S.T.A.R. Flight

by E. C. Tubb

He rose, searched the room and found nothing to drink. He tested the door and found it locked. Nice, he thought. They leave me here, locking me in, taking their damned treatment and they can’t even bother to let me have an aspirin.

  Back in the chair he brooded on what he had discovered. Alternative worlds — why hadn’t anyone thought of that before? Because no one but the Kaltich were allowed through the Gates. The Kaltich and a few selectees who never returned. They supplied cells for the growth of spare parts and then, he guessed, were sent somewhere else. But never back to their home world. Logical, he thought. And clever. Damned clever. They let us make the obvious mistake and so guarded their secret. And they didn’t lie, he admitted. Not really. What else could they call the alternate Earths but other worlds? And some of them must be empty, virgin of human life, a paradise waiting to be filled.

  A warp, he mused. The Gates had to be that. Some twisting of probability so as to penetrate the barrier between what was and what might have been. Not space travel but something even better. An endless supply of habitable worlds. Pick one and skip a thousand. No point in dealing with exactly the same cultures. Not enough Kaltich to do it, perhaps. They would have to be spread pretty thin as it was. The ruling castes at least. And it explained the language. Galactic, he thought. Well, it was easier for a thousand races to learn one language than for one race to learn a thousand.

  Again he rose and tried the door. It was still locked. He hesitated, wondering whether to force it open, then decided against it. He could do nothing but wait.

  Traders, he thought. That’s all the Kaltich were — the middleman with a monopoly of transport and the longevity treatment as a threat to keep their customers in line. Traders who set their own margins of profit and diverted a stream of wealth to their home world. There even the lowest epsilon must enjoy more luxury than a terrestrial millionaire.

  Fifty years, he told himself. That’s what Hilda Thorenson had predicted. Fifty years and we’ll all be working for the Kaltich. Then what? The heads of government bribed with alpha red. Diplomats, tycoons, industrial magnates with beta yellow. Top management with gamma green. Junior executives and the professional classes with delta blue. The rest would wear white and like it. All but the inevitable segment who like to carry out the orders, do the dirty work. The ones who had no imagination. The sadists. The concentration-camp guards. The blank-faced, blank-minded people who loved petty authority.

  Earth would provide its own nulls.

  The door clicked and John entered the room. He smiled as Preston winced and offered a bottle. It contained a clear liquid. Two hundred proof alcohol, Preston decided after he’d taken a cautious sip. He took another, the liquid seeming to evaporate in his mouth. Suddenly his headache was gone. “You took your time,” he said, handing back the bottle. “I was about ready to tear open the door.”

  “I had to wait until it was safe,” said the man. He had, Preston noticed, changed from nondescript grey into orderly’s pink. He carried a bundle which he put down on the table. “The place is swarming with Kaltich,” he explained. “They even had their own physicians examine your body. The one that took your place, that is.”

  “And?”

  John shrugged. “I just work here. As long as they can’t prove anything we’ve nothing to worry about.” He grinned as Preston reached for the bottle. “hypnoteach can be rough,” he said. “There was a lot to squeeze in and little time to do it but we had to work fast. We still have to. My guess is that the Kaltich will be making a head-count and null-check of the entire building. We’ve got to get you out of here before then.”

  Preston took another sip of the white lightning. The evaporated liquid seemed like a cooling breeze on the surface of his brain. “How are you going to do that?”

  “We’ll use an emergency Gate. We’ve managed to fix things so that, at a certain time, the operator will be alone. That’s when we move in.” He reached out, took the bottle, helped himself to a drink. “Clothes,” he said. “I guess those you’re wearing wouldn’t do at home?”

  “No,” said Preston.

  “I’ve got you some others. Kaltich gear. Made up from uniforms which should have been burned but somehow weren’t. Wat colour would you like?”

  “Red,” said Preston immediately.

  John shook his head. “We could have made you a facsimile but it would never pass you through the Gate,” he said. “Alpha uniforms carry a wire-pattern for purpose of identification. You could wear a stolen one but you wouldn’t get far. Not alone.”

  Not even with company, thought Preston. “Yellow?”

  “Betas are much the same. We settled for green. It’s common enough so that you should get by, not so common that it doesn’t carry enough weight.” John handed Preston the package. “Green,” he said. “I’m glad we could agree.”

  “A comic,” said Preston sourly. “You must come and visit me one day.”

  “The sooner the better.” John glanced at the clock. “Get changed now. We haven’t much time.”

  The uniform, at least, fitted better than the others he had worn. Preston adjusted it, slipping the loop of the whip over his wrist, wondering what colour he would be wearing next. White, probably. The colour of a shroud. He followed the GERM agent from the room and along the passage leading to the spare-part banks. The place seemed as deserted as before. Timing, he thought. Cooperation. Plan things right and a man can stay invisible in a crowd.

  “Every Gate is connected to one or other of these banks,” said John. Preston guessed that he was making conversation to steady his nerves. That, or it was a part of the camouflage. To a spy ear monitor he would appear to be a guide conducting one of the Kaltich on a tour of the basement. “A one-way connection from us to them. They are in touch by phone. An order comes in, is phoned through to us, we fill it and pass it through the Gate. A small Gate,” he added. “None of the packages are large.”

  Information, thought Preston. He’s using the time to fill me in. “How do you get paid?” he demanded. “Credit?”

  “That’s right. We use it to buy whatever we need.”

  From the Kaltich, of course, thought Preston. They had it made both ways.

  John slowed as they came to an open space. Messengers sat on long benches facing a row of hatches each with a signal light and phone. Other hatches, wider, without lights or phones stood opposite. Orderlies in bright pink could be seen at the openings. The place reminded Preston of the dispatch section of a department store.

  John slowed still more, idling, killing time. He halted as a light winked above one of the hatches. Immediately a messenger ran to it, picked up the phone, listened, wrote something on a pad. Tearing off the slip, he went to one of the larger hatches and handed it to the orderly. Thirty seconds later he received a package, checked the number and returned. Through the small Gate Preston could see a man in white, an epsilon, standing in a small room. He had seen such a room before at the New York Gate but this time he was seeing it from the other side. The messenger threw the package through the hatch and returned to his bench.

  Another heart, thought Preston. Or a new pair of lungs, or a kidney, a spleen or maybe a new stomach. He looked along the line of hatches, counting them, multiplying them by how many? A hundred? A thousand? More?

  “Come on,” said his guide.

  He led the way past the line of hatches, turned a corner and halted before a closed door. He opened it and stepped through, closing it as Preston followed. A soft humming and the scent of ozone filled the air. A second door faced the first, yielding as the orderly used a glittering instrument. The agent eased it open a crack and produced an aerosol can fitted with a short nozzle. He slipped the nozzle through the door and pressed the release.

  “All right,” he said. “We can go in now.”

  Inside a solitary gamma sat before a complex instrument panel. The double arch of a Gate yawned to one side but neither had been activated.

  “Emergency communicator,” said John. He ignored the K
altich who sat, eyes open, staring at nothing. Instantaneous knockout gas, Preston decided. No warning and no after-effects. The man would come to full awareness and not realise that time had passed.

  “All right,” said John, studying the controls. “Where to?”

  “Earth,” said Preston without thinking. The GERM agent swore.

  “We’ve no time for games! I know it’s Earth — but which one?”

  I don’t know, thought Preston wildly. Damn it. I don’t know!

  Take a number, double it, multiply it by your age, take away the number you first thought of. That way you had as much chance to be right as any other. From one to which? Not one, thought Preston. At least he knew which that was. The Kaltich home world. The last he wanted to visit.

  “Quick,” said John impatiently. “We’ve got maybe another ninety seconds before the gas wears off. I want to get you out of here before then. I want to get out myself too,” he added. Then seeing Preston’s expression. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m lost,” said Preston, and explained. “What number is this world?”

  “2360. Why?”

  “A thought.” Semmelweis was known here, a hero. The divergence could have occurred about then. In this world he’d been hailed as almost a messiah. In Preston’s own he’d suffered violent derision. But even so what did that prove? How many alternatives lay between?

  “Come on,” said John. “We haven’t got much longer.”

  “I don’t know,” said Preston. “Damn it, man, can’t you understand? I don’t know.” We never considered the problem, he thought. Earth should have been good enough. How the hell was I to guess that every damn planet would have the same name? “Listen,” he said. “This is the control, right? Well there should be a book of some kind. A directory. A list of worlds and their numbers.”

  “Why?” asked John.

  “Damn it, don’t be so stupid!” Preston fought to remain calm. The obvious, he thought. How many plans have failed because someone overlooked the obvious? “Look at it this way,” he said. “I’m an alpha. I want to go to the world of living crystals but I can’t remember or never knew the number. Is the operator supposed to know? From memory? How many worlds could he remember anyway? And with an alpha you don’t take chances. Send him to the wrong place and you’d wind up under the whip. There must be such a book,” he insisted. “For Pete’s sake let’s find it!”

  He began to search the place, looking for cabinets, drawers, anywhere which could serve as a repository for the essential information. The agent swore as he glanced at his watch.

  “This is getting us nowhere. Keep calm,” he said as Preston started to protest. “I’ve got a better idea.” He dug into his pocket and produced another container of chemicals. “Hypnogas,” he explained. “For emergencies, but I didn’t want to use it. The after-effects,” he said. “Minor but obvious. But it looks as if we’ve got no choice.” He looked at his watch again. “I’ll have to wait until he recovers. Let’s hope his associate doesn’t return before then.”

  “Lock the doors,” said Preston.

  “Lock — but why?”

  “Do it! You can, can’t you? Then do it!” The gamma stirred as John returned from sealing the panels. Hastily he applied the hypnogas. “I still can’t see why you wanted me to lock the doors. It’ll cost me time getting out.”

  Preston ignored the agent. He stared at the operator who sat, unresisting, in his chair. “Listen,” he snapped. “I want a world which has a fairly high technology. One which has the use of atomic power but not space flight. Forget the atomic power,” he added. Could you call bombs atomic power? A scatter of indistinguishable power plants? “A world that has extensive air travel,” he compromised. “Heavily populated. Hurry!”

  The operator moved sluggishly, reaching for buttons. Light flickered from a panel. “1352, sir?”

  “I’m not sure. Can you check? Are there photographs?”

  The operator pressed more buttons. A screen flashed into brilliance. Preston stared at the unmistakable shapes of the pyramids. They proved nothing.

  “The western hemisphere,” said Preston. “The eastern seaboard of North America. New York. A city on the fortieth parallel.” He grunted as a familiar sight came into focus. “That’s it!”

  The GERM agent leaned forward. “Are you sure?”

  “That’s the Statue of Liberty,” said Preston. “I’d know it anywhere.” He tensed as someone hammered on the inner door. “I thought I told you to lock them both?”

  “I did. I —”

  “Connect the Gate,” Preston snapped at the operator. He waited, watching as the man set his controls. It was a matter of pressing buttons, of waiting until signal lights flashed exact synchronisation. Automatic, decided Preston. It would have to be. Each Gate must contain a computor and each panel must be the same.

  “Connected, sir,” said the gamma dreamily.

  “Thank you,” said Preston, and slammed the edge of his stiffened hand hard against the nape of the man’s neck. He looked at the white face of the agent. “Get into his clothes.”

  “You killed him! You —“

  “Get into his clothes!” Preston began to tear at the uniform. “The Gate is probably rigged,” he snapped. “It must register every operation. There could even be cameras. Someone is standing outside the door. What chance do you think you’ve got of escaping? None,” he said. “You haven’t the chance of a snowball in hell. You’ve got to come with me.”

  “I can’t do that! GERM —”

  “That’s why,” interrupted Preston savagely. He flung the gamma’s uniform at the agent. “If they catch you they’ll suck you dry. You’ll all be caught. Sylvia, think of her if no one else. Would you like to see her flogged with a Kaltich whip?” He swore as the banging on the door grew louder, heavier. It ceased and a spot on the metal grew cherry red. “Hurry!”

  John hesitated. “I could use the gas,” he suggested.

  “Hurry!” yelled Preston. “Before they burn through the door.” His face was a snarling mask of animal rage. “Or do I have to kill you too?”

  They stepped through the Gate as the door began to sag, escaping one danger to face another, walking from the room into the familiar expanse of a main Gate. Preston resisted the impulse to run, walking quickly with the agent at his side, two gammas intent on their own business. A face looked from the booth and Preston lifted his hand, the whip dangling from his wrist. Act natural, he told himself. You’re too busy to stop and talk but not too ignorant to ignore a member of your own class. The gesture seemed to satisfy the operator who ducked back into his cubicle. Ahead lay the ramp, the unloading bays, the big outside.

  Preston caught his companion’s arm. “Steady,” he warned. “Not too fast. Just keep walking and look straight ahead.”

  John swallowed. “My back,” he said. “I can feel the bullets.”

  “That would be a kindness.” Preston felt himself relax a little as they reached the far end of the ramp. Some epsilons were busy at the conveyor belt and a couple of nulls stood casually on guard. “They won’t shoot us,” he said. “Not if they can catch us.” He tensed as he heard a shout from behind. “All right,” he snapped. “Let’s see how fast you can run!”

  They had left the central opening of the Gate and the open space was before them. Preston turned sharply to the left and raced from the building. He heard more shouts, louder, veered as something hummed past his head. Beside him John raced slightly ahead. Their shoes made soft, thudding noises on the turf. Preston looked back. Two nulls were chasing after them, heads down, elbows tucked into their sides. The late sun threw their shadows in grotesque elongation.

  “Damn!” John swore as he stumbled and almost fell. Preston looked past him, at the white faces of watching people, at buildings, narrow streets. The perimeter was marked with a broad band of white. He could see no guards.

  He veered again as they crossed the edge, yelled to the agent as he forged ahead, led the way to where
a street ran crookedly from the Gate. Panting, his heart thudding, face streaming with perspiration, Preston ducked down the first intersection, crossed the street, ducked down an inviting alley. A trash can gonged as he stumbled in the gloom. Exhausted, he fell into a deep doorway and waited, ears strained for sounds of pursuit.

  Beside him John fumbled in his pockets. “I’ve got the gas,” he whispered. “If they find us, get close —”

  Preston nodded, lacking breath to speak, lacking strength to do anything but fight for air. Footsteps passed the end of the alley, hesitated, returned.

  “Down here,” said a voice.

  “Are you sure?” His companion was doubtful.

  “There are shadows. They could be in a doorway. Behind the trash cans even. Come on.”

  Preston tensed, hand falling to his whip. I might get one of them, he thought. If I’m quick enough and lucky enough. But never both. I’m to beat for that. “That gas,” he wispered to John. “How far will it travel?”

  “A few feet.”

  It would have to do. “All right,” breathed Preston. “I’m going out. Spray when you get the chance.”

  He stepped from the doorway, hands lifted to shoulder height, halting when he saw the two nulls. As he had guessed from their footsteps they were about twelve feet distant. They froze when they saw him, guns levelled.

  “Don’t shoot,” said Preston quickly. He stepped forward, then sagged, a man obviously at the limit of his strength.

  “Where’s the other one?” A null stepped closer. “Answer! Where is he?”

  Preston gestured with his whip. “Down there,” he mumbled. “I couldn’t keep up. Just had to rest. I —” He broke off, gasping.

  “Don’t move!” The nulls came closer, their eyes watchful, manner suspicious. Preston sagged a little more, swaying as if he was about to fall. A null stepped immediately before him. Reaching for the whip, he began to slip the loop from Preston’s wrist. Preston dropped his other hand down to the null’s gun and pushed it aside as he fetched up his knee. The gun exploded as the man doubled in pain.