by Andre Norton
“But if they’re so important,” began Dane and then he grasped what the Doctor’s ignorance could mean.
“Yes, why doesn’t the Doctor know all about the most important find in his field? That presents a problem doesn’t it? I wonder if the Captain checked up on him before he took the charter—”
But Dane could answer that. “His ID was correct, we flashed it through to Patrol Headquarters. They gave us clearance on the expedition or we couldn’t have lifted from Naxos—”
Rip conceded that point. Field regulations on any planet in the Federation were strict enough to make at least ninety per cent sure that the men who passed them were carrying proper ID-s and clearance. And on the frontier worlds, which might attract poachers or criminals, the Patrol would be twice as vigilant about flight permission.
“Only he didn’t know about the Twin Towers,” the astrogator-apprentice repeated stubbornly.
And Dane was impressed by the argument. It was impossible to spend a voyage on any star ship with another man and not come to know him with an intimacy which was unknown by civilization outside the small dedicated band of those who manned the Galactic fleets. If Rip said that Dr. Rich was not what he seemed, then Rip was speaking the truth as far as he knew it and Dane was willing to back him.
“What about the law regarding Forerunner remains?” Shannon asked a moment later.
”Not much about it in the records. There’ve never been any big finds made by a Trader and claimed under Trading rights—”
“So there’s nothing we could quote as a precedent if we did find something worthwhile?”
“That can work both ways,” Dane pointed out. “Survey released Limbo for Trade auction. If they did that, it seems to me, they’ve forfeited any Federation claims on the planet. It would make a nice legal tangle—”
“A beautifully complicated case—” Van Rycke rumbled over their heads. “One which half the law sharks of the systems would be eager to see come to trial. It’s the sort of thing which would drag on for years, until all parties concerned were either heartily sick of it or safely dead. Which is just why we are travelling with a Federation Free Claim in our strong box.”
Dane grinned. He might have known that such an old hand in Trade as his superior officer would not be caught without every angle covered as far as it was humanly possible. A Free Claim to any finds on Limbo!
“For how long?” Rip was still ridden by doubts.
“The usual—a year and a day. I don’t think Survey is as impressed by the possibility of unusual finds as our passengers seem to be.”
“Do you think we’ll discover anything there, sir?” Dane struck in.
“I never advance any guesses on what we’ll find on any new planet,” Van Rycke answered tranquilly. “There are entirely too many booby-traps in our business. If a man gets away with a whole skin, a space-worthy ship, and a reasonable percentage of profit, the Lords of High Space have been good to him. We can’t ask for more.”
During the days which followed Rich’s men kept very much to themselves, using their own supplies and seldom venturing out of their very constrained quarters, nor did they in turn invite visitors. Mura reported that they seemed to spend more of their time either in sleep or engrossed in some complicated gambling game the Rigellian had introduced.
While Dr. Rich messed with the crew of the Queen, he dropped in for his meals at hours when there were few in the cabin. And, either by choice or a too well regulated coincidence, those few were generally members of the engineering staff. On the plea of studying the scene of his future operations he had tried to borrow the Survey tape of Limbo, but the time he had been allowed to use it was under the eye of the Cargo-Master. An eye which, Dane was certain, missed nothing, no matter how abstracted Van Rycke might appear to be.
The Queen made transition into normal space on schedule within Limbo’s system. Two of the other planets who shared this sun were so far away from that core of light and heat that they were frozen, lifeless worlds, but Limbo swung around on its appointed orbit at about the same range as Mars held in their native system. As they approached to come in on a “braking orbit,” allowing the friction of the planet’s atmosphere to slow the ship to landing speed, the Com-Tech switched on the vision screens throughout the ship. Strapped down on their pads, those not on duty watched the loom of the new world fill the screen.
The ugly brown-grey scars of the burn off faced them first, but as the ship bored in, always at an angle which would coast it along the layers of air gradually, the watchers sighted the fingers of green, and traces of small seas or large lakes which proved that Limbo was not wholly dead, blasted though she had been.
Day became night as they passed on, and then day again. If they had been following the strict regulations for landing on a normal “primitive” world they would have tried for a set-down in a desert country, planning to explore by flitter, learning something in secret of the inhabitants before they made open contact. But Limbo would have no intelligent inhabitants—they could use the best possible landing.
Wilcox had brought them through hyper-space by his reckoning, but it was Jellico who would set them down after choosing his site. And he was manoeuvring to place them on the very edge of the burned area with the healthy ground within easy reach.
It was a tricky landing, not the easy one any tyro could make on a cleared Field with a beam to ride in. But the Queen had made such landings before and Jellico nursed her down, riding her tail flames until she settled with a jar which was mild under the circumstances.
“Grounded—” the pilot’s voice echoed thinly over the com.
Stotz replied from the engine room with the proper answer: “Secure.”
“Planet routine—” Jellico’s voice gathered volume.
Dane unstrapped and headed for Van Rycke’s office to get his orders. But he had hardly reached the door when he bumped into Dr. Rich.
“How soon can you get the supplies moving out?” the archaeologist demanded.
Van Rycke was still unfastening his shock belts. He looked up in surprise.
“You want to unload at once?”
“Certainly. As soon as you unseal hatches—”
The Cargo-Master settled his uniform cap on his light hair. “We don’t move quite that fast, Doctor. Not on an unknown world.”
“There are no savages here. And Survey has certified it fit for human exploration.” The Doctor’s impatience was fast becoming open irritation. It was as if during their time in space he had so built up his desire to get to work on Limbo that now he begrudged a single wasted moment.
“Brake your jets, Doctor,” the Cargo-Master returned tranquilly. “We move at the Captain’s orders. And it doesn’t pay to take chances—whether Survey has given us an open sky or not.” He touched the ship-com board on the wall by his elbow.
“Control here!” Tang’s voice came through.
“Cargo-Master to Control—report all clear?”
“Report not ready,” was the return. “Sampler still working—”
Dr. Rich slammed his fist against the door panel. “Sampler!” he exploded. “With a Survey report you want to play around with a sampler!”
“We’re still alive,” was Van Rycke’s comment. “In this business there are risks you take and those you don’t. We take the proper ones.” He lowered himself into his desk chair and Dane leaned against the wall. The indications were that they were not going to rush unloading.
Dr. Rich, reminding Dane of the Captain’s caged Hoobat—though, of course, the archaeologist had not reached the point of spitting at them—snarled and went on towards the cabin where his men were waiting.
“Well,” Van Rycke leaned back in his seat and flipped a finger at the visa-screen, “we can’t call that a pleasant vista—”
In the distance were mountains, a saw-toothed chain of grey-brown rock crowned in some instances with snow. And their foothills were a ragged fringe cut by narrow, crooked valleys, in the mouths of whic
h a pallid, unhealthy vegetation grew. Even in the sunlight the place looked dreary—a background for a nightmare.
“Sampler reports livable conditions—” the disembodied voice from control suddenly proclaimed.
Van Ryck touched the com-call again. “Cargo-Master to Captain, do you wish exploring parties prepared?”
But he had no answer for that as Dr. Rich burst in upon them again. And this time he pushed past Van Rycke to shout into the com-mike:
“Captain Jellico—this is Salzar Rich. I demand that you release my supplies at once, sir, at once!”
His first answer was complete silence. And Dane, awed, questioned within himself whether the Captain was simply so angry that he couldn’t reply coherently. One didn’t demand that a star ship captain do this or that—even the Patrol had to “request”.
“For what reason, Dr. Rich?” To Dane’s surprise the voice was quite unruffled.
“Reason!” spluttered the man leaning across Van Rycke’s desk, “Why, so that we may establish our camp before nightfall—”
“Ruins to the west—” Tang’s calm announcement cut through Rich’s raised voice.
All three of them looked at the visa-screen where the mountains to the north had disappeared, to be replaced by the western vista as the Com-Tech swung the detector from one compass point to the next.
Now they were gazing out over the burnt ground, where the unknown weapons of the Forerunners had scored down to rock and then scarred the rock itself with deep grooves filled with a glassy slag which caught and reflected the sun’s rays in bright flashes. But beyond this desolation was something else, a tumble of edifices which reached on into the undevastated circle of vegetation.
The ruins were a blotch of bright colour in the general sombreness, spilling in violent reds and yellows, strident greens and blues. They were, perhaps, some twenty miles from the Queen, and they were spectacular enough to amaze the three in the Cargo-Master’s office. Perhaps because Dr. Rich was now treading on familiar ground he was the first to regain speech.
“There—” he jabbed an impatient finger at the screen, “that’s where we’ll camp!” He whirled back to the mike and spoke into it :
“Captain Jellico—I wish to establish my camp by those ruins. As soon as your Cargo-Master will release our supplies—”
His vehemence appeared to win, for a short time later Van Rycke broke the seals on the cargo hatch, the Doctor impatient beside him, the three other members of his expedition lined up in the corridor behind.
“We will take over now, Van Dyke—”
But the Cargo-Master’s arm was up, barring the Doctor’s advance.
“No, thank you, Doctor. No load goes out of the Queen unless my department oversees the job.”
And with that Rich had to be content, though he was fuming as Dane operated the crane swinging out and down the ship’s radar controlled crawler. And it was the apprentice who supervised the unloading. The Rigellian climbed up on the crawler, using its manual controls to guide it to the ruins. Once unloaded there it could return by itself, guided by the ship’s beam, for a second cargo.
Rich and two of the others rode away on the second trip and Dane was left with the silent fourth member of the expedition to wait for the crawler. The last load was a small, miscellaneous one, mostly the personal baggage of the men.
Over the manifest disapproval of the expedition man the Cargo-apprentice piled the bags up ready for a quick packing. But it was the other who dropped a battered kit bag. It fell heavily, its handle catching on a spur of rock, ripping it open.
With a muffled exclamation the man sprung to stuff back the contents, but he was not quick enough to hide the book which had been wrapped in an undershirt.
That book! Dane’s eyes narrowed against the sun. But he had no time for a second glance at it—the man was already strapping shut the bag. Only Dane was sure he had seen its twin—sitting on Wilcox’s flight desk. Why should an archaeologist be carrying an astrogator’s computer text?
CHAPTER FIVE:
FIRST SCOUT
Dusk on Limbo had an odd, thick quality as if the shadows were of a tangible dimension. Dane saw to the closing of the outer cargo hatch, leaving the crawler, which had returned empty from its last trip across the barrens, parked on the scorched earth under the fins of the Queen. They had taken all the other precautions of a ship on an unknown planet. The ramp had been warped in, the air locks closed. To Limbo at large the Queen presented sleek smooth sides which nothing outside of some very modern and highly technical weapons could breach. No star Trader ever took to space except in a ship which could serve as a fort if the need arose.
Intent on his own problem Dane climbed from level to level until he reached Rip’s confined quarters on the fringe of control territory. The astrogator-apprentice was huddled on a snap-down seat, a T-camera in his hands.
“I got a whole strip shot of the ruins,” he told Dane excitedly as the other paused in the doorway. “But that Rich—he’s a free-rider if I ever saw one. Wonder Sinbad didn’t hunt him out with the rest of the cargo gnawers and turn him in as legitimate prey—”
“What’s he done now?”
“With the biggest thing yet in Forerunner finds out there,” stabbing a finger towards the wall, “he’s sitting on it as if it is his own personal property. Told Captain Jellico that he didn’t want any of us going over to see things—that ‘the encroachment of untrained sightseers too often ruined unusual finds’! Untrained sightseers!” Rip repeated the words deep in his throat, and, for the first time since Dane had known him, he registered real resentment.
”Well,” Dane pointed out reasonably, “even with four to help him he can’t cover the whole planet. We’re going to send out a scouting team after the regular system, aren’t we? What’s to prevent your running down some class-A ruins of your own? I don’t think Rich’s found the only remains on the whole planet. And there’s nothing in the rules which says we can’t explore the ones we find.”
Rip brightened. “You’re blasting with all jets now, man!” He put the T-camera down.
“At least,” Kamil’s carefully enunciated words cut in from the corridor, “one can never accuse the dear Doctor of neglect of duty. The way he rushed off to the scene of his labours you’d think he expected to find some one there cutting large slices out of the best exhibits. The dear Doctor is a bit of a puzzle all around, isn’t he?”
Rip voiced his old suspicion. “He didn’t know about Twin Towers—”
“And that red-headed assistant of his carries an astrogator’s computer text in his kit bag.” Dane was very glad to have information of his own to add to the discussion, especially since Kamil was there to hear it. The quiet with which his statement was received was flattering. But as usual Ali provided the first prick.
“How did that amazing fact come to your attention?”
Dane decided to ignore the faint but unpleasant accent on “your”.
“He dropped his kit bag, the book rolled out, and he was in a big hurry to get it out of sight again.”
Rip reached out to pull open a cupboard. From within he produced a thick book with a water-and-use-proof cover. “You saw one like this?”
Dane shook his head. “His had a red band—like the one on Wilcox’s control cabin desk.”
Kamil whistled softly and Rip’s dark eyes went wide. “But that’s a master book!” he protested, “No one but a signed-on astrogator has one of those, and when he signs out of any ship that goes into the Captain’s safe until his replacement comes on board. There’s just one on every ship by Federation law. When a ship is decommissioned the master book for it is destroyed—”
Ali laughed. “Don’t be so naive, my friend. How do you suppose poachers and smugglers operate? Do they comb their computations out of the air? It wouldn’t surprise me if there was a brisk black market trade in computer texts long since supposed to be burnt.”
But Rip still shook his head. “They wouldn’t have the new data
—that’s added on each planet as we check in. Why do you suppose Wilcox goes to the Field control office with our volume every time we set down on another world? That book is sent straight to the Survey office and is processed to add the latest dope. And you couldn’t present anything but a legit text—they’d spot it in a minute !”
“Listen, my innocent child,” drawled Kamil, “for every law the Federation produces in their idealist vacuum there is some bright boy—or boys—working day and night to break it. I’m not telling you how they work it, but I’m willing to wager all my cut of this particular venture that it’s being done. If Thorson saw a red badge text in that fellow’s possession, then it’s being done right here and now—on Limbo.”
Rip got to his feet, “We should tell Steen—”
“Tell him what? That Thorson saw a book which looked like a text fall out of that digger’s personal baggage? You didn’t pick it up, did you, Thorson, or examine it closely?”
Dane was forced to admit that he had not. And his deflation began. What proof had he that the man from the expedition possessed a forbidden master text? And Steen Wilcox, of all people, was the last man on the ship to approach with a story founded on anything but concrete evidence. Unless Dane had the volume in question in his hand and ready to show, he would have little chance of being believed.
“So you see,” Kamil turned back to Rip, “we’ll have to have much better proof in our hot little hands before we go bursting in on our elders in the guise of intrepid Fed Agents or Boy Patrolmen.”
Rip sat down again, as convinced of the reasonableness of that argument as Dane was. “But,” he pounced upon the bit of encouragement in that crushing speech, “you say ‘we’ll have to have’—Then you do believe that there’s something wrong with the Doctor!”
Kamil shrugged. “To my mind he’s as crooked as a Red Desert dust dancer, but that’s just my own private and confidential opinion, and I’m keeping it behind my nice white teeth until I can really impress the powers that be. In the meantime, we’re going to be busy on our own. We’re drawing for flitter assignments within the hour.”