Starrigger s-1

by John Dechancie

  "Place of residence?" The desk cop is all business, all of a sudden.

  "221-B Baker Street, London, England."

  "Planet?" It dawns on him. "Look, McGraw," he said, showing me world-weary eyes. "I asked you for your address. When they come back from searching your hideout, I'll get it from your ID. So, let's do it the easy way. All right?" He squared himself at the console. "Now… place of residence."

  "Emerald City, Land of Oz."

  "Name of plan―" Again, he was slow on the uptake. He snarled at me. "Listen, you filthy piece of merte, I'm gonna ask you for your punkin' place of residence one more time, then you're in for trouble."

  "Punkata teys familos proximos." It was an Intersystem phrase which suggested that he run along now and have sexual intercourse with various members of his immediate family, in so many words.

  That got me a hairy back-of-the-hand smartly across the mouth. It was worth it. The rusty taste of blood seeped through my teeth onto my tongue.

  A little too late, one of the other cops grabbed his arm. "Don't want him roughed up. We have orders."

  The desk cop jerked his arm free savagely. "Don't do that again, Frazer," he warned. "Keep your hands off me."

  "Fred, I'm sorry. We got orders. We're to keep him here until the Colonel arrives. I don't even think we should be entering him on the blotter. You better clear that entry."

  "What the hell is he standing here for?"

  "I don't know. Habit, I guess. They said to―"

  "Then get him out of my sight!"

  Grumbling, Frazer shoved me over to a chair. The seat was metal and very cold.

  There I waited for about ten minutes until somebody very big and very important strode down the hall toward the desk, leaving a wake of underlings snapped to attention en route. He was a huge man, all bulk and no bulge, enough fabric in his sky-blue-with-white-piping uniform to shelter tent-cities of refugees. A red mustache thrived in whorls under a ramrod-straight nose. The eyes were caged, iced blue with determination and cold reserve. He marched past me, briefcase in hand, swagger stick tucked smartly under an arm, and the seminude man he passed just wasn't there.

  As he went by the desk, three words:

  "In ley amenata." Bring him in to me.

  After a minute or two, I was led back through a maze of corridors to an office. I was surprised at the size of the station. Goliath was a frontier planet, from what I had seen, sparsely settled. But the planet was smack between two interchange worlds, a strategic location.

  The sign on the door read bilingually: Tenentu-Inspekta Lieutenant-Inspector Elmo L. Reilly. I had the feeling I was not about to meet a man named Elmo. It was a small, windowless office with a metal desk, metal shelves, a few maps and plaques on the wall, picture of the family on the bookshelf, clean and uncluttered. Chemical light from the overhead fixture softened it a bit, but it was a cold, steely place. The big man sat at the desk, swaggerstick squared to his right, briefcase to his left. He still wore his white hard hat with its visorful of gold scrambled eggs.

  "Colonel-Inspector Petrovsky will interrogate you," Frazer told me, and plopped me down in a small metal chair.

  "This is not an interrogation," Petrovsky corrected him. Frazer slunk out the door. Petrovsky's Intersystem was weighted with Slavic ponderousness.

  "What is it, then?" I asked in the best 'System I could manage.

  "That depends. You may or may not be a material witness to a crime. You may or may not be a suspect. That also depends." 1

  "Upon what, may I ask?"

  Blue eyes bored through me. "Upon what you tell me and what I take to be truth."

  "Then this is an interrogation," I concluded.

  "No. An information-sharing meeting." Love those hyphenated monstrosities in the language.

  I switched to English. "A euphemism."

  "Queros?" He was annoyed. "You speak Intersystem poorly. You place the verb at the beginning or middle of sentences rather than at the end, like all Inglo-speakers. Very well, I will speak English."

  "Good. I find it hard to carry on an intelligent conversation in Pig Latin."

  '"Pig Latin'? This means you disapprove of the official Colonial language?"

  "Like most artificial languages, it's a linguistic, cultural, and political compromise. Esperanto or Interlingua are better, inadequate as they are. Lincos is vastly better equipped for communication with aliens. And whatever the philologists say, 'System is still biased toward Indo-European language users."

  He grunted. "Interesting academic discussion we are having. However―" He opened the briefcase and pulled out a reader and a case of pipettes. He loaded the reader, stabbed at the keyboard until he got what he wanted.

  He looked up sharply. "What do you know of the disappearance of Constable Mona Barrows?"

  "What should I know?"

  "Do not word-play. Do you know anything?"

  "Yes."

  "Did she overtake your vehicle on Groombridge Interchange?"

  "Yes."

  "Then an encounter with a Patrol vehicle occurred?"

  "Yes."

  "And the Patrol vehicle fired on Constable Barrows' vehicle?"

  "Yes. You knew that."

  "We did," he said flatly. "The armaments on your truck are not capable of such destruction. We found the remains of the interceptor, or rather the radioactive trace. The telltale readings told us it was a Patrol intervention."

  "Then, why ask me?"

  "Eyewitnesses, if any, must always be questioned in these matters," Petrovsky stated.

  "Better to tell your traffic cops not to do what Barrows did."

  "She followed orders. Laws must be enforced. We cannot continue to be dictated to by an outside force, no matter how technologically superior they appear."

  "Then again, the Skyway does not belong to us, really," I said.

  Petrovsky looked down. Tiny characters danced on the screen. Without glancing up he said, "What can you tell me of the events that took place on Demeter, three standard days ago, at the lodging house called Grey stoke Groves?"

  "Forgive me if I ask to what events you refer."

  "Specifically," he read from the screen, "to the death of a man named Joel Dermot."

  "Never heard of him. How did he die?"

  "He was the victim of a hit-and-run accident."

  "Unfortunate. Must have happened after I left."

  "You did not check out of the motel."

  'True. I was in a hurry."

  'To what were you hurrying?"

  "Business."

  "Where?"

  "Here," I said.

  "Goliath? Your destination was Uraniborg."

  "Eventually. First here."

  'To do what?"

  'To discuss business with the people your storm troopers routed out of their beds last night."

  "The religious group? Unavoidable. What business?"

  "None of which is yours," I told him.

  The icy eyes frosted over. "Uncooperativeness will not help you."

  "Am I officially under arrest? Am I going to be charged?"

  A hesitation. "Officially, technically, you are not under arrest. You are under protective―"

  "What!" I was more surprised at the bolt of anger that shot through me. I jumped to my feet, tool-kit swaying in the breeze. "Then I demand my immediate release. What's more, you will without delay have these mollycuffs removed and my clothes returned to me."

  Unruffled, he said, "Mr. McGraw, you are in no position―"

  "I am in every position imaginable!" I spat at him. "I have not been shown a warrant, I have not been charged, I have not been booked on a charge. I have not been afforded the opportunity to contact a solicitor. I am in every position to bring civil and criminal charges against you and all participants."

  Petrovsky sat back. He was willing to let me rave on.

  "Furthermore," I raved on, "you have no evidence or probable cause to use as a basis for taking me into custody."

  Pe
trovsky fingered the russet swirls that covered his lips. "Evidence can be obtained. Tissue specimens from your vehicle."

  Which meant they had tried, and failed. Sam would have a tale or two to tell about that. Stinky must have gotten him back in one piece in time, or Petrovsky would have had his evidence. "Can be? You arrested me on speculation?" I wasn't going to bring it up, but there had been no mention at all of Wilkes nor of any witnesses. Nor of any charges Wilkes had filed.

  "Please sit down, Mr. McGraw. The view from where I sit is not a pleasant one."

  "I will also do all that is in my power to initiate an investigation into the death of my friend, Darla ― “

  A screeching stop. Darla's last name? My, God, I didn't know. The wind spilled out of my sails, and I stood there, blinking.

  Petrovsky was suddenly magnanimous. "I will tell you what, Mr. McGraw. You will be unbound and… uh, given some clothes, on one condition ― that our talk will continue." He turned a rough palm upward. "Perhaps on a more amicable basis. Agreed?"

  I was silent. He thumbed the call switch on the corn panel.

  "You have not been exactly candid with me, Mr. McGraw. But then, I must confess I have not been entirely open with you."

  "Indeed?" was all I could say.

  Frazer poked his head in the door. "Yes, sir?"

  "Remove the mollycuffs," Petrovsky ordered. "And find a pair of trousers for him."

  "And shoes," I said.

  "And shoes," Petrovsky agreed.

  "Yes, sir, Colonel-Inspector." Frazer came over and freed me.

  Petrovsky pulled out a pack of cigarettes with a label that crawled with Cyrillic lettering, lit one with an antique wheel-and-flint lighter. He pushed it and the pack across the desk toward me. I needed one and took one. I lit it, and regretted that I had. I squeezed off a cough and sat down.

  We looked at each other for a moment, then Petrovsky puffed and eased back, receding through an acrid blue haze. His eyes found something of interest on the ceiling.

  A minute went by, then Frazer cracked the door and threw in a pair of gray fatigue pants. "Working on the shoes," he said.

  Petrovsky got up and examined a map of Maxwellville. I slipped on the trousers. They were a fairly good fit, if a trifle short at the cuff. I sat down and waited, smoking.

  Presently, Frazer returned, and handed me shoes. "These are my own spares," he told me. "When you get your stuff, I want 'em back."

  "Thanks."

  "Well, it's okay."

  The door closed and Petrovsky sat back down. "Now, Mr. McGraw, I will dispense with any preliminary questions and proceed to a matter of some importance."

  "Which is?"

  "The Roadbuilder artifact."

  Rumor, wild stories, tall tales, canards ― become adamantine reality with an official pronouncement. It threw me.

  "The what?"

  "The artifact. The map. The Roadmap."

  I shook my head slowly. "I know of no such thing."

  Petrovsky caressed the desktop, looking at me, gauging my sincerity. "Then why," he asked evenly, "does everyone think you have one in your possession?"

  I saw no'ashtray, and dropped the half-smoked cigarette between my feet. "That, my law-enforcement friend, is the punking" ― I ground the butt out fiercely―"zillion-credit question. I wish someone would tell me." I sat back and crossed my legs. "By the way, who is everybody?"

  "Representatives of various races, various concerns, and us. The Colonial Authority, I should say."

  "Who else specifically, besides the Authority?"

  "I cannot think of one alien race within the Expanded Confinement Maze who would not like to obtain such a map. Specifically, we know the Reticulans want it, and are aiming to get it. Also the Kwaa'jheen, and the Ryxx. They have agents in the field. This we know. Every indication is that there are more."

  I took another cigarette. I had quit years ago, but some crises scream for nicotine. "Why? That's my question," I said, snapping the lighter closed. "Why is this phantom artifact so bloody important?" I could guess, but I wanted his reasons.

  "Just think about it, Mr. McGraw. Think of what it could mean." His tone was more academic than enthusiastic. "Do you have any idea of how far such a find would go toward solving the baffling mysteries of the Skyway? Would it not be the discovery of the ages?" He levered himself to his feet, the extra gravity making his weight more of a burden. "What price would you put on it, Mr. McGraw?" He began to pace, mighty arms folded.

  "Okay, so it'd be a fast-moving item." I choked on an inhale. "So what? So you'd find out the Skyway goes all over the galaxy, and you find eighty billion other races living alongside it. The more the merrier. We would've found that out sooner or later."

  Petrovsky held a finger up, waved it. "Think. Think what else the map may lead to."

  I was totally fed up with it all. I didn't answer. All I could think of was that I had had Darla in my arms one moment, and in the next moment had watched her die. Petrovsky began speaking again, but I didn't hear him.

  Darla…

  "Can you conceive of it? You must admit that the possibilities are staggering."

  I shook myself, struggling back to the issue at hand. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

  He stopped and rocked back on his heels, a bit irked at not being paid attention to. "I said that there is the possibility that the map could lead to the Roadbuilders themselves."

  I took a long drag, my lungs already scarred enough to take it. "Yeah, and they're running a Stop-N-Shop on Interstellar 84."

  "Stop and ―?" He walked behind the desk. "A joke, of course. But do you see that even the possibility would make the map invaluable?"

  "But the Roadbuilders are long dead, or so rumor has it."

  "Ah, but the remains of their civilization? Surely something has survived. The Skyway has. Think of the secrets, Mr. McGraw. The secrets of the most technologically advanced race in the known universe. Perhaps in the entire universe."

  Well, now I knew his estimation of the phantom map's value. It was close to mine.

  He leaned over the desk, propping himself with arms extended, huge hairy hands splayed over gray metal. He looked at me intently. "Who constructed the portals?" he went on. "Only that race which had mastery over the basic forces of the universe. Consider the cylinders. Masses more dense than these could not exist, except for black holes. Yet the cylinders are clearly artifacts. How were they constructed? Why do they not destroy the planets upon which they rest? What titanic forces keep them hovering centimeters off the surface? Questions, Mr. McGraw. Mysteries. Have you never wondered?"

  "Yes," I said. "But I have another question ― for you. Why in the name of all that's holy does everyone think I have the answers? Why do you?"

  Petrovsky lowered himself into the squeaky swivel chair, took another cigarette and lit it. "I, for one," he said between furious puffs, "do not."

  "You don't?" I did a triple take. "Huh?"

  "But that is my personal opinion, you understand." He shot pale smoke about four meters across the room. "I put the Roadmap in the same category as… say, Solomon's mines, Montezuma's gold, the philosophers' stone, and so forth. What is the phrase in English? Fairy tales. No, there is another."

  " 'Objects of wild-goose chases' will do. I understand, but you didn't answer my question. Why me? Why do you think I have it?"

  "You may have something. Or, more probably, you may want people to believe that you have something. A convincing forgery ― although I cannot imagine what that could be ― could fetch a high price. As to your question, I can only speak for the Colonial Authority. We are concerned with you on the basis of the rumors."

  "What? I can't believe it."

  Petrovsky plucked the fat cigarette from its nesting-place in his mustache, blew smoke at me. "Perhaps I have misled you. I may have given the impression that all available forces of the Authority are marshaled against you. No. I lead a special intelligence section within the Militia. Our chief function is
to investigate all matters pertaining to the mystery of the Skyway. I have an office staff of five, and a few field agents. My rank obtains for me the cooperation I need to conduct operations such as the one you witnessed early this morning." He took off his helmet and tossed it on top of the briefcase. His short hair was the color of fresh carrots. "This is one of many investigations. Many. We have looked into many reports of strange sightings, phenomena… rumors. None have proved to be anything other than wild-goose chases, as you so colorfully put it." He dropped the butt, still lengthy, and stamped on it once. I think he was getting sick of them too. "I will be more than frank with you, sir. I do not like my job, but it is my duty. As for the Roadmap, I do not really have an opinion as to its reality or lack of it. When I see it with my own eyes, I will believe it. Do you understand?" His eyes thawed the tiniest bit, just for a moment.

  "Yes."

  "So." He slapped the desk. Back to the reader.

  "Tell me," I said, trying to draw him out on other matters, "Why the raid? Why couldn't you have simply come to the house with a warrant? Or without one?"

  "I was about to speak of that," he said. "As I have told you, we are not alone in our interest in you, nor in our surveillance. We also follow those who follow you. The Reticulans particularly intrigue us. We follow them, and they lead us right to you. Always. Most uncanny. But who can understand aliens?" He smiled, the first time. It was genuine, but fleeting. "As I was saying, we traced the Reticulans here, ergo you. They did not go to Uraniborg, as we did. We lost their trace in Maxwellville. However, a constable on a routine patrol found them stopped on the Skyway east of the city. Naturally, he could do nothing. He asked if they were having mechanical trouble. They said no, but he reported them anyway. The vehicle they drove was capable of carrying a smaller off-road buggy. At about the same time, we succeeded in tracing you to the Teleologists' farm. It was not difficult, but took time. But it was apparent what the aliens planned to do. They were stopped on the Skyway at a point about seventy kilometers from the farm by an overland route. I immediately ordered the 'raid,' as you termed it." He smiled again. "Do you see, Mr. McGraw? The raid was to protect you. We fully expected the Reticulans to have already captured you. Fortunately, we were in time."