Serpent's Gift

by A. C. Crispin

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  to resort to his medicine, as if he'd actually taken that drink.

  Opening his eyes, the first thing the psychologist saw was his cat, sitting beside her empty dish. In all the confusion, he'd forgotten to feed poor Bast.

  When she saw him looking at her, she meowed pitifully, managing to look, despite her sleek, rounded appearance, like a poster-child from the late twentieth century.

  "Sorry," Rob mumbled, and hastily fed her. He had to get back to the evacuation area, check on how that was going, give poor Kkintha a break.

  He was halfway out of his office when Resharkk' buzzed him. "Honored HealerGable, there is a personal call for you," the Simiu said.

  "Who is it?" Rob asked, hoping fervently it wasn't another parent.

  "She identifies herself as Angela Morrow. She seems very upset, and insists she must speak to you immediately. Will you talk to her?"

  Rob slowly turned back to his desk. "Put her through," he instructed.

  When the woman's tear-stained features and disheveled hair coalesced, it was all he could do to recognize the pretty, well- groomed young woman he'd seen before. "Angela!" he exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

  "Rob," she said, controlling herself with an effort that was painful to see, "I've been trying to get through all morning! Have you seen Jeff recently?"

  "Not since the day before yesterday," the doctor told her. "Why? What is it?"

  "He called me last night, and he was drunk"--she bit her lip-- "and he said awful things, terrible things about him and me, and about everything! He scared me, Rob! He was angry one moment, and so depressed the next that I was afraid of what he might do to himself! He respects you, Rob--he thinks the world of you. You have to try and help him!"

  "Of course I'll try," Rob said instantly. "He's my friend."

  "Oh, thank you . . ." She looked ready to burst into tears again.

  Hastily Rob asked, "Have you noticed these bouts of depression before?

  And the drinking?"

  "Yes, of course. His drinking was what split us up, mostly. I begged him to get help for it, to talk to a doctor, get on medication, but he wouldn't even discuss it. Then I thought that if I could get him into marriage counseling, you know, the two of us going together, the counselor might be able to help convince him . .. but he... Jeff slapped me when I asked him to go, said he wasn't

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  crazy, that I was the crazy one! I moved out that night. My eye was black for a week," she said, her voice catching.

  "That's awful," Rob said with a sinking feeling, remembering Jeff's version of the breakup. He knew that Angela Morrow was telling the truth--he'd stake his entire reputation on it.

  "Then, when I knew Jeff was going to be working out there near the Academy, I got really scared," she said after a moment. "I mean, I still love him, and I don't want anything bad to happen ..."

  "Why?" Rob said, then at her startled look hastily rephrased, "I mean, why were you worried when you knew Jeff would be working out here?"

  "Because every time he came back from there, seeing you, seeing the school, that's when he was so depressed that he couldn't even function. I worried a couple of times that he was having a nervous breakdown, or might... might... do something rash," she replied. "It was after a visit there that he first started really drinking."

  "How long ago did all this start?"

  "About six months after we were married. But it's only been so bad that I was frightened since he met her."

  "Who?"

  "That woman. Lynch. After they met, they were inseparable. Went away on trips together, spent every evening together, talking--" She laughed bitterly.

  "Or at least that's what Jeff claimed they did. Talk."

  Jeff Morrow and Andrea Lynch, lovers? Rob's mind boggled at the thought.

  He didn't believe it. "Do you think they were having an affair?" he asked cautiously.

  "No, not really," she said mournfully. "I saw the way she looked at him, sometimes, when she thought no one was watching, but it didn't really have that kind of feel to it. But he's closer to her than he ever was to me in every other way."

  "Well, listen, Angela... I'm very glad you called. I'm going to track Jeff down as soon as I can, have a long talk with him," Rob said, projecting as much reassurance as he could.

  "Thank you again, Rob. You'll call me, won't you?"

  "Count on it," he told her, trying to keep the grimness out of his voice. "Goodbye, Angela."

  That "night," Serge stood in the docking bay at the school, watching the last shuttleload of students leave the Academy for the dubious safety of the station. He felt strange ... light, almost

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  empty, yet strangely filled with purpose. There seemed to be nothing left in life for him to do, except fulfill his promise to Professor Greyshine. That, he intended to do.

  Focusing on keeping his promise (by retrieving the star-shrine and proving Andrea Lynch's guilt) was all that was keeping him sane and functioning.

  Only once since he'd left Heather today after trying to comfort the stunned, desolate--though still tearless-- child had Serge allowed himself to think about Hing and truly realize that she was dead, that he would never see her again, never, ever.

  When he'd done that, the resulting flood of choking grief and anger had been so frightening, so paralyzing, that he'd pushed the knowledge away, then resolutely kept his mind on his actions from moment to moment. If he did not allow himself to feel Hing's death, realize it, he could function, and function well.

  The strategy was working ... so far.

  Moving quickly to the nearest terminal, he put through yet another call to Jeff Morrow. The man's assistant up at the station apologized for her boss's not returning Serge's calls, but said that Morrow was unavailable--again.

  Serge smiled thinly. On his last trip up as a pilot, he'd checked in at the H.U.

  offices in person, and he had heard Morrow's and Lynch's voices. He hadn't been able to make out the words, but it had been obvious they were arguing.

  Now if only both H.U. officials would stay put up at the station for an hour or two ...

  Quickly loading the small borrowed shuttle with a few items of equipment, Serge changed into Janet's heavy-duty pressure suit that he'd worn before ...

  the suit that was nearly identical to the one Lynch had been wearing.

  Twenty minutes later he was at the site, his ship hidden in the shadows of the Cliffs, busily keying in Lynch's ID number into the airlock controls, holding his breath as he waited to see whether the code was still good. If she has changed it. ..

  But the door slid obediently aside.

  Calmly, Serge walked through it, carrying his equipment. Part of his nonchalance was based on the fact that he hoped to pass as one of the workers, moving quickly and purposefully to his destination, looking as though he had every right to be there. But the main reason for his calm was that he honestly didn't give a damn anymore. If they caught him, what could happen to him that was worse than what had already happened?

  Cavern One was a mess. Serge frowned, seeing that deep excavations gouged the rock floor; all of the carefully outlined grids

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  had been utterly destroyed. His lips tightened angrily as he glanced around.

  Silver cylinders about two meters long were stacked against all of the walls except the back one. The archaeologist saw two men working down in one of the pits, and was immediately taken aback--they wore pressure suits, but had removed their helmets!

  Perhaps the radonium-2 contamination never reached Cavern One, he thought, covertly eyeing the men and the destruction they had wrought on the painstakingly excavated site.

  The back wall was gouged with deep cracks, and several of the huge holes, Serge saw, extended beneath the wall. During their surveys using the neutron emitter, Serge and the Professor had determined that the back wall gave onto another, very small cavern, hardly more than the size of a castle-sized bedchamber. The archaeologi
sts hadn't had the money to consider pressurizing it so they could explore, and Serge was irrationally annoyed to realize that the little cave must be airtight, or the pressure would have escaped through those cracks and gouges.

  As the young man started across the floor of the cavern, one of the workers looked up and saw him. The archaeologist's heart slammed as the man waved, and he attempted to answer with an equally casual gesture. With every step he took toward the airlock that led into the passage, Serge expected to feel a hand on his shoulder, but he never did. Lynch's code got him through again.

  At the airlock leading into Cavern Two, Serge checked his sensor for radiation, but found none. Perplexed, he shook the instrument, then tapped it experimentally. Was it malfunctioning? It had worked perfectly when he'd tested it today!

  For a moment he considered going back, but then he resolutely opened the lock and stepped in. He hit the controls to cycle it, then waited tensely.

  When the door slid aside again, Serge held out the sensor and frowned.

  Nothing! This is insane!

  Even if Lynch and her crew had finished neutralizing the cavern, there still should be some background traces of radonium-2 not high enough to be harmful, but higher than normal. But the instrument recorded nothing of the sort!

  Cavern Two was, if anything, an even bigger mess than Cavern One. The silver cylinders were stacked all over it. As he walked toward the ramp and the ledge leading up to the star-shrine, Serge was relieved to see that at least Lynch and crew had done one useful thing--the crevasse was securely covered with a sheet of plassteel.

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  He stood at the foot of the ramp and looked up, shining his light, fully expecting to see nothing but a gaping hole where the artifact had been ripped away from the stone.

  But the star-shrine was there!

  Serge gave a soft grunt of satisfaction. You waited too long, Andrea, he thought as he clipped his instruments onto his belt, then, ponderously clumsy in his suit, he began crawling up the narrow, rough-hewn ramp.

  He was sweating and panting by the time he reached the top, the narrow ledge the Professor had tumbled off. That was only a couple of weeks ago, and yet it seemed like another century. For a moment thoughts of Hing and this morning's awakening threatened to surface in Serge's mind, but resolutely he pushed them down again, concentrating on what was before him.

  The star-shrine. It glimmered and flashed in the light of his torch, deep metallic blue-black as a background, with opalescent and colored gems studding it in the shapes of spirals and nebulas.

  Quickly Serge took out his instruments and, without touching the artifact, took several quick readings. On the third one, as he analyzed the substance that had been used to cement the shrine into place, the archaeologist froze incredulously. He checked the material again, then a third time, only to see the same readings.

  He could not be sure about the origin of the star-shrine itself, but the cement holding it in place was modern in origin.

  Professor Greyshine's great discovery was a hoax.

  But the other things were genuine! Serge thought, frowning in puzzlement and dismay. We verified them! Were they planted too?

  Completely bewildered, the archaeologist reached out and touched the starshrine--

  --only to jump violently when the radonium-2 alarm immediately began resounding throughout Cavern Two!

  Serge came within a hairsbreadth of falling, just as Greyshine |had done, but managed at the last second to throw his weight forward, and stay on the ledge. Then realizing that the alarm would be bound to bring in the H.U.

  workers, he scuttled backward down the ramp as fast as he dared, then hid behind a pile of the silver cylinders.

  He was barely in time.

  The airlock door opened, and two fully suited H.U. workers boiled in--then calmly removed their helmets! Then the puzzle pieces began to fall into place in Serge's mind, a ffew at a time, and he cautiously eased his own helmet off so he could listen to what the men were saying.

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  "What triggered it, do you think?" the taller man shouted as the short man took off his suit, then scrambled up to the star-shrine. Reaching up behind a lip of overhanging rock, he moved something, and the alarm abruptly ceased.

  "Maybe some stray neutrons, given off by a passing ship," Shorty replied.

  "This thing has to be pretty sensitive to pick up the low levels put out by those professors and their toys."

  Their conversation degenerated into a discussion of the newest holo-vid porn star and her charms, then the airlock door closed, and they were gone.

  The cylinder nearest Serge had a bill-of-lading number stamped onto it, plus a product ID number. Serge grimly memorized both. He waited for ten minutes, giving the workers plenty of time to get out of the way, before he replaced his helmet, then gathered up his tools to go.

  Ten minutes with the records at the station cargo docks should give me everything I need, he thought grimly as the lock cycled. Then I will have to find Jeffrey Morrow before Andrea Lynch can return to the caverns. I know, now. I know why she did it, and how she is doing it. .. all I need now is the proof. . .

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  CHAPTER 15

  Balancing Act

  When Serge docked at StarBridge Station, he went directly to the cargo offices. They were fully staffed around the clock, as was necessary on a self-contained world that had to adjust itself to schedules from many planets.

  By this time he was well known there as one of StarBridge Academy's pilots, and when he asked to check the records for shipping through the station, explaining that he needed to check on some archaeological equipment that had been backordered, no one gave him a second thought. Within moments Serge was hunched over a terminal, pulling up the data he needed.

  First the product ID number of the silver cylinders. That didn't take long at all--they were specially padded containers for storing radonium crystals.

  Yes, radonium, not radonium-2--which confirmed what Serge had learned from Ssoriszs. The elderly Mizari had told him about Morrow's plan to vaporize the R-2, then collect it into tanks. Just to make sure, Serge pulled up a listing for a vapor-collecting tank, and found that it was a squat, bulky thing with a dull-gray finish and the CLS universal radiation-warning sign painted on each side.

  It was possible that in order to get to the lethal R-2, Lynch had legitimately removed the "healthy" radonium--but Serge didn't believe it. That was where the bill-of-lading number came in. Quickly he pulled it up, then sat staring at the reproduction of the bill.

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  The silver radonium cylinders had been shipped to StarBridge Station about two weeks ago, which fit--but they had been originally ordered nearly six months ago! The cylinders had been stored at one of H.U.' s mining camps in a nearby sector, only a few weeks after the routine radonium-monitoring check. The name on the bill of lading as the person responsible for placing the order was ... Andrea Lynch.

  Serge grinned wolfishly. I am getting close, Andrea!

  Still, it was possible that H.U. had simply reassigned existing supplies of the radonium cylinders when the emergency at the school came up. Serge quickly checked for an order having been placed by H.U. for vapor-collection tanks. After a few minutes, he found one, and his heart sank within him.

  But a bit of further checking made him grin again. A communication had just been received today, saying that the vapor- collection tanks were on back order, and weren't expected to be delivered for another two weeks! He was willing to wager that the StarBridge staff had no idea that those tanks weren't even at the site yet. It wasn't conclusive-- but it would do until he had the time to trace through the stolen-antiquities files to attempt to match up their

  "Lost Colony" artifacts with ones that had been reported stolen and were known to be on the black market.

  Serge straightened up and flicked off the terminal. Andrea Lynch, you have a great deal of explaining to do!

  Standing up, he gave a casual wave to the ca
rgo office, then sauntered out.

  His strides increased in speed dramatically the moment he stepped outside, heading for Horizons Unlimited's offices. With any luck, Morrow would still be there, though it was getting pretty late. But he knew from his conversation with Jeff the day they'd had lunch that Morrow had an apartment adjoining the H.U. offices.

  Jeff Morrow had supported their dig, had been sympathetic to < their goals, and he was a good friend of Rob's. Serge felt he owed it to the man to discuss this with him before bringing it to the < attention of the StarBridge staff, or the authorities. It was only fair to let Morrow know what was going on, so he could clean house in his own company, then help Serge bring Lynch to justice. The archaeologist was sure that Jeff would listen to him and agree that something was indeed rotten in Denmark--the pieces fit together|

  too neatly for there to be any other explanation.

  You will be sorry, Andrea ... he thought grimly. Every time I think of how we labored over those artifacts that you planted,

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  only to have your own crew "find" them-- His steps came faster and faster.

  Lynch, I am going to make you very sorry . . .

  Heather sat brooding on her bunk in this cramped little room she had been assigned here at StarBridge Station. For perhaps the thousandth time, she wished she could cry. Hing had been dead for almost forty-eight hours, now, and she hadn't shed a tear for her friend. The well of grief bottled up inside her felt like a genie of legend that would burst forth and drown her.

  Why? she wondered. Why do things like this have to happen?

  The child was not expecting an answer, but out of the silence one came:

  Heather was surprised to "hear" from the Avernian. For most of the day and evening, seloz had been busy counseling students (especially the telepaths) who were in a state of shock due to the explosion and their abrupt relocation.

  Several times the child had reached out to the alien, only to sense that the fungus being was busy helping another student. But the new Heather (as she thought of herself) was not jealous of the Avernian's attention, as the old Heather would surely have been. Instead, realizing that she had received a great deal of seloz's time over the past few days, she'd resolved to be patient and wait until Blanket could again become her personal guardian angel.