S.T.A.R. Flight

by E. C. Tubb

  FOURTEEN

  At the library Preston was becoming something of a mystery. The woman in charge of the reference section, a romantic spinster who had waited too long for the right man, had her own theory. “He’s a student,” she said firmly. “Brushing up before an exam.”

  Her assistant, younger but more world-wise, shook her head. “He’s no student,” she said with equal firmness. “Not in the way you mean. But he could be doing research,” she admitted. “Perhaps he’s an author?”

  Oblivious of the exchange Preston sat and glowered at his books. They were all the library contained dealing with hypnotic techniques, forced tuition and compressed learning. None of them had helped. The information locked in his skull needed a key before it could be released. He had been trying to discover the shape of that key.

  I’m wasting my time, he thought. I’ll need drugs and the knowledge of how to use them. Relaxants and hypnotics so as to dig down deep. STAR will know exactly what to do. They’ll get the experts and technical skill. He closed the book and leaned back in his chair. Around him the usual habitués of the reference section stirred and shifted on their hard seats. Old men seeking somewhere quiet to sit and dream. Young men hoping to gain affluence by study. A backwater in which strangers caused no comment.

  His hotel was much the same. A small place but not so small that a stranger would stick out like a sore thumb and not so large that a stranger would be unnoticeable. Preston had taken time to select the right place. He halted at the desk. “Any mail for me?”

  “No, Mr Preston.” The receptionist was apologetic. “No mail or messages.” She hesitated. “There was someone asking about you,” she said. “A man. I thought you would like to know.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Did he ask after me by name?”

  “Yes, sir. He said not to say anything. That he wanted to surprise you. But you are a guest of the hotel and I thought that you should know.”

  “Thank you,” he said again. “I appreciate you telling me.”

  From STAR, he thought, walking from the desk. Or someone from the local police. They would have cause. He had left dead men lying in a London alley. He had stolen clothes, money, a suitcase, other things before catching the first monorail from the terminal. It had carried him to Sheffield. For two days now he had waited for STAR to get in contact.

  Too long, he thought. Someone should have come sooner or at least sent him money. Now a man was asking for him. Asking about him, rather. An odd way for a friend to behave.

  He slowed up going to his room, primitive instincts warning him of danger. His door was closed, locked, no light showing beneath the panel or through the keyhole. Cautiously Preston inserted his key into the lock and twisted. The latch moved back and the door eased open. Taking out his key, he moved three steps down the corridor to the switch controlling the overhead lights. He turned it, plunging the passage into darkness. Softly he returned to his door.

  Dropping to his knees he pushed it open. Nothing. Eel-like he slithered into the room. His right hand was tight around his gun he had taken from the null. A voice whispered from one corner.

  “No need for all this caution, Preston. I’m from STAR.”

  Preston didn’t answer.

  “I’m going to show my face,” said the voice easily. “Just do me a favour and relax. I’m alone,” the man added. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.” A cigarlet lighter spurted flame. A face covered with thin red lines of burst capillaries looked from beyond the flame. “Daler,” said the man. “Sam Daler. We’ve met before.”

  “Yes,” said Preston. His hand moved, tucking the gun into his waistband, the butt hidden by his jacket.

  “At STAR special rendezvous in New York,” said Daler. “I was on lookout. You remember?”

  “Yes,” said Preston again. His eyes searched the room. Daler was alone. He rose, snapped on the light, looked again. Stepping out into the passage he switched the overhead lights back on and returned to his room. Daler hadn’t moved.

  “Did you get it?”

  Preston looked at the man. “Get what?”

  “What you went after.” Daler laughed without making a sound. “I’m no wino,” he said. “These lines—” he gestured to his face—“were caused by too-fast decompression when I worked the Maracot Deep. You went after something,” he said “Did you get it?”

  Preston ignored the question. “Who sent you?”

  “STAR. Who else? That’s how I knew where to find you. King told me.” Daler lit a cigarlet number five size. “What the devil made you come out in London?” he said. “Why didn’t you use the New York Gate?”

  “I thought I was,” said Preston. “The operator must have tricked me. I didn’t specify,” he admitted. “I just told him to connect. For a while I thought he’d sent me to the wrong world. It was a bad time.”

  “The New York Gate was probably engaged,” Daler said casually. “It can happen. Get your things together,” he suggested, “and we’ll be on our way.”

  “To where?”

  “New York. I’ve got the flight times of the ICPMs from London. Three hours and we can be there.” Daler lifted his hand to his inner pocket. “I think we can make it,” he said casually. “I’ll just check on the times.”

  “You do that,” said Preston.

  And reached for his gun.

  Chung Hoo walked in his garden and indulged himself in the enjoyment of his flowers. It wasn’t a large garden and the plants were confined to those which would grow in pots and narrow boxes. In fact it was the balcony of his living room, beyond which Cherry Lee could see the towering spires of skyscrapers, the dingy canyons between.

  “So you missed him,” said Chung Hoo softly. “That was most unfortunate.

  “I failed,” she corrected him, “again.”

  “No one can be infallible,” he said gently. “The blame is mine. I received the information too late. You did your best, my dear,” he soothed. “You could have done no more than what you did. Preston,” he mused. “A resourceful young man. He has shown an amazing ability to stay alive. Two shots, you say?”

  “Yes. I had reached the hotel,” she said. “I was that close. I was asking for him at the desk when I heard the firing. Two shots. I managed to be among the first to enter the room. The man Daler was lying dead. Preston had made his escape.”

  “The police?”

  “Did what they could but what did they have to work on? A stranger killed for no apparent reason.” She hesitated. “Could Preston have gone … I mean …?”

  “Crazy?” Chung Hoo picked up a geranium and sniffed at the blood-red blosom. “No, my dear. I think that there is a much simpler explanation. You traced his activities?”

  “He’d been using the local library. Reading all sorts of odd books. Technical books. I didn’t take him for a scientist,” she said, frowning. “Yet he’d been reading books only a scientist could understand.”

  “There is an affinity between understanding and wanting to understand,” commented Chung Hoo. He delicately plucked a leaf from a marigold. “Information is of no value unless it can be understood.” He moved to a snapdragon. “Look at this,” he invited. “See?” He demonstrated again. “When you press the bloom, so, the petals gape open like a mouth,” and because the thought was constantly with him he added, “a hungry mouth. Why did Preston kill?”

  She knew the question to be rhetorical.

  “Why does any man kill? For reasons of fear? Of hate? Of personal gain?” Chung Hoo sniffed a sweet pea. “Daler,” he mused. “An apparent drunkard attached to STAR. Or so we thought, but obviously we were wrong. An assassin perhaps? What did Preston discover which forced him to kill the man? Was he armed? Daler, I mean.”

  “No,” she admitted. “There was no obvious weapon, but what does that mean?” Flexing her fingers, she studied her nails. “I could paint these with curare. A scratch would kill. Would I be carrying an obvious weapon? There was a stylo by his hand,” she said. “A thick one. I
t could have been a projectile weapon of some kind.”

  “It was,” he said blandly. “I have received the report of the local police. But how did Preston know that Daler threatened his life? Know enough to draw his gun and shoot without hesitation?”

  “And why should Daler want to kill him in the first place?” asked Cherry Lee.

  Chung Hoo caressed a petunia.

  “Reason,” said Cherry Lee. She realised that her employer was permitting her to work out something for herself. “There has to be a reason. A man does not kill for fun. Not a man like Preston, at least. He could have been afraid,” she suggested. “Shot in self-defence. But even so he must have suspected that Daler was after him. Wanted to kill him. But why?”

  “Preston had recently returned through a Gate,” pointed out Chung Hoo. “We can only guess what dangers he faced, what hardships he underwent while with the Kaltich. Violence must have been a part of his adventure. We know that he had to run for his life when he left the London Gate. But we speculate to no purpose. Preston himself could tell us all we wish to know.”

  “If we can find him,” she said.

  Chung Hoo smiled.

  “You know where he is,” she accused. “You’ve known all along. Where is he?” she demanded. “Where?”

  “With Hilda Thorenson,” he said quietly. “Shall we join them?”

  The swimming pool was the same, the sun, the naked luxury. The inflated duck still bobbed in the water, watching, but this time the woman wasn’t nude. Red nylon held her curves in taut restraint, a barrier to passion, a promise of pleasures to come. Pleasures, thought Preston dispassionately. Things of the flesh. Bribes to buy a boy.

  “I still can’t believe it,” said Hilda Thorenson. “You actually succeeded. Tell me.” She sat very close. “Tell me all about it. Everything.”

  Preston shook his head. “First things first,” he reminded. “There was talk of money. A lot of money.”

  “Two million units,” she agreed. “From Oldsworth. But he’s dead.”

  Preston raised his eyebrows.

  “Killed,” she said. “I don’t know by whom.”

  “From STAR then. I didn’t work for nothing,” he insisted. “The sum was agreed. One million for the secret of the Gates. Another for the secret of the longevity treatment. I can provide both.”

  “To the highest bidder?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Sell the secrets to me. I will give you the two million. Three, if you like.” Her voice was tense with excitement. She moved like an animal, the golden hairs of her body shining in the sun. The velvet of her pelt covering fat and muscle and brain shifted, begged to be touched, to be kissed. “I helped you,” she pointed out. “I told you what to do. You owe me your success.”

  He looked at her, his face bleak. “How old are you?” he demanded. She smiled into his face. “I want to know,” he insisted. “How many years did you study to become a surgeon? How many years to gain practice? And,” he added, “where did you obtain your degree?”

  “The medical school of California,” she said evenly. “You can check.”

  “I did.”

  “Tell me about the Gates,” she said. “I want to know.”

  “You have a wonderful apartment here,” said Preston. “I didn’t know that you owned the building.”

  “A company owns it.”

  “And you own the company.” He looked at her. “I checked that too,” he said.

  “The Gates!” She was impatient. “Tell me about the Gates!”

  “It’s in here,” he said, “All of it.” He touched his skull. “Locked in tight but ready to come out at the right time. Plans, details, circuits, everything. With our technology we’ll be able to build the first Gate within a year. With our production facitilites we’ll be able to turn them out one a minute. More. The Kaltich,” he said, watching her eyes, “are finished.”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “No,” he agreed. “Not yet. Not while I hold the information. Not when I can be killed.”

  “Exactly,” said Hilda Thorenson. “Martin, you are so right!”

  Preston looked up as a roaring came from the sky.

  The helicopter dropped to hover at the side of the pool. In the downdraught the inflated duck bobbed like a thing alive. The rotors slowed as Chung Hoo and Cherry Lee stepped from the cabin. A signal and it lifted to drone a waiting circle.

  “Martin Preston,” said Chung Hoo. “Believe me, it is a pleasure to see you. Allow me to introduce myself. Chung Hoo. A humble servant of all nations.”

  “UNO!” snapped Hilda Thorenson.

  Chung Hoo bowed. “Precisely, my dear lady. So you see,” he said to Preston, “you have nothing to fear.”

  “Get off my roof,” said Hilda Thorenson. “At once!”

  Chung Hoo shook his head. “I must remind you that UNO has precedence over the activities of STAR. We could, if you wish, make an issue of it. No? I thought not. You are being wise.” He turned to the girl at his side, demure in normal clothing, innocent with absence of paint. “Preston, this is Cherry Lee.”

  “We’ve met,” he said curtly.

  He was thinner, thought Cherry Lee. His face more finely drawn, the eyes burning in their deep sockets. His mouth showed a certain relentlessness. He’s matured, she thought. Become harder than what he was. Once he looked a killer and now he really is.

  She looked at Chung Hoo. What does he intend doing? she wondered. Why are we here?

  “The secret of efficient government,” said Chung Hoo to no one in particular, “is to let people believe that they govern themselves. Also,” he added, “to let them do the things that are necessary of their own volition. Every age needs a crusade,” he mused. “A cause. Yours, Preston, was gaining the secret of the Gates. Did you succeed?”

  “Don’t answer him,” said Hilda Thorenson quickly.

  Preston nodded. “I did.”

  “And now you expect your reward.” Chung Hoo was bland as he spread his hands. “There is nothing wrong in that. The labourer is worthy of his hire. UNO has sufficient funds and would be willing —”

  “The information belongs to STAR,” interrupted Hilda Thorenson. “We can extract if from his head. We can use it. We know how best to bargain with the Kaltich for the right to share their alternates. We —” She broke off. “That is —”

  Preston slapped her across the face.

  “I owe you that,” he said grimly. “For the beating I took. Seven lashes of a major whip. For the interrogation. For being shot and killed. For having to watch a friend die. And,” he added, “for your latest attempt to murder me.”

  “But —” Cherry Lee fell silent as Chung Hoo clamped his hand on her wrist.

  “Daler was your man,” continued Preston. The words were bullets fired from the guns of his anger. “I called you, told you where I was, asked you to send me money. Instead you sent Daler. To kill me. But he was careless. I was already suspicious and I got him first. The Kaltich taught me that,” he said. “To kill before getting killed. You bitch!” he stormed. “You damned renegade!”

  She whitened beneath his anger.

  “You are fond of wearing red,” he said. “Each time I’ve seen you you’ve worn red. A fault,” he pointed out. “You’re a Scandinavian blonde and red isn’t the colour which suits you best. It makes you look like a tart,” he said spitefully. “A cheap tart. But would an alpha think of that? Or,” he added, “someone who’d been conditioned to believe that red was the prime colour?”

  She glared at him like a cat. “One day,” she said thinly, “I shall kill you. It will not be an easy death.”

  “I’ve been killed,” he said, calmer now. “I know what it is to die. To be tortured,” he added. “And for what? So that you could test the security of the Gates. You must have laughed at STAR. Amateurs playing at conspirators, not realising that we were rotten with spies. UNO agents,” he said looking at Chung Hoo. “Raleigh and maybe King. And what of the other side
? The Kaltich aren’t fools. They must have their own intelligence network. In a world with a technology as high as ours they wouldn’t dare do otherwise. Locals eager and willing to work for them. Some of their own people. Like Daler, for example. He was careless. He knew how it was that I came through the London Gate instead of the one at New York. An accident, but I’m betting that it saved my life. And he was ignorant. He claimed to have worked the Maracot Deep. He may have done — but never in this world. But he thought he could afford to be careless. He’d been sent to kill me. To shut my mouth,”

  Hilda Thorenson stirred where she sat at the edge of the pool. Her cheek showed the red welts left by Preston’s fingers. She touched them. “Surmise,” she said coldly. “Lies.”

  “Truth. You made a slip,” said Preston. “More than one if you want to count. A moment ago you mentioned alternate worlds. Alternates, you called them. How did you know that?”

  He waited for her answer, shrugged when none came.

  “But that wasn’t your biggest error. You found a delta, Leon Tonach. I took his place. You searched his mind for information but the one fact he must have known you didn’t tell me. He knew the Kaltich travelled between alternate worlds. He must have known. That means you knew also. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She rose, tall, beautiful, eyes blazing with contempt. “You thing of filth! Yes, I am of the Kaltich. What do you intend doing about it?”

  “Nothing,” said Preston. “Nothing at all. You can be escorted to the New York Gate this very moment if you wish.”

  “No,” said Chung Hoo. “Not that. Not yet.”

  “She won’t go,” said Preston. “I killed an alpha,” he said to the woman. “You realize what that means? An alpha, the next thing to God. How do you think your friends will thank you for what you’ve done? You did do it, you know. If you hadn’t sent me into the Gate that alpha would still be alive. It was luck,” he admitted. “Good for me but bad for you. Very bad. The one thing you could never have predicted. You thought that I’d be trapped at the Gate. That I’d do all I could to get through and thus show up any weakness. That your people would catch me and deal with me as they did Lassiter. But an alpha died,” he said grimly. “You will be blamed for his death. Would you like us to escort you to the Gate?