Iron Head: Science Fiction Mystery Tales

by E. C. Tubb

  “Rank?”

  “Unknown, sir. He wore no insignia.” The aide paused. “He has been left on the ship, sir. Shall he be burned with the rest?”

  “Yes. No—wait!” Zeten liked to think himself a civilised man and something of a philosopher. Terrans were rabble, of course, mere hired mercenaries, by all the usages of war the man could expect no mercy. And yet—? By all the rules he should be dead. Had fate dictated his survival? It was a pleasing concept and it would do no harm to indulge in a whim. Also it would relieve the monotony of the journey. The man, of course, could always be executed later.

  “Have him brought aboard,” ordered the commander. “Tend his wounds and, when he has healed, interrogate him.” He radiated amused tolerance. “It should, at least, be entertaining.”

  *

  The interrogation, if not entertaining, lacked nothing in interest.

  “Name, age, rank and number?” The interrogator radiated the questions with crisp efficiency. If anything he was bored.

  Jake wasn’t bored. His last conscious thought had been the crushing impact of an explosion which had flung him against the walls of his cell. The next thing he knew he was in bed, with a tall, razor-faced man bending over him. Then had come a time of waiting while various aches in his body disappeared. Now here he was, facing another of the razor-faced crew. It took little imagination and less intelligence to guess that he was a prisoner of the enemy.

  “Name, age, rank and number?” The interrogator was impatient. He was also honest, loyal, direct and incorruptible. A telepath couldn’t be anything else. He frowned as Jake remained silent, flung out a mental probe and met nothing but blankness. Startled he tried again with the same result. Jake knew what was happening, he’d been through it uncounted times before.

  “Something bothering you?” he said politely. He spoke in Lingua, the composite of a dozen languages which the Guards and traders had used before the Hammadran Technique had made Terrans equal with the rest of the galaxy. The interrogator was, shocked into repeating his questions in a verbal form. “Jake Merton,” he heard. “Thirty-two. Admiral. No number.” Jake was being facetious. His knowledge of the enemy was slight but he saw no harm in trying to get officer-treatment if he was permitted to live. If he was due for execution the lie wouldn’t matter anyway.

  “An Admiral!”

  “Certainly.” Jake framed the next question with delicate care. “I take it that I am the only survivor?”

  “Yes.” The interrogator was flustered, he answered without thinking. “But an Admiral! On such a small craft?”

  Jake simply smiled.

  *

  The interrogator was at a loss. Normal procedure was simply to read the desired information directly from a subject’s mind, first arousing the response by appropriate questioning. Verbal techniques were never used. Conversation was useful only as an archaic social grace and for long-distance communication by sub-etheric radio.

  On the other hand Jake was relieved. As the only survivor there was no one to betray him. As far as these people were concerned he was exactly who he stated himself to be. They might doubt him but they could never prove him to be a liar. For the first time Jake had reason to thank the violent temper of the sergeant who had caused the fight which had ended with him being flung into the brig. Being a prisoner had saved his life.

  The interrogator was trying again. Unable to use his normal techniques he was making hard work of it.

  “You wore no insignia,” he said. “Why?”

  “I am an Admiral,” said Jake. “You will please remember that.”

  The interrogator gulped, repeated his question, hesitated then reluctantly added the title.

  Jake remained silent, smiling with a calm assurance.

  “You were discovered without armour in a small compartment—sir. May I ask how that came to be?”

  “I am alive,” said Jake. “My companions are dead. Does that answer you?”

  It didn’t, but the interrogator, like all telepaths knew nothing of subterfuge. He read his own meaning into Jake’s reply. He read his own meaning into all Jake’s replies, at least to the questions he condescended to answer. Finally, after a last, desperate effort to read the prisoner’s mind, the interrogator decided to call it a day.

  “An admiral?” Commander Zeten was bewildered. “On so small a craft?”

  “Yes, sir.” The interrogator mentally squirmed. “I questioned him about that and he just smiled. I asked him other questions and he just kept on smiling.”

  “And no leakage?”

  “None at all, sir. Not a thought escaped his head.”

  “I see.” Zeten didn’t doubt his subordinate’s statement; a telepath cannot lie. “It seems that I must interview this man myself.”

  *

  He had the grace, afterwards, to admit that his suspicions had been groundless. The interrogator was still good at his job, still sharp of mind and intellect and, of course, still incapable of lying. He had told the simple truth, fantastic though it had seemed. Non-telepaths, in this sector of the galaxy, weren’t rare—they were unheard of. The commander made the only logical deduction he could.

  “The man is an Admiral,” he decided. “He is obviously a person of importance because his companions sealed him in a small chamber before engaging in battle. That it was the safest place on the vessel is proven by the fact that he is alive while his companions are all dead.”

  “But would an officer in charge of his vessel allow himself to be so treated?” The aide was dubious. Zeten impatient.

  “He was obviously not in command of the vessel. Would an Admiral command so small a craft? Of course not.”

  “Then—?” The aide was baffled. Zeten sighed, conscious of his own superior grasp of deductive reasoning.

  “He is a person of some importance,” he resumed. “That we have proved by logical processes. Let us continue; he is important; his life had to be saved if at all possible. He wore no insignia. The latter fact I find of great significance. Why should a man in his position bear no insignia? I shall tell you. Because it was to avoid recognition.”

  In fact, as Jake could have told him it was simply that fatigues carried no insignia—not those belonging to the cook at least.

  “And why did he wish to avoid recognition?” Zeten paused for greater dramatic effect. “Because, no doubt, he was on a special mission.”

  “If we could only read his mind,” brooded the aide. Zeten slammed his hand down on the table.

  “There we have it! Our inability to read his mind must be due to a personal mind-shield of some kind.”

  “Sir!” The aide was aghast. Mind-shields belonged strictly to the realm of perpetual motion machines and immortality. Utterly desirable but impossible of achievement. Zeten bared his teeth.

  “Can you think of any other reason?”

  “No, sir, but all tests have failed to reveal the presence of any foreign object in the prisoner’s skull or body.”

  “That means nothing. The shield could be due to a system of mind training or, perhaps, he is a sport, a mutant gifted with this single great talent.” Zeten looked solemn. “You realise, of course, just what this means?”

  The aide realised.

  A man who cannot be read! It had not occurred to anyone that it worked both ways. It was as impossible for them to conceive of a man who couldn’t read minds as it was for Jake to imagine what it would be like to look out of the back of his head. Zeten was dazed by what he had found.

  “Such a man could be of supreme importance. He could be the repository of the entire enemy battle-plan, more, the instigator of it, the Master Planner. With him any secret would be safe from prying minds.” His dazed expression deepened. “You know, I have the feeling that we have captured the key man of the enemy offensive.” He sighed. “He must be executed, naturally.”

  “Must he?” The aide was bold. He made the suggestion, which was to earn him rapid promotion. “He is a Terran, a mercenary. If he is of va
lue to the enemy then imagine the value he would be to us.”

  It was a concept approaching genius. Zeten gave it due consideration.

  “He is a mercenary.”

  “True.”

  “He can have no real loyalty towards an enemy.”

  “True. Very true.”

  Zeten looked thoughtful. “Perhaps, if the offer were high enough—”

  CHAPTER 3

  The celebrations seemed endless. Lord Merton, squirming in his uncomfortably new uniform, wished that they’d sign the peace terms and get the thing over with. The fact that he’d been instrumental in bringing the War of Liberation to a triumphant conclusion afforded him no immediate satisfaction. He was too hot.

  “A great day for Kund,” whispered a voice at his side. Jake turned, recognised one of his admirals, forced himself to smile in polite acknowledgement.

  “Indeed a great occasion,” he murmured politely. “But solely due to the magnificent courage of the forces of Kund.”

  It was the right answer, the Admiral’s smirk attested to that. He bowed, made a few trite remarks, moved on to join the cluster around the Gliken. Jake, easing his jewel-encrusted collar, resumed his brooding on the future.

  Things had happened fast since he had been salvaged from the wreck. Once Zeten had decided on a course of action Jake had simply allowed himself to be swept along with the tide. From being an Admiral in pretence Jake became an Admiral in reality and, once having started the pretence, he hadn’t dared back down.

  His wits, under the pressure of necessity, gained a rapid keenness. Telepaths, he discovered, didn’t try to conceal emotions. In this sector of the galaxy telepathy was normal and so, even without being able to read minds, he could make a few shrewd guesses. Shrewd enough for him to qualify the assumption that he could read minds. From then on he had ridden a roller-coaster to fame.

  Unhampered by patriotism and not really caring which side won as long as he survived he had sold out to the Gliken. Thinking as they did that he knew the enemy battle-plans, the forces of Kund obeyed his orders to the letter and, perhaps because of their sheer randomness, they led to spectacular victories. An old spacehand himself, Jake had enough sympathy with the rank and file not to concentrate on their destruction. Instead he drove right into the heart of the enemy, hit them hard where it hurt, their pockets, and out again.

  It was only a matter of time before they sued for peace.

  *

  “Ah, my Lord Merton,” Zeten, resplendent in a uniform seemingly fashioned of solid diamonds, thrust himself towards Jake. Zeten was pleased with himself and he had cause to be. He had been the one who had discovered Jake. He, in a way, could claim to having been instrumental in winning the war. Promotion and plunder together with a place at Court beside the Gliken had followed automatically. He could afford to be generous.

  “The Gliken has been asking after you, Lord Merton,” said Zeten. “He was most interested in hearing how I found you.” He chuckled. “You were fortunate, my Lord, another commander would have failed to recognise your importance.”

  “I owe much to your Grace,” said Jake smoothly. Zeten was now a Duke. “But then, I never underestimated your astuteness.”

  “It has won us the war.” Zeten waved a casual hand. “But enough of that. I bear tidings of good news. The Gliken has expressed a wish to see you after the ceremonies.” He smiled benignly at Jake. “A private audience.”

  “I am honoured, said Jake. He recognised the feeling in his stomach and wondered just what form the next batch of trouble would take.

  *

  The Gliken of Kund, Ruler of two star systems and Protector of three more didn’t look the part. He was small, fat, bald and singularly unattractive. He also looked stupid and quite a few people had made the mistake of thinking that he was. Ugly or not no one could remain the Gliken without having both brains and the ability to use them. One of the elementary precautions any ruler must take if he is to continue to rule is to recognise personal threats even when they are only a vague probability. Jake, to the Gliken, was such a threat.

  He squatted in his chair as Jake walked forward, his footsteps ringing on the marble of the audience chamber. Armed guards stood against the walls, discreetly shielded by heavy curtains. Attendants moved softly about the Gliken bearing wine, succulent fruits, assorted dainties for the august palate. They were, Jake knew, window-dressing, ceremonial relics to impress visiting delegates. Their real function, he guessed, was that of personal bodyguards.

  “Lord Merton!” The Gliken rose and extended his hand. It was an unheard of honour. “Allow me to extend my personal gratification at the decisive victory wrought by your forces.”

  “Your forces,” corrected Jake diplomatically. “Alone I could have done nothing.”

  “True, I am pleased you recognise that.” The Gliken, despite his love of ceremonial, knew how to get to the root of a matter. “Have you any plans as to your future?”

  “I contemplate a life of tranquility,” said Jake. “You have been so gracious as to bestow on me vast estates and they will support my retirement.”

  “Indeed?” The Gliken looked thoughtful. “Are we not to see you at Court?”

  “It will be an honour to attend the Gliken.” Jake began to sweat. Now, more than ever, he wished he knew just what was going on in that bald, round head. Either way he was suspect. If he retired the Gliken would think him guilty of intrigue; if he stayed at Court the same.

  “Your presence would be a comfort to me,” said the Gliken smoothly. “And yet you are too valuable a man to waste in idleness.”

  This, guessed Jake, was it. He looked hard at the ruler. The Gliken looked uncomfortable. That was nothing new. Everyone seemed to feel uncomfortable when Jake was around. He could even sympathise with them. How else could they feel when they believed he could read their every thought but they couldn’t read his?

  “I was thinking of sending a punitive expedition to teach the Matriach of Amrha a lesson,” continued the Gliken hurriedly. “With yourself, naturally, in full command. I imagine the enterprise would appeal to you.”

  Jake wasn’t fooled. He knew how the Gliken felt. Jake was popular and had tremendous prestige; that alone would have made him an embarrassment to the ruler of Kund. Add to that the fact that the Gliken couldn’t trust him because he didn’t know what was in Jake’s mind and the situation was delicate. Too delicate for assassination. A punitive expedition, on the other hand, was a reasonable and effective means of getting him out of the way. It would also kill two birds with one stone.

  “You want me out of the way,” said Jake. It did no harm to enhance his reputation.

  The Gliken admitted it.

  “All right.” Jake pretended to consider the proposal. “When do I start?”

  The relief of the Gliken was obvious.

  The expedition consisted of almost a third of the effective fleet. Jake wondered a little at its size; he’d assumed that he would be given a few vessels only. The Gliken could, of course, be getting rid of a double embarrassment by sending such a large force; unemployed fighting men have always been a nuisance. Or there could be another reason. Jake gained an inkling of it during the farewell ceremonies.

  *

  The usual guff had been radiated and, out of respect to Jake’s well-known idiosyncracy, the same thoughts uttered in Lingua when the Gliken came up to say a personal farewell. He gripped Jake’s hand.

  “I’m giving you a free hand,” said the Gliken. “Take as long as you like but don’t come back until you’ve taught that bitch a lesson she’ll never forget!”

  Jake learned more during the voyage.

  “She turned him down,” said his second-in-command. “Refused his gifts and sent back his ambassador. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven her.”

  “I see.” Jake was thoughtful. He was in the middle of a grudge fight. The Matriarch would be certain to fight back with everything she had and losses were inevitable. There was a good possibilit
y that Jake himself would be eliminated. The Gliken was quite a schemer.

  “What’s she like?” asked Jake.

  “The Matriarch?” Tomore, the second-in-command, shrugged. “Nothing special, tall, skinny, flat-faced and with washed-out hair and eyes. Personally I could never understand what the Gliken saw in her.”

  “Is she rich?”

  “The Matriach of Amrha owns three suns and a dozen habitable worlds not counting an assortment of planetoids.” Tomore nodded. “Yes, it’s fair to say that she is wealthy.”

  “You said owns,” Jake was curious. “Don’t you mean rules?”

  “Same thing. The Matriach owns everything; subjects only hold property by her dispensation. All trade and commerce is operated by her agents. Of course, in actual practice it makes little difference. She takes her percentage and lets the experts run things but, if she wanted to, she could sell everything.”

  “Quite a girl,” said Jake. He was beginning to discover her attraction, for the Gliken. “Young?”

  “For a Matriach, yes. She’d be about the same age as yourself, maybe a little younger. She came into the title early, her mother was killed in a rotor-crash.” Tomore looked slyly at Jake. “Would the Lord Merton be interested?”

  “Only in a military sense. Do you think we can take her?”

  “Impossible!” The Second was emphatic. “With all respect, my lord, the Matriach isn’t the same as our late enemy. Her subjects are intensely loyal and they have a defensive network nothing could penetrate. The most we can hope for is to blast a few outposts, destroy some of her commerce and raid a few isolated planets.”

  “You think that she is invincible then?”

  Tomore shrugged. He knew of Jake and the marvels Jake had done in the War of Liberation but, as he tried to point out, this wasn’t the same.

  “The enemy were disunited,” he said. “Three times, to my knowledge, the Gliken has tried to take Amrha and failed. Again, with respect, my Lord, I do not think that even you can achieve the impossible.”