by Andre Norton
Secret of the Stars
Andre Norton
Star Hunter and Secret of the Lost Race. Together in an omni trade paperback volume from master storytelling legend, Andre Norton. A hunted man makes a last stand against deadly pursuers on a hellish planet. A hunter on a dangerous world encounters a menacing alien.
Secret of the Lost Race
Joktar was running for his life—and he didn’t know why. After growing up orphaned in the spaceman’s helltown of interstellar New York, Joktar was adept at dodging the law, but he knew of no special reason why all the police forces of the civilized galaxy should suddenly concentrate on him. All he knew was that he had to run—out of the Solar system and across the galaxy to the mysterious Wolf worlds. In the freezing hell that was the planet Fenris, Joktar turned to face his hunters and fight to regain his freedom in a universe gone mad.
Star Hunter
On safari to an unexplored jungle world, Ras Hume must hunt two kinds of quarry—the fearsome native beasts and the equally menacing lone survivor of a mysterious spaceship crash.
Baen Books
By Andre Norton
Time Traders
Time Traders II
Star Soldiers
Warlock
Janus
Darkness & Dawn
Gods & Androids
Dark Companion
Masks of the Outcasts
Moonsinger
Crosstime
From the Sea to the Stars
Star Flight
Search for the Star Stones
The Game of Stars and Comets
Deadly Dreams
Moonsinger's Quest
The Forerunner Factor
Ice and Shadow
Children of the Gates
Secret of the Stars
SECRET OF THE STARS
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Secret of the Lost Race copyright © 1959 by Ace Books, Inc.
Star Hunters copyright © 1962 by Andre Norton.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 978-1-4767-3674-7
eISBN: 978-1-62579-282-2
Cover art by Adam Burn
First Baen paperback printing, May 2014
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Norton, Andre.
[Novels. Selections]
Secret of the stars / by Andre Norton.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-1-4767-3674-7 (omni trade pbk.) 1.Science fiction. I. Norton, Andre. Secret of the lost race. II. Norton, Andre. Star hunter. III. Title.
PS3527.O632A6 2014
813'.52--dc23
2014002508
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Electronic Version by Baen Books
www.baen.com
Confidential: X3457-A-R-
From: Kronfeld, Director, Colonization Project 308
To: Lennox, Commander, Space Scouts, Fifth Sector, Detached Rating
Subject: Service Files
Require release to this department service files for following:
O-S-S-D 451 Marson, H. Deceased.
O-S-S-D 489 Ksanga, V.T. Deceased.
Confidential: X3457-A-R- Reply
From: Lennox, Commander, Space Scouts, Fifth Sector, Detached Rating.
To: Kronfeld, Director, Colonization Project 308
Subject: Service Files
Regret orders forbid release of official records to any department not connected directly with service.
(Message in code from Lennox to Sen Yen Lui, Commander-in-Chief, Fifth Sector, accompanying micros of above)
What is going on? Who talked and where? Should these files be “lost” for the duration?
(Reply in code from Sen Yen Lui to Lennox)
Sit tight. We will ask questions of our own. If there is trouble shall contact you at once so you may take proper steps.
Order: 56431-S.S.D.
From: Mahabi Kabali, Space Admiral, Commanding Fifth Sector
To: Sen Yen Lui, Commander-in-Chief, Space Scouts, Fifth Sector
Subject: Service Files
You will herewith order release of records of following (listed below) to be consulted, in accordance with usual procedure, by Kronfeld, Director of Colonization Project 308.
O-S-S-D 451 Marson H. Deceased
O-S-S-D 489 Ksanga, V.T. Deceased
(Coded note accompanying the above)
Sorry. Pressure is on, hard. We cannot sit on this now. Anyway both men are safely dead, and have been for years. And there cannot be any possible leak of the real facts; only suspicions.
(Call on private com-band from Kronfeld to Bryar Morle, Port of N’Yok)
Get your best private investigator on this. We know now that the probable port of entry was N’Yok. And there was a child that looked young but was about six or seven. Time of entry approximately fifteen—sixteen years ago. Sure, the trail is cold, and it’s getting colder all the time. But this is our first positive lead; it could well be the last. I needn’t tell you that this is a category one order. Time is running out. Draw on the Foundation Funds. We can prove our case if we have the evidence. Those boneheads in uniform are already sweating!
(Comment of Bran Hudd, partner in Hudd and Rusto, Private Investigators)
Cold trail? This thing’s in space freeze now. What does this joker think we are—miracle men or time travelers? Rusto: He lays down the credits like he grows ’em special in his cellar. So we go through the motion anyway. And a spread of cash can loosen tongues. You have that mock-up of what they think the dame looked like. Shove off and start earning our share.
1
JetTown, Port of N’Yok, where strange wares were sold for the amusement, fair or foul, of crewmen out of space, and those who preyed upon them, and the elite who took their cut from the predators in turn. There were circles within circles on the streets, an intricate social organization which would have amazed the city dwellers beyond the rigidly drawn, yet physically unmarked, boundaries of that sinister blot edging out in a triangle, its base fronting on the scarred landing aprons, a narrow tongue licking “uptown.”
On the streets a man’s life might depend not only on his wits and toughness of body, but also on the development of a sixth sense of impending trouble. Sometimes an uneasy foreboding swept the whole area. That eerie disturbance was alive tonight, though the hour was early and few of the big spots were fully open.
Kern’s SunSpot was, but the boast of the SunSpot was that it never closed. The air, tossed about but not in any manner really renewed by the conditioners, was tainted with old smoke, the aroma of weird drinks, and the old, old smell of over-crowded humanity. The big central room was as always with Step and Haggy on duty at the bar. A few of the girls were already drifting in.
Yet the young man, seated alone at the star-and-comet table, his counters in a neat rack before him, the unopened packs of kas-cards at his elbow, checked the highly illegal force-blade in the soft folds of the wide silken sash about his flat middle. His shoulders moved under the loose-sleeved jacket which covered his ruffled shirt as if he were flexing his muscles in prelude to some attack. Trouble—he could taste it, smell it—this was going to be a bad night.
He snapped on
the play light above the table. Under that carefully adjusted radiance his thin face was that of a boy, wearing the faint, indecisive cast of adolescence, almost of youthful innocence. That face was worth a lot to his employer. Kern valued Joktar for his face, as well as for the keen brain behind it, and the clever, knowing hands which obeyed that brain. Kern trusted his head star-and-comet dealer as far as he trusted anyone—though that was a limited distance.
Joktar knew that his game was checked at intervals, and that a variety of sly traps had been set for him. A good many dealers in the SunSpot had come to sudden and sometimes messy ends. At least three had been delivered to the Emigration men. Kern had seen to it that all his employees were made fully aware of such object lessons. So far Joktar had run straight, not for any ethical reason since ethics were not learned on the streets, but because playing a straight game with a vip was simply good insurance.
He admired Kern’s executive abilities without developing any personal liking for the man. And so far the boss of the SunSpot was the only stable thing Joktar had known in this dangerous world. He had been at the SunSpot most of the life he could remember, which was a short one for he did not even know how old he was. Though strangers always under-calculated his age by a half a dozen years or more.
Since that peculiarity added to his value to Kern, he welcomed it. Though when some buck lost at the tables and turned nasty he was apt to try to take on the “kid” for an easy smash. Accordingly Joktar had acquired a well-known and respected proficiency with a force blade, and had other knowledge of odd forms of personal combat learned from tutors who had picked them up all around the galaxy. As a result Joktar of the SunSpot was now reckoned one of the deadliest infighters on the streets, though he was no call-out man with a ready challenge.
Click, click, the counters with their emblazoned stars, their glittering diamond-paint comets, moved under his slender fingers. He built a small tower, lowered it chip by chip. Every nerve of his was responding to the unseen menace—waiting.
“The E-men are out . . .”
That was a whisper from beyond the table light. Joktar glanced up from his pile of counters. Hudd, the banker from the one-two table, stood there. He was a new man, but too much of a pusher. Joktar gave him another week here, perhaps a day or two more, then he’d push too far, ask one question too many and Kern’d take steps. He wasn’t a police plant. So he must be a spotter from one of the other vips; somebody could be planning to pull a climb-up on Kern. Joktar smiled inwardly. How many had tried that game in the past? Almost as many as the counters in his racks. Kern had had a long run and no crack showed yet in his organization.
“They’re sweeping?” he asked Hudd as if it did not matter in the least.
“The growl is that they’re going to make a big pull.”
A big pull. And the news passed to him by Hudd. Joktar added one point to the other. Could this be an oblique warning? Why? Hudd was no friend of his. So why did this newcomer wish to pull any of Kern’s men out of an E-net . . . unless he had a future use for him. Only . . . Joktar had not been approached lately with any offer to change allegiance. He always reported such to Kern, knowing that at least half were tests. This a new one?
“Pass the word.” He stubbed the light button, swept his card packs and counters into the wide drawer of his table and sealed them there with the pressure of his thumb in the lock slot. He stood up, slim, small, boyish, his cool eyes surveying Hudd with aloof speculation.
The other met that stare with a calculating intentness, as if the younger man was a hand held by a too-lucky player. His lips parted as if he would add to his warning. But Joktar had already turned away with the controlled litheness of a blade man, to cross to the lift which served Kern’s private apartment above.
Orrin was on guard aloft. A stocky, solid man, not yet run to seed, trained as a space marine before he left that service under circumstances which made him useful to Kern. Orrin whirled, his blaster half-out of the holster, as Joktar stepped from the anti-grav plate. He laughed a little raggedly, and slapped his weapon back.
“Better sing out on the way up next time, kid. A man can lose half his brain pulling a quiet come-in like that.”
“You got the jumps? Well, the signs are up . . . trouble.”
Orrin’s boots shuffled, his broad face was unusually sober. “Yeah, there’s a few! You got a nudge for the boss?”
“Maybe so, maybe no. Call me in.”
Orrin snapped the lever of the visa-plate, waved Joktar before it. The whirr of the answering buzzer came as a panel slid into the wall. The dealer flipped the force blade from his sash into Orrin’s waiting hand. For anyone to pass Kern’s door armed was to face inanimate sentries who eliminated without question. Human guards could make mistakes, Kern’s last line of defense never did.
“What’s the rumble?”
Kern’s lank form sprawled on an eazee-rest. His voice was soft and the tone came from his thin, concave chest. He was dressed in street finery. His lavishly embroidered, brightly colored clothes did not hide the angular lines of his ungainly body. Similarly, his long, curly, gray-brown hair, and the thatch of sideburns that grew to exaggerated points on his sunken cheeks did nothing to soften his sharp features. He pointed and Joktar sat down on a footstool—a concession.
“Nothing as yet,” the dealer answered the question.
Kern’s silence was an invitation to elaborate.
“I have it that the E-men are on a big pull.”
“Yes,” Kern yawned. “That would stir up the streets. Who spilled? One of our runners?”
“Hudd.”
“Hudd. Well, well, well. Did he make this growl to you personally?”
Joktar smiled, an engaging, boyish expression, until one noted the coolness of his eyes. “He was meant to, wasn’t he?”
He fully expected agreement from Kern. Every time he had spotted one of the boss’ checks, Kern admitted readily enough that the test had been his idea. But this time the other shook his head.
“Not my hand, boy.”
“Hudd’s a plant,” Joktar stated firmly.
“Certainly. But for whom, and why? Such small mysteries make life interesting. We’ll let him run on the string a little longer until we discover who holds the other end. So he made a point of warning you . . .”
“I haven’t had any offers recently.” Something in Kern’s expression brought that out of Joktar, almost against his will, and he felt self-contempt for offering that avowal.
“I know that. How long have you been here? Fourteen . . . no, it must be fifteen years now. And yet you still look like a dewy-eyed kid. I’d like to learn that trick, it’s a neat one for our business. Yes, it was back in ’08 that that doll staggered in here with you pulling her along. You were a smart brat even then. I’d like to know where you came from.”
An old crawling chill touched Joktar. “You had me psyched, didn’t you?”
“Sure. And by a medic who knew his stuff. All he got from you was babble about a big ship and the port here. That doll was queer, too. I sure wish she hadn’t died before Doc could run her through the hoops and really learn something. Doc swore you’d been blocked, that you’d never be able to remember more than he got out of you under a talky shot.”
“Why did you keep me here, Kern?”
“Well, boy, I like puzzles and you’re about the best I’ve ever got my hands on. You grow a little bigger, but slow, and you keep looking like a kid, yet you’ve got a brain that ticks fast and straight and you don’t get smart ideas. You’re about the best dealer I’ve ever seen spread out the cards. You don’t take to dames, nor to rot-gut, nor to happy-smoke. Just you stay the way you are, boy, and we’ll rub along without any flarebacks. So, this growl is that the E-men are out? Set up the house warning.”
Joktar went to the panel of switches on the far wall, pulled three. Throughout the SunSpot now the general alert would go up. Not that Kern should have anything to fear from an E-raid, he paid in enough each qu
arter to equip fifty colonists and that was a matter of official record.
“Could it be Norwold, I wonder? He’s been reaching lately. If he’s due to get the blast . . .” Kern squirmed out of the soft eazee-rest. “Tip that flutter to Passey, he’s our spotman at Norwold’s tonight. Tell him to be ready to flit if there’s a raid, but also, he’s to watch where Norwold plants those two new dolls—we could use ’em here.”
“Right.” Joktar went out, collecting his blade from Orrin as he passed. He wondered about Kern’s guess that Norwold would be netted. You could buy your way out of the E-pens, but the price was so high only a vip or a vip’s favorite could unpocket enough. The E-men raided to obtain the cheap labor needed to open up a frontier planet. Colonists volunteered, passed rigid tests; emigrants were dispatched by force: neither ever returned. To be caught in an E-raid was the most blighting fear which overhung the streets: processed, drugged, sent out in frozen sleep from which some never awakened, to endure slavery on an alien world.
Colonists were heroes. To be an emigrant one merely had to be alive, reasonably healthy, and in possession of an undamaged body—undamaged that was in the sense that one had the proper number of arms and legs. A good many men on happy-smoke went out in deep freeze. Supposing he was netted, would Kern unpocket to get him out of the pens? He doubted it.
Joktar was on the anti-grav plate when the alarms went, setting up a noiseless vibration which tingled through the flesh, nerves and blood of every man and woman under that roof. Raid, E-raid—here! So, Hudd had given him a straight growl after all!