The Neutral Stars

by Dan Morgan;John Kippax

  The flycar motor purred into life and he lifted the vehicle swiftly from the park, heading for the northbound five hundred meter lane. Five minutes later, having reached his perimeter checkpoint, he switched over to automatic and adjusted his seat to the reclining position.

  He lay back, looking up at the vastness of the stars through the transpex canopy, a sight that normally never failed to bring with it a comforting sense of order, of a universe planned and created for a purpose. But tonight his mind kept drifting back to the events of the day, to the boardroom, to the hopelessness of his situation, and the expression on Niebohr's cruel death-mask of a face.

  That face seemed to fill his consciousness, the stars themselves flowing and coalescing until he found himself staring up into its glowing image—the hooded eyes, the great dome of the head—looking down at him, the thin mouth twisted in an evil, gloating grin.

  A sudden change in the note of the flycar's engine jerked him back into full consciousness and the realization that he had been dreaming.

  Bringing his seat forward, he switched the controls back to manual and began to nurse the faltering engine. For some reason control must have diverted him to another lane, because the altimeter showed a reading of eight hundred meters. Looking downwards, he saw that he was passing over the craggy mountainous country of the ridge some twenty kilometers south of his home. Not far, if he could only keep the craft in the air. Failing that, if he had to bail out, a State Police patrol should pick him up within a few minutes by tracking the emergency beacon on his anti-grav chute.

  Two minutes later it became manifestly clear that his efforts with the controls were having little effect, as the engine died completely and the car began to lose height rapidly. Too bad for the insurance company. There was no sense in hanging around any longer.

  Slipping on the a/g harness, Harold Gould pressed the lever that blew the canopy of the flycar. The wind hit him like a club, knocking the breath from his body for a moment. He recovered and dived out into the night, the craggy landscape whirling dizzily below him as he pressed the activating button on his chute, bracing himself for the sudden, checking effect as the a/g generator burst into life and slowed his fall.

  He was still waiting at a hundred meters. Then he began to scream....

  Chapter Three

  The discovery of a new dish does more for human happiness than the discovery of a new star.

  BRILLAT-SAVARIN

  Angus Alexander MacGuinness, M.Sc., B.Sc., M.B. (Edinburgh), carefully removed the last of the sizzling, three-centimeter-thick salmon steaks from the frying pan and placed them on the hot plate inside the portable cooker. Then he picked up the basin containing the prepared mixture of cream, chopped chives, pepper, salt and herbs with his left hand and poured it into the pan, stirring energetically with his right to combine the mixture with the residual juices and oil remaining in the pan after the cooking of the fish. A savory, palate-tickling aroma rose from the mixture, filling the small geodetic dome hut, bringing looks of anticipation and approval to the faces of his audience, two well-built, greying men apparently in their mid-forties.

  "Gentlemen, you are privileged to be present at the creation—or I should say, rather, the re-creation—of a culinary masterpiece," said MacGuinness. "A dish that was first prepared by the great Donald MacGuinness when he was chef to her late Majesty Queen Victoria. The recipe has been handed down through the male line of the MacGuinness clan, remaining a closely guarded secret despite the continued importunings of Sassenach gourmets, for nigh on three hundred years. Furthermore,, it has been tasted by no one on Earth for more than seventy years because of the lack of that noble fish which is its main ingredient. Now, by the grace of God and the fertility of this paradise planet, Orphelin Three, I present for your delight Saumon MacGuinness!"

  The eminent biologist removed the dish containing the salmon steaks from the hot plate and placed it in the middle bf the table. He smothered it in the steaming aromatic sauce, then stood back, beaming at the others through his immense proliferation of black hair, beard and sidewhiskers.

  "Sure looks good, Professor," said Bill Emery, his weatherbeaten face breaking into a grin.

  "Smells kind of nice too," added Alan Emery, who looked exactly like a slightly older version of Bill, with the same tight-curling hair, except that it was several shades nearer white, and the same broad, open features, even more deeply weathered, with a network of wrinkles.

  "Aye, lads, but the proof of the pudding is in the eating thereof, as my old daddy used to say," said MacGuinness, producing a fish slice and a large spoon. His movements gained a theatrically exaggerated flourish, no doubt inherited from the great Donald along with the recipe, as he proceeded to serve the portions, each with its carefully measured amount of sauce. "The two crucial sine qua nons of the masterpiece lie at either end of its creation, you would do-well to note. In the first place, the steaks must be flamed in a good quality whiskey before cooking— and secondly, when the dish is finally ready, it must be served on hot, not warm and certainly not cold, plates. Failure in either of these matters can mean disaster."

  The serving and his lecture on haute cuisine completed simultaneously, MacGuinness motioned his two companions to sit down and begin the meal. As a man who, despite his deceptively stringy build, had a firm grip on his priorities, MacGuinness attacked his portion, eating with a single-minded devotion that left no room for mere conversation.

  Some ten minutes later, having wiped what remained of the sauce from his plate with a slice of bread, he sat back with a satisfied sigh. "No' so bad, considering I've had very little opportunity for practice," he said, extracting a thin cigar from one pocket of his safari jacket. The potentially dangerous operation of lighting the cigar, embedded as it was in the fire hazard of his bushy, free-sprouting black whiskers, was a masterpiece of control, watched by his companions with something like awe.

  "Professor, I reckon you're a genius," said Alan Emery. "This calls for a toast." He picked up a bottle that was half full of light amber liquid and bore the label: Bell's Original Scotch Whiskey.

  Bill Amery frowned. "You know we're not used to that stuff, Alan. Just pour one for the Professor, and give my glass a miss."

  "Suit yourself," Alan said. "But I'm having another." He poured for himself and MacGuinness.

  The biologist savored his drink and chuckled. "Ha!

  I remember that supercargo's face when I brought fifty cases of Bell's for my own personal use. 'If the bloody whiskey doesn't go,' I said, 'then I don't, and you'll have to sort it out with Elkan Niebohr.' By the way, 'personal' does extend to my friends. And even though you're not used to it yet, I'm sure you'll soon develop a tolerance."

  I'll second that," said Alan. "But I think that the main toast of the evening should be to Donald MacGuinness. Come on, Bill—just this once."

  Bill shrugged. "All right, but only a small one." He picked up the bottle. "I still think this stuff could get a hold on a fellow, and its sure a great tongue loosener."

  "So what does that matter?" grinned Alan, his eyes already slightly glassy. "We're all friends here, aren't we?"

  The toast was drunk with enthusiasm and was swiftly followed by others to Queen Victoria, Bonnie Scotland, all the Emerys past and present, and us (wha's like us?) in a glowing flood of alcoholic bonhomie that took them through the remains of the original bottle and well down a second.

  MacGuinness remained remarkably composed, seated bolt upright in his chair, the only outward sign of his inebriation being an increasing tendency to hold forth in a manner that could only be described as portentous. Although his audience had long since been declared honorary MacGuinnesses, the fact was that they had not been born with the tolerance for usquebaugh possessed by true members of the clan. Bill had already retired to his cot in the corner. Alan was still nominally awake, a cherubic grin on his broad weatherbeaten face, but he was clearly feeling very little pain.

  "Ye see, lads," said MacGuinness, pausing in
the perilous operation of lighting yet another cigar. "This planet of Orphelin Three is really something a great deal more special than anyone guessed in the first instance. A paradise planet, manifestly—the way your colony has thrived is ample proof of that. But what are the factors that combine to make this paradise a fact? I doubt whether anyone has ever taken the time out to inquire really closely. The Excelsior Corporation has been happy with its profits, and you people have been fully occupied in living your own lives and working—which is as it should be.

  "The scientific mind, however, looks rather more deeply into such matters. As you already know, the original colonization ship carried, in addition to its usual complement of passengers, supplies, seed, and domestic livestock, the beginnings of an interesting ecological experiment Based on the fact that eighty-two percent of Orphelin's surface is covered by water, it was assumed that the colony as it grew would depend more and more for sustenance on the products of the oceans. Strangely enough, the first exploration parties found the local varieties of fish, although technically edible, mainly bony and tasteless. This being so, it was decided to seed the oceans with quantities of fry and spawn of the more popular Earth food fishes, including the cod, herring, mackerel, and salmon. However, despite its growth, the entire colonial population is still living on the main continent of Tantaron, where the agricultural yield is so high that even a minimum of effort produces a substantial surplus of food. Supplementary sources such as fisheries have therefore remained unnecessary and, until this time, uninvestigated. Now, in his infinite wisdom the President of Excelsior Corporation, Elkan Nie bohr, has sent his obedient servant, Angus Alexander MacGuinness, to investigate the results of that experiment begun over twenty years ago. Mr. Niebohr, I might add, is not paying my vast salary (and expenses) in order to satisfy any scientific curiosity on his part, but, as is his custom, in pursuit of his holy and unceasing quest for the fast credit.

  "Mr. Niebohr has the idea that even though you Orphelins, living as you do in the lap of luxury— one might even say God's Pocket—scorn the products of your own oceans in favor of T-bone steaks and succulent hog meat, the less fortunate inhabitants of polluted Earth and the comparatively barren planets of the Sol system will welcome the import of quick-frozen fresh fish. You fortunate mortals may not be aware that synthetic protein constitutes more than eighty percent of the humdrum diet of even the comparatively affluent classes on Earth. I will not bore you with the horrors of the soyburger and the simulated algal steak. Suffice it to say that Mr. Niebohr—an odious person who boasts that, while he may not always be right, he is never wrong—once again appears to have backed a winner.

  "Without exception, the Earth-type fish seem to have thrived in their new environment—as the noble salmon of our recent acquaintance bears witness. Despite a certain culling by local predators—a matter to which we must give our attention shortly—this species has established extensive breeding grounds in the creeks and pools of the islands to such an extent that there has been a veritable population explosion. Apart from the obvious factors such as an equable climate and an abundance of natural food, my researches indicate that this is due to what I can only describe as an evolutionary leap in the development of the species. This has brought about such an accelerated rate of maturation and growth that an Orphelin -reared salmon becomes adult at the age of eighteen months and begins breeding correspondingly earlier. Thus, the whole life-cycle of the fish appears to be speeded up to something like seven times its Earth equivalent. From the commercial fishery point of view this is an obvious advantage, and although I do not like to jump to conclusions, I would say that even at a conservative estimate there is no reason why Orphelin should not export at least a hundred thousand tons of salmon alone each year, once the fishery is in full operation. This should gladden even the flinty heart of Mr. Niebohr, when he receives the report which I have today transmitted to Josiahtown for relay to Excelsior headquarters back on Earth. It should also be pretty welcome news to yourselves, because the experience you are gaining with me on this trip, plus my recommendations,. should make it quite certain that the two of you automatically obtain high posts in the organization of the new industry. In many respects I envy you. A resident job here on Orphelin would suit me fine, but my sabbatical ends in a few months and I shall have to return to the treadmill of lecturing a horde of stupid, not to mention ungrateful and inattentive students. There is something so refreshing about working in the field, getting to grips once again with—"

  MacGuinness's peroration was brought to a halt by the sound of a deep and unmistakable snore. He looked across with some severity to see that Alan Emery was slumped forward over the table, his head cradled in his hands.

  "Sassenachs!" murmured MacGuinness, surveying his sleeping audience. "Ah, what can ye expect?" He rose and proceeded out of the hut with solemn, stiffgaited inebriety to contemplate the night sky of Orphelin Three.

  Chapter Four

  Thou shalt not kill: but need'st not strive officiously to keep alive.

  CLOUGH

  "State Police Headquarters announced this afternoon that after over twenty-four hours of searching, one of their patrols had finally succeeded in locating the body of Harold Gould in a canyon some five kilometers from the wreck of his flycar. Preliminary investigations indicate that Mr. Gould, who was on his way to his mountainside home in Atikokan, was killed as a result of a power-pack failure in his a/g chute belt. One of the younger members of the board of the Excelsior Colonization Corporation, Mr. Gould leaves a wife, Mary, and two children aged three and seven years. After an early career in accountancy he moved..

  The voice and image of the newscaster faded abruptly as Elkan punched the cutoff button. He had little taste for obituaries, even those of his enemies.

  "What make of chute was he using?" he asked, turning to his companion, a square-featured man whose dark business suit fitted him like a uniform.

  "Safetee Aid," said Kurt Wernher.

  "Produced by a subsidiary of Solar Corporation, if I'm not mistaken?"

  "That is correct, sir."

  "Good! Excellent!" Niebohr s heavy features creased in one of his infrequent smiles as he punched the memo button on his desk. "Legal department—mount a suit on behalf of Mrs. Mary Gould, claiming two million credits for criminal negligence connected with the failure of her husband's Safetee Aid a/g chute. And. . .they're bound to come up with an offer, but we don't want any out-of-court settlement. I want this thing played up big, the full three-ring circus. . ." He pressed the hold button and turned to Wernher. "What about the wife—is she a looker?"

  "On the thin side, reddish hair and good legs," said Wernher.

  "I'm not asking you to lay the bitch," snapped Niebohr. "All I want to know is will she make a good showing in court?"

  "Used to be a TV actress. I'd say she was a natural for the widow's weeds ploy."

  "Fine! Get her up to my office first thing tomorrow morning."

  "Right. What about the kids?"

  Niebohr grimaced. "Keep them on ice for later; we'll gauge momma's potential first." He released the hold button. "Public Relations: Prepare a draft statement for release to all media on my behalf about the death of Harold Gould. Untimely demise. . .great future. . .one of our brightest young executives— you know the kind of crap. And check with Legal on a reference to the Safetee Aid a/g chute responsible for his death."

  He switched the memo off and turned once again to Wernher.

  "You did a good job, Kurt, as usual."

  "Thank you, sir. I do my best." The big man's heels clicked faintly as he bent his barrel-chested body forward in a slight bow.

  "You do indeed, Kurt, because you know that I would be satisfied with nothing less," said Niebohr, scanning the other's square features and detecting, with those invisible antennae of empathy that had served him so well in the past, a hint of unease. "There was something else?"

  Wernher colored slightly. "Your speech at the board meeting yesterday..."

/>   "Which part of it?"

  "The reference to the fact that Commander Prince is to take over presidency of the corporation. I was wondering..

  Niebohr's monolithic form shook briefly in a soundless chuckle. "You're thinking perhaps that our Honest Bob may have no use for your particular specialties?"

  'I must admit that thoughts along that line had occurred to me," admitted Wernher. "From my experience of the Commander, it seems that his operating methods may be somewhat different from your own."

  "Good! Good!" Niebohr grunted with apparent pleasure.

  "Sir?"

  "My dear Kurt, if you were convinced then I need have no fears of scepticism from any of those dimwits on the board. Apart from the overly ambitious Mr. Gould, who I believe fancied himself for the post, most of them will be completely happy under the new regime—provided the profit percentages keep up.

  And Prince's reputation for probity will add a new luster and respectability to the Excelsior image."

  "Even so, sir. The idea of your retirement..."

  "Retirement, for Gods sakel What would I retire to?" exclaimed Niebohr. "I named my successor, but I made no mention of the date of my abdication. It should be obvious to anyone that even Robert Prince could hardly be expected to step into my shoes without a considerable period as a trainee—a period that will not be all roses for the person concerned, I assure you. Do I make myself clear?"

  "But the time will come, much as I personally will regret it—"

  "You lying bastard, Kurt. You never regretted anything in your whole life, except perhaps the fact that my little Elsa preferred the screwing she got from Prince to your brand."

  "Did she?" A hint of anger lurked in Wernher's cold grey eyes.

  "I didn't push her into it, if that's what you're thinking. She made her own choice, freely, without any deference to me."