Doomstar

16

The worst of it was that he did not know at all what was going on.

The sequence of events was simple. They had landed. Boker had gone to sign in and check the spaceport board for Starbird. Boker had not returned. Spaceport guards had come and taken away Hurth and Glevan. Perfectly simple.

The question was why.

And Kettrick kept thinking, "It would be easier to figure this out if I weren't so scared." He was getting awfully tired of being scared. He wondered if you ever got to a point where the fear nerves were all so calloused that you couldn't feel them any more; if you ever got so bored with fear that you simply forgot it.

He could hear the wind thrumming on the hull, and the sense of aloneness was overpowering.

Boker, Hurth, and Glevan. What was happening to them, in the slender hands of the soft-spoken, black-eyed men of Achern, the men with the blunt jaws and the faint stripes running from the corners of the eyes to the fluted ear holes, and the lingering suggestion of folded skin at the throat?

The anger which had been there all along since the first sight of the approaching carrier finally asserted itself. It had a fine cleansing heat to it. People who talked piously against anger were people who had never had any real enemies, and people who preached against hate, all hate, under any circumstances, were people who had never been in fear of their lives. It was easy to love when you were not fighting for survival, and more than survival, against those who had never heard the word. Kettrick was full of hate, and he welcomed it. He held it, alone in Grellah's iron belly, and it drove the fear away.

Wherever they were and whatever was happening to them, Boker and Hurth and Glevan were depending on him.

Well, and so. Think.

Boker had gone to sign in and check the board for Starbird. He would have entered the central rotunda of the Administration Building. Kettrick remembered it well, a huge cube-shaped structure, very neat and glistening, a black floor, walls faced in an odd shape of pink, a native stone that took a high polish. There were mosaic murals, weirdly fluid things that had a way of wriggling if you looked at them too long.

Boker would have gone to the desk at the right of the entrance, marked registry. He would have placed the plastic square with Grellah's code number in the scanner and then punched the tape machine with his name, the names of his crew, his lading, port of origin, last port of call, next destination, and his pad number. Then he would have crossed to the board, a huge lighted panel that dominated the rotunda, with the service wing of the building to the right and the office wing to the left; the office wing where the I–C was.

Boker would have looked for Starbird among the many ships listed there. If the name did not appear, meaning that the ship had departed, he would then have gone to the small booths beside the board. Here on a keyboard he could punch the name Starbird and a data storage center would automatically provide him with the date of departure and destination of that ship.

Routine procedure, comfortably confined to incurious electrons. Only Kettrick was sure that that particular set of relays must have been altered to give notice to somebody that Starbird was being paged. And somebody had arrested Boker at once.

Somebody in authority, since the spaceport guards had come to take in Boker's crew.

Which meant to Kettrick that Achern was an active center, dedicated to the ultimate victory of the Doomstar, with at least a part of its high officialdom involved.

It was not easy to decide what to do, and he wished for the simple unaffected savagery of Thwayn where there was not such a huge, sophisticated apparatus arrayed against him. One thing was sure. The port Administration Building was no place to go for help or information. And Sekma, obviously, was not at Achern or he would have reacted by now to Grellah's landing. So much for hope.

When he knew that it must be dark outside he went very quietly up the ladder to the bridgeroom and took from the arms locker a skinning knife that Flay had given him as a gift. Then he went into the cubicle he had shared indistinguishably with Boker and cleaned himself of the grease and stains of the afternoon's unfinished labor.

He put on fresh clothing, hiding the knife in his tunic. Under Hurth's bunk in the adjoining cubicle he found a battered round cap with a second officer's badge on it and a limp peak that would partly shadow his face. He also took what money he could find, including small coins. He still had his money belt, but it did him no good for casual spending.

He went down the ladder again, this time to the lower depths where Glevan kept his tools. Here he got a pair of heavy wire cutters. Then he returned to the companionway where he had left Chai on watch.

The ship's lights were out, except for those in the center well. The companionway was dark, showing the open hatch as a lighter area. Chai blew softly through her nose, and touched him.

He crouched close to her. He could see nothing. The outside floods had not been turned on and the wide space of the pad was dark except for the glimmer of a cloudy sky. The glare of the administration area was too far off to matter. But he trusted Chai.

"Man?"

"Under ship. Not move."

They had left a guard, then, or more properly a spy. He wanted to tell Chai to kill, but he only said, "Hit him."

She went down the ladder like a puff of smoke and there was no noise at all until somebody pulled in his breath in a startled half cry that was broken off by a heavy slap. A second later she called. He went down the ladder. In the black shadow under Grellah's tripod gear there was a lighter blob. He did not stop to examine it. With Chai running beside him he went off between the lines of ships.

He went all the way on foot, avoiding the transport strips with their too-many passengers. Fortunately Grellah's pad was in one of the outermost rows. Even so it was a long way, and he expected every moment to hear a warning hooter sound for liftoff, and he prayed that they would not be caught on the pad.

They were not. Ships landed and took off, but they were in other quadrants. The tall wire fence appeared at length before him, topped with intricate barbs to prevent climbing.

Kettrick cut the heavy mesh quickly and let Chai and himself through. An interrupted impulse would show up on a board at Administration, warning that the fence had been cut, and where, and the guards would be sent at once. But they would be looking for thieves breaking in to pilfer from the docked ships, not for someone going the other way. At least he hoped so. Somebody would probably put two and two together when the spy came to and yelled. In the meantime, he had better make what speed he could.

He took time to bend the ends of the cut strands back in the right direction with the plier teeth of the cutters. Then he ran like the devil across the periphery road and the cleared space beyond, into a belt of trees that followed the moss-grown ditch of a disused canal.

He headed for the city. Behind him he heard a carrier come along the fence line looking for the break. There was no pursuit.

Achern was an old city. Much of it was built of the pink stone, which was extremely hard and enduring, and parts of it were quite incredibly old. It had not changed too greatly with the impact of new technologies and the influx of new races and ideas. The Achernans had greedily assimilated what they wanted and rejected the rest, including any resident alien population. They disliked humans intensely and saw to it that there was no little coagulation of permanent intruders that might develop into a political force.

Humanity flowed off its ships into the Market, the taverns and shops and business houses and the other houses along the Canal of the Blue Lanterns, leaving money in Achernan pockets all the way, and then it flowed back into its ships and departed. Diplomatic and other unavoidable human personnel such as the I–C and corporation staffs were rotated on a three-year basis.

There had of course been some new building, chiefly around the starport and chiefly of an industrial nature. In the main, the Achernans found their ancient city adequate just as it was, and if the humans did not they were welcome to go elsewhere.

It was a beautiful city, one of the loveliest in the Cluster. The truly massive, piled, pinnacled buildings of pink stone were made to look as delicate as clouds, afloat above the mirroring canals, their hard outlines all softened with carving as though the wind had fretted them. The Achernans loved carving. Even the boats on the canals were carved, and the graceful spans of the bridges. Lamps like silver moons hung in the warm night, and the flowering vine that gave the city its peculiar spicy smell clambered everywhere with branching sprays of white.

Yet Kettrick felt, as always, a tightening of the skin across his back and a deep distaste in which all his senses joined. The design of the buildings was subtly unhuman, the motifs of the carvings not at all subtly unpleasant to the human eye. The boats glided too quietly on the oily water, the sound of voices was too soft, the footsteps too undulant. The pretty flowers shed poison on the air, the sweetness of the opium poppy. And all the piled-up windows and the deep-arched doorways and the curtained boats held glib black glossy eyes that watched and blinked with ophidian disdain.

Underneath it all, and perhaps most potent of all, was the faint dry body odor that set his ape hackles on end and made Chai grunt and blow.

He was by no means alone on the streets. The evening was young. There were many places of entertainment. Crowds of outworlders moved freely through the maze of streets and waterways; merchants, traders, officers and crews from the ships, employees of many firms and diplomatic establishments. Nobody looked twice at Kettrick. Chai got an occasional startled glance, but the Tchell were not unknown here; merchants often used them for guards and Kettrick had seen them more than once around the Market. He walked as quickly as he dared without seeming to hurry, keeping as much as he could to the darker or less crowded ways.

The Spaceman's Hall was in one part of a very ancient building. Dim shapes of pink stone writhed up the massive doorway on either side and met overhead with a flourishing of time-worn wings. Inside was a great blank room, shorn of every fitting that might have told of its former uses. There were cheap wooden benches in it now, where spacemen could wait for a berth or make contact with friends or sleep off a drunk.

A big board hung on one wall, with a few Wants scrawled on it. Beside it, in untidy bunches, the postings of current shipping dangled from pegs. In one corner a man from a world way over on the western fringe of the Cluster sat in the midst of a complex of pigeonholes, message boards, files, and a teletype machine. Silky white hair covered his head, the tops of his shoulders, his chest and back. He looked like a melancholy white rabbit, except for his eyes, which were a pale yellow and more like a coyote's.

Kettrick left Chai to sit by the door and went to where the postings hung, moving with a sort of dreary slouch as though he did not greatly care whether he found what he was looking for or not. He began to flip through them, as idly as he could with his nervous hands. He wondered if the Spaceman's Hall were being watched, if the yellow-eyed man were a spy, if one of the crewmen snoring on the benches were working for the Doomstar.

The teletype began to clatter, chewing out another listing from the spaceport. Kettrick's eye ran down the lists of ships, searching. The machine fell silent. He heard the yellow-eyed man get up and start toward him.

Kettrick turned the page. He continued to turn pages while the man inserted the new paper into one of the bunches. He could not find any listing for Starbird. That meant she had left, and he would have to go to the back files for time and destination.

He said, "Uh…"

The yellow-eyed man looked at him, smiling. "Help you, mister?"

"Looking for a friend of mine," said Kettrick.

"Know when he landed?"

Kettrick shook his head. "I'm not even sure he has."

"What's the name of the ship?"

As in a dream, Kettrick heard himself saying, "Starbird"

It caused not a ripple. "Oh, yes," the man said. "I remember her, she's the one had to dump her cargo and go into repair dock." He went back and shuffled through his files. "Here." Kettrick stared at the typed sheet, not really seeing it. "She'll be tied up a couple of weeks, at least. But I guess they did all right in the Market, so it's not a calamity. You'll probably find your friend at one of the hostels. You can leave a message on the board, if you want to, in case he comes in."

"Thanks," said Kettrick. "Maybe I will." He was shaken. He wanted to go somewhere and think. He added, "If I don't find him."

He started for the door.

The yellow-eyed man trotted alongside. "Earthman, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Long way from home," said the man. "What ship?"

"Venture" said Kettrick. It was a common name. There would be at least six Ventures in any given port at any given time. He beckoned to Chai.

"Quite a playmate you've got there," said the yellow-eyed man. "Well, good luck."

"Thanks again," said Kettrick, and went out into the street.

He went well away from the Hall. Then he found a carved stone bench beside a canal and sat down, and stared at the black water.

Starbird had ended her flight. Her cargo was sold in the Market. And where was Seri?

Where was the Doomstar?

Gurra, Thwayn, Kirnanoc, Trace. Only we never got to Trace. Starbird dumped her cargo and went into repair. Had she really had a breakdown, or was Seri burying his trail? Kettrick did not believe it was a simple breakdown. It could happen, of course. Ships were ships, even one carrying the Doomstar. They did crack tubes or blow their relays. But if Starbird really had, her crew would not be sitting in a hostel. Time was too short. Seri could not wait two weeks, or three. He would have to find another ship and go on.

Only we never got to Trace. We broke down at Kirnanoc, if the I–C or anyone else should ask. And we're still there. A ship can't carry a Doomstar, can she, if she's sitting in repair?

Well, of course. It was just too easy, tagging Seri from Point A to Point B. The itinerary had to be posted because of I–C regulations, and therefore it might be followed. But nobody can follow you if you're not going anywhere.

End of trail.

Kettrick got up. He went back to the busy streets, with the many-colored crowds and the tall pale Achernans moving through them, cold and proud, wrapped in silken cloaks. At random he selected a place that catered to outworlders with food and entertainment. In the lobby there was a bank of public communicators, each one enclosed in a plastic bubble for privacy.

Kettrick went into one and called the I–C.

A bored female voice answered. Kettrick asked to speak to the agent. The voice required him to please state his business.

"Contraband," said Kettrick, and she said, "Oh," and put him through. A man's voice, rather sharp and irritable, came on.

"All right, what is it?"

Kettrick said, "Is your recorder started?"

Sounding a little startled, the agent said, "Yes."

Forcing himself to speak slowly and clearly, Kettrick said, "This afternoon the ship Grellah, P.O. Ree Darva, Tananaru, landed on pad number 895dashGYdash4…in case they've moved her. Her skipper and crew were arrested by the spaceport guards and are being held by somebody, if they're still alive. I'd appreciate if it you'd call the appropriate embassies. Boker, Captain, and Hurth, Mate, from Hlakra. Glevan, Engineer, from Pittan. I'd appreciate it if you'd call the embassies right away. The only thing these men did was ask about a ship named "Starbird."

There was a sound on the other end as though the agent had leaned forward abruptly. "Who is that? Who's speaking?"

Kettrick asked, "Are you bugged?"

The agent said grimly, "As of the last two hours, I think we're clean. Unless they've worked awfully fast. We're getting to be experts around here."

"I'll take a chance. This is Johnny Kettrick…"

"Kettrick? Kettrick…!"

"Shut up and listen. Seri Otku, in Starbird, picked up one component of the Doomstar on Gurra, and a second on Thwayn. Starbird is now here at Achern, in the repair dock. She was i-t'd to Trace, but she isn't going there. Do you have any information on the whereabouts of Seri Otku?"

The agent said, "None. Kettrick, where are you? Kettrick…"

"Stand by, I'm going to see what I can find out. And call those embassies!"

He flipped the switch, cutting short the urgent clamorings on the other end. The last thing he wanted now was to be picked up by the I–C and badgered about his old sins. Or about anything.

How much good it would do to call the embassies he didn't know. He didn't even know whether Boker and the others were still alive. If they were, the quickest and best way to help them would be to break this business wide open.

In the meantime, he had done all he could.

He went out again with Chai, into the streets. He kept glancing back whenever he could without being obvious about it, to no avail. In the kaleidoscopic swirl of the crowds it was impossible to tell if he were being followed.

At the first canal he found a public livery. The Achernan boatman watched with enormous distaste as Chai clambered in after Kettrick and settled herself in the curtained house.

"The Market," Kettrick said, and the boatman pushed off, the little motor in the stern purring almost inaudibly.

It was only after some minutes of threading the waterways that split upon the towering pink cliffs of palaces and diverged to flow beneath carved temples from which a thousand faces watched with time-bleared stony eyes, beneath the fretted peaks of many-chambered dwellings, and past green promenades heavy with the poison sweetness of the white vine, that Kettrick noticed a particular boat always behind them.