by Paul Darrow
The Federation death list grew smaller. This was a tribute to the efficiency of its Iron Guard, its Death Squads and any number of bounty hunters and Subsidiaries.
The Empire was vast. There was no escape. But one man alone is not easily found in a galaxy.
Rogue Avon ran, walked and crawled through the wilderness of Phax until, after many Earth days, he stumbled into the moon’s city.
Gold, a timeless commodity, bought him food and a place to hide. It also allowed him to supply himself with weaponry and ammunition.
Arrogant in victory, the Federation had not yet seen fit to occupy Raphael and her moons. When Avon learned this, he obtained passage on a shuttle flight to the mother planet.
The people of this tawdry Uranian satellite were nervous with anticipation of the wealth and opportunity that an imminent Federation presence could provide.
Avon visited a brothel in the financial district of the satellite’s seedy capital city. He met a whore called Gerasa.
She was beautiful, but she had the narrow eyes of a thief and a mouth like a razor blade. She took him into a squalid room and undressed. Standing naked before him, she eyed him curiously.
“I’m looking for somebody,” Avon said.
“I’ve been looking all my life,” she replied.
Avon smiled slightly and the prostitute relaxed.
“I don’t have much time,” he said. “I want to reach Federation space. I need someone to fly me there. For a consideration, of course.”
Geresa licked her lips in anticipation of her share of that consideration. “You need Clay,” she said. “But he’s very expensive and only deals in gold.”
“I have gold,” Avon said quietly.
“A lot of gold.”
“I think I may have enough.”
The woman smiled sweetly, but her eyes glittered with malice and Avon guessed what was about to happen.
The door to the room burst at its seams as two men smashed their way in. They were big and ugly and armed with machetes.
Avon turned to face them. He produced a twin-bladed knife with serrated edges. The two men hesitated. This was a mistake. Avon took the split second available to him and, with a flowing economical movement, slashed one of them across the throat. The intruder, choking on his own blood, emitted a horrible gurgling sound and fell to the floor. His companion, not to be disposed of so easily, parried Avon’s thrusting knife with his machete. For a time, the two men were locked in a duellists’ embrace.
Avon took a step backwards. He twisted the twin blades against the metal of the machete and tore the weapon from his opponent’s grasp. The man stood quite still. He was staring death in the face.
Avon said, “You can go. Take that with you.” He indicated the bloody corpse.
The man did not hesitate this time. He obeyed instantly, dragging the body through the remains of the shattered door.
Avon turned to Gerasa. She cowered in a corner of the room, trying to clothe her nakedness with a curtain draped over a window of dirt-streaked glass. Avon slapped her hard across the face and she yelped with pain as blood oozed from the corner of her mouth. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “But now that the preliminaries are over, you can tell me where to find the man I need.”
The whore tried to smile winsomely, but blood and fear masked any seductiveness. “I’ll take you to him,” she said.
Avon flung her clothes at her. “Get dressed!”
She obeyed hurriedly.
At Avon’s insistence, they left the building by scrambling through the window. He was not anxious to risk meeting any more of her accomplices.
Gerasa led him through dark and narrow alleys that stank of the filth swilling in their gutters. They passed buildings that housed the downtrodden and abused. The homes of those without hope.
Eventually, she brought him to a low metal shack. It was situated in a district close by the moon landing complex where Avon had disembarked from the Phax shuttle.
The shack was cool and dimly lit. Its walls were papered with star charts. A man was sitting at a desk. He looked up as they entered.
“He wants a runner into Federation space,” Gerasa said quickly. “He says he has gold.”
The man at the desk smiled. “I’m Clay Gilpin,” he said.
Avon said nothing.
Gilpin was slim and neat. He had an open, honest face. but, as always, the eyes are the clear windows of the soul. His were small, green and malevolent.
“Did her friends try to steal your gold?” he asked, his voice high pitched and sibilant.
“They tried. They failed.”
Gilpin laughed humorlessly. “You stupid bitch!” he said to Gerasa. “Get out!”
The whore whimpered a protest, but his fierce glance silenced her. She smiled at Avon. Then she turned and left.
Gilpin sat himself on a rickety wooden chair and tilted it back against the wall. “Where do you want to go?” he asked, picking at his teeth with a sliver of wood.
“Earth.”
Gilpin laughed. “Too far!” he scowled. “You look to me like a man who would always want to go too far.” For a moment, his otherwise mean eyes twinkled with amusement, as if he wanted Avon to share a joke.
His visitor stood silent and motionless.
Gilpin said, “I can take you to Gamma 15. It’s inside Federation territory, close to the Rings of Saturn. I have connections there. The Federation turns a blind eye to their activities. They’ve learned how far they can go without fear of reprisal. Far enough, but not too far. You’re not like them at all.” He sighed. “You can reach Saturn Major from there and then run to Earth.”
“How much?” Avon asked, his voice a whisper.
“How much have you got?”
Avon smiled coldly.
“Five thousand credits in gold,” Gilpin said.
“Two thousand.”
Gilpin snorted. “Not interested.”
“Three thousand.”
Again Gilpin snorted and Avon turned to go.
“Four!” Gilpin called after him.
“Three and a half.”
“Done!” Gilpin smiled broadly.
“When?” Avon asked.
“There’s no time like the present.”
Avon extracted a pouch from the weapons bag slung over his shoulder and counted out three thousand five hundred gold credits.
Gilpin scooped up the coins and placed them in a box which he shut away in a nuclear-proof safe buried in the floor. He eyed Avon approvingly. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking you where you got this gold?”
Avon’s eyes narrowed. “None at all.”
“The spoils of war?” Gilpin persisted.
“Let’s go.” Avon said.
“Gilpin shrugged and the two men walked out into the night.
They rode a monorail to a sector of the shuttle base, then walked to a launch pad that held two aircraft. One was a sleek, four-seater, wide-decked speedship, the other was a rocket-propelled heliplane. Avon viewed this latter with some distaste.
Gilpin smiled. “We’ll fly in this,” he said and led the way into the speedcraft. Its flight deck was well furnished and comfortable. Its flight console was of the latest design.
“This ship is tuned to perfection,” Gilpin said. “She can dodge anything out there.” He operated a control and the pencil-shaped spaceship’s hatch closed silently. He threw a number of switches. The engines fired and the throb of power caused the aircraft to shudder.
“Before we leave,” Avon said, “there’s something I would like to make quite clear. Try and cross me and you’re dead!”
Gilpin laughed. “I believe you!” He pressed a button, the ship’s computer came on line and rockets began to propel the craft upwards.
The machine hovered for a few seconds before slowly easing its way out of the minimal gravitational pull exerted by Raphael’s atmosphere. It plunged into space.
Gilpin proved to be an expert pilot.
The ship’s advanced, computerized radar screen was capable of warning him of the approach of any other craft that might prove hostile. It also informed him of the proximity of meteorite showers and space debris. As a result, their journey passed without incident.
In what is known as the Hollow Ground, between Uranus and Saturn’s Rings, Gilpin placed the machine under the control of the automatic pilot, settled into his chair and promptly went to sleep.
Avon rarely slept. He remained watchful and wide awake.
The pilot slept the sleep of the just. Or the conscience-free. He did not wake until they reached the rim of the Hollow Ground, close to the Outer Rings. It was as if a personal, accurate alarm had roused him.
He threw a switch and a picture of the space outside glowed on a video screen. Gradually, the picture became clearer and Gilpin pointed out various important areas of the star plan. In the far distance, he pointed to the outline of a tear-shaped asteroid. “Gamma 15,” he said. “I’ll be picking up some contraband, ready for the good life when the Federation is running Raphael and the moons. Once we’ve landed, you’re on your own.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Avon replied.
Gilpin smiled, then looked innocently puzzled. “Who are you?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t want to know.”
“Have you fought against the Federation?”
“Hasn’t everybody?”
Gilpin brought out a liquor bottle and offered Avon a drink. He took a long gulp himself.
“I swim with the tide,” he said. “If you swim against it, you’re in danger of drowning.” He sighed and took another drink. “I envy you.”
“Why?”
“You’ll die well. As for me? I’ll be shot in the back in some dingy hole on a half-forgotten planet.”
“At least it will be quick,” Avon said.
The pilot scowled and drained the bottle. He tossed it aside and turned his attention to the ship’s controls.
Carefully, with great skill, he guided the speedcraft underneath Gamma 15’s radar screen and ground-hopped into the interior of the satellite.
Gamma 15 was a man-made, barren landscape blasted out of Saturn moon rock by Federation engineers.
It was little more than a staging post for trade, legitimate or otherwise. There was no evidence of a military presence. The army was confined to the radar listening positions that Gilpin had so cleverly evaded.
The local authority was a small, corrupt police force. From one of its officers, Gilpin acquired papers that would assist Avon’s travel plans.
“I thought I was on my own?” Avon said.
Gilpin smiled. “I’ve changed my mind. I think you need all the help you can get.”
The pilot then took him to see a forger and persuaded him to “doctor” the police papers so that they would be untraceable. Finally, he booked Avon onto a freight shuttle that would carry him to Saturn Major. On Saturn there would be Starships capable of reaching Earth.
Gilpin bade him farewell and it was clear that he regretted their parting. He smiled and said, “I’ll read about your death some time.”
“We all die, it’s just a question of when,” Avon replied. He handed Gilpin a gold piece worth five hundred credits.
The pilot hesitated before taking it. “I’ll put this with the others,” he said. “Maybe they’ll breed!” He wrote a name on a scrap of paper. “This is someone who will help you when you get to Saturn. I’ll telegraph ahead and tell him to expect you.”
“Thank you.”
“If you walk and fight alone, you’re sure to die alone,” Gilpin said. “Don’t tell me! You wouldn’t have it any other way!” He laughed.
Avon’s best recollection of him would be that hollow, joyless laughter.
The two men parted and Avon took the shuttle to Saturn Major. He found it very different from the slums of Raphael and the wilderness of Phax.
Saturn’s capital was a modern hi-tech city. Its inhabitants were sleek and sophisticated. Their environment was well policed, so that the lower grades had limited access to the Alpha, or the privileged grade’s fleshpots.
The military was well represented. It was clear that the occupation force for Raphael and her moons would launch from here.
Avon, heavier and bearded since his time on Phax, had only little faith in the paper bribed from the police officer on Gamma 15. Once again, he used gold to provide his requirements.
When he had familiarized himself with his surroundings, he chose to make contact with the man named on Gilpin’s scrap of paper.
The man was called Pruth. He lived in a small house in a quiet protected suburb. He was an historian who lectured at the Saturn Alpha Military College. One of the training grounds for future Federation officers. A typical Martian, he was large, of indeterminate age and had a full, chubby face with a clear complexion. His eyes, bestriding a bulbous nose, were browless and fire red.
He greeted Avon warmly and seated him in a room furnished with antiques from the second calendar. He plied him with good food and fine wine.
Avon ate and drank sparingly, ever watchful in case his host’s bonhomie should change to malice or threat.
Pruth spoke in a Martian dialect that was taught as a specialized subject at various schools on Earth. It was used by the Killer men as a code.
The teacher did not seem surprised that Avon understood him.
“Clay Gilpin says you are a man who might be of use to me,” Pruth said.
“I was under the impression he thought you could be useful to me.”
If Pruth had had eyebrows he would have raised them. Instead, he went on, “Gilpin is a mean creature, but his word is as good as an oath. He thinks I can trust you.” He smiled evilly. “Even if that trust should turn out to be misplaced, I doubt that you could harm me or survive my displeasure.”
Avon said nothing.
Pruth continued, “If you will do something for me, I am willing to return the favor. This is called a fair exchange.”
Still Avon said nothing.
The Martian sipped wine from a crystal glass. “I hold a high and influential position here, but it is precarious. In the past, I have not exactly seen eye to eye with Federation policy. Now, I’m sure you will have noticed the military buildup here. In the wake of the military will come the investigators.” He paused for effect. “So far, Saturn has been left to its own devices but, since the expansion of Empire, perhaps because of it, there is some intolerance in the corridors of Federation power. I have enemies there.”
“Why?”
“Well, helping someone like you won’t endear me to authority.”
“If that’s the case, why bother?”
“For the cause.”
“What cause?”
“The cause of freedom from oppression.”
Avon sighed. “I don’t think I blame your enemies for their intolerance.”
Pruth looked at him sharply. “Don’t you love liberty?”
Avon snorted. “I’m not sure of the meaning of the word, but, whatever it is, it’s a pipe dream in this Universe.”
“Dreams can come true.”
“So can nightmares.”
Pruth shook his head. “We’re getting nowhere. The only cause you seem to espouse is your own.”
Avon stared at him unblinkingly. “I’m as good as dead. I’d like to choose the time and place, that’s all.”
“You’re a pessimist.”
“Which means I’m rarely disappointed.”
Prush laughed. “We must beg to differ.”
Avon smiled coldly. “What can I do for you?”
The historian drained his glass. “Gilpin thinks you carry yourself like a trained killer. He has an instinct in these matters. I want somebody dead.”
Avon’s face was expressionless. “Life is cheap, but I’m expensive. What can you offer in return?”
Pruth smiled thinly. “The papers you have may or may not be good enough to get you
to wherever you want to go. Earth isn’t it? You have a sentimental streak. You want to die at home. However, I can produce documents for you that will pass the closest scrutiny. For a while at any rate. I should add that Gilpin’s contacts on Gamma 15 are not too reliable and the satellite’s forgers are not as expert as those to be found here in Saturn Major.”
“I might be prepared to take a chance.”
“I doubt that. You seem to me to be a careful man. Besides, I know that you are Rogue Avon, that there is a price on your head and that you are on the run. If I know it, others will soon find out. Including Clay Gilpin. His reward would be quite handsome if he were to inform the Death Squads of the forgeries you are carrying. You can’t be certain he won’t betray you.”
Avon remained impassive. “Why should I trust you?” he asked.
“Because it would be very easy for me to betray you. The fact that I have not already done so should inspire you with some confidence. And I need you to do this service for me.”
“What will the murder achieve?”
“By removing an associate of mine from the scene, I will be saved some embarrassment when the Federation investigators come to call.”
“What is the victim’s name?”
Pruth glanced at him in genuine surprise. “I thought you would have guessed. Clay Gilpin!”
There was a long silence. The Martian broke it at last. “You may wonder how I know about you. I was impressed by your admirable self-control when I revealed my knowledge. Gilpin telegraphed me news of your arrival and gave your general description. I fed the relevant information into a personal computer. Remember, I’m a respected official of the military college and have access to such things. I learned a lot. You confirmed your identity to me when you clearly understood and could speak this dialect. Knowledge of the language is one of the accomplishments noted in your file.”
“It’s my turn to be impressed,” Avon said as if he wasn’t.
“Impressed enough to do what I ask?”
“Gilpin doesn’t have access to this information.”
Pruth grimaced. “He’ll get it. It will take him a little while perhaps, but greed will encourage his persistence.”
“His papers have got me this far,” Avon said.
“You have been fortunate so far!” The Martian settled in his chair and studied Avon through steepled fingers. “You face a dilemma. To coin an ancient phrase, you are between the devil and the deep. I think your best bet would be to throw in your lot with the devil.”