S.T.A.R. Flight

by E. C. Tubb

  The cot was in a small room which was glassed down one end so as to give full visibility from outside. The door was set in the glass. When they had eased the restraints Preston could see other doors facing his own across a wide corridor. Most of the rooms seemed empty but a few held patients, some barely visible beneath a mass of machinery. Life-support systems, he supposed. Mechanisms to control the speeded metabolisms. Feeding, if nothing else, would be a problem in such a condition.

  The corridor was rarely empty. Orderlies dressed in pink walked up and down the passage. Doctors in their lime green hustled by. Women in powder blue were nurses. Red green and blue, thought Preston. Familiar colours but not Kaltich shades. They can’t wear white, he told himself. Only the underlings, the serfs do that and these people aren’t serfs. They’re skilled medical personnel. But they wear distinguishing colours.

  He wondered if they were Kaltich at all.

  He asked his doctor, a thin-faced man with short-cropped hair and a brusque manner. The lime green of his clothing gave him a sallow, unhealthy expression. His nails and person were scrupulously clean. He glanced to where a screen was set in the ceiling.

  “I am not here to answer your questions,” he said sharply. “You are my patient and it is my duty to see that you get fit and well in as short a time as possible. And I must confess I am baffled at your continuing weakness. It should have passed by now.”

  “It hasn’t,” Preston insisted.

  “You were naturally in deep shock,” said the doctor. “And these burns on your wrists didn’t help.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “We’ll give it a little longer,” he decided. “To the maximum degree of tolerance at least. After that we shall have to consider the psychological aspect.”

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,” said Preston dryly. “I appreciate your concern. But I’m not a slab of beef on a butcher’s counter. Neither am I a culture on one of your agar plates. Nor,” he added pointedly, “am I a criminal in your sense of the word. I am a man and therefore curious.”

  “What do you know of agar plates?”

  “Enough. One of my best friends is a doctor. A surgeon. She contends that the more a patient knows of his condition the more cooperative he is able to be. Frustration is bad medicine, Doctor. So why not answer? Are you of the Kaltich?”

  “No.”

  “You just work for them?”

  “We work for all who need our skills.”

  “Your medical skills, of course,” said Preston. He frowned, thinking. “Do you mean,” he said carefully, “that anyone, no matter what race, creed or social standing, can come to you for medical treatment?”

  The doctor was stiff. “Naturally. What else?”

  Dedicated, thought Preston. The idealised conception of a true medical service. The spirit of Florence Nightingale, Pasteur, a thousand others. All the men and women who risked and gave their lives for the purpose of easing human suffering. And, apparently, a dedication unsullied by considerations of material gain.

  “This world,” he said abruptly. “It isn’t the home of the Kaltich?”

  “No.”

  “But they come here,” said Preston. “They all come here. Thousands and millions of people. The longevity treatment,” he said, with a sudden flash of insight. “It’s yours. You developed it. You issue it.”

  “You are talking too much,” said the doctor. “You must not overexert yourself.”

  Millions, thought Preston, shaken at the concept. Millions from Earth alone. And what of the other worlds? It has to be a worldwide culture, he decided. It can’t be anything less. A whole planet devoted to the pursuit of medical knowledge. Laboratories instead of factories. Hospitals instead of hotels. The breeding of helpful bacteria instead of delving for minerals. But where do they get their raw supplies? Their food? The things they must have?

  It was a foolish question. Think of Earth, he told himself. Remember the uncounted billions poured out on defence, the endless stream of wealth wasted on weapons and means to kill. Think of all that money channelled into medicine. Think of what we could have accomplished had we not followed the god of war.

  The doctor finished his examination, held his hands in a stream of warm, antiseptic air, looked down at Preston. “I’m removing the rest of the restraints,” he said. “You can do without them now. However, I must warn you not to get up and most certainly not to leave this room.” Again he glanced at the ceiling. “If you need anything that button will summon assistance. If you are bored that control will provide entertainment.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Preston. “Doctor, I’d like to thank you.”

  The man raised his eyebrows.

  “For saving my life,” said Preston.

  “I did not save your life,” corrected the doctor. “The men who gave you the emergency treatment did that. Saved your intelligence at least,” he added. “Do you realize just how long the brain can be deprived of oxygen?”

  “Three minutes,” said Preston. “A maximum of five.”

  “So you know that?” The doctor pursed his lips. “I had been given to understand — but never mind. You are correct. We can provide means to throw the brain into a temporary stasis. We can even provide a vehicle to carry oxygen direct to the deprived cells. A bacteria,” he explained. “Injected into the skull it has an affinity for the cortex and will provide the missing gas for up to fifteen minutes. But, of course, its use rarely necessary. It takes so little time to get through a Gate.”

  “If you have one handy,” said Preston.

  “But naturally,” said the doctor. And left.

  Preston stared at the screen set into the ceiling. A television screen, he thought, but he knew that it was more than that. A spy ear, he told himself. Somewhere a man sits watching every move I make, listening to every word I say. He guessed that every cubicle was so equipped for the sake of automated nursing. But I’m special, he reminded himself. I bet that I’ve got a watcher all to myself.

  Restlessly he moved on the cot. He felt like a fly pinned to a board, a germ under a microscope. Even if he left the room where could he go? Hospitals had the same attributes as prisons — everyone wore a distinctive uniform. How far would he get dressed in a loose robe of silver grey?

  He touched the control the doctor had pointed out. It was double, one graduated dial within another. He twisted the inner one and heard music coming from somewhere beneath his pillow. Thoughtfully he returned it to its original setting and twisted the outer dial. Light and colour filled the picture which seemed to be that of a butcher dissecting a steer. A mass of red and yellow tissue served as a background to the gleaming silver of instruments.

  “… at work on a routine case of pancreas transfer. You will note that Doctor Beynon is using a Symond scalpel which not only cuts but temporarily seals the wound so that there is no hampering flow of blood. Temporarily, because of the need for free blood flow during later suturing. This, obviously, puts a time limit on the operation and no surgeon who has not sufficient skill to work at speed should use this particular instrument. If, for reasons of …”

  Preston twisted the control. The soft voice died to be replaced by another together with accompanying picture. This time it was to do with the removal of a brain tumor. Another attempt resulted in detailed instructions on how to remove a kidney. A fourth had a professor talking about the lower intenstine.

  Lectures, thought Preston. Tuition. Recorded operations constantly broadcast so as to give everyone the benefit of vicarious experience. Natural enough on a world dedicated to medical care. Like the Christians, he thought. In the Middle Ages almost everything had some reference to religion. Irritably he turned the switch and this time caught a play. Serttling back he watched it. Watching he frowned.

  The locale was Europe, the characters spoke of Austria, France, Germany and England. The action took place in Vienna. The hero was a small excitable man named Ignaz Phillipp Semmelweis. The play presented him much as a medieval mystery play would present Christ. He was
the redeemer, the man with the message, the opener of the way.

  Which, admitted Preston, was true enough. In 1847 Semmelweis had reached the conviction that cleanliness was essential to the practice of medicine. Knowing nothing of microbes, he had the pragmatic certainty that disease could be transferred by contaminated matter from the dead to the living and from those diseased to those who were well. His solution, that all doctors and students should wash their hands in chlorine water between examinations of patients, was verified by his own amazing success in reducing the mortality rate of those under his direct care.

  A simple thing, mused Preston. A thing every child knows almost by instinct. The need to wash before touching anything which should be kept clean. Semmelweis proved the necessity. In return he was viciously derided by his own profession.

  Thirty years, thought Preston, watching the screen. Thirty wasted years before the message Semmelweis had given had been accepted in the light of new discoveries. Would those years have made all that difference? Perhaps, he told himself. Western civilization had been poised on the springboard of scientific progress. It was the time of new discoveries, new inventions, an enlarging of the horizons of the mind. Had that wealth and enthusiasm been channelled into the field of medicine, who could guess at the progress which could have been made? But those thirty years had been wasted. Semmelweis had not been heeded. And who could tell what genius had been lost on dirty operating tables or in the filthy conditions reigning in the maternity wards of famous hospitals?

  Night came, a darkening of lights and dimming of visibility. Little sounds died, orderlies moved like pink ghosts down the corridor, the smooth life of the hospital, in this section at least, slowed in obedience to the basic animal-rhythm of day and night. Preston tried to sleep and found it impossible. He stirred and tried the television. A swirl of kaleidoscopic colour and a soft, hypnotic voice — “… relaxed. So relaxed, so sleepy, so detached. Just look at the colours and let yourself go. Sink deep into the wonderful colours, sink, sink … relax … sleep …”

  Other channels were the same. The programme, he guessed, was piped, selected to a particular audience. Patients with insommnia were more easily treated with hypnotism than with drugs.

  Irritably he turned, half tempted to get up and see what could be done, knowing that any such action would be an invitation to disaster. He had to pretend that he was too weak to stand so that, when and if the right time came, he would at least have the advantage of surprise.

  “Are you awake? Please tell me if you are awake.” The voice was familiar, he had heard it before. Preston stayed motionless as the voice whispered from beneath his pillow. The radio, he thought. Someone has tapped the wire. Or, he corrected, maybe someone wants me to think exactly that. “Are you awake?” The voice was a little petulant. “Answer if you are.”

  Preston yawned, rolled, hunched the covers so as to cover his mouth. A man trying hard to get to sleep. “I’m awake,” he said. “I can hear you.”

  “Good. Do not move or show surprise. When you answer do not move your lips or speak too loudly. Everything you say and do is being monitored.”

  “I know,” he whispered. “Who are you?”

  “Please listen. There are things that we must know. First, what is your name?”

  “Preston. Martin Preston.” The Kaltich knew that already, he was giving nothing away.

  “You killed a man. What was his name?”

  “Dultar. A gamma. An interrogator of the Kaltich.” They knew that too.

  “Anyone else?”

  Preston didn’t answer. So that’s it, he thought. It didn’t end with Dultar. It will never end. Aloud he said, “I don’t understand what you mean. Do you think I go around killing people?”

  “The Kaltich have a special interest in you,” whispered the voice. “We would like to know just why.”

  “Are you curious or do you have a reason?”

  “Not so loud,” warned the voice then, “We have a reason. If you are important to them you could be important to us. If so, we are willing to help you. But first we must be certain that the effort will be justified. Why are the Kaltich so concerned?”

  “They think I know something,” said Preston. He hesitated, then mentally shrugged. The voice could be telling the truth or it could be a part of an involved trap. In either case he had nothing to lose. “They caught me impersonating an alpha. I guess to them that’s a pretty serious crime. They want to make me pay for it.”

  “And the man whose clothes you were wearing,” said the voice shrewdly. “Did you kill him?”

  The big one, he thought sickly. The one question he’d hoped to avoid. Did they have the bed wired as a lie-detector? Were they even now waiting, leaning forward perhaps, eager to learn whether or not he had done that unspeakable thing?

  “No,” he said. The voice hadn’t specified which clothes. When shot he’d been wearing the uniform of a gamma and he hadn’t killed the man. He hadn’t even seen him. The truth, he told himself. Always tell the truth — or at least your version of it. To hell with the Kaltich and their tricks.

  “You are cautious,” said the voice. “We can admire you for that. And you are a little afraid. That too we can understand. The Kaltich inspire fear. And yet you have shown that fear to be an empty thing. We could learn from you. More important you may have something we could use. But we must be certain that you are not a plant.”

  That makes two of us, thought Preston. “Listen,” he said urgently. “I don’t know who you are but you seem to know all about me. I killed a Kaltich. A gamma. You must know what that means. Do you think they would allow one of their number to be killed just to set up a decoy?”

  The voice was cold. “They might.”

  “Then you know little about them. They take. They never give. They promise but never perform. As a race they’re selfish. As individuals even more so. I want to get out of here,” said Preston. “Out and back to my own world. Can you help me do that?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “If you can’t or if you don’t want to then keep out of my life,” he snapped. “I’ve had enough sadism to last me as long as I’m going to live. In other words,” he emphasised, “put up or shut up. Understand?”

  Silence.

  “All right,” said Preston savagely. “If that’s the way you want it. Goodnight!”

  He felt his hands clench until the nails dug into his palms. I handled it right, he assured himself. The only way I could handle it. Beg and they would have got suspicious. Plead and it would have been the same. Defy them and maybe they’ll get curious. They think I’m tough, he thought. I couldn’t disappoint them.

  Them?

  He knew who they were, who they had to be. It was inevitable, he thought. In a world like this they couldn’t help but be strong. Just like Earth, he told himself. We have STAR. There must be similar organizations on other worlds. On every world that had pride and the ability to see ahead. That’s where the voice came from. That’s who is going to help you escape. The only ones really equipped to do it.

  If they decided to do it.

  Seconds dragged into minutes. He began to sweat and had to force himself to lie still. They’ve got to come to me, he thought. If I try to contact them they’ll run like mice. There’s nothing you can do now but wait. And wait. And wait.

  “We have decided,” said the voice. “We will arrange to help you. It is imperative that you follow every order without question and without delay. Is this understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will be notified.”

  “Wait!” He swallowed choosing his words. “Just who are you?” he said carefully. “I think I should know.”

  “Certainly. We are GERM.”

  “Germ?”

  “G.E.R.M.,” said the voice patiently. “General Earth Resistance Movement. Goodnight.”

  GERM, he thought, rolling over onto his back and looking thoughtfully at the screen. A good name for a medical world. An appropriate name.
He could appreciate the innuendo. GERM, the disease which could weaken and even destroy the Kaltich. GERM.

  General Earth Resistance Movement.

  He stiffened in the bed.

  Earth?

  ELEVEN

  On the smooth floor the rubber wheels of the trolley made not even a whisper of sound. Preston lay as ordered, rigid, stiff as a corpse. motionless as the vehicle moved, turned, dropped, moved to drop again into what he guessed must be the basement of the building. A door closed. Light squinted his eyes as the sheet was jerked from his face. A woman wearing green looked down at him. She had red hair and blue eyes. Her age, he guessed, couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

  “Hello.” She smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Sylvia Meecham.” Her voice was the one which had come from beneath his pillow. Preston sat upright and took her hand. It was hard, firm with developed muscle, a surgeon’s hand.

  “I’m glad to meet you,” he said, and added. “I mean that more than perhaps you realise.”

  “Let us hope that you have no reason to change your mind.” She threw him a bundle of clothing, an orderly’s uniform plus soft-soled shoes. “Get off the trolley and change into these.” She watched as he stripped, unembarrassed by his nakedness, then turned to the two men in pink who had handled the vehicle. “Trouble?”

  One of them shook his head. “None. Everything went as planned.”

  “Good. You’d better get back now. I’ll handle it from here.”

  They left. Preston finished dressing and looked at the girl. “Listen,” he said. “There’s something I’ve got to ask you. About GERM. What —“

  She interrupted, glancing at her watch. “Later.”

  “But —”

  “Later. Now please follow me.”

  Preston shrugged. It was her game and he had to play by her rules but, he told himself, I’m going to get to the bottom of this and soon. If she won’t answer then perhaps her friends will.

  “Hurry,” said the girl.

  “Coming,” said Preston and stepped through the door into an anatomist’s nightmare.