by Perry Rhodan
"What can we do?" asked Tusnetze.
"Nothing," retorted Farosto. "We keep on going." The patriarch knew that the road to riches was paved with stones that all had to be cleared out of the way. He pushed Vicheline's arms away from his neck and leaned closer to the mechanic.
"I think we'll make it," he said confidently.
Farosto made no answer but in another minute the shuttlecraft pulled in alongside one of the Hat-Lete's outer locks. The engine stopped and Farosto stood up. "We're here," he said curtly. "I only wish we were back on board the Tus II." Tusnetze resolved to hire himself a new mechanic at the first opportunity—one that was less pessimistic. As soon as he had money… The patriarch shook his lead in vexation. They hadn't won this game yet.
"How do we get inside this thing?" he asked Farosto.
"Maybe the hangar lock is open," suggested Beschan. "This one is a heavy cruiser, you know, and it certainly must have lifeboats and auxiliary craft." Farosto looked at his companions, one after another, and then his gaze drifted suggestively to the spacesuit in its rack behind the pilot's seat.
"Oh no!" exclaimed Gensor and Beschan simultaneously.
"I got you here," said Farosto sarcastically. "Now you do the rest. Somebody has to put on the suit and try to get into the robot ship. After that he can open an outer lock."
Tusnetze harumphed. "I thought all functions of these Arkonide ships were fully automatic and positronically controlled. How is anyone going to open a lock?"
"These things can also be manually operated," said Farosto.
"I suggest we have Beschan make a try he has the most experience with spaceships."
Beschan retorted hoarsely. "Your compliment is so touching, Farosto!" They all fell silent and the stillness was only broken by Vicheline's quiet sing-song. After a while, Beschan got up and took the spacesuit from its rack without a word. Gensor breathed a sigh of relief. Tusnetze wondered if this was bravery on Beschan's part or if it was just because he wished he could finally be part of a clan that had more to show for itself than the old, broken-down Tus II. The patriarch didn't voice the question. He watched silently until the Springer was ready.
When Beschan went out through the smallboat's airlock, Farosto took over the other's position at the instrument console. "Maybe the spacecom's working," he said hopefully. He turned on the short-range radio and spoke into the microphone. "Beschan! Do you read me? This is Farosto." When there was no reply, the chief mechanic struck the panel with his fist.
"Defective—like everything else on board!" he growled. "I often wonder how we still go on at all!" Tusnetze's thoughts were with Beschan, the stocky little man who had never spoken much in his life. Beschan was one of the few who had remained a faithful and uncomplaining member of the clan. One day the patriarch hoped he would be able to reward such followers.
He then regarded the Trox with interest. What was behind Vicheline's way of doing things? It was impossible to follow such a creature' s pattern of reasoning. Among each other these Trox were always bickering and fighting although they were basically not demanding and there was seldom anything that interested them. Their altercations never took the form of pitched battles or warfare, but rather their differences of opinion were expressed by words alone.
The Trox were spread out through a large part of the galaxy but they did not have any space fleet of their own. Nobody knew their native planet—not even they themselves. Every now and again they would find a ship that would give them transportation somewhere else. The Trox were well informed and usually they gave valuable tips to commanders who gave them a lift.
It was completely a matter of indifference to them as to which planet they were to visit next because their main objective was to get away from their quarrelsome fellow creatures. In many cases, however, they would encounter their own kind on the next world and the bickering would start all over again. So the Trox had become a strictly nomadic breed, always fleeing from each other.
Out of this attitude these threadlike entities had built up a curious type of caste system. They judged the merit of any member of their race on the basis of how many planets he had already visited. Any Trox who had seen more than 20 worlds could consider himself to be of the aristocracy. Such noblemen contended only with their own class and it would be unthinkable for him to enter into an argument with a common drifter who had not yet landed on at least 20 worlds.
Naturally there were some of these spindly nomads whose score exceeded more than 100 planets. These were the Trox kings who had an astonishing bag of tricks by which they hooked their space rides.
The kings—and this was the strange part—could fight and argue with drifters and noblemen alike, simply because there were so few of their number that they might have to wait years before running into another one. So far Vicheline had visited 48 worlds, which was almost half the quota necessary to become a king.
With the help of the Springers Trox wanted to reach at least five more planets.
Tusnetze scratched reflectively at the stubble on his shorn chin. In his view these. creatures were a kooky race having little intelligence. How could anybody have any brains if he played such a crazy game as that? The Trox had no civilization, they adapted themselves simply to any kind of environment and found no problem in making use of whatever the worlds had to offer where they happened to alight. They lived off the proceeds of various odd tasks they carried out here and there. With their particular physical makeup and very light weight they were suitable for various kinds of special work. Once in a while they also received a bonus from some grateful commander to whom they may have given a good piece of information.
The patriarch had resolved to give Vicheline a part of the forthcoming profits of the present venture.
"Watch out!" warned Farosto. "We're casting off from the robot ship. I want to look at all the locks. Maybe Beschan has already succeeded in opening one of them." He glanced at Gensor. "Turn on the bow searchlights." They started circling the heavy cruiser until suddenly Farosto slowed down.
"Over there!" he said.
Tusnetze slapped his thigh and laughed triumphantly. "Beschan made it!" he shouted. "Bring us inside, Farosto!"
• • •
Tonrim cursed the day when he decided to go against the old kings' advice and enter a Terran ship. But Tonrim hadn't been able to resist the temptation when the Frisco had landed for a few days on Plusol, and so he had made contact with the commander. The Terran had listened to him calmly while he told him about the flight coordinates he had obtained concerning one of the vanished robot ships.
Finally he had nodded his agreement and permitted Tonrim to come on board.
The old kings had told him: "Once you get on board a Terran ship all you'll be is a drifter." So far Tonrim had scored 14 planets. Plusol was a desolate world that was very seldom visited by spaceships, so Tonrim had thought himself lucky that the Frisco had landed there. He couldn't recall whether or not any Trox before him had ever done any space-traveling with Terrans.
Meanwhile he had been forced to accept the fact that he would be tied up for months on the Frisco because it didn't look as if the warship would be going to any planets in the near future. Moreover, Maj. Teluf had made it clear that after tracking down the Arkonide robot ship he'd simply inform the salvage section of the Solar Fleet about it. And apparently the sudden discovery of the Springers wasn't going to change anything.
When the libration field was extinguished and the Frisco fell back into the normal universe, Tonrim was standing close behind Maj. Teluf and also watched the view screens. Grudgingly he had to admit that the equipment of the Terran ship was about the best he had ever seen. Before he could think anything else the forward gun position fired off a raybeam shot at the Trader ship.
"A hit, sir!" called Galahad.
As intended, it was a light blow but the Springer was not showing any reaction. The Traders appeared to recognize the fact that they were no match for the light cruiser. In their minds it might have seemed like suic
ide to get into a space battle with the Terran ship. Maj. Teluf spoke into the microphone.
"Attention—fire control!" he said calmly. "Hold your fire but remain in combat readiness." Galahad turned to look at the commander. "What do you have in mind, sir?"
"We'll give them a chance to retrieve their boarding crew and to get out of this area," Teluf explained. "I have no desire to take any of those lousy characters on board as prisoners."
Bored by these proceedings, Tonrim drifted away. Everything had gone according to plan. It was mere child's play for the Terrans to take care of their opponent. The Trox was irritated over the fact that Teluf hadn't seemed to consider it necessary to thank him for the good tip he had given him. If it hadn't been for him, the Traders would have snatched the robot ship right out from under the Terrans' noses. It was true after all the old kings had been right.
Tonrim closed his eye and waited while humming softly to himself. He would have preferred singing louder but the Terrans complained when he didn't keep his volume under control.
Tonrim had no way of knowing what the coming hours held in store for him…
• • •
In this terrible moment Tusnetze's only wish was that he had the ability to simply turn off his thoughts. He knew he was a beaten man, and all his vitality and pride could not overcome this fact. He was ruined, destroyed, smashed to the ground, and no miracle would ever allow him to recover.
"They've ceased fire," said Farosto gloomily.
"They're giving us a chance," put in Gensor. "If we retreat we can save our lives!" Tusnetze shouted in rage. "Why don't our guns return the fire!?" Meanwhile, Beschan had returned to the shuttlecraft and now he and Farosto exchanged glances.
Farosto tried to get his clan leader to take his seat again. "They know that the Terrans have the edge on us, Patriarch. Any counter-offense would be suicide. We have to get out of here before they change their minds and take us prisoner." Tusnetze's head sagged. A wild battle raged within him. "It's all been in vain," he said finally. "We can't take over the Hat-Lete and the Tus II is half destroyed. This is the end." He looked up angrily. "Vicheline!" he shouted.
"Where is he?" When they looked around they discovered that the Trox had disappeared.
"He must have stayed inside the robot ship," said Gensor.
"Then we'll leave him here," Tusnetze decided.
The smallboat flew out of the hangar lock and headed for the Tus II. From another direction the Terran ship was seen to be approaching at a leisurely pace.
The time had finally come to disband Tusnetze's clan. By the unwritten code of the Galactic Traders the patriarch no longer had any right to bind his large family to himself. Tusnetze had lost all of his ships except for this one battered derelict, which perhaps only a genius like Farosto could nurse back to the nearest spaceport. Tusnetze had never dreamed that things could come to such a sorry state. His streak of bad luck had driven him into deeper misfortune. Now at the low point of his downward course he couldn't understand his situation. It almost seemed as if this had not befallen him directly but rather it had happened to a stranger—to some anonymous identity who would soon vanish from Tusnetze's life.
The facts were absorbed only slowly into the patriarch's consciousness. His frightful rage finally yielded to a dull sense of resignation. He waited calmly until the shuttlecraft had gotten back to the Tus II.
He heard a sigh of relief from Farosto. "I never believed we'd make it back here," said the pilot as they landed safely in the hangar.
The single airlock of the smallboat opened and the Springers got out.
Tusnetze was last and when he stepped into the hangar he saw that a reception party was waiting for him. His youngest son, Boruz, was standing there surrounded by 10 other men. The patriarch came to a stop when he realized that Boruz was aiming a weapon at him. For a moment the father and son stared at each other, oblivious to their surroundings. Then the older man straightened up.
"I assume this is some kind of revolution," he said. "You could have spared yourselves the trouble, Boruz. I'm stepping down — the clan is free." The youngster's weapon hand started to waver. Boruz glanced uncertainly at his companions as if expecting support from them. Nobody moved. Tusnetze saw that he still had the authority here he was still the patriarch and the leader of the clan. But he was too weary now to use his power.
"Our ship is badly damaged!" shouted Boruz in a shrill tone of voice. "What do we have left besides this broken old crate and our debts on Vallord?"
Tusnetze went to him and took the ray weapon out of his hand. "Nothing," he said quietly. "We have nothing."
Boruz's shoulders slumped helplessly. "We could have picked up a freight contract. True, it wouldn't have brought in very much but it would have been a lot safer than this adventure."
Farosto broke into the conversation. "I'll try to get the Tus II under way," he said. "No need to test the patience of those Terrans." With an apologetic smile he left the hangar, happy to exchange this sorry scene for his pilot's seat. Without a word, Gensor and Beschan followed the chief mechanic.
"A freight contract would have only prolonged the end, Boruz," said Tusnetze.
"It wouldn't have prevented it. You know as well as I do that this was our last chance."
"If only you had never met that Trox!" complained Boruz.
The patriarch laughed grimly. "The Trox? In my first burst of anger I, too, was ready to shove the blame onto him for all this. The fact is, we've lost in a tussle with fate. You're still young, Boruz You can found your own clan."
"What will you do?" asked Boruz.
It almost seemed as if Tusnetze was not going to answer this question but then an old gleam returned to his eyes and he said, "Find some more deals I can make what else?" He walked past his astonished son, an old and broken man with no illusions.
But then Boruz heard him shouting suddenly in his old accustomed volume.
"Why the devil are we still here!? I'll let that Farosto have it if he hasn't taken us out of here in another minute!" Boruz turned around to look at his companions, just as they all began to move back to their prescribed stations to await the orders of the patriarch.
• • •
By the time the Terran ship had appeared and opened fire on the Tus II, Vicheline had already made his decision. The Trox quickly realized that the robot ship must be very interesting to the Terrans if they were prepared to go into a space battle for it. Logically then, the earthmen would board the Hat-lete sooner or later to have a look around.
Anyway the Tus II hadn't been a very safe vessel and after that raybeam hit there would be more danger than ever that its engines might fail. Vicheline had two choices: either he could risk his life and return to the Trader ship or he could wait for the Terrans in order to take passage on their ship—in spite of the advice of the olden kings. So the Trox had decided in favor of the Frisco because he knew that life among the Terrans was preferable to dying with the Springers. Surely the Terran commander wouldn't be inhuman enough to refuse him.
If Vicheline had been gifted with the ability to see into the future he would have regretted his decision and wished to be back, with the Springers. But he could not guess that it would not be the Terrans who would be the first to enter the Hat-Lete.
• • •
Maj. Reja Teluf was watching the Trader ship which had just taken its smallboat on board. The Springers were smart enough not to try any counter-offensive, And Teluf was disinclined to use the battered longship for target practice. Where he was concerned he wanted to secure the robot ship, and this he had achieved.
"Sir, the Springer ship is getting under way," announced Galahad. His restless nature drove him on to other tasks but he could hardly wait until Teluf gave the order to launch a boarding crew. Yet the major still stood there waiting before the indicators.
The Trox had withdrawn into a corner, humming lightly to himself.
Galahad's attitude toward the Trox was one of slight distrus
t. It was a mystery to him—and not only to him alone—how the Trox could get hold of such important information. No one in the Solar Fleet had known what course the Hat-Lete was following through the void, until this Trox had popped up to report the position to Teluf.
Galahad didn't know much about the Trox except that in general it was said that they avoided Terran ships. So how come Tonrim had boarded the Frisco?
Before he could find a satisfactory answer to this question he was interrupted by the commander's voice.
"I don't think they'll try to come back now, Toss," said Teluf. "We can start putting a prize crew together." That was typical of Teluf, thought Galahad moodily. The Major avoided all possible risks, and he had even considered the possibility that the Springers might change their minds and come back shooting. "I'm volunteering, sir," he said aloud. "I'll take charge of the boarding party."
"No, Toss," the major contradicted. "Lt. Bottischer will take over. I need you here on board."
"Of course, sir," rasped Galahad, without making much effort to conceal his anger. Just now he would have preferred visiting his cabin for a quick bracer of his special wine but he couldn't leave the Control Central.
Teluf issued further orders and the Frisco continued to approach the robot ship. Everything went along quietly and smoothly, so that there was no indication that within an hour the Frisco was to become a flaming wreck.
2/ THE LIFE DESTROYER
Double-O pulled his plug from the energy bank, clipped it into its holder, rolled to one side and closed the main plate on his metal chest. To a certain degree this procedure was depressing to him because aside from the three controllers he was the only one on board who had to be recharged periodically.
And Double-O had a suspicion that this dependence upon the energy bank had not been unintended. They had taken him on board and changed a lot of things inside of him. Although he was important everybody seemed to treat him with a certain distrust. With the three controllers it was a different situation. They could carry out their tasks correctly when they were subject to a regular and automatic control of their functions.