for duty. And I'm going to tell you once again. Don't you ever again try going over my head so you can take one of these little vacations. Understand?"

Hal Carlsen looked into the viewsphere as his scouter floated toward distant foothills. He examined the valley below, occasionally changing magnification as features of interest caught his attention.

In the remote past, water running from newly formed mountains had raged across the land, cutting a path for itself as it raced toward the sea. Now, it had cut its channel, shifted course time after time, and at last had come to be a peaceful, elderly stream, meandering lazily at the center of a wide valley.

Occasional cliffs along the ancient river course marked water lines of old. But in most places, erosion had caused the cliffs to become sloping bluffs which rose to a tableland above.

Even the mountains had weathered, to become tree-clad hills, and their sediment had paved the water-carved valley. Hedgerows divided the fertile land into fields and pastures. Tall trees grew on the river bank, their roots holding the soil to inhibit the river from further changes in course. Clusters of buildings dotted the valley floor and narrow roads connected them to one another and to a main highway which roughly bisected the valley's width.

Carlsen examined a craggy cliff speculatively, then shrugged.
Could have been times when the sea came up here. Might be what's left of a gulf, at that
, he told himself.
But right now, it's people I'm interested in, not historical geology.

A winding road led up the face of the cliff to a castle gate. Carlsen looked at it thoughtfully, then glanced at his range markers. It was just about at his own altitude and fairly close. He reached for the manual override, then shook his head. Just ahead was a large town at the head of the valley. He could look into the castle later.

Beast-drawn carts were making their jolting way along the road below and as the ship passed over one of them, Carlsen tapped the controls, slowing to the speed of the cart. He increased magnification and studied the man and his draft animal.

The driver was a youngish man, dressed in a sort of faded yellow smock and wide, short pantaloons. Thongs wrapped around his ankles supported a boardlike sole and gave his feet some protection. He was obviously humanoid and Carlsen could see no significant difference between him and the basic homo sapiens type. He nodded.

Just about have to be
, he told himself.
It's a geomorphic planet. Who else would you expect to find?
He turned his attention to the draft beast.

The creature was a slate gray. Carlsen estimated its mass at nearly a thousand kilograms. The body was relatively short and fat, supported on blocky legs. The neck was long, the muzzle shovel-like. Carlsen tilted his head. Might be a herbivorous reptile? He increased magnification, then shook his head. No, there was scanty, coarse body hair. Lines ran from the cart to a system of straps at the animal's shoulders. The beast plodded gracelessly, occasionally stretching its long neck aside to tear a bit of herbage from the growth at the roadside.

Carlsen turned his attention back to the driver, then reached out and focused his psionic amplifier. For a few seconds, he sat in concentration, then he abruptly snapped a switch.

Gloch! None of my business. That's no kind of research.

The driver moved uneasily, then looked upward. He searched the sky then shook his head uncertainly and returned his attention to his beast and the rutted road before him.

Carlsen's hand darted out, bringing the ship down until it hovered close over the cart.

Interesting
, he murmured.
This guy knows there's something up here.
He glanced at a cluster of meters and shook his head.

No trace of radiation shield leakage and at this speed there's not a chance of concussion.
He examined the man curiously.
He's got to be a sensitive
, he decided.
I think I'll just record this guy for a while.

Again, the driver squirmed uneasily and looked up and behind him. For a moment, he faced directly at Carlsen, who flipped a casual salute.

Hi, chum
, he laughed.
If you can see anything here, you've got something new in the way of eyesight. But how about looking the other way for a while? I don't want you to get curious about insects that pop out of nowhere. And I don't want to use a full shielded spyeye. Haven't got an oversupply of those.
His hand poised over a switch.

The driver shook his head again, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and finally faced forward, muttering to himself.

Carlsen flicked up the psionic amplification.

Wysrin Kanlor
, the man was saying,
you're as crazy as that Mord claims. There's got to be something up there. Something big. But all I can see is sky.

Carlsen took his hand from the switch and looked thoughtfully at the man. At last, he opened a wall cabinet, took out a stubby cylinder, and opened its access port. For a few minutes, he busied himself in making adjustments, then he snapped the port shut. The cylinder faded from view, and he opened a drawer under the console and shoved the invisible object inside. He swung around and watched a small viewscreen as the instrument approached, hovered before the driver, then focused.

Locked on,
Carlsen said.
I'd say it's worth it. If I don't get anything else, I'll get a good line on language and dialect from the way he talks to himself.
He lifted ship, pointed its nose toward the town, and switched to the auto pilot.

For a while, he studied the details of narrow, winding streets as the ship slowly circled. Then he eased down over the central plaza and set the auto pilot to hold position.

At one side of the open space, a blackened area surrounded a thick, charred post. Several short lengths of chain, terminated by heavy cuffs, dangled from ringbolts. Nearby, a cart bearing a new post had pulled up and men were unloading tools. Carlsen frowned.

Now just what have we here?
he muttered. He snapped on the psionics and focused on one of the workmen.

For an instant, there was a picture of flames rising about the post. A human figure twisted and moved frantically. There was a mixed sense of vicious pleasure, deep guilt, and suppressed skepticism. Then the man's thoughts became crisply businesslike. Vocalized thought came through clearly.