by Jerry
“Outworlder,” the sergeant said slowly, “you don’t quite understand. We don’t have trial by combat in this town, not anywhere in this country. At town hall your problem is weighed by twelve wise men and women, whose judgment . . .”
“No woman can tell me what to do,” Jon said, standing, “and few men, however wise.”
“If he wants to fight, Fels . . .”
“No, Rudy, he’ll fight me and stand trial for that, too.” The sergeant gripped his club and shifted his feet into a fighting stance. “I wasn’t elected for gentleness, outworlder. I was a soldier in the war with Isola. I’ve killed many men and hurt many more.”
Jon shifted the blade to his other hand—from early training, either hand served as well—and took up the cup in his right. He feigned drinking as he shuffled out from behind the table and, once clear, tossed the cup at the sergeant’s face. He raised his club arm to ward off the missile and Jon snaked his blade in to scratch him under the wrist. He held on to the club for a second, but dropped it when Jon kicked his leg under the knee, breaking bone.
Strauss attacked with a small skinning knife; a real amateur, coming in from above like a man splitting ice. Jon switched hands again, blocked the blow with his forearm, and rapped Strauss on the temple with the heavy pommel of his dagger. He fell limply.
The other man picked up a heavy stool but seemed undecided whether to use it for attack or defense. Jon hurled the sergeant’s club at him; he dodged and it glanced from his shoulder.
The innkeeper had disappeared, probably behind the bar. Jon backed out the door, hopped on the swiftest-looking bicycle (an offworld import, probably the sergeant’s), and raced down the hill out of town.
It was about fifty miles to the port city of Seacrop, and Jon got into town well before dawn. He left the bicycle in an alley and walked to the docks.
He had to be away, or at least concealed, before it got light. His height and skin branded him as the offworlder-thief. Even if he hadn’t been followed, there were telegraph and radio links between the two towns.
The waterfront was eerie in the almost perfect darkness. Ropes creaked and sang and big ships boomed against invisible pilings. Smell of dead fish and seaweed. One flickering oil lamp relieved the darkness. In its light, a man was uncoiling rope from a big reel. Jon walked to him.
“Just a minute, friend.” Without looking up, the sailor measured off a dozen more lengths of rope, then sliced it off with a huge clasp knife. He took a length of leather thong from his shirt pocket and started winding it around the cut end, to keep it from fraying.
“Didn’t want to lose count. Be of some service to you?”
“Depends,” said Jon. “I seek passage to Isola, to the spaceport there.”
The man looked up. “Oh, an offworlder. Not too many of you in this country. Seen quite a few in Isola, of course.
“Most every ship in this port docks in Isola sometime on its route. Ship I’m signed on the Anniversary, hits there next stop but one.
“We fire up at seven sharp. Drop by a half hour before and the steerer’ll be glad to book you passage. We don’t get too many passengers but there are a couple of cabins. You’ll have to eat with the crew—won’t get your money’s worth there!”
“That’s my problem,” said Jon, turning out a pocket. “I was attacked by brigands just outside of this town. They took my two-wheeler and all my money. I’ll have to work my way over. Or I could pay, of course, once I got to the Interplanet Credit Union in Isola City.”
The sailor scratched his side-beard with a thumb, looking thoughtful. “Know the steerer wouldn’t want to wait for you to go inland and get back with the fare—not that he wouldn’t trust you, of course—but I don’t know that we need any extra hands . . . except maybe galley and cleanup detail.”
“That’s about all I’d be fit for, I suppose,” Jon said. “My ship sails in a different sort of sea—don’t know much about rigging or steam.”
“No,” said the sailor, a smile creasing his face, “but I’ll bet you have stories that’d stand with the best of them.”
If you only knew, thought Jon, “Mostly lies,” he said, and they both sat down on the dock to wait for dawn and the steerer.
Chopping vegetables in a little galley was not really much better than being in jail—Jon knew, he’d been in a couple—and a jail didn’t rock back and forth and couldn’t sink. But at least now he could get back to Isola and complete his mission. “Mission” sounded bad, too dramatic. Besides, he rather liked making enemies. And to meanwhile serve the Confederation . . .
A cabin boy burst through the swinging doors and ran straight to the cook. The cook leaned down to let the boy shout in his ear—the galley was right above the great steam engines that drove the stern wheels—and then walked over to Jon.
“Follow this boy, Jon,” he yelled. “The steerer wants to see you about a new job.” Jon stopped in mid-carrot and, relieved to get out of this bedlam, turned to follow the boy. He took one step and his quarry sense told him something was wrong—he dropped his hand to his boot but it was too late. A gong exploded in his head and cold sparks blinded him and he never felt the deck crack his nose.
He awoke coughing and spluttering; thinking they’d thrown him overboard, he started to swim but his arms and legs were frozen. He took a deep, tearing breath . . .
“Easy, now!” The cook stood in front of him with a dripping bucket, but the voice came from his right. He blinked water from his eyes and turned to look at the steerer. This must be the steerer’s cabin: dark, well-polished wood paneling, book trays, paintings and charts on the walls. In the middle of the floor was a large rug of woven rope.
“You’ve taken grave advantage of me,” the steerer said, sitting in a luxurious overstuffed chair, still hands resting in his lap. “Tradition, if not law, might allow me to take your life in return.”
“High fare for passage to Isola.” Jon stared at the steerer and discreetly tested his bonds. Firm, as expected. No matter. The chair . . .
The steerer leaned slightly forward. “Didn’t you know that all big vessels have wireless? Our planet isn’t that backward—you should have made your escape on a fishing boat or pleasure vessel.” He took a piece of paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it and read from it, shaking his head from side to side.
“Assault, robbery, rape . . .”
“Statutory . . .”
“Fraud, arson . . . so far you’ve stopped short of murder. Little else.
“Perhaps they’ll judge that you’re profoundly ill, in the head. Or perhaps you’re simply evil.”
“Sorry. Neither one.”
The steerer smiled the slight smile he would give to a child who used a word wrongly. “You are not evil. And your brain is quite untainted by disease. Your world must have very strange standards of conduct. Or perhaps all of the charges are false.”
“No, they’re accurate as far as they go. But incomplete—I’ve also done some fair smuggling and sabotage these few weeks I’ve been on your planet.” Jon’s voice sounded strange in his own ears; the swelling from his injured nose gave it an almost comic quality.
“You know, they’ll probably hang you in Isola. We don’t have much patience with criminals on this world. I doubt that your embassy would intervene.”
“No, I won’t hang. I won’t get to Isola.”
The steerer smiled again and snorted. “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you.”
“What I mean, steerer, is that none of us will get to Isola. Not on this ship.”
“You are mad.”
“Just careful, steerer. There’s a time bomb aboard the Anniversary, a powerful bomb below the waterline. Only I know where it is, and how to disarm it. Every minute I remain bound is a minute closer to an interesting death for all of us.”
“That’s a pretty clumsy hoax.”
Jon attempted to shrug. “Do you think me incapable of it? Do you think I’ve come this far without being careful?”
The steerer stood and walked to the balustrade, overlooking the ocean. “Cook, you didn’t hear anything.”
“No, sir.”
“Go back to your galley now. And keep mum, or I’ll have your pelt.”
“Yes, sir!” After the cook left, the steerer stared at the sea for a minute without speaking.
“Had I only justice to serve,” he said, “and not shippers and owners, I would take the crew in lifeboats and let you wait alone, bound, for the result of your wickedness.”
“The only way you can serve justice is to set me free and help me land in Isola unnoticed.”
The steerer laughed, one short bark. “Tm going down to the wireless now, to get the advice of my employers. Thinking about it, I realize that you may have more than one bomb aboard—so letting you disarm one and go free would serve no good purpose. Perhaps I can convince them to let us float alongside for a while, to see what happens. Better to let the ship go down unmanned—or with one saboteur aboard—than risk it going down with all hands.”
“Wait!” The steerer stopped with his hand on the door. “Don’t you want to know why I did all these things?”
“I’m sure you have a most interesting tale—professional jesters are often quite mad and still amusing—but, as you said, time may be short. Perhaps later.” He walked out the door.
When he was sure the steerer was out of earshot, Jon bent low in the chair and pushed out with powerful arms. The chair creaked and the armrests popped out. His stiletto was gone, but in a few minutes he managed to loosen the sailor knots with fingers and slip out of the chair. The first thing he did was feel the back of his head—a swelling the size of a large nut—and his nose, which was not broken. Regretfully, he put back thoughts of revenge. Not part of the mission.
(You are here to cure yourself.)
In the top drawer of the steerer’s desk, he found an air-pistol. It was primed and loaded with a magazine of darts. He stuck it in his belt, then took an efficient-looking ceremonial dagger from a case on the wall; its blade was too broad for his boot sheath, so he inserted it carefully into his back pocket, handle down.
There was a little tin of white powder on top of the desk. First tasting a few grains, he identified it as analgesic powder, and swallowed as much as he could without water. The throbbing in his nose and the back of his head abated somewhat.
Hearing footsteps, he drew the pistol and stationed himself behind the door. As the steerer stepped in, Jon placed a hand on his shoulder and shoved. The steerer sprawled on the rug and Jon strode toward him, a finger to his lips.
Jon heard a floorboard creak behind him and in one motion turned, dropped to one knee, and fired. The cook, standing in the doorway, dropped a club and clutched his thigh. He glared at Jon for a second, scooped up the club, and tossed it underhand. It went over Jon’s head and landed on the steerer’s desk with a clatter. Then the cook folded up and sprawled on the deck.
Jon dragged the cook’s body out of the way and eased the door shut, all the while keeping the gun pointed at the steerer. He felt for a pulse under the cook’s jaw.
“He lives. Tranquilizing darts, then.”
“On Farbis we have some respect for human life.”
“On Farbis, as anywhere else,” Jon said as he walked closer to the steerer, “a tranquilizing dart can be fatal, if fired accurately.” He sat on the floor opposite the steerer and pointed the gun at his face. “Or it can blind or cause permanent insanity. Please speak very quietly. I have a headache.”
“It will be your neck hurting when we get to Isola,” the steerer whispered venomously. “And we will get there—there’s no bomb aboard.”
“Of course not. I just wanted to be alone for a few minutes, to collect my thoughts.”
Jon switched the gun to his left hand and fished in his breast pocket for a cigarillo. Finding one, he broke the seal off the end with his thumb and waved it alight. He took in a deep drag and offered a second weed to the steerer.
“It’s likely poisoned. But I wouldn’t refuse a smoke from the Dark One himself.” He repeated Jon’s actions. “Maybe that’s who you are—sailors are sunbaked people, but I’ve never seen one with skin as black as yours. And your conduct would do the Dark One proud.”
“I’d love to take advantage of your local superstitions, but sorry, I’m neither god nor devil. And my color’s rare even on Nurhodesia. Many of the original settlers from Terra were as black as I am, but few stayed that way for many generations. Most of them are as light as you, and shorter ones could easily pass as natives of this planet. I can’t; one reason I was chosen for this mission.”
(Your color prejudice is decreasing, good sign.)
The steerer smiled in spite of himself. “This is the tale you promised me, then. You’re an agent from a foreign world, bent on destroying our planet by crime.”
“You’re a small part right. I am an agent—my job title is ‘field recruiting agent.’ ”
(I am an insurance salesman.)
“I recruit people for the Confederacion Pacification Committee. Perhaps you know of us.”
“Of course. I listen to the radio. I suppose you do, too—I understand that it sometimes causes fantasies like . . .”
“No fantasy, steerer.”
“Look,” he said, a little exasperated, “better make up a better one. There’s no CPC agency on this . . . backwoods planet—no reason for one; we’re about the most easygoing people in the Confederacion. Except for the war between Isola and . . .”
“Exactly. The CPC exists to prevent such wars. They complicate intersystem relationships tremendously. We underestimated the rate of economic growth of Farbis; otherwise we would have been here long before the war could start, and would have prevented it.”
“I’d like to believe you.” The steerer inhaled smoke and exhaled a couple of imperfect O’s. “I really would—my brother died in that senseless war, and his wife too. I’d hate to see another.”
“Without CPC intervention, we estimate war will break out in no less than three years, no more than ten. You can help stop it, though.”
“I might be more easily convinced if you’d point that gun in some other direction.” Jon ignored the guileless face and noted the leg muscles tensing to spring. He kept his point of aim directly between the steerer’s eyes.
“Not yet. Maybe this will help, though.” Jon took a wallet from his pocket and felt through its contents, his eyes never leaving the steerer. He extracted a thin metal I.D. plate.
“You’ve seen these, or heard of them, haven’t you?” Jon scaled the card to land directly in front of the steerer, who picked it up and inspected both sides. It was totally blank except for a small white oval in one corner.
“Activated by thumbprint, right?” Jon nodded as the steerer put his thumb experimentally over the spot. Nothing happened. He tossed it back to Jon. “Make it work—I promise to be impressed.”
Jon put his thumb in the right place and the card lit up with a bright red CPC and a picture of his face. The other side of the card was covered with fine print. “There’s no way I could fake this,” he said.
The steerer shrugged. “Anything man can make, some rogue can counterfeit. But I’m starting to believe you. Now if you would only explain your rampage . . .”
“It’s rather complicated.” Jon set his pistol on the floor, but kept his hand close to it. “As I said, I’m a recruiting agent. When the CPC sets up on a new planet, it likes to use as much native talent as possible.
“We don’t like to recruit people already in the planet’s enforcement power structure—police, military, espionage types—even though they would seem the most appropriate candidates. We find that these people too often misuse the power we give them.”
(Gotten any parking tickets lately, John?)
“So the men and women we use as agents are farmers, merchants, teachers—but with a difference. They must be intelligent, of course, and somewhat courageous. They must not lust after power, but be
able to use the power we give them.
“You can’t find people with these qualities by giving written examinations and interviews. So this is one of our methods: we set up a stress situation in a community—in this case, a dangerous criminal on the loose, especially effective since the crime rate on Farbis is so low. People who react properly to the situation will eventually be approached and asked to join the CPC.”
“What would a ‘proper reaction’ be?” The steerer was engrossed, almost believing.
“Yours, for one. There’s no set pattern—courage alone, for instance, isn’t enough,” Jon said, thinking of the sergeant yesterday. “It’s just a feeling I get, or don’t get, about a person. And I don’t often make a wrong choice.”
“How many have you chosen?”
“On this assignment, over fifty—plenty to start our agency on Farbis. That’s why I’m headed back to Isola. My part of the job’s done, once I report the list of candidates to my successor. She’s waiting for me in orbit, on the other side of your sun.”
(I see a picture of nurse Benton waiting. It’s a good sign, John, the two realities interacting.)
“Damn me for a fool,” the steerer said slowly, “but I do believe your story.”
“And I believe you believe,” Jon said, handing him the pistol. The steerer accepted it and gingerly set it on the floor.
“Now we have a mutual problem,” Jon said. “I have to be in
Isola some time tonight, and the authorities will be waiting for me. I have to elude them somehow, without implicating you.
“From the short time you took to investigate below decks, I assume you had the help of several others . . .”
“The whole crew, practically.”
Jon winced. “So I’ll have to get by them, too.”
The steerer nodded. “Still, I think there’s a way. . . .”
(. . . hold on a second, John while I adjust the monitor. . . . Good readings. This may be the last session if the boroxymazine effect holds out long enough.)
The night crew was grumpy—steerer said the cook was sick so they had had a cold supper of bread and cheese. The lights of Isola on the horizon didn’t cheer them so much—they’d be on unloading detail and wouldn’t get liberty until very late. Having that criminal on board didn’t simplify things, either.