They shot through that pass between the glaring suns, and on across the planetary orbits. They had made it halfway, and Mason was sweating, and the pilot sat hunched in his chair and closed his eyes.
The auto-pilot had gone crazy indeed, it wanted to kill them, it was hurling them headlong toward a great orange planet that widened out with frightful rapidity. Then the metal mind cracked, and they heeled over, past a far-swinging moon like a copper shield, and heeled again and rushed on.
And something like an eternity later a voice was saying, “We're through. By Heaven, we made it."
The SC-1419 was in deep space again, bolting for the far lights of Sirius and Sol and the Terran frontier, and Aldebaran and its worlds were falling behind.
Stack, his face red and glistening, shouted, “It'll take those cruisers awhile to swing back around outside their system—they'll never catch us now."
Mason, dazedly, became aware that someone was tugging at his arm. It was Finetti, his face gray with fear and excitement.
"Mr. Mason, he's going. He can't last many minutes!"
Mason crashed back from his pinnacle of new hope. They had dared the citadel of Orion and run the gauntlet of its star-ships, and escaped, and all for nothing if Oliphant died.
He plunged back along the companionway, with Finetti at his heels. One glance at Oliphant was enough. His eyes were still closed, his face still unmoving, but his color had become ghastly and his respiration was imperceptible. He was, obviously, dying.
Mason looked at him. He knew what he must do, what Oliphant himself would want done, so that his life was not sacrificed in vain. But it took him moments before he could speak the words.
"Give him electroshock stimulant,” he told Finetti.
Finetti stared, startled. “But in his condition, it'll kill him almost instantly."
"Almost,” said Mason. “He may be able to talk. He's going to die anyway in a few minutes, nothing can save him. Give it!"
His voice lashed Finetti into action. Finetti, his hands trembling affixed the electrodes. The whine of the apparatus filled the cubby.
Oliphant twitched. His body shuddered, writhed. Of a sudden, his eyes opened, staring blankly upward.
Mason bent over him. “John, it's me—Hugh Mason. What did you find out?"
Oliphant whispered, a dribble of words. “I made it out. I didn't think—they shot me as I was getting into the flitter—"
"What did you find out? What's the new thing that Orion's got?"
Oliphant's eyes focused on his face. He spoke painfully, slurredly.
"What it is exactly, I couldn't find out. It's something that was discovered by Ryll Emrys, one of their greatest scientists. Something of cosmic power. But Ryll Emrys has fled from Orion, taking his secret with him—"
Mason bent closer, for now Oliphant's voice was failing fast.
"Ryll Emrys fled to the Marches of Outer Space. Orion has sent one of their top agents, V'rann, after him. They'll risk anything to get him back, they—"
The voice stopped suddenly, and an incredulous look came into Oliphant's eyes. “Why, I'm dying, I—” Then understanding came into his eyes, he whispered, “Thanks, Hugh."
Finetti bent over him, and after a moment he straightened up. “He's gone."
Mason was silent, looking down at the still face. Then he said.
"He did his job. And now there's a bigger job for someone else to do. In the Marches of Outer Space."
CHAPTER II
THE TWO EARTHMEN were like giants walking through the galaxy. They strode between, the shining constellations, and the great streams of stars washed against their breasts, and their shoulders and heads towered up colossal above the million tiny suns.
This was not the real galaxy but an infinitely smaller simulacrum of it, a planetarium on a grand scale that filled this whole hundred-foot circular room deep beneath Terran Intelligence Building, on Sirius Four. Complexes of lenses projected accurate images of every important star in the galaxy. It was all here—the star-clusters and lone suns and dark rogues, the magnificence of the great constellations, the whole sweep of the galaxy.
One of the two men was Hugh Mason. The other was Valdez, chief of Terran Intelligence, a deeply worried man. His thin face twitched slightly, and his deep eyes roved alertly as they walked through the great swarm of light-flecks. He pointed to the soft lines of green light that delineated the snaking frontiers of the Terran Empire, and Orion Empire, and all the kingdoms beyond.
Valdez stopped, and his hand stretched out like the hand of a god as he pointed over the tiny stars to a region at the galaxy edge that had no lines of delineation.
"The Marches of Outer Space,” he said. “No kingdom out there owns them. None of the star-kings there will let a rival conquer them. So they remain a jungle of independent worlds."
Mason nodded, a trifle bitterly. “And because Cassiopeia and Draco and Lyra have kings jealous of each other, the Marches remain a haven for every outlaw, criminal and ambitious adventurer in the galaxy."
Valdez went farther, and stood with the shining stars of Ursa Major floating around his chest, looking at that nameless region of stars out on the Rim.
"Yes,” he said. “Quroon—that's the big green star beyond the Dumbbell Nebula—is the center of all the activity in the Marches. Someone will try setting up as king someday, at Quroon."
Mason stared at the far-flung fringe of stars, and he heard again the dying voice of Oliphant saying. "Ryll Emrys fled to the Marches of Outer Space. Orion will risk anything to get him back-"
"That fugitive scientist is the key to everything,” Valdez was saying. “Why did he run away to the Marches? What was it he'd discovered—what power or weapon? It must be something plenty big if he's’ so important to Orion."
"It's big,” muttered Mason. “Oliphant said they were sending a top agent after him. One of their aces, named V'rann."
V'rann. A name that rang like an ominous bell. Whoever V'rann was, he must be good, to be sent on such a mission.
"It figures,” Valdez said tensely. “Orion wouldn't send a fleet into the Marches after the man, except as a last resort. The star kings near the Marches would be up in arms if they did. But if their secret agent can get Ryll Emrys out of there and fetch him back—"
Mason nodded grimly. “Just so. And we can't let Orion get hold of this man and his secret again, no matter what. It's up to us to get hold of Ryll Emrys first."
Valdez looked at him. “You know how risky it'll be, Mason. Do you still want the job?"
Mason said flatly, “Oliphant was my friend. I'm going to pick up where he left off. Yes, I want it."
They went on out of the little simulated galaxy, out of the big hall and to Valdez’ office.
"You know,” said Valdez, “that any Intelligence man or lawman who goes into the Marches is liable to get short shrift."
"I know,” Mason said. “I plan to go in as a no-world man, an outlaw seeking refuge."
"No good,” said his chief. “It's been tried, and never works. A new man, a man they don't know, is watched so closely he can't do anything."
He drew a small photo from his desk and tossed it across to Mason. “Look at this man."
The man in the photo was about his own age and size, Mason thought. But his close-cropped hair was bleached colorless, his rawboned, powerful face was deeply reddened, and his blue eyes were cold and insolent. It was a strong face, tough and reckless.
"His name is Brond Holl,” said Valdez. “He was an officer in the service of one of the Hercules Barons. He killed the Baron's brother in a quarrel, and had to flee to the Marches. He was one of the toughest of their outlaw captains out there."
"Was—"
Valdez nodded. “A year ago, the Cassiopeia Navy got a tip that Brond Holl was on his way to plunder one of their small new starworld colonies. They tried to grab him but got away—but, they had forced him into Terran space and our own cruisers scooped him up. He's doing a sentence out in Sirius Six
teen prison right now."
Instantly, Mason understood what was in his chief's mind. He looked at the photo with a sharper interest. He said, “Hair and eye color wouldn't be a problem, these days. But his face isn't much like mine."
Valdez Shrugged. “It'd take a few days, even with modern ultrafast healing techniques. But a few muscle-grafts, some plastic pads inserted into your facial tissues—and we'd make you Brond Holl's double."
Mason looked up from the photograph, frowning. “For me to break for the Marches as Brond Holl, the real Holl would have to ‘escape'. How many people would be in on it?"
"Three—four—including us,” said Valdez. “It's too risky to let more know. We'd get Holl out and while we're taking him secretly to a new hidden cell, you can be stealing a fast flitter and taking off."
"With the Terran Navy after me?” Mason said.
Valdez shook his head. “We can get around that, by timing it properly. If you high-jump it to the Marches, you'll be all right."
"It has to be a high-jump,” Mason said decisively. “I wouldn't have a chance of getting through three kingdoms. I can use the time—I'll need a lot of tape-studying to be Brond Holl as well as look like him."
Four nights later, Mason crouched shivering in the shadow of tumbled rocks on Sirius Sixteen, peering down at the small official spaceport of Naval Prison. There was only one of the two moons in the sky, enough to shed an eerie glow over the dark, stony world.
The prison itself bulked massive in the background, gleaming with many lights. Down here on the small spaceport were two big supply-freighters, a few small interplanetary flitters, and one flitter that was considerably bigger than the little planet-hoppers.
"I'm timing it for a visit of the Deputy Inspector from Sol,” Valdez had said. “His long-range flitter can take you where you want to go. It's a four-man job, but you can handle it alone on auto."
Mason, watching and waiting, thought grimly that there would be considerable confusion if some roving guard stumbled on him here. He wore a regulation prison coverall. He also wore the face of Brond Holl. Chemicals had quickly bleached his hair and altered his eyes from brown to blue, and the super-surgery and ultra-fast healing skills of modern medicine had given him a replica of the Herculean's face.
Mason glanced at his chrono, then picked up the square, metal case beside him by its strap. He started stealing down through the rocks toward the spaceport.
The case was heavy. It was going to be an awkward nuisance, but he had to have it for it contained the tapes that would teach him to be Brond Holl.
The spaceport was not guarded strongly. The guards were concentrated in the prison itself, on the sound, old principle of locking up the thief instead of locking against him. And Sirius Sixteen prison contained some of the most noted thieves in all the galaxy.
"The devil!” said Mason to himself in a furious whisper, as he crept closer to the Iona-range flitter.
Someone was in the flitter. Its airlock door was open and sounds came from inside.
Probably, Mason thought, a crewman had stayed to check over something. He damned such conscientiousness. This could mean a delay, and even a few minutes delay could be fatal. Presently the prison guards would discover that Brond Holl had got out of his cell-not knowing, of course, that Valdez and his men had taken him out secretly. Then the alarm would sound, and he'd have to move fast if he, impersonating Brond Hall, were to escape.
Mason grasped at an idea. There was no time to weigh its chances. Time was running out on him. He crept to the shadow of the flitter, and crouched down by its metal flank, close to the open airlock. He waited, a fine sweat coming onto his forehead despite the chill of the night. The pale moon peered down at him in silence.
Like the bursting of a bomb, the screeching alarms cut loose at the prison. Mason tensed. He heard the crewman inside the flitter running toward the airlock. The man jumped out, peering excitedly.
"What in the—” he was saying under his breath.
Mason rose up from the shadows behind the crewman and hit him, not hard but quite scientifically. The man went down without a sound.
The diabolical raving of the alarms kept going, and lights sprang on to sweep the whole area outside the prison. The guard batteries would be springing to attention, Mason knew.
Moving with frantic speed, he hauled the unconscious crewman to a safe distance. He snatched the man's side-arm off him, then bounded back, tossed his metal case inside the flitter, jumped in after it and spun the airlock-door shut.
He got a slight break, now. The minipile, the power-source of the flitter, was running; the technician he had slugged must have been making a routine test. One glance at its indicators, and Mason ran forward to the cockpit, strapped into the pilot-chair, and then punched buttons fast.
The flitter went up out of there like a freed genie, standing on its tail for a moment with the searchlight beams swinging to catch it. Then the ion-drive hurled it away from Sirius Sixteen in a dizzying rush.
Even as Mason's fingers reached frantically toward other buttons, the missiles began exploding nearby.
He punched the switch marked EVASIVE PATTERN. The auto-pilot took over and the flitter began a series of crazy gyrations, changing direction every two seconds in an unpredictable pattern. But despite the random divergencies, it held its main course.
Mason gripped his hands tightly together and waited.
Flares like the lightning of a cosmic thunderstorm exploded all across the sky. The flitter was out in clear space, weaving and reeling this way and that, the guard batteries unable to get a clean fix on it. It was up out of the shadow of the planet now, and bursting into the overpowering white glare of Sirius itself.
"Now!” thought Mason, and snapped off the EVASIVE switch.
The flitter, on full ion-drive, went away on a straight line, building light-speeds.
The flares continued to dance behind him for a moment, and then abruptly stopped. At this speed, he was out of the batteries’ range.
Mason mopped his brow. “That ought to be realistic enough to deceive anybody!"
At this moment, word would be flashing out that Brond Holl had somehow got out of the prison, had stolen an inspector's long-range flitter, and was breaking for deep space.
So far, so good. That was the word that he wanted to go out, to pave the way for his coming to the Marches. But the cruisers of the Terran Navy would be getting the word, too.
Valdez had timed this fake “escape” for a time when there would be no formations of Terran warships close to Sirius. Otherwise, the whole “escape” would be impossible.
"Let's just hope,” Mason told himself grimly, “that Naval Intelligence hasn't overlooked any cruisers."
The flitter was running at mounting speeds, and the enormous glare of Sirius was well behind him. But long-range radar would still be probing for him.
He and Valdez had planned carefully. He sent the flitter angling toward the Dog-star Shoals, a great sweep of interstellar debris with a few small and uninhabited stars and worlds in it.
As soon as he had the Dog-star Shoals between him and Sirius, he was masked from radar and free to take his true direction. It was roughly zenith by zenith-west-a course that would slant him up out of the main swarm of the galaxy, heading westward.
After a time, Mason put the flitter on auto-pilot again and slept. When he had slept and awakened several times, he woke finally to find that the flitter, now at full-milli-light-speed velocity, was above the main lens-shaped swarm of the galaxy.
This was the “high jump"—crossing above the galaxy instead of through it. There were only a few faint scattered stars up here. And the laws and navies of the star-kingdoms did not run here.
Mason looked down through the scanner-windows at the vast, burning cloud, each spark of which was a sun. The flitter, moving many thousands of times faster than light, seemed barely to be crawling.
"And now the tapes,” he told himself. “I've got to be Brond Holl to
the life before I hit the Marches."
Yet Mason delayed breaking out the tape-machine and tapes. He had never made the high jump before. Now, caught in a strange fascination, he looked down at the mighty continent of suns above which he was moving.
His mission, his hopes, the plans and fate and future of the Terran Empire itself, all shrank to insignificance in his mind. What were the yearnings and fears of men, compared to the titanic majesty of this slow-wheeling island-universe that moved through the greater deeps on the path of its own cosmic fate, forever separated from the other giant swarms of stars whose lonely light flickered from far away. The immensity of the spectacle mocked the pettiness of men.
And yet, Mason thought, the hardy sons of Adam had with insolent courage ignored that rebuke.
They had pressed out from Earth in their first star-ships, so long ago now that the memory was only legend, to star after star, world after world. Those planets that bore intelligent life, whether humanoid or alien, they either had let alone or had landed upon by agreement. They had kept on and on, until finally the vast and growing star realm broke down of its own weight into all the independent stellar empires and kingdoms that marched back beneath him now.
Back there behind him already stretched the far-flung suns of the Terran Empire, still the biggest of all, stretching from Arcturus to far Centaurus, with its historical center at little Sol but with its real capital at Sirius. And south and west from it loomed the fierce bright suns of the Empire of Orion, and beyond that the faraway kingdom of Argo whose rulers boasted great Canopus itself as the sun of their throne-world. And east from it, far away too, shone the blazing magnificence of Hercules Cluster, that awesome hive of suns held in fee by the federated Barons who ranked themselves equal to any of the kings of stars.
Mason's gaze swept ahead, over the shining stellar nations he was crossing in this high jump. Cepheus and Cassiopeia, the two allied kingdoms of the north, and the huddle of smaller star-kingdoms that had banded themselves together in the League of the Polar Suns, and beyond that the Kingdom of Lyra from which Vega watched like a fierce blue eye, and farther still the no-man's-land of fringe stars that was the Marches of Outer Space.
The Star Hunters: A Star Kings Novel [The Two Thousand Centuries] Page 2