A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  Straker thought quickly. “It’s a big vessel. There could be a mistake . . .”

  The smiler crashed the truncheon on Straker’s nose, making it bleed. “Oh, no. The Biarritz carries three thousand live hundred guests, but there are no mistakes. The computers never lie. So you must be an interloper.”

  Crash went the truncheon.

  “Take him to Effingham.”

  Straker made a final lunge at the smiler, was slugged down, and so allowed himself to be dragged into a transparent tube of light which shot them down three decks. Straker became docile, planning carefully. They had not taken his disintegrator yet, probably assuming he was unarmed since he fought with his fists. They really didn’t have to worry. There were ten escorting him, along interminable corridors. Once Straker passed through another court with his guard, and glimpsed at the end of a cross-hall a vast expanse of magnificently high window, opening onto red-scorched blackness where an immense crimson-yellow sun burned gaseous in the black. As the gigantic starship cruised on its muffled rockets, the sun floated out of sight. Straker was hustled along from the court. He had to think, analyze, scheme. Above all he must not fail on his mission. He must complete the murder assignment at all costs. He didn’t know why, and the more he thought about the why, the worse his plight seemed.

  A maroon-dressed guard spun a wheel on a high door and Straker was shoved through into an utterly different world.

  Here a luminescent pearly-white sky gleamed overhead. The air was hot, dank, congestive. As far as could be seen, a veldt of yellowish grass shivered in the hot wind. Straker blinked again, realizing suddenly it was an illusion, but a marvelous one. He was in a vast chamber perhaps a mile long, a chamber carefully outfitted and designed to give one the feel of some damp, primitive alien world. The illusion shattered when one of the guards dragged an annunciator horn from what appeared to be a tree stump. The guard’s magnified voice bounced booming up and down the vaulted sky:

  “Chief Effingham, please. Chief Effingham to entrance B-eleven please.”

  A moment passed. Then, across the veldt, with a rising roar of six hammerlike feet, an iron-hided beast with a cylindrical head came charging. The guards cringed. The beast, snorting and huffing, thundered away out of sight, probably down into some cleverly fabricated dip in the landscape, while along its train roared a tiny three-wheeled vehicle with a thin pale man standing erect beside the seated driver. This individual was distinguished by a few severe decorations on his maroon tunic, and by a narrow, arrogant face. The little vehicle slowed slightly, and with great agility the ribboned officer leaped down.

  He drew a fragment of black silk from one sleeve and wiped the edges of his mouth, smiling contemptuously at Straker while one of the guards reported the circumstances.

  “Straker, eh?” The officer chuckled. “This is a distinct pleasure. I am Nels Effingham, chief of police of the estate ship The Biarritz. Welcome aboard—however you managed to sneak aboard. And do enjoy your visit. Or rather, I hope you have enjoyed it.” Though Effingham smiled, his lips were bloodless and his eyes were the eyes of a killer who savors his role. To one of the guard force he snapped, “Re-set the tracks in the beast’s head. Make sure all his machinery is working. Then we’ll put Mr. Straker out on the veldt and let him be the quarry.”

  The guard saluted and trotted away into the yellow grass. Straker was thinking desperately.

  Effingham made a supple-wristed gesture at the luminescent sky. “Mr. Atlas has a remarkable flair for devising amusements to divert his cruise guests, don’t you think? The beast is native to Europa, of course, the outer belt. Quite realistic in every detail. Its electronic brain was put together most carefully, so that when one is pursued, one is certain the pursuer is scientifically dedicated to destruction, and when one becomes the hunter, the beast is scientifically dedicated to self-preservation. Naturally the guests always escape, due to the speed of those little atomic carts. You should find it amusing on foot, I think. It will be an innovation. The beast has never had a kill, not since The Biarritz was launched. Oh, there was a messy little affair with a steward—”

  “When I have a chance,” Straker said calmly, “I intend to kill you.”

  Nels Effingham gave an amused sideglance at the assembled guards. “He means it, doesn’t he?” The officer’s lips tightened. “Straker, no one comes aboard Mr. Atlas’ ship without authorization. There has never been a stowaway before. How you came aboard does not interest me. Our machines will find out when we put your corpse in for dissection. But Mr. Atlas has posted standing orders for stowaway execution. And executed you shall be.” Effingham turned as the guard returned through the yellow grass.

  “The beast is rigged, sir,” he reported. “Ready on the launch track.”

  No, thought Straker suddenly.

  No, I’ve got to break, try for the disintegrator they overlooked. Instantly he realized it would be hopeless, yet he felt driven, whipped to trying. Because he had to murder Alexander Atlas X, who was evidently the owner of the estate ship.

  STRAKER FELT COLD. He did not want to kill this Atlas, who must be very powerful, extremely rich. The dim, hollow voice at the back of his mind told him he did not want to do murder, yet he knew he must escape and do it nonetheless. Why did he have to do it? Why . . .?

  “Straker?” Chief Nels Effingham called lightly, amused. “Please step forward, and run.”

  It was useless, dismally useless, yet Straker could not have willed his actions otherwise. He took a pair of steps, head down in hangdog fashion, then turned and lashed out, caving in one guard’s front teeth with his great crag-knuckled fist. His lips peeled back from his teeth and he became an animal lashed to a frenzy. Another guard darted in, foolishly raising his hands, trying to sidestep in a professional way. Straker sent him rolling with blows that tore cartilage. Truncheons appeared. At the fringe of the crowd Effingham shrilled:

  “Disintegrators, idiots! Disintegrators!”

  The blunt weapons appeared in guard fists. Straker had his own free, was crouching now in the rotting wind from the ersatz veldt, his finger bloodless-white upon the key. What held him frozen, as it held the guards frozen, was the unexpected sputter and roar of another tiny three-wheeled vehicle approaching fast, whirling blades scything a path in the yellow grass before it.

  Straker craned a head over his shoulder, loosened his muscles and his nerves a bit. This might be a way of escape. The only matter was his mission of murder. And he was not going to be killed immediately by Effingham, that fact shone clearly in the thin man’s white-faced expression of anger. The blades on the prow of the little vehicle came to rest. A few wisps of. the yellow grass fluttered off in the wind, and one of the women in the cart helped the other alight.

  “Lady Atlas . . .” Effingham began. “Miss Dover. I thought you were spending the day in the Pseudo-Centauri gym. Please, ladies.” He stepped forward, arms outspread to shield their view of Straker. “This is merely a bit of minor unpleasantness not fit for your eyes.”

  The young girl, handsomely formed, copper-blond, with a full pink mouth and intelligent yet warm gray eyes, was staring directly at Straker, though her rebuke was aimed at Effingham:

  “My mother and I are not required to justify our movements on The Biarritz.”

  “Naturally not!” the older, bluehaired woman echoed. She too was statuesquely built, with a dark, vaguely Latin face and commanding brown eyes. She appraised Straker, clearly preferring what she saw in him to the picture presented by the slight, cruel Effingham. Every line of her gown spoke riches and position, but she gave Straker a smile. “What’s he done, Effingham? The racket when we came in here for a little hunt was deafening. Is he of the crew? He’s not dressed like a crewman. Yet I’m familiar with all the guests.”

  “He’s not a guest,” the younger woman replied in Effingham’s place. “He looks much too healthy.”

  Straker felt hope now: he might wrangle his freedom. He returned the girl’s friendly gaze, despisin
g himself for his own hypocrisy. Effingham had referred to the older woman as Lady Atlas. She was clearly a relative of the ship’s owner—the man he must kill. But the job had to be done. Straker lowered his own disintegrator, waiting, while Effingham rushed on:

  “. . . stowed away!” The chief officer could barely stifle his anger, his disappointment at being robbed of a kill. “I planned a quick execution, according to the orders of Mr. Atlas, and then an analysis of his brain retention cells via laboratory methods, to determine why and how he came aboard. I beg of you, ladies, let me carry out my responsibility.”

  “Let you carry out your sadistic tendencies is what you meant to say,” Lady Atlas answered acidly. “Not at all. It is impossible for stowaways to board my husband’s vessel. Therefore, he came aboard legally, if mysteriously, and unknown to you. Or me. Nevertheless, he is much too pleasant-looking a person to be subjected to your rather coarse techniques. Come along, young man.” She threw Straker a warm, genuine smile. “We’ll talk a bit up on my deck, and unravel the puzzle of you. I’m bored. Perhaps you can divert my daughter and me as well.”

  “Thank you, Lady Atlas,” Straker breathed. He stepped out though the ring of awed guards.

  Effingham’s lips were livid white. “Lady Atlas! I must advise you that your behavior is extremely dangerous. We have no notion of this man’s motives . . .” He halted, silenced by a graceful yet unmistakably commanding wave of Miss Dover’s gloved hand. Straker jumped up in the little cart. The daughter took the controls. Lady Atlas fitted herself regally into the third seat. The vehicle spun around and raced off across the yellow veldt. Straker’s final impression was of the intent, purposeful stare of Nels Effingham. A stare which promised revenge . . .

  THE COPPER-BLOND girl and her imperial mother showed little disposition for talk during the trip to the eighth deck where they had chambers. Just as well for Straker, who concentrated on presenting an amiable countenance, open and guileless. At the earliest possible moment he wished to escape, locate Atlas and slay him.

  (Would that damned voice far back in his head—saying he didn’t want to kill—never shut up?)

  The monstrous floating rich man’s palace that was The Biarritz would be deadly with traps, if Effingham had his way. Thus, under the wing of the wife of Atlas for a time, he felt safe, and on course,-too. Straight toward Atlas. For that reason he devoted all of his efforts to making himself seem a quiet, grateful inferior.

  The blue-haired woman’s chambers were sumptuously decorated in a martian motif—the walls, with no dimensional murals, were hung here and there with the carven star-and-circle symbols of the Martian religion, each one an artistic masterpiece apart from its religious function. Straker felt mildly awed. The restrained elegance of all the furnishings, and especially the priceless and nearly unobtainable Martial icons, testified to the breeding—and the power—of Lady Atlas.

  Lady Atlas asked if he cared for food. Straker readily agreed. He felt nervous as he seated himself before a delicate platinum table and began to wolf golden, plump nutrienthypoed guinea hen. Lady Atlas and her daughter, the latter with amused curiosity in her eyes, watched him eat as they rested on a pair of triple-sized foam chaise platforms.

  “Effingham,” Lady Atlas spoke finally, “is a vindictive little beast, though I suppose he performs a needed service aboard my husband’s starship. Intruders now and then try to creep aboard. Yet they are always discovered before our departure from our private launching lock on Capitol Mountain. My husband sees that they are dealt with before we leave Mars, poor wretches. Usually petty sneak thiefs or wealth-peepers hoping for a glimpse of the inside of this vessel. You fit neither class, Mr. Straker. Nor do you have the genteel and decadent air of our invited guests.” Her wise, amused dark eyes pierced him deeply for a long moment. “What are you? And who?”

  He cracked a guinea hen bone, sucking at the delicious meat. “Duncan Straker, that’s all.”

  “Oh, come now.” The young girl, Miss Dover, gave a little smile of exasperation. “We did save your life. And I was looking forward to a long conversation. You see you’re quite unlike the men who usually ride with Atlas when he cruises. They’re very soft and white. They snicker endlessly.”

  Straker threw her a genuine smile of pleasure. Damn it, she was attractive, but she had no right to be so frank with, him, while the hammering drive within his skull kept reminding him of murder. Murder. Murder.

  Lady Atlas smiled tolerantly at the girl. “ ‘Plain Jenny Dover’ she prefers to call herself with an emphasis on the adjective. Jenny is the daughter by my first marriage to Sydney Dover, you see. Do you recall the name? I see you’re nodding. Yes, the titanium king, as the press named him. I’ll admit I had no fondness for Atlas when I married him. Neither am I fond of him now. But he offers me a certain position and rank, and I’m basically a ruthless woman. Not at all admirable.”

  “I think it’s admirable that you pulled me away from the ship police when you did,” Straker returned with a grim, thin smile. “I will tell you this much,” he went on, fabricating the story as he talked and not glancing at once at ‘Plain’ Jenny Dover, who was not plain at all.

  “I was engaged to conduct a certain confidential investigation by your husband, Lady Atlas. So confidential that he arranged for my entry on the ship at Capitol Mountain. But for reasons of his own, it was necessary for me to make my way to him unaided, here on The Biarritz, without credentials. He . . . he told me if I managed that task, he’d know I had the qualifications for another job he needed done. An even more important job, with very high stakes. That’s why I’ve got to reach him on my own hook, without the aid of Effingham. I’m due to see Mr. Atlas, in less than one hour, in fact,” Straker finished, taking a last desperate leap. “But I don’t even know where to find him, yet. That’s part of the test.”

  “What does the investigation involve?” Lady Atlas said, leaning forward, new urgency in her manner.

  “I’m afraid I can’t disclose . . .”

  “The Cartel Tribunal? He’s told me he was frightened of the men on their council. I have no idea why he’s frightened, but I have never seen Alexander Atlas frightened before.”

  Straker shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t speak about . . .” Jenny Dover, a pensive finger lying aside her cheek, said shortly and quietly, “You’re lying.”

  Straker gave a start. Instantly his nerves began to churn. Had she discovered him? “What?” Lady Atlas burst out, “Jenny, that’s a horrible thing to say . . .” The copper-haired girl shrugged. “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Straker. I’m a bit more perceptive than my mother, and your eyes told me something, while you were explaining about your mission aboard this ship. They told me your mission was something entirely different. Something which you dislike, but cannot avoid. And . . .” Her brow furrowed a bit. “. . . something criminal.”

  STRAKER’S HANDS seized the fluted back of the platinum chair, gripped for support as he forced out a diversive laugh. “That’s absurd, Miss Dover. If I were free to go into detail . . .” Bitterly the girl shook her head. “Don’t. Don’t strengthen the lie. For a moment . . . for just a moment or two I really believed you were the sort of man, at last . . .”

  “Jenny Dover!” Lady Atlas exclaimed sharply. “Where is your restraint? Your sense of taste?”

  “Gone, damn it, all gone!” she cried. “Eaten away by the stupid foppish giggles of the young men Atlas hauls aboard on every one of these rotten, boring cruises. I haven’t any restraint left, nor any taste, nor any propriety! Because a man who holds his head up and looks at me honestly is like an extinct bird around here! I’m sick of being an exquisite toy for my stepfather to display. And I’m disappointed because . . . because . . .”

  Fury and sadness mingled in her tones.

  “. . . because Mr. Straker is lying to us. Smiling and bowing and eating our food and murmuring agreement and lying—like all the rest of the pack of fools on this ship!” And with a choked sob of humiliation, she w
as gone.

  Straker stared dismally at the whispering curtains through which she had fled. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of her heels died away, leaving only Lady Atlas’ outraged breathing and the distant, droning counterpoint of the monster starship’s great engines. Straker felt more of a traitor than ever. He felt suddenly eaten away with dishonesty, yet he forced a bewildered expression to his face.

  “Don’t look so baffled,” Lady Atlas snapped. “The girl is right, in her way. She deserves a clean, decent man, not these lizards who make up my husband’s claque. But her outburst—her blatant attempt to literally throw herself at you—is unforgivable.”

  “I’m sorry if I brought it about,” Straker said.

  “Don’t be silly. You have your job to do. You’ve been doing it as best you could.”

  Breathing a little more tightly now, Straker still fought to maintain a veneer of sincerity. “I’m afraid I must leave you, Lady Atlas. My appointment with your husband is nearly due, and it’s going to take some effort to locate him. The Biarritz is a gigantic craft, and I have no way . . .” He let the words drop off, suggestively, waiting, watching, hoping the blue-haired woman was not nearly so perceptive as her daughter. If she were, he’d be finished.

  There was a long, agonizing silence.

  “You may locate my husband Alexander one deck above. In the salon.”

  Quickly she rehearsed the directions which he memorized without saying a word. Then the older woman added, “This notion of my husband’s to subject you to a test seems absurd. You have information to report? Very well, then, you should proceed to him with dispatch. Oh, I know he might be angry if he learned I helped you—his peculiarities stem from a rather old-fashioned character, and I understand how he might want to conduct such a quixotic test. Can’t see the proverbial forest for the equally proverbial trees. Here. .