Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Everett B. Cole

  The aiming point moved a trifle and Don eased back into position.

  What had happened to the trigger on this thing? Had he forgotten to take off the safety? Again, the cross hairs started to wander and he eased them back—back toward that little spot.

  The rifle leaped upward with a roar, slamming back against Don’s shoulder. He let it settle again, examining the scene anxiously through his sight.

  Stern was still on his feet, but his hands were dropping limply to his sides. Don could just see the glitter of the khroal by Pete’s feet. Then, Stern’s knees bent and he flowed to the ground.

  Pete had turned at the sound of the shot. He looked back at the palace door, then glanced at the khroal.

  At last, he knelt beside the body on the ground. He felt the throat, then examined the man’s head. For an instant, he looked a little sick, then he looked away from the tiny hole in front of the man’s ear. He got to his feet and waved a hand.

  “Pinwheel,” he shouted.

  The newly enrobed King of Oredan settled back in his chair and shook the heavy cloth back from his shoulder.

  “So,” he said thoughtfully, “it’s all over.” He sighed.

  “And it’s all just beginning, too. Now, I’ll have to form a government.” He smiled sadly.

  “It’s funny, Don. For years, I’ve dreamed of actually being king. Now it’s suddenly happened and I feel about as helpless as they come.” He stretched out a hand. “All at once, I’m realizing it’s pretty rough for a schoolboy to suddenly find himself with a whole nation to run. I don’t know where to start.”

  “You’ll get used to it, Pete.” Don smiled at him. “Get yourself a few really competent advisors. Tell them what you want, and let them go out and get some competent people to do things. And you’ve got it whipped.”

  “Yeah.” Pete nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s the way it’s done. But—Well, I asked for it. And they handed it to me.” He looked directly at Don.

  “How about you? You’ve got plenty of clan rank, you know. What department do you want?”

  Don shook his head slowly. “Don’t look at me,” he advised. “They offered me a spot in the Stellar Guard and I’m signing up.” He glanced around the room.

  “I’ve got no place here.”

  “What are you talking about?” Pete frowned. “I owe this whole thing to you. I wouldn’t even be alive if you hadn’t been around. You can have anything you want here, and you know it. What can the Federation offer you?”

  Don shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Lot of work, of course. Pride of accomplishment, maybe. Peace of mind. Hard to say. Only one thing I’m sure of. I wouldn’t work out here.”

  “I don’t get it.” Pete shook his head.

  Don looked at him, his face expressionless.

  “Look, Pete. Do you really like me?”

  “Why, of course. You saved my life and set me on the throne. I told you that.”

  “Not just what I mean. Do you feel perfectly relaxed and easy when I’m around? Would you really call me a close friend?”

  Pete squirmed in his chair. Uneasily, he looked overhead at the tassled canopy.

  “That’s a lousy way to put it,” he complained.

  “Well?” Don’s face was still expressionless.

  Pete forced himself to look directly at him.

  “I don’t know. I . . . well, you’ve done so darn much. Well, I guess I am a little afraid of you, at that.” He looked at the floor.

  “Oh, all right. I’ll have to admit it. You do actually make me uneasy. Always did, even back at school. Lot of fellows felt the same way.”

  Don stood. “That’s what I mean. And it would get worse if I hung around. You’d get so you hated yourself—and me.” He held out a hand.

  “You’re the king—the ruler of this whole nation. That means you’ve got to be the head man. No one can give you orders. They can suggest, but no one can be even capable of giving you orders.” He smiled.

  “Dad will rebuild the ranch, of course. And I may come back once in a while, in a very quiet way. But for the most part, I’d better not be around too often.”

  Pete got to his feet. Suddenly, he looked relieved and at ease.

  “I’ll make certain your ranch is never interfered with,” he promised. “It’s yours, so long as you or your father want it. And I hope that some day it’ll be a home for your kids.” He paused.

  “If you ever do decide to come to the capital,” he added, “you’ll be a welcome guest at the palace.”

  “O.K.” Don grinned. “Let’s leave it that way. Good-by, then, and I hope yours is the longest reign in history.”

  He turned and walked through the curtain.

  THE END

  Alarm Clock

  Most useful high explosives, like ammonium nitrate, are enormously violent . . . once they’re triggered. But they will remain seemingly inert when beaten, burned, variously punished—until the particular shock required comes along . . .

  MANY years had passed since the original country rock had been broken, cut and set, to form solid pavement for the courtyard at Opertal Prison. And over those years the stones had suffered change as countless feet, scuffing and pressing against once rough edges, had smoothed the bits of rock, burnishing their surfaces until the light of the setting sun now reflected from them as from polished mosaic.

  As Stan Graham crossed the wide expanse from library to cell block, his shoe soles added their small bit to the perfection of the age-old polish.

  He looked up at the building ahead of him, noting the coarse, weathered stone of the walls. The severe, vertical lines of the mass reminded him of Kendall Hall, back at the Stellar Guard Academy. He smiled wryly.

  There were, he told himself, differences. People rarely left this place against their wishes. None had wanted to come here. Few had any desire to stay. Whereas at the Academy—

  How, he wondered, had those other guys they’d booted out really felt? None had complained—or even said much. They’d just packed their gear and picked up their tickets. There had been no expression of frustrated rage to approach his. Maybe there was something wrong with him—some unknown fault that put him out of phase with all others.

  He hadn’t liked it at all.

  His memory went back to his last conversation with Major Michaels. The officer had listened, then shaken his head decisively.

  “Look, Graham, a re-examination wouldn’t help. We just can’t retain you.”

  “But I’m sure—”

  “No, it won’t work. Your academic record isn’t outstanding in any area and Gravitics is one of the most important courses we’ve got.”

  “But I don’t see how I could have bugged it, sir. I got a good grade on the final examination.”

  “True, but there were several before that. And there were your daily grades.” Michaels glanced at the papers on his desk.

  “I can’t say what went wrong, but I think you missed something, way back at the beginning. After that, things got worse and you ran out of time. This is a pretty competitive place, you know, and we probably drop some pretty capable men, but that’s the way it is.”

  “Sir, I’m certain I know—”

  “It isn’t enough to know. You’ve got to know better than a lot of other people.”

  Michaels got to his feet and came around the desk.

  “Look, there’s no disgrace in getting an academic tossout from here. You had to be way above average to get here. And very few people can make it for one year, let alone three or four.”

  He raised a hand as Stan started to speak.

  “I know. You think it looks as though you’d broken down somehow. You didn’t. From the day you came here, everyone looked for weaknesses. If there’d been a flaw, they’d have found it—and they’d have been on you till you came apart—or the flaw disappeared. We lose people that way.” He shrugged.

  “You didn’t fall apart. They just got to you with some pretty rough theory. You don’t
have to bow your head to anybody about that.”

  Stan looked at the heavily barred door before him.

  “No,” he told himself, “I don’t suppose I’m the galaxy’s prize boob, but I’m no high value shipment, either. I’m just some guy that not only couldn’t make the grade, but couldn’t even make it home without getting into trouble.”

  He pushed the door aside and went into the building, pausing for an instant between two monitor pillars. There was no warning buzz and he continued on his way through a hallway.

  He barely noticed his surroundings. Once, when he had first been brought here, he had studied the stone walls, the tiny, grilled windows, the barred doors, with fascinated horror. But the feeling had dulled. They were just depressingly familiar surroundings now.

  He stopped at a heavy metal grill and handed a slip through the bars. A bored guard turned, dropped the paper into a slot, then glanced at a viewplate. He nodded.

  “All right, forty-two ninety. You’re on time. Back to your cell.” He punched a button and a gate slid aside.

  Stan glanced at the cell fronts as he walked. Men were going about

  their affairs. A few glanced at him as he passed, then looked away. Stan closed his eyes for an instant.

  That much hadn’t changed. At school, he had never been one with any of the cadet groups. He had been accepted at first, then coolly tolerated, then shunted to the outer edges.

  Oh, he’d had his friends, of course. There were those other oddballs, like Winton and Morgan. But they’d gone. For one reason or another, most of them had packed up and left long before he’d had his final run-in with the academic board.

  And there had been Major Michaels. For a while, the officer had been warm—friendly. Stan could remember pleasant chats—peaceful hours spent in the major’s comfortable quarters. And he could remember parties, with some pretty swell people around.

  Then the older man had become a forbidding stranger. Stan had never been able to think of a reason for that. Maybe it was because of the decline in his academic work. Maybe he’d done something to offend. Maybe—

  He shook the thoughts away, walked to a cell door, and stood waiting till the guard touched the release button.

  As Stan tossed his books on his bunk, Jak Holme raised his head and looked across the cell.

  “More of them books?”

  “Yeah.” Stan nodded. “Still trying to find out about this planet.”

  “You trying to be some kinda big politician when you get out?” Holme snorted.

  “Tell you, be better you try mixing with the guys, ‘stead of pushing ’em around with that fancy talk, making ’em jump now and then, see. You get along with ’em, you’ll see. They’ll tell you all you need. Be working with some of ’em, too, remember?”

  “Oh, I don’t try to push anybody around.” Stan perched on his bunk. “Doesn’t hurt anyone to study, though.”

  “Oh, sure.” Holme grimaced. “Do you a lot of good, too. Guy’s working on some production run, it helps a lot he knows why all them big guys in the history books did them things, huh?” He laughed derisively.

  “Sure it does! What they want, you should make that fabricator spit out nice parts, see?” He swelled his chest.

  “Now me, I got my mind on my business, see. I get out of here, I oughta make out pretty good.” He looked around the cell.

  “Didn’t get no parole, see, so I get all the training. Real good trained machinist now, and I’m gonna walk out of here clean. Get a job down at the space-yards.

  “Machinist helper, see? Then, soon’s I been there a while, I’ll get my papers and go contract machinist. Real good money. Maybe you’d do better, you try that.”

  From the lower bunk, Big Carl Marlo laughed softly.

  “Sure, kid, sure. You got it all made, huh? Pretty quick, you own Janzel Equipment, huh? Hah! Know what happens, you go outside?

  “Sure, they give you a job. Like you said, helper. They pay enough you get a pad and slop to keep you alive. That’s all you get.”

  “Aw, now listen!” Holme started up.

  Marlo wagged his head. “You go for papers, see? Naw! Got no papers for jailbirds. Staffman’ll give you the word. He gets through pushing you around, you go back, ‘counta you don’t know nothing else.”

  He laughed shortly.

  “Gopher, that’s you. You go fer this, and you go fer that. Slop and a pad you get.” He swung out of his bunk.

  “Oh, sure, maybe they put you on a fabricator. Even let you set it up for ’em. But that don’t get you no extra pins.”

  Holme shook his head.

  “Councilor gave me the word,” he said stubbornly. “They need good machinists.”

  “Yeah.” Marlo nodded. “Sure, they want graduates down at Talburg. But they ain’t paying ’em for no contract machinist when they can keep ’em as helpers.” He turned.

  “Ain’t that right, Pete?”

  Karzer looked up from a bag he was packing.

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s right, Carl. I know a few guys once, tried playing the legit. Got kicked around, see? Low pay. Staffman hammering on ’em all the time. Big joke when they try to get more for themselves.

  “Yeah, big joke. They get blamed, they bust something, see, so they owe the company big money.” He looked critically at a pair of socks.

  “So they get smart after a while. Dusted around the corner and went back on the make. Do better that way, see?

  “Naw, they give you a lot of guff, you go to work outside, work hard, keep your nose clean, you come out of parole and you’re in the money. It’s sucker bait, is all. Don’t go like that, see.”

  Marlo came closer to Holme.

  “Naw, you go out clean, see, just like you say. Then you play it easy. Get a good score and lay back for a while. Don’t go pushing your luck.

  “That’s how they hook me, see. I get too hungry. Get a nice touch, it looks so good I gotta go back for seconds, and they’re waiting. I don’t make that mistake again.” He shook his head.

  “Got me a nice pad, way up valley. Gonna hole up there. Go out, pull a good job, then I lay around, maybe a year and think up another. Then, when I’m all ready, I go out, pull a can or two open and lift what they got back to the pad. Ain’t gonna be no more of this scuffling around, hitting a quick one and running out to spend the pins quick, so’s I can get in no traps.”

  He looked at Holme thoughtfully.

  “I just now think of something, kid. You can make yourself a nice bit, real easy. Don’t cost hardly nothing to set up and there ain’t much risk. You work more’n a year, learning all about tools, huh? They teach you all about making tools, huh?”

  “Sure.” Holme laughed shortly. “Got to make all your own hand tools before you get through. Why?”

  Marlo grinned broadly.

  “I could tell you a lotta guys, need real special tools. Need tools you don’t buy in no store, like maybe a good can opener a guy can carry easy. And they pay real good, you make what they want and keep your mouth shut.” He rubbed his chin.

  “Nice,” he went on. “Real nice. And all you need is maybe a few tools you can buy anywhere. And maybe you gotta build up a little forge. Guy knew his way around, he could make a nice pile that way.”

  Stan looked at the man thoughtfully.

  “Sounds interesting,” he broke in, “but suppose they find some fabricator operator out in the woods, heating up metal instead of working on a regular job? They’d be curious, don’t you think? Especially if the guy’s already picked up a record.”

  “Naw.” Marlo turned toward him. “So he’s a graduate—who ain’t? See, they show this guy up here, he’s supposed to be a fabmeister. Only maybe he don’t like punching keys. Maybe he don’t like to chase them meters, huh? So maybe he’d rather use muscle hardware, see?” He grinned.

  “Some guy sets himself up a shack up valley, see? Starts a fixit joint. Looks real legit. Even with muscle hardware, he can put out jobs faster’n them people can get parts
from way down Talburg way, see.

  “And he gets in with the joes, too. They got their troubles getting things made up for ’em. So this guy gives them a hand. Even working cheap, he picks up some change there, too, and one way or another, the guy’s got a living, see?” He glanced back at Holme.

  “Only now and then, here comes a few guys in the back door, they want a special job, see, for real special pay. And there’s your ice cream and cake. And maybe a little stack for later on.”

  “I don’t know.” Stan picked up a book. “I’d rather try playing ’em on the table for a while. It might beat getting flashed and dropped back in.”

  Big Carl shrugged and crawled back into his bunk.

  “Aagh, can happen to anybody,” he said. “Just keep this under your hair. Smart kids like you can make out pretty good, you just use your heads. Ain’t nothing down Talburg way, though.” He yawned.

  “Well, I’ve had it. Got into it with that Wanzor again, out on the pile. Give one of them joes a boost, he gets three meters high.” He yawned again and turned toward the wall.

  Stan flipped the pages of the book. He had still been unable to put his finger on the point at which Kellonia had ceased to be a planet of free citizens and become the planetary prison he had found himself on.

  There had been no sudden change—no dramatic incident, such as the high spots in the history of his native Khloris. Here, things had just drifted from freedom to servitude, with the people dropping their rights as a man discards outworn clothing.

  He leaned back, lowering the book. Kell’s planet, he remembered, had been one of the first star colonies to be founded after the discovery of the interstellar drive. Settlers had flocked to get passage to the new, fertile world.

  During the first three hundred years, people had spread over the planet, but the frontier stage had passed and the land of promise had stabilized, adopted laws, embraced the arts and sciences. One by one, frontier farms had given way to mechanized food-producing land, worked by trained technical teams and administered by professional management.

  Kellonia had entered the age of industrialized culture, with the large individual owner a disappearing species.