ODDLY ENOUGH, in spite of the tension which must
have boiled within him, Rip brought them in with a perfect four
fin-point landing—one which, under the circumstances, must
win him the respect of master star-star pilots from the Rim. Though
Dane doubted whether if they lost that skill would bring Shannon
anything but a long term in the moon mines. The actual jar of their
landing contact was mostly absorbed by the webbing of their shock
seats and they were on their feet, ready to move almost at
once.
The next operation had been planned. Dane gave a glance at the
screen. Ringed now about the Queen were the buildings of Terraport.
Yes, any attempt to attack the ship would endanger too much of the
permanent structure of the field itself. Rip had brought them down—not on the rocket
scarred outer landing space—but on the concrete apron between
the Assignment Center and the control tower—a smooth strip
usually sacred to the parking of officials’ ground scooters.
He speculated as to whether any of the latter had been converted to
molten metal by the exhausts of the Queen’s descent.
Like the team they had come to be the four active members of the
crew went into action. Ali and Weeks were waiting by an inner
hatch, Medic Hovan with them. The Engineer-apprentice was bulky in
a space suit, and two more of the unwieldy body coverings waited
beside him for Rip and Dane. With fingers which were inclined to
act like thumbs they were sealed into what would provide some
protection against any blaster or sleep ray. Then, with Hovan
conspicuously wearing no such armor, they climbed into one of the
ship’s crawlers.
Weeks activated the outer hatch and the crane lines plucked the
small vehicle out of the Queen, swinging it dizzily down to the
blast scored apron.
“Make for the tower—” Rip’s voice was
thin in the helmet coms.
Dane at the controls of the crawler pulled on as Ali cast off
the lines which anchored them to the spacer.
Through the bubble helmet he could see the frenzied activity in
the aroused port. An ant hill into which some idle investigator had
thrust a stick and given it a turn or two was nothing compared with
Terraport after the unorthodox arrival of the SolarQueen.
“Patrol mobile coming in on southeast vector,” Ali
announced calmly. “Looks like she mounts a portable flamer on
her nose—”
“So.” Dane changed direction, putting behind him a
customs check point, aware as he ground by that stand of a line of
faces at its vision ports. Evasive action—and he’d have
to get the top speed from the clumsy crawler.
“Police ’copter over us—” that was Rip
reporting.
Well, they couldn’t very well avoid that.
But at the same time Dane was reasonably sure that its attack would not be an
overt one—not with the unarmed, unprotected Hovan prominently
displayed in their midst.
But there he was too sanguine. A muffled exclamation from Rip
made him glance at the Medic beside him. Just in time to see Hovan
slump limply forward, about to tumble from the crawler when Shannon
caught him from behind. Dane was too familiar with the results of
sleep rays to have any doubts as to what had happened.
The P-copter had sprayed them with its most harmless weapon.
Only the suits, insulated to the best of their makers’
ability against most of the dangers of space, real and anticipated,
had kept the three Traders from being overcome as well. Dane
suspected that his own responses were a trifle sluggish, that while
he had not succumbed to that attack, he had been slowed. But with
Rip holding the unconscious Medic in his seat, Thorson continued to
head the crawler for the tower and its promise of a system wide
hearing for their appeal.
“There’s a P-mobile coming in
ahead—”
Dane was irritated by that warning from Rip. He had already
sighted that black and silver ground car himself. And he was only
too keenly conscious of the nasty threat of the snub nosed weapon
mounted on its hood, now pointed straight at the oncoming, too
deliberate Traders’ crawler. Then he saw what he believed
would be their only chance—to play once more the same type of
trick as Rip had used to earth them safely.
“Get Hovan under cover,” he ordered.
“I’m going to crash the tower door!”
Hasty movements answered that as the Medic’s limp body was
thrust under the cover offered by the upper framework of the
crawler. Luckily the machine had been built for heavy duty on
rugged worlds where roadways were unknown. Dane was sure he could
build up the power and speed necessary to take them into the lower
floor of the tower—no matter if its door was now barred
against them.
Whether his audacity daunted the P-mobile, or whether they held
off from an all out attack because of Hovan, Dane could not guess.
But he was glad for a few minutes of grace as he raced the
protesting engine of the heavy machine to its last and greatest
effort. The treads of the crawler bit on the steps leading up to
the impressive entrance of the tower. There was a second or two
before traction caught and then the driver’s heart snapped
back into place as the machine tilted its nose up and headed
straight for the portal.
They struck the closed doors with a shock which almost hurled
them from their seats. But that engraved bronze expanse had not
been cast to withstand a head-on blow from a heavy duty off-world
vehicle and the leaves tore apart letting them into the wide hall
beyond.
“Take Hovan and make for the riser!” For the second
time it was Dane who gave the orders. “I have a blocking job
to do here.” He expected every second to feel the bit of a
police blaster somewhere along his shrinking body—could even
a space suit protect him now?
At the far end of the corridor were the attendants and visitors,
trapped in the building, who had fled in an attempt to find safety
at the crashing entrance of the crawler. These flung themselves
flat at the steady advance of the two space suited Traders who
supported the unconscious Medic between them, using the low-powered
anti-grav units on their belts to take most of his weight so each
had one hand free to hold a sleep rod. And they did not hesitate to
use those weapons, spraying the rightful inhabitants of the tower
until all lay unmoving.
Having seen that Ali and Rip appeared to have the situation in
hand, Dane turned to his own self-appointed job. He jammed the
machine on reverse, maneuvering it with an ease learned by practice
on the rough terrain of Limbo, until the gate doors were pushed
shut again. Then he swung the machine around so that its bulk would
afford an effective bar to keep the door locked for some very
precious moments to come. Short of using a flamer full power to cut their way in, no
one was going to force an entrance now.
He climbed out of the machine, to discover, when he turned, that
the trio from the Queen had disappeared—leaving all possible
opposition asleep on the floor. They must have taken a riser to the
broadcasting floor. Dane clanked on to join them, carrying in
plated fingers their most important weapon to awake public
opinion—an improvised cage in which was housed one of the
pests from the cargo hold—the proof of their plague-free
state which they intended Hovan to present, via the telecast, to
the whole system.
Dane reached the shaft of the riser—to find the platform
gone. Would either Rip or Ali have presence of mind enough to send
it down to him on automatic?
“Rip—return the riser,” he spoke urgently into
the throat mike of his helmet com.
“Keep your rockets straight,” Ali’s cool voice
was in his earphones, “It’s on its way down. Did
you remember to bring Exhibit A?”
Dane did not answer. For he was very much occupied with another
problem. On the bronze doors he had been at such pains to seal shut
there had come into being a round circle of dull red which was
speedily changing into a coruscating incandescence. They
had brought a flamer to bear! It would be a very short
time now before the Police could come through. That riser—
Afraid of
overbalancing in the bulky suit, Dane did not lean forward to stare
up into the shaft. But, as his uncertainty reached a fever pitch,
the platform descended and he took two steps forward into temporary
safety, still clutching the cage. At the first try the thick
fingers of his gloved hand slipped from the lever and he hit it
again, harder than he intended, so that he found himself being
wafted upward with a speed which did not agree with a stomach, even
one long accustomed to space flight. And he almost lost his balance
when it came to a stop many floors above.
But he had not lost his wits. Before he stepped from the platform he set the dial on a point which would lift the riser
to the top of the shaft and hold it there. That might trap the
Traders on the broadcasting floor, but it would also insure them
time before the forces of the law could reach them.
Dane located the rest of his party in the circular core chamber
of the broadcasting section. He recognized a backdrop he had seen
thousands of times behind the announcer who introduced the
news-casts. In one corner Rip, his suit off, was working over the
still relaxed form of the Medic. While Ali, a grim set to his
mouth, was standing with a man who wore the insignia of a
Com-tech.
“All set?” Rip looked up from his futile
ministrations.
Dane put down the cage and began the business of unhooking his
own protective covering. “They were burning through the outer
doors of the entrance hall when I took off.”
“You’re not going to get away with
this—” that was the Com-tech.
Ali smiled wearily, a stretch of lips in which there was little
or no mirth. “Listen, my friend. Since I started to ride
rockets I’ve been told I wasn’t going to get away with
this or that. Why not be more original? Use what is between those
outsize ears of yours. We fought our way in here—we landed at
Terraport against orders—we’re Patrol Posted. Do you
think that one man, one lone man, is going to keep us now from
doing what we came to do? And don’t look around for any
reinforcements. We sprayed both those rooms. You can run the
emergency hook-up single-handed and you’re going to.
We’re Free Traders—Ha,” the man had lost some of
his assurance as he stared from one drawn young face to another,
“I see you begin to realize what that means. Out on the Rim
we play rough, and we play for keeps. I know half a hundred ways to
set you screaming in three minutes and at least ten of them will
not even leave a mark on your skin! Now do we get service—or
don’t we?”
“You’ll go to the Chamber for this—!”
snarled the tech.
“All right. But first we broadcast. Then maybe someday a
ship that’s run into bad luck’ll have a straighter deal
than we’ve had. You get on your post. And we’ll have the
playback on—remember that. If you don’t give us a
clear channel we’ll know it. How about it,
Rip—how’s Hovan?”
Rip’s face was a mask of worry. “He must have had a
full dose. I can’t bring him around.”
Was this the end to their bold bid? Let each or all of them go
before the screen to plead their case, let them show the caged
pest. But without the professional testimony of the Medic, the
weight of an expert opinion on their side, they were licked. Well,
sometimes luck did not ride a man’s fins all the way in.
But some stubborn core within Dane refused to let him believe
that they had lost. He went over to the Medic huddled in a chair.
To all appearances Hovan was deeply asleep, sunk in the semi-coma
the sleep ray produced. And the frustrating thing was that the man
himself could have supplied the counter to his condition, given
them the instructions how to bring him around. How many hours away
was a natural awaking? Long before that their hold on the station
would be broken—they would be in the custody of either Police
or Patrol.
“He’s sunk—” Dane voiced the belief
which put an end to their hopes. But Ali did not seem
concerned.
Kamil was standing with their captive, an odd expression on his
handsome face as if he were striving to recall some dim memory.
When he spoke it was to the Com-tech. “You have an HD OS
here?”
The other registered surprise. “I think
so—”
Ali made an abrupt gesture. “Make sure,” he
ordered, following the man into another room. Dane looked to Rip
for enlightenment.
“What in the Great Nebula is an HD OS?”
“I’m no engineer. It may be some gadget to get us
out of here—”
“Such as a pair of wings?” Dane was inclined to be
sarcastic. The memory of that incandescent circle on the door some
twenty floors below stayed with him. Tempers of Police and Patrol were not going to be improved by fighting their way
around or over the obstacles the Traders had arranged to delay
them. If they caught up to the outlaws before the latter had their
chance for an impartial hearing, the result was not going to be a
happy one as far as the Queen’s men were concerned.
Ali appeared in the doorway. “Bring Hovan in
here.”
Together Rip and Dane carried the Medic into a smaller chamber
where they found Ali and the tech busy lashing a small, lightweight
tube chair to a machine which, to their untutored eyes, had the
semblance of a collection of bars. Obeying instructions they seated
Hovan in that chair, fastening him in, while the Medic continued to
slumber peacefully. Uncomprehendingly Rip and Dane stepped back
while, under Ali’s watchful eye, the Com-tech made
adjustments and finally snapped some hidden switch.
Dane discovered that he dared not watch too closely what
followed. Inured as he thought he was to the tricks of Hyper-space,
to acceleration and anti-gravity, the oscillation of that swinging
seat, the weird swaying of the half-recumbent figure, did things to
his sight and to his sense of balance which seemed perilous in the
extreme. But when a groan broke through the hum of Ali’s
mysterious machine, all of them knew that the Engineer-apprentice
had found the answer to their problem, that Hovan was waking.
The Medic was bleary-eyed and inclined to stagger when they
freed him. And for several minutes he seemed unable to grasp either
his surroundings or the train of events which had brought him
there.
Long since the Police must have broken into the entrance
corridor below. Perhaps they had by now secured a riser which would
bring them up. Ali had forced the Com-tech to throw the emergency
control which was designed to seal off from the outer world the
entire unit in which they now were. But whether that protective
device would continue to hold now, none of the three were certain.
Time was running out fast.
Supporting the wobbling Hovan, they went back into the panel
room and under Ali’s supervision the Com-tech took his place
at the control board. Dane put the cage with the pest well to the
fore on the table of the announcer and waited for Rip to take his
place there with the trembling Medic. When Shannon did not move
Dane glanced up in surprise—this was no time to hesitate.
But he discovered that the attention of both his shipmates was now
centered on him. Rip pointed to the seat.
“You’re the talk merchant, aren’t you?”
the acting commander of the Queen asked crisply. “Now’s
the time to shout the lingo—”
They couldn’t mean—! But it was very evident that
they did. Of course, a Cargo-master was supposed to be the
spokesman of a ship. But that was in matters of trade. And how
could he stand there and argue the case for the Queen? He
was the newest joined, the greenest member of her crew. Already his
mouth was dry and his nerves tense. But Dane didn’t know that
none of that was revealed by his face or manner. The usual
impassiveness which had masked his inner conflicts since his first
days at the Pool served him now. And the others never noted the
hesitation with which he approached the announcer’s
place.
Dane had scarcely seated himself, one hand resting on the cage
of the pest, before Ali brought down two fingers in the sharp sweep
which signaled the Com-tech to duty. Far above them there was a
whisper of sound which signified the opening of the play-back. They
would be able to check on whether the broadcast was going out or
not. Although Dane could see nothing of the system wide audience
which he currently faced, he realized that the room and those in it
were now visible on every tuned-in video set. Instead of the
factual cast, the listeners were about to be treated to a melodrama
which was as wild as their favorite romances. It only needed the
break-in of the Patrol to complete the illusion of
action-fiction—crime variety.
A second finger moved in his direction and Dane leaned forward. He faced only the folds of a wall wide curtain, but he
must keep in mind that in truth there was a sea of faces before
him, the faces of those whom he and Hovan, working together, must
convince if he were to save the Queen and her crew.
He found his voice and it was steady and even, he might have
been outlining some stowage problem for Van Rycke’s
approval.
“People of Terra—”
Martian, Venusian, Asteroid colonist—inwardly they were
still all Terran and on that point he would rest. He was a Terran
appealing to his own kind.
“People of Terra, we come before you to ask
justice—” from somewhere the words came easily, flowing
from his lips to center on a patch of light ahead. And that
“justice” rang with a kind of reassurance.
ODDLY ENOUGH, in spite of the tension which must
have boiled within him, Rip brought them in with a perfect four
fin-point landing—one which, under the circumstances, must
win him the respect of master star-star pilots from the Rim. Though
Dane doubted whether if they lost that skill would bring Shannon
anything but a long term in the moon mines. The actual jar of their
landing contact was mostly absorbed by the webbing of their shock
seats and they were on their feet, ready to move almost at
once.
The next operation had been planned. Dane gave a glance at the
screen. Ringed now about the Queen were the buildings of Terraport.
Yes, any attempt to attack the ship would endanger too much of the
permanent structure of the field itself. Rip had brought them down—not on the rocket
scarred outer landing space—but on the concrete apron between
the Assignment Center and the control tower—a smooth strip
usually sacred to the parking of officials’ ground scooters.
He speculated as to whether any of the latter had been converted to
molten metal by the exhausts of the Queen’s descent.
Like the team they had come to be the four active members of the
crew went into action. Ali and Weeks were waiting by an inner
hatch, Medic Hovan with them. The Engineer-apprentice was bulky in
a space suit, and two more of the unwieldy body coverings waited
beside him for Rip and Dane. With fingers which were inclined to
act like thumbs they were sealed into what would provide some
protection against any blaster or sleep ray. Then, with Hovan
conspicuously wearing no such armor, they climbed into one of the
ship’s crawlers.
Weeks activated the outer hatch and the crane lines plucked the
small vehicle out of the Queen, swinging it dizzily down to the
blast scored apron.
“Make for the tower—” Rip’s voice was
thin in the helmet coms.
Dane at the controls of the crawler pulled on as Ali cast off
the lines which anchored them to the spacer.
Through the bubble helmet he could see the frenzied activity in
the aroused port. An ant hill into which some idle investigator had
thrust a stick and given it a turn or two was nothing compared with
Terraport after the unorthodox arrival of the SolarQueen.
“Patrol mobile coming in on southeast vector,” Ali
announced calmly. “Looks like she mounts a portable flamer on
her nose—”
“So.” Dane changed direction, putting behind him a
customs check point, aware as he ground by that stand of a line of
faces at its vision ports. Evasive action—and he’d have
to get the top speed from the clumsy crawler.
“Police ’copter over us—” that was Rip
reporting.
Well, they couldn’t very well avoid that.
But at the same time Dane was reasonably sure that its attack would not be an
overt one—not with the unarmed, unprotected Hovan prominently
displayed in their midst.
But there he was too sanguine. A muffled exclamation from Rip
made him glance at the Medic beside him. Just in time to see Hovan
slump limply forward, about to tumble from the crawler when Shannon
caught him from behind. Dane was too familiar with the results of
sleep rays to have any doubts as to what had happened.
The P-copter had sprayed them with its most harmless weapon.
Only the suits, insulated to the best of their makers’
ability against most of the dangers of space, real and anticipated,
had kept the three Traders from being overcome as well. Dane
suspected that his own responses were a trifle sluggish, that while
he had not succumbed to that attack, he had been slowed. But with
Rip holding the unconscious Medic in his seat, Thorson continued to
head the crawler for the tower and its promise of a system wide
hearing for their appeal.
“There’s a P-mobile coming in
ahead—”
Dane was irritated by that warning from Rip. He had already
sighted that black and silver ground car himself. And he was only
too keenly conscious of the nasty threat of the snub nosed weapon
mounted on its hood, now pointed straight at the oncoming, too
deliberate Traders’ crawler. Then he saw what he believed
would be their only chance—to play once more the same type of
trick as Rip had used to earth them safely.
“Get Hovan under cover,” he ordered.
“I’m going to crash the tower door!”
Hasty movements answered that as the Medic’s limp body was
thrust under the cover offered by the upper framework of the
crawler. Luckily the machine had been built for heavy duty on
rugged worlds where roadways were unknown. Dane was sure he could
build up the power and speed necessary to take them into the lower
floor of the tower—no matter if its door was now barred
against them.
Whether his audacity daunted the P-mobile, or whether they held
off from an all out attack because of Hovan, Dane could not guess.
But he was glad for a few minutes of grace as he raced the
protesting engine of the heavy machine to its last and greatest
effort. The treads of the crawler bit on the steps leading up to
the impressive entrance of the tower. There was a second or two
before traction caught and then the driver’s heart snapped
back into place as the machine tilted its nose up and headed
straight for the portal.
They struck the closed doors with a shock which almost hurled
them from their seats. But that engraved bronze expanse had not
been cast to withstand a head-on blow from a heavy duty off-world
vehicle and the leaves tore apart letting them into the wide hall
beyond.
“Take Hovan and make for the riser!” For the second
time it was Dane who gave the orders. “I have a blocking job
to do here.” He expected every second to feel the bit of a
police blaster somewhere along his shrinking body—could even
a space suit protect him now?
At the far end of the corridor were the attendants and visitors,
trapped in the building, who had fled in an attempt to find safety
at the crashing entrance of the crawler. These flung themselves
flat at the steady advance of the two space suited Traders who
supported the unconscious Medic between them, using the low-powered
anti-grav units on their belts to take most of his weight so each
had one hand free to hold a sleep rod. And they did not hesitate to
use those weapons, spraying the rightful inhabitants of the tower
until all lay unmoving.
Having seen that Ali and Rip appeared to have the situation in
hand, Dane turned to his own self-appointed job. He jammed the
machine on reverse, maneuvering it with an ease learned by practice
on the rough terrain of Limbo, until the gate doors were pushed
shut again. Then he swung the machine around so that its bulk would
afford an effective bar to keep the door locked for some very
precious moments to come. Short of using a flamer full power to cut their way in, no
one was going to force an entrance now.
He climbed out of the machine, to discover, when he turned, that
the trio from the Queen had disappeared—leaving all possible
opposition asleep on the floor. They must have taken a riser to the
broadcasting floor. Dane clanked on to join them, carrying in
plated fingers their most important weapon to awake public
opinion—an improvised cage in which was housed one of the
pests from the cargo hold—the proof of their plague-free
state which they intended Hovan to present, via the telecast, to
the whole system.
Dane reached the shaft of the riser—to find the platform
gone. Would either Rip or Ali have presence of mind enough to send
it down to him on automatic?
“Rip—return the riser,” he spoke urgently into
the throat mike of his helmet com.
“Keep your rockets straight,” Ali’s cool voice
was in his earphones, “It’s on its way down. Did
you remember to bring Exhibit A?”
Dane did not answer. For he was very much occupied with another
problem. On the bronze doors he had been at such pains to seal shut
there had come into being a round circle of dull red which was
speedily changing into a coruscating incandescence. They
had brought a flamer to bear! It would be a very short
time now before the Police could come through. That riser—
Afraid of
overbalancing in the bulky suit, Dane did not lean forward to stare
up into the shaft. But, as his uncertainty reached a fever pitch,
the platform descended and he took two steps forward into temporary
safety, still clutching the cage. At the first try the thick
fingers of his gloved hand slipped from the lever and he hit it
again, harder than he intended, so that he found himself being
wafted upward with a speed which did not agree with a stomach, even
one long accustomed to space flight. And he almost lost his balance
when it came to a stop many floors above.
But he had not lost his wits. Before he stepped from the platform he set the dial on a point which would lift the riser
to the top of the shaft and hold it there. That might trap the
Traders on the broadcasting floor, but it would also insure them
time before the forces of the law could reach them.
Dane located the rest of his party in the circular core chamber
of the broadcasting section. He recognized a backdrop he had seen
thousands of times behind the announcer who introduced the
news-casts. In one corner Rip, his suit off, was working over the
still relaxed form of the Medic. While Ali, a grim set to his
mouth, was standing with a man who wore the insignia of a
Com-tech.
“All set?” Rip looked up from his futile
ministrations.
Dane put down the cage and began the business of unhooking his
own protective covering. “They were burning through the outer
doors of the entrance hall when I took off.”
“You’re not going to get away with
this—” that was the Com-tech.
Ali smiled wearily, a stretch of lips in which there was little
or no mirth. “Listen, my friend. Since I started to ride
rockets I’ve been told I wasn’t going to get away with
this or that. Why not be more original? Use what is between those
outsize ears of yours. We fought our way in here—we landed at
Terraport against orders—we’re Patrol Posted. Do you
think that one man, one lone man, is going to keep us now from
doing what we came to do? And don’t look around for any
reinforcements. We sprayed both those rooms. You can run the
emergency hook-up single-handed and you’re going to.
We’re Free Traders—Ha,” the man had lost some of
his assurance as he stared from one drawn young face to another,
“I see you begin to realize what that means. Out on the Rim
we play rough, and we play for keeps. I know half a hundred ways to
set you screaming in three minutes and at least ten of them will
not even leave a mark on your skin! Now do we get service—or
don’t we?”
“You’ll go to the Chamber for this—!”
snarled the tech.
“All right. But first we broadcast. Then maybe someday a
ship that’s run into bad luck’ll have a straighter deal
than we’ve had. You get on your post. And we’ll have the
playback on—remember that. If you don’t give us a
clear channel we’ll know it. How about it,
Rip—how’s Hovan?”
Rip’s face was a mask of worry. “He must have had a
full dose. I can’t bring him around.”
Was this the end to their bold bid? Let each or all of them go
before the screen to plead their case, let them show the caged
pest. But without the professional testimony of the Medic, the
weight of an expert opinion on their side, they were licked. Well,
sometimes luck did not ride a man’s fins all the way in.
But some stubborn core within Dane refused to let him believe
that they had lost. He went over to the Medic huddled in a chair.
To all appearances Hovan was deeply asleep, sunk in the semi-coma
the sleep ray produced. And the frustrating thing was that the man
himself could have supplied the counter to his condition, given
them the instructions how to bring him around. How many hours away
was a natural awaking? Long before that their hold on the station
would be broken—they would be in the custody of either Police
or Patrol.
“He’s sunk—” Dane voiced the belief
which put an end to their hopes. But Ali did not seem
concerned.
Kamil was standing with their captive, an odd expression on his
handsome face as if he were striving to recall some dim memory.
When he spoke it was to the Com-tech. “You have an HD OS
here?”
The other registered surprise. “I think
so—”
Ali made an abrupt gesture. “Make sure,” he
ordered, following the man into another room. Dane looked to Rip
for enlightenment.
“What in the Great Nebula is an HD OS?”
“I’m no engineer. It may be some gadget to get us
out of here—”
“Such as a pair of wings?” Dane was inclined to be
sarcastic. The memory of that incandescent circle on the door some
twenty floors below stayed with him. Tempers of Police and Patrol were not going to be improved by fighting their way
around or over the obstacles the Traders had arranged to delay
them. If they caught up to the outlaws before the latter had their
chance for an impartial hearing, the result was not going to be a
happy one as far as the Queen’s men were concerned.
Ali appeared in the doorway. “Bring Hovan in
here.”
Together Rip and Dane carried the Medic into a smaller chamber
where they found Ali and the tech busy lashing a small, lightweight
tube chair to a machine which, to their untutored eyes, had the
semblance of a collection of bars. Obeying instructions they seated
Hovan in that chair, fastening him in, while the Medic continued to
slumber peacefully. Uncomprehendingly Rip and Dane stepped back
while, under Ali’s watchful eye, the Com-tech made
adjustments and finally snapped some hidden switch.
Dane discovered that he dared not watch too closely what
followed. Inured as he thought he was to the tricks of Hyper-space,
to acceleration and anti-gravity, the oscillation of that swinging
seat, the weird swaying of the half-recumbent figure, did things to
his sight and to his sense of balance which seemed perilous in the
extreme. But when a groan broke through the hum of Ali’s
mysterious machine, all of them knew that the Engineer-apprentice
had found the answer to their problem, that Hovan was waking.
The Medic was bleary-eyed and inclined to stagger when they
freed him. And for several minutes he seemed unable to grasp either
his surroundings or the train of events which had brought him
there.
Long since the Police must have broken into the entrance
corridor below. Perhaps they had by now secured a riser which would
bring them up. Ali had forced the Com-tech to throw the emergency
control which was designed to seal off from the outer world the
entire unit in which they now were. But whether that protective
device would continue to hold now, none of the three were certain.
Time was running out fast.
Supporting the wobbling Hovan, they went back into the panel
room and under Ali’s supervision the Com-tech took his place
at the control board. Dane put the cage with the pest well to the
fore on the table of the announcer and waited for Rip to take his
place there with the trembling Medic. When Shannon did not move
Dane glanced up in surprise—this was no time to hesitate.
But he discovered that the attention of both his shipmates was now
centered on him. Rip pointed to the seat.
“You’re the talk merchant, aren’t you?”
the acting commander of the Queen asked crisply. “Now’s
the time to shout the lingo—”
They couldn’t mean—! But it was very evident that
they did. Of course, a Cargo-master was supposed to be the
spokesman of a ship. But that was in matters of trade. And how
could he stand there and argue the case for the Queen? He
was the newest joined, the greenest member of her crew. Already his
mouth was dry and his nerves tense. But Dane didn’t know that
none of that was revealed by his face or manner. The usual
impassiveness which had masked his inner conflicts since his first
days at the Pool served him now. And the others never noted the
hesitation with which he approached the announcer’s
place.
Dane had scarcely seated himself, one hand resting on the cage
of the pest, before Ali brought down two fingers in the sharp sweep
which signaled the Com-tech to duty. Far above them there was a
whisper of sound which signified the opening of the play-back. They
would be able to check on whether the broadcast was going out or
not. Although Dane could see nothing of the system wide audience
which he currently faced, he realized that the room and those in it
were now visible on every tuned-in video set. Instead of the
factual cast, the listeners were about to be treated to a melodrama
which was as wild as their favorite romances. It only needed the
break-in of the Patrol to complete the illusion of
action-fiction—crime variety.
A second finger moved in his direction and Dane leaned forward. He faced only the folds of a wall wide curtain, but he
must keep in mind that in truth there was a sea of faces before
him, the faces of those whom he and Hovan, working together, must
convince if he were to save the Queen and her crew.
He found his voice and it was steady and even, he might have
been outlining some stowage problem for Van Rycke’s
approval.
“People of Terra—”
Martian, Venusian, Asteroid colonist—inwardly they were
still all Terran and on that point he would rest. He was a Terran
appealing to his own kind.
“People of Terra, we come before you to ask
justice—” from somewhere the words came easily, flowing
from his lips to center on a patch of light ahead. And that
“justice” rang with a kind of reassurance.