The Planet Killers: Three Novels of the Spaceways (Planet Stories (Paizo Publishing) Book 32)

by Silverberg, Robert

  “Of course I realize that,” Catton said irritably. He did not want the camera to function. He wanted to avoid creating any permanent record of the scene that would take place inside the cargo ship—but he intended that Beryaal and his men would think that such a record was being made.

  A few minutes later, field warning signals began to wail. The ship was landing. An area was cleared on the field and the dull-gray ship that Catton had last seen rising from the spaceport on Vyorn now descended on a fiery tail of jet exhaust. It came to rest in the middle of its clearing. The decontaminating squad came scurrying out to swab down the landing area.

  After five minutes the ship’s hatch opened and the crew of eight came down the catwalk, one after another, while nine other figures walked out onto the field. Catton recognized the figure in the lead. It was the immensely tall, dominating figure of Pouin Beryaal.

  Catton fretted a few impatient minutes more. Then, as Customs Supervisor Kriuin goggled in utter confusion, Catton carefully checked the charge units of his blaster, smiled at the customs official, and left the office. He trotted downstairs and out to the main approach to the field.

  A Morilaru guard stared inquisitively at him. Catton flashed his Crime Commission credentials. “I’m inspecting that ship.”

  “Of course, sir.” The guard stepped complacently aside.

  The five-hundred-yard walk to the ship seemed endless. At last Catton reached the entry hatch. He climbed up, hand over hand, and hauled himself into the open lip of the freighter. Beryaal’s crewmen, standing-around-uncertainly, frowned at Catton as he came aboard.

  “What is it, Earthman?” asked a big, rough-looking Morilaru.

  “I’m inspecting the cargo. Anyone want to see my credentials?”

  “Inspection won’t be necessary, Catton,” said a familiar voice. Pouin Beryaal strode out of the shadows at the rear of the cabin. The Morilaru’s brooding eyes glared daggers at Catton. “I’m handling inspection in here myself, Catton. I thought I left word at the customs office that you didn’t have to bother coming aboard.”

  Catton smiled to mask his inner tension. “I thought I’d help you look around, Beryaal.”

  “I don’t need any help.”

  The Earthman let the hand-camera become visible, projecting from his clenched left fist. He flashed it around, then centered it on Beryaal. “Surely,” Catton said quietly, “you don’t have any objection to letting me examine the cargo—just for the record?”

  Facial muscles bunched and knotted in Beryaal’s cheeks. The big Morilaru seemed to sizzle inwardly. Thanks to the camera, Beryaal was in an awkward position. If everything were being monitored and taped in the customs office, then Beryaal could not in good faith deny Catton the right to examine the cargo without subjecting himself to embarrassing inquiries later. And once Catton succeeded in filming the cargo, everything was lost.

  Beryaal growled, “This is a special cargo. Put your camera away and we’ll inspect it together.”

  “Why can’t I use the camera?”

  “Because this is a matter of Commission security. If you videocast this back to the customs office, it’ll be whispered all over the port in ten minutes. I insist on security.”

  Now it was Catton’s turn to sweat. Beryaal had a valid point there. But if Catton surrendered the camera, and Beryaal signalled the crew to jump him—

  He had to risk it. He made an ostentatious show of clicking the camera off and putting it in his pocket.

  “Come,” Beryaal said. “I’ll take you down to the cargo hold.”

  They rode down in the creaking elevator together. As it reached bottom Beryaal muttered, “You inquisitive idiot, do you think I’m going to let you get out of this ship alive?”

  “Threatening a fellow Commissioner?” Catton said with false innocence. “Why, whatever for, Beryaal?”

  Beryaal let his torch glint on the rows upon rows of crates stacked in the hold. Hundreds of crates, each holding a matter duplicator. Catton heard the elevator creaking behind them, on its way back up. Probably Beryaal had already given the ambush signal. The crewmen would descend, attacking him in the darkness of the cargo hold.

  Beryaal chuckled. “You think there are hypnojewels in these crates, eh, Catton?”

  “Not at all,” the Earthman said levelly, “I wouldn’t be risking my life over some hypnojewels, and you know it. You’ve got a thousand matter duplicators aboard this ship. Your henchman Doveril went to Vyorn and paid for them with hypnojewels—just before I killed him.”

  Beryaal gasped. “What—you know?”

  “Yes. I know.” The elevator creaked again, descending, bringing with it Beryaal’s hand-picked crew. Had Beryaal trusted them with the secret, Catton wondered? That was the all-important information he needed.

  The Earthman stooped, picked up the nearest crate, and ripped its seal open. Beryaal tried to interfere, but he was too late. Catton yanked off the top of the crate. Within, cushioned in layer on layer of shock-absorbent plastic, was a small, exquisitely machined device. Catton felt a chill as he looked on a matter duplicator for the first time.

  “Get him,” Beryaal murmured.

  The Earthman straightened instantly and yanked the hand-camera from his pocket. The crewmen, armed with heavy cargo-pins, were about to charge.

  “Hold it,” Catton snapped. “This thing in my hand is a camera. It’s sending a film back to the customs office outside. And if you touch me, it’ll be valid evidence of who my murderers are.”

  “Don’t believe him,” Beryaal said coldly. “I order you to attack!”

  But the crewmen continued to hang back. Catton grasped at their moment of indecision. “He’s just trying to get you in trouble,” the Earthman said. “He wants you to jump me with the camera going. But he doesn’t care about you. You know what kind of cargo you’re carrying?” He seized the matter duplicator and held it up. “You know what this is? It’s a matter duplicator! You’re supposed to dump them on Earth. But it’s death to deal in duplicators—death on any world! And that’s the stuff your boss is paying you to carry!”

  Beryaal uttered a strangled cry of rage. He lashed out, knocking the camera from Catton’s hand. The crewmen milled about in confusion. Evidently Beryaal had handed them some cock-and-bull story about the cargo; they had had no real idea they were carrying anything as risky as matter duplicators.

  Catton went for his blaster, but Beryaal leaped, knocking the blaster skittering back behind a heap of crates. The Morilaru was panting with anger and frustration. His long spidery arms reached out to encircle Catton, to hug him tight.

  The Morilaru was four inches taller than Catton, but he was thin and fleshless, weighing no more than the Earthman and perhaps less. Catton’s fists pummelled desperately into Beryaal’s body midsection. Beryaal gasped, gave ground. His claw-tipped fingers reached for Catton’s eyes. The Earthman writhed out of the way in time, charged forward, smashed Beryaal heavily back against the bulkhead.

  Beryaal screamed for help. But the crewmen simply stared at the contestants without moving. Catton’s fists hammered Beryaal’s thin body. The Earthman reached up, seized Beryaal’s throat, tightened. He crashed the Morilaru hard against the bulkhead again. Shoulder-spikes splintered. Beryaal howled.

  Suddenly he broke loose. He darted into the midst of the crewmen and snatched up a fire-hatchet. He swung it down in an immense arc; Catton sidestepped, clubbed down with his fist on the back of Beryaal’s head. The Morilaru dropped. Catton seized the hatchet just as Beryaal struggled to his feet and charged.

  Catton swung the blade in a short chopping curve. Beryaal ran full tilt into it. Purple gouts of blood spurted from the Morilaru’s chest. Beryaal plunged face-down into the pile of crates and lay there.

  Catton sucked in breath and said, “Which one of you is the navigator of this ship?”

  “I am,” answered a lean, muscular Morilaru.

  “Good. You wait here.” To the others Catton said, “The rest of you get out of the
ship and report to the spaceport police.” Catton picked up the fallen camera, activated it by inserting the “eye,” and flashed it on the crewmen. “I’m sending these men outside. Have them picked up and held,” he said to the listening customs officials.

  He clicked the camera off. The men sullenly herded into the elevator, rode upward to the hatch, and filed out of the ship. Catton said to the terrified navigator, “You know how to compute an automatic-wave orbit?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Get into the control room and compute an orbit that will take this ship right into the sun.”

  “ What? ”

  “You heard me. Don’t worry—neither of us will be aboard when the ship blasts off.”

  Catton shepherded the man into the control room and watched him as he set up the sunward orbit. Catton made the man run a visual check on the orbitscope. It phased out perfectly, showing a trajectory that curved in one grand sweep into Morilar’s sun. “Good. Now radio the control tower for blastoff clearance,” Catton commanded.

  This was, he knew, the best way to resolve the situation. Destroying the evidence was justifiable when the evidence consisted of matter duplicators. The entire mission, after all, had been unofficial. And this way, at least, the duplicators would be destroyed. The deadly cargo would fall neither into Terran nor alien hands, and that was just as well. A commercial society could not endure the existence of matter duplicators.

  Clearance came. “Come on,” Catton ordered. “Activate the autopilot and let’s get out of here.”

  They trotted across the field to safety while the seconds ticked away. He still had a little work to do, he thought. The detained crewmen would have to undergo a mnemonic erasure. And he would have to say goodbye to Estil and her father.

  Then he could return to Earth and file his report. Present danger averted—but enemies still existed. No formal complaint would be lodged by Earth. The crisis had been solved unofficially. But with Beryaal no longer obstructing justice, it would be possible to seize subtly the illicit hypnojewel factory on Skorg; the Skorg government could not afford the galactic ill will it would risk by refusing to crack down. And, just as subtly, an espionage net would tighten around Vyorn, to prevent any further exports of matter duplicators or other dangerous contrivances. But Earth would have to remain on guard against the Beryaals and eMerikhs who plotted her downfall. Which meant plenty of future employment for Catton.

  A booming roar split the silence behind him. Catton turned, shading his eyes against the fury of the rocket blast. The cargo ship rose from the field, hovered a moment, then soared upward, carrying its freight and its one dead passenger on a smooth arc toward the blazing yellow sun of Morilar. Catton smiled to himself. The mission was over.

  The Planet Killers

  Chapter One

  Roy Gardner paused for a moment outside Security Chief Karnes’ office, making sure his uniform was straight. Karnes had sent for him with only an hour’s notice. That was fairly little time to get spruced up for an audience with your superior officer.

  Besides which, Gardner had no idea why he was wanted. You never did, when you worked for Security. They sent you a message, or they buzzed you on the phone and said, “Karnes wants to see you,” and you hopped to it. Security Chief Karnes was not a man who enjoyed being kept waiting.

  Gardner stepped into the scanning field outside Karnes’ office. The green glow bathed him for a moment, simultaneously checking his face against the master files and examining him for concealed weapons. Then the door rolled silently back.

  Security Chief Karnes sat in the curve of a kidney-shaped desk, smiling pleasantly. He was a man still in his prime, no more than fifty-five. He had held his dreaded post as Chief of the Terran Security Service for fifteen years, and probably would hold it for three decades yet to come. Karnes was thin-faced and youthful-looking, with a bristly crop of copper-colored hair, and black eyes like little marbles.

  “Come in, Roy,” he said with warmth.

  Gardner stood stiffly at attention in front of Karnes’ desk. A quick gesture from Karnes relaxed his posture. Karnes did not insist on strict military bearing, provided nobody took it upon himself to deviate from the rules until receiving the Chief’s permission.

  “Sit down, Roy. I hate to have a man stand like a ramrod while I’m trying to talk to him.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Gardner lowered himself into a webchair to the left of Karnes’ desk. The Security Chief riffled through some sheets of paper, found the one he wanted, and swung round to face Gardner.

  “Roy, how much do you know about the planet named Lurion?”

  “Very little, sir,” Gardner admitted. It didn’t pay to bluff knowledge with the Chief. “It’s the fourth world of the Betelgeuse system, isn’t it? Inhabited by humanoids. That’s about all I can tell you, sir.”

  Karnes nodded. “The galaxy is full of worlds. You aren’t expected to know every one of them in detail. And you’ve given the essential information here. However, there’s one additional fact about Lurion that you ought to know; and that’s why you’re here.” Karnes tapped the sheet of paper in his hand. “We’ve been studying Lurion very closely. We’ve run some probability checks with the master computer. In sixty-seven years, plus or minus eight months,” Karnes said, frowning heavily, “Lurion will launch an all-out war against the Solar System. During this war, Earth will be totally destroyed and heavy losses will be inflicted on Mars, Venus, and the other planets of this system.”

  Gardner started. “Earth … destroyed? ”

  “So the computer says.”

  “That’s a nasty idea, the destruction of Earth. If the machine’s telling the truth, that is.”

  “Truth? Truth is a concept that has meaning only when you talk about time past, and sometimes not even then. We’re talking about the future. The computer says the attack will happen—if we allow it to take place. Do you think we dare risk it?”

  “Oh,” Gardner said softly. He leaned back in the firm webchair, watching Karnes very carefully. Around him, the computer system of Earth Central clicked and murmured. A bright bank of cryotronic tubes glared at Gardner from the wall.

  Gardner crossed one uniformed leg over the other and waited. It didn’t take a million-cryotron calculator to guess what Karnes was aiming at, but Gardner had long since learned to let Earth’s Chief of Security have his own way in presenting a situation.

  Karnes rubbed his cheekbones, a gesture that accented his gaunt angularity. He said, “According to the best figures we have, there are some three billion people living on Lurion.”

  “Half Earth’s current population,” Gardner said.

  Karnes smiled coldly. “Ah, yes. Now, you realize that among Lurion’s three billion people there are some who will be the parents of those who will aid in Earth’s destruction sixty-seven years from now. The seeds of the conflict have already been planted. Probability says that if we sit back and do nothing, we will be destroyed. Therefore, naturally, we’ll have to take preventive measures against Lurion.”

  Sweat started to roll down Gardner’s face. “What sort of preventive measures are planned, sir?”

  “Total destruction of Lurion, of course.”

  Gardner had seen it coming almost from the beginning of the conversation, but still the naked bluntness of the statement rocked him.

  He studied his superior closely. Karnes didn’t look much like the sort of man who could order the death of a planet, Gardner thought. Karnes didn’t seem to have the necessary inner hardness, despite the precise angularity of his face and bearing. But you could never tell about people, it seemed.

  Besides, Karnes wouldn’t have to do the job himself; it was merely his decision to make. He would aim the gun, but someone else would have to pull the trigger.

  Gardner said, “And suppose the computer is wrong?”

  Karnes shrugged. “Worlds have died unjustly before, you know. The universe is unsentimental. A minor readjustment in the me
tabolism of a solar furnace, a flare of energy, and a totally innocent world dies.”

  “Of novas, yes. Natural causes. But this is entirely different. It’s murder, isn’t it?”

  “In self-defense.”

  “Self-defense before a hostile blow has been struck?” Gardner asked.

  Karnes looked displeased. “Thanks to modern computer science, it’s no longer necessary to wait for the first blow to be struck. But you’re forcing me to rationalize, Roy, and I don’t want to have to do that. Let me make the situation absolutely clear: we will never know if the computer was wrong. If we destroy Lurion, there will be no war two generations hence. Therefore, we’ll have to assume for the sake of our souls that the computer is telling us the truth.”

  “A tremendous assumption.”

  “I know that,” Karnes said.

  The Security Chief sighed. For a moment his professional guard was down, and Gardner saw beyond the mask to the inner man, burdened with guilt for the dreadful deed he had resolved to do. Pulling the trigger, Gardner thought, was perhaps not the worst of it. The man who aimed, who chose the victim, perhaps had more to justify to his soul.

  “So Lurion will be destroyed.”

  “Lurion must be destroyed; otherwise Earth will be. We can’t consider any alternatives to that set of statements. Either them or us, and we have to pray that we’re more worthy of surviving than they are. From what I know of Lurion,” Karnes said, “I think we are.” He smiled grimly. “All right. By now you know why I’ve called you in here. You’ve been picked for the job.”

  Gardner said nothing. He stared at the thick red carpeting on the floor of the Chief’s office.

  Karnes added, “I might as well tell you that I don’t think you’re the man for the job; the computer does, though.”

  Coming so quickly, the snapper nearly threw Gardner.

  “ Sir? ”

  “I didn’t think you could handle it,” Karnes said. “You think too much. You’re liable to get bogged down in conceptual syllogisms when an ethical choice is handed to you. But on the other hand, you’re capable and you know how to handle yourself. I thought that your intellectual side would weigh down your active side and make you worthless for this job. But I fed your tape to the machine anyway. The machine says you’re the best man we have. Well, I defer to its judgment.”