The small auditorium had seating for about five hundred people. Frank noted that it was about half full. It was a circular functional room with no pretense to grace. There was mellow indirect lighting, as in many places on the Stephen Hawking. The place looked somber, shadowy, and official. Frank found a seat in one of the front rows between a bearded gunnery officer and a uniformed woman from Ship’s Stores. Frank couldn’t remember seeing either of them before. It was strange, how long you could live on the Hawking without meeting any appreciable number of its ten thousand mixed personnel. At the end of a five-year tour of duty you rarely knew anyone beyond the core group of ten or twenty people with whom you had immediate business. Although most of the Hawking’s great expanse of space and its array of stores, shops, buildings, and structures of all sorts were pretty much open to everyone, people tended to live pretty much in their own section and to limit their friendships to people with similar job descriptions.
The gunnery officer sitting beside him unexpectedly said, “You’re Frank Rushmore, aren’t you?”
Frank looked at the man. The gunnery officer was in his late sixties, like Frank. He had that tired, somewhat cynical look that some officers got when they stuck too closely to their specialty for too long. Officers are not encouraged to sound off about matters outside their own competence, of course. Phlegmatic and incurious, that was the desideratum; but some measure of the simian quality was needed if a man was to stay mentally alive.
“Hello,” the gunnery officer said. “I’m Sweyn Dorrin.” He was broad-faced and clean-cut except for the tufts of hair on the points of his jaw that proclaimed him a follower of Daghout, a mystery cult that had made some inroads into the loyalties of Fleet personnel in recent years. Dorrin did not look the religious type, however. He had a dull and incurious look about him, as if hardly anything was worth his while to consider, or even to wonder at.
Yet he was wondering something now, perhaps just for the sake of the conversation, for he asked Frank, “Do you know where they’re posting you?”
“My superior hasn’t discussed it with me,” Frank said, not particularly wanting to talk with the man but unsure how to extricate himself without seeming rude. “Do you know?”
“Of course,” the gunnery officer said. “My CO said to me, Dorrin, you’re the best man we’ve got on Class C Projectile Spotting Systems. No combat zone assignment for you. We need you to train new troops. They’ll be moving you back to the secondary services depot at Star Green Charley.”
“Good for you,” Frank said.
“Thanks,” the gunnery officer said, ignoring Frank’s irony. “What about you, Frank?”
“How do you know my name?” Frank asked.
“I used to see you at the Academy outpost at Deneb XI. They said you were a square shooter.”
Frank knew he had been a good officer, conscientious, thorough, but never flashy, never seriously considered for higher ranks. They’d never put his name forward for promotions above and beyond what fell to him through seniority. He was twenty-nine years in the service, and what had it gotten him? A lot of traveling, a lot of staring at the insides of spaceships, a lot of leave in strange places, a lot of women he didn’t remember the next day, and who didn’t remember him the next minute. That was about all the years in the Fleet had brought him, and he wondered now why it had all gone by so fast. Retirement time was coming up and he wasn’t sure what he was going to do, retire with thirty years or take another hitch. There was a war on, of course, and some would say that now was not a time to be leaving the Fleet. But there was always a war on somewhere and a man had to think of himself sometime didn’t he? It seemed to him that a man owed something to himself, though Frank wasn’t sure what that something was.
The gunnery officer wanted to talk about old times, but the assignments officer had entered the auditorium and obviously wanted to get on with it. This officer’s name was James Gilroy and he had been doing this for a long time, leading out the assignments as they came down to him from the Fleet Planning Offices.
Frank’s speculations were stopped when he heard the assignments officer call his name.
James Gilroy’s dry voice said, “Mr. Rushmore? You have been given a special assignment in sector forty-three. Lieutenant Membrino will meet you in Room 1K and give you the requisite information and documentation.”
Frank groaned inwardly. He had just come back from a three-month mission in his single-man scoutship. He could have used some time off, a chance to have a little fun in the honky-tonk bars on the Green-Green level of the Hawking. But he made no protest, saluted, and left the conference hall.
Lieutenant Membrino was quite young, no more than his early twenties. He had a small mustache and a serious case of acne.
“You are Mr. Rushmore? I have all the data right here for you.” He handed Frank a small black plastic satchel and motioned for him to open it. Within were star charts, a stack of printouts, and an assignment list. In a separate envelope were his orders.
Frank read that he was to go to the planet Luminos, and there present his credentials as a messenger from the Stephen Hawking. Once he had established his bona fides, he was to inform the inhabitants of the planet of their situation apropos of the Ichtons. A position paper on Luminos followed. The gist of it was that Luminos was in the path of the oncoming Ichton space fleet.
“I don’t understand,” Frank said. “Why does someone have to go there and tell them? Why not just send a voice torpedo?”
“They might not pay attention,” Membrino said. “Luminos is a new world, and the Saurians are not very sophisticated in the ways of interstellar politics. Their electrical technology is scarcely a generation old. They’re still pre-atomic. They have only recently encountered the idea that other intelligent races exist in the galaxy other than themselves. If we sent a message, it would simply confuse them. They have had so little experience of other races that a lot of them still believe some of their own people might be trying to pull off a hoax. Whereas if you appear in a scoutship that employs a technology a thousand years beyond anything they’ve got, and deliver your message . . .”
“I get the idea,” Frank said. “In how much danger are they?”
“That’s the sad part. According to our best calculations, Luminos is directly in the Ichton invasion path.”
“How much time do I have before they show up?”
“It looks like three weeks, maybe a month. Enough time. But you’ll have to move lively, Mr. Rushmore, to get in and out of there without getting into trouble.”
The Rotifer Room was an expensive eating spot and nightside hangout much frequented by the better-heeled members of the Hawking’s personnel. This tended to limit it to upper ratings and wealthy or at least affluent traders. Frank had often passed by its discreet entrance on Green-Green with the plastic palm tree copied from the logo of the ancient Stork Club of Earth. He had never gone in, not because he couldn’t afford it—anybody could buy a drink at the Rotifer—but because his tastes tended toward the egalitarian and he was more than a little uncomfortable in close proximity to wealth and position of a sort he had never attained.
Owen Staging was waiting for him inside, seated at a table near the small, highly polished dance floor. This was not an hour when people were dancing, however. Not even the orchestra was present. The place was empty except for Staging and Frank and one or two couples in dark corners, and a discreet waiter in black tuxedo who moved around noiselessly, making sure everyone had drinks.
“Take a seat, Frank,” Owen Staging said. His voice was vibrant, with strong chest tones. The big trader was wearing a shirt of some iridescent material decorated with many bits of cloth and metal sewn on to it. The fashion was a little too young for him to carry off successfully. His wristwatch was a genuine Abbott; aside from keeping time it also regulated his body’s autonomic systems, checking and smoothing out any disparities when they deviated from Owen’s previously established norm. The Abbott also had an automatic yearly
adjustment for aging, and in most ways took the place of a personal physician, with advantage, some would say. The big trader looked the picture of health. He was in his late fifties, the prime of life, a big man, on the corpulent side, with large fleshy features and lank blond hair cut in a short brushcut. The smile on his face came easily and seemed genuine. This is a pleasant man, you would have said to yourself. Then, a moment or two later, you would have thought, But there is something about him . . . You’d mean something unpleasant, but you wouldn’t know just what it was. Perhaps it was the flat, appraising way Staging looked at you, sizing you up and deciding what use you could be to him. That might have been it. At the present moment, however, the trader was all affability as he pushed a chair out for Frank and clicked his fingers for the waiter.
When the waiter came with the wine list, Owen pushed it aside. “Try some of the Vivot Clique ’94, Frank. The sommelier didn’t even know he had it until he was looking for something else in his Violet deck storage bay and found this. Pricey, but worth every credit of it.”
“Just a beer,” Frank said to the waiter.
He was uncomfortable around the trader, but had come to think of him as his friend. They had done a lot of drinking and talking together on the long trip out to Star Central. The trader had been affable and had shown interest in Frank.
“So what assignment did you get?”
“I’m dispatched to a planet called Luminos,” Frank said.
“Luminos?” The trader’s yellow eyes closed as he thought for a moment. Then they snapped open. “Luminos! Right on the edge of the war zone, isn’t it?”
“I’m not supposed to talk about my assignment,” Frank said.
“Come on, Frank! What am I, an Ichton spy?”
“Of course not,” Frank said. “It’s just that some things are best kept private.”
“I already know,” Staging said. “So they’re sending you to Luminos? It’s a useless assignment.”
“Well, someone’s got to warn them,” Frank said.
“But why you? It’s a rotten assignment, Frank. You just got back from a long one-man run. You’ll be weeks getting to Luminos in a scouter, and once you get there there’ll be nothing for you to do. The Saurians of Luminos won’t want to talk to you; not after the news you bring them. And there’ll be no traders there to talk to because the whole thing’s in a war zone. And while you’re being bored to death on this provincial little planet, there’s a good chance you’ll be rather messily killed if the Ichtons come through earlier than expected.”
“Somebody has to do this sort of work,” Frank said. “That’s what the Fleet’s out here for. We have to warn all intelligent races who are in the path of the Ichtons.”
“I know that, Frank, but it’s more than a little futile, isn’t it? What good will a warning do them?”
“At least it gives them a chance.”
“But what can they do? They can’t move their planet out of the Ichtons’ way.”
“I know,” Frank said, feeling defeated but stubborn. “But we have to give them the chance anyway.”
Owen Staging leaned back and sipped his tall, dew-beaded drink. Ice cubes tinkled as he raised his glass in a humorous gesture. “What I don’t understand, Frank, is what’s in all this for you?”
“Why should there be anything in it for me?”
“Don’t give me the humble crap, Frank. I guess humanity owes something to the men and women who are fighting to keep them alive and free. Twenty-nine years in the service putting out your all for humanity and what do you have to show for it? Just another crappy assignment that won’t make any difference anyhow.”
“Now look,” Frank said, “that’s enough. You can make a case against anything. Service in the Fleet is honorable work and the Fleet has been good to me.”
“I’m not saying otherwise,” Owen said, “but it is a little ironic, isn’t it, that this assignment that is going to be a dangerous bore to you could be a source of considerable wealth to me?”
“What are you talking about?” Frank asked.
“If I could go in to Luminos,” Owen said, “I could follow up on a very fine business opportunity that has just come my way.”
“I’m not going to take you into area forty-three with me,” Frank said. “I go into Luminos alone. Anyhow, you know the rules; no traders are allowed in war zones.”
“I had no intention of going,” Staging said. “Luminos is very soon going to be a dangerous place to be in. I don’t get my jollies off by taking risks. War is your business, profit is mine. I’d like to make a profit with you, Frank. A profit for us both.”
Frank looked steadily at the trader’s tough face for a moment. He’d been expecting something like this. Ever since the trader had begun to curry favor with him back at the beginning of the trip, Frank had had the feeling that the man wanted something. And, in a way, Frank didn’t mind. He liked the trader, liked his rough jokes and easy manner. And if the trader did want to win his favor, what was so bad about that? No one else cared that much for Frank’s opinion on anything. It was flattering that the trader, a bold and successful businessman, did, whatever the reason.
Frank’s face was expressionless when he said, “Profit? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Owen.”
The trader dug two stubby fingers into the breast pocket of his twill jacket and fished out a brown chamois bag. The neck was held shut by a cunning knot. Tugging at the knot, Owen collapsed it and opened the neck of the pouch. He turned it upside down and teased it gently. Out of the sack rolled what looked like a pebble. But no pebble had ever possessed that fiery pulsating rose color. Looking at the gem Frank felt a brief touch of vertigo, and a feeling that he was entering a strange blue twilight zone where he was suddenly very far away from himself and very close to something he couldn’t put a name to.
“What is that thing?” Frank asked Owen.
Owen put the stone down on the table between them. He gently poked it with a forefinger. “That’s a Gray’s fire stone,” Owen said. “It’s one of the rarest things in the universe—a psychomimetic mineral that can amplify and alter the mood of whoever holds it. Notice how it changes colors as my hand gets close to it. It responds to each holder with a unique array of colors. The scientists still don’t know what that means.”
Frank said, “I’ve never seen or heard of anything like this.”
“That’s because you don’t read the fashion news,” Owen said. “Gray’s fire rings have made a great splash on the fashion scene in recent years. In fact, they’ve become the most important accessory of the year according to Universal Humanoid Stylings magazine.”
Frank lifted the gem and felt it pulse in his hand. “Are these very rare?”
“Only a few hundred of them appear on the market every year. You can imagine what price the top designers pay for them.”
“Where do they come from?” Frank asked.
“That has been a mystery for a very long time. It was definitely confirmed only last year, Frank. These stones are from Luminos.”
“The place I’m going to?” Frank asked.
“The very same,” Owen said. “You see, Frank, if I were going there, I could trade for these stones. I have a dozen outlets back in civilization that are ready to bid against each other once I have them.”
“Well, you’d better forget about it,” Frank said. “You know very well that no traders are allowed in a war zone.”
“No,” Owen said, “but there is something you can do for me, Frank.”
Frank thought for a long moment. “Why would I want to do something for you, Owen?”
Owen grinned and said, “In order to do an old friend a favor. And to earn a considerable sum of money for your retirement fund, partner.”
“Partner?”
“I want to go into business with you, Frank.”
“You want me to get Gray’s fire stones for you?”
“That’s it, Frank. And we’d split the proceeds fifty-fifty.”
“But what would I trade for the stones?” Frank asked.
“I’ve got something the Saurians are going to want,” Owen said.
“Are you talking about whiskey?” Frank asked.
“No,” Owen said, “though they could probably use that, too, with the situation they’re in. But I’m talking about something they really need, given the present circumstances.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I’m talking spaceship engines, my friend. That’s what the Saurians are going to need, since all hell is going to break loose in their neck of the woods pretty soon now.”
“Where did you get the spaceship engines?” Frank asked.
“I’ve got a cousin who works in General Offices Surplus and he has a friend in job-lot disposals. They’re just starting to dispose of the L5 components.”
Frank knew that the L5 had been the heart of the drive shield mechanism in recent years, and of the cold fusion warp generator that made FTL travel possible. It was a unit of considerable antiquity as such things go, nearly ten years in steady production. Frank was not surprised to find that the old model was superceded by a new one. What did surprise him was that Owen had gotten his hands on some of them so quickly. He must have acquired them hours after they were decommissioned, before the big planetary dealers got a chance to bid. Or had the situation been rigged to give him sole bid?
“What are you going to do with the L5s?” he asked Owen.
“I already told you,” Owen said. “I am going to give them to you on consignment. Then I am going to stay here on the Hawking and wait. You are going to put those engine components in your hold. There’s plenty of room; there’s only thirty-one of them and they weigh only a couple hundred pounds apiece. You will take them to Luminos where they’ll be hot items once you tell the Saurians what’s in store for them. Once that’s established, you trade engines for gems at the best rate you can get, bring back the stones, and we both make a nice profit.”
“It’s a pretty smart deal,” Frank said a little sadly.
“What’s more important, it’s an open and aboveboard deal between you and me.”
Various Fiction Page 376