DURING THE NEXT few hours Dane learned more in practice about
the stowage of cargo than he had ever been taught in theory at the
Pool. And, cramped as the crew of the Queen were, they also
discovered that they must find space for not only Rich but for
three assistants as well.
The supplies went into the large cargo hold, most of the work
being volunteer labour on the part of Rich’s men, since the
Doctor hammered home the fact that delicate instruments and
perishable goods were included and he had no intention of allowing
any of the boxes to be tossed about by the hustlers hired by the
Field.
But inside the ship the final stowage of material was, as Van
Rycke speedily let him know, solely the problem of the crew. And
they could do it without any amateur advice. So Dane and Kosti
sweated, swore and tugged, with the Cargo-Master himself not above
lending a hand, until all the supplies were in place according to
the mechanics of weight for take-off. Then they sealed the hatch
for the duration of the flight.
On their way up they discovered Mura in the smaller cargo
compartment rigging space hammocks for Rich’s assistants. The
accommodations were crude, but the archaeologist had been warned of
that before he had thumbprinted the charter contract—the
Queen had no extra passenger cabins. And none of the newcomers were
grumbling.
Like their leader they were a type new to Dane, giving an
impression of tough endurance—a quality which, he supposed,
was very necessary in any field man sent out to prospect on strange
worlds for the relics of vanished races. One of them wasn’t
even human—the green-tinted skin and hairless head stamped him a Rigellian. But his faintly scaled body, in spite
of its odd sinuosity, was clad just like the others. Dane was
trying not to stare at him when Mura came up and touched his
arm.
“Dr. Rich is in your cabin. You’ve been moved into
the store cubby—along here—”
A little irked by being so high-handedly assigned to new
quarters, Dane followed Mura down to the domain which was the
steward’s own. There was the galley, the food storage
freezers, and, beyond, the hydro garden which was half Mura’s
concern, half Tau’s, as air officer.
“Dr. Rich,” Mura explained as they went,
“asked to be near his men. He made quite a point of
it—”
Dane looked down at the small man. Just why had Mura added that
last?
More than any of the crew Mura presented an enigma to Dane. The
steward was of Japanese descent—and the apprentice had been
familiar from his early training days with the terrifying story of
what had happened to those islands which had once existed across
the sea from his own native country. Volcanic action, followed by
tidal waves, had overwhelmed a whole nation in two days and a
night—so that Japan had utterly ceased to be—washed
from the maps of Terra.
“Here,” Mura reached the end of the corridor and
waved Dane through a half-open panel.
The steward had made no effort to decorate the walls of his
private quarters, and the extreme neatness of the cabin tended to
have a bleak effect. But on a pull-down table rested a globe of
plasta-crystal and what it contained drew Dane’s
attention.
A Terran butterfly, its jewelled wings spread wide, hung by some
magic in the very centre of the orb, sealed so for all time, and
yet giving every appearance of vibrant life.
Mura, noting Dane’s absorption, leaned forward and tapped
the top of the globe lightly. In answer to that touch the wings
seemed to quiver, the imprisoned beauty moved a fraction.
Dane drew a deep breath. He had seen the globe in the store
room, he knew that Mura collected the insect life of a hundred worlds to fashion his balls—there were two others on board
the Queen. One a tiny world, an aquatic one with fronds of weed
curling to provide shelter for a school of gemmed insect-fish which
were stalked by a weird creature two legged, two armed, but
equipped with wing-like fins and a wicked pronged spear. That was
in a place of honour in Van Rycke’s cabin. Then there was the
other—a vista of elfin towers of silver among which flitted
nearly transparent things of pearly lustre. That was the
Com-Tech’s particular treasure.
“One may create such, yes,” Mura shrugged. “It
is a way of passing time—like many others.”
He picked up the globe, rolled it in protecting fibre and stowed
it away in a partitioned drawer, cushioned against the take-off of
the Queen. Then he pulled aside a second panel to show Dane his new
quarters.
It was a secondary store room which Mura had stripped and
refurnished with a hammock and a foot locker. It was not as
comfortable as his old cabin, but on the other hand it was no worse
than the quarters he had had on both the Martian and Lunar training
ships during his Pool cruises.
They blasted off for Limbo before dawn and were space borne
before Dane aroused from an exhausted sleep. He had made his way to
the mess hall when the warning sounded again and he clutched the
table, swallowing painfully as he endured the vertigo which
signalized their snap into Hyper-space. Up in the control
compartment Wilcox, the Captain, and Rip would be at their
stations, not able to relax until the break-through was
assured.
He wouldn’t, Dane decided not for the first time since he
had entered training for space, be an astrogator for any reward the
Federation could dream up. One fractional mistake in
calculations—even with two computers taking most of the
burden of the formula run-off—would warp your ship into a
totally unknown lane, might bring you out inside a planet
instead of the necessary distance off its surface. He had had the
theory of the break-through pounded into him, he could go through
the motions of setting up a course, but he privately doubted if
he would ever have the courage to actually take a ship into
Hyper-space and out again.
Frowning at the unoffending wall he was once more listing his
own shortcomings when Rip called.
“Man—” the astrogator-apprentice dropped down
on a seat with a deep sigh, “well, we’re in once more
and nothing cracked!”
Dane was honestly surprised. He was no astrogator, it was all
right for him to feel some doubts. But that Rip should display
relief at having his own particular share of duty behind him for a
while was something else.
“What’s the matter?” Dane wondered if
something had threatened to go wrong.
“Nothing, nothing,” the other waved a hand.
“But we all feel easier after the jump.” Rip laughed
now. “Man, you think we don’t sweat it out?
We maybe hate it more than you do. What have you got to worry about
until we planet again? Nothing—”
Dane bristled. “No? We’ve only cargo control,
supplies, hydro—” he began to enumerate the duties of
his section. “What good does a successful break-through do
when your air goes bad—”
Rip nodded. “All right, none of us is dead weight. Though
this trip—” he stopped suddenly and glanced over his
shoulder in a way which surprised Dane.
“Did you ever meet an archaeologist before, Dane?”
The cargo-apprentice shook his head. “This is my first
trip out, remember? And we don’t get much briefing in history
at the Pool—except where it influences
Trade—”
Rip lounged back on the bench, but kept his voice trained low,
until it was hardly above a murmur.
“I’ve always been interested in the
Forerunners,” he began. “Got the tapes of
Haverson’s ‘Voyages’ and Kagle’s
‘Survey’ in my gear now. Those are the two most
complete studies that have been made so far. I messed with Dr. Rich
this morning. And I’ll swear he never heard of the Twin
Towers!”
Since Dane had never heard of them either, he couldn’t
quite see what Rip was trying to prove. But, before he could ask
any questions, the blankness of his look must have betrayed his
ignorance for the other made a quick explanation.
“Up to now the Twin Towers are about the most important
Forerunner find Federation Survey has ever made. They’re on
Corvo—standing right in the centre of a silicon
desert—two hundred feet high, looking like two big fingers
pointing into the sky. And as far as the experts have been able to
discover, they’re solid clear through—made of some
substance which is neither stone nor metal, but which certainly has
lasting properties. Rich was able to cover his slip pretty well,
but I’m sure he’d not heard of them.”
“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 which 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?
DURING THE NEXT few hours Dane learned more in practice about
the stowage of cargo than he had ever been taught in theory at the
Pool. And, cramped as the crew of the Queen were, they also
discovered that they must find space for not only Rich but for
three assistants as well.
The supplies went into the large cargo hold, most of the work
being volunteer labour on the part of Rich’s men, since the
Doctor hammered home the fact that delicate instruments and
perishable goods were included and he had no intention of allowing
any of the boxes to be tossed about by the hustlers hired by the
Field.
But inside the ship the final stowage of material was, as Van
Rycke speedily let him know, solely the problem of the crew. And
they could do it without any amateur advice. So Dane and Kosti
sweated, swore and tugged, with the Cargo-Master himself not above
lending a hand, until all the supplies were in place according to
the mechanics of weight for take-off. Then they sealed the hatch
for the duration of the flight.
On their way up they discovered Mura in the smaller cargo
compartment rigging space hammocks for Rich’s assistants. The
accommodations were crude, but the archaeologist had been warned of
that before he had thumbprinted the charter contract—the
Queen had no extra passenger cabins. And none of the newcomers were
grumbling.
Like their leader they were a type new to Dane, giving an
impression of tough endurance—a quality which, he supposed,
was very necessary in any field man sent out to prospect on strange
worlds for the relics of vanished races. One of them wasn’t
even human—the green-tinted skin and hairless head stamped him a Rigellian. But his faintly scaled body, in spite
of its odd sinuosity, was clad just like the others. Dane was
trying not to stare at him when Mura came up and touched his
arm.
“Dr. Rich is in your cabin. You’ve been moved into
the store cubby—along here—”
A little irked by being so high-handedly assigned to new
quarters, Dane followed Mura down to the domain which was the
steward’s own. There was the galley, the food storage
freezers, and, beyond, the hydro garden which was half Mura’s
concern, half Tau’s, as air officer.
“Dr. Rich,” Mura explained as they went,
“asked to be near his men. He made quite a point of
it—”
Dane looked down at the small man. Just why had Mura added that
last?
More than any of the crew Mura presented an enigma to Dane. The
steward was of Japanese descent—and the apprentice had been
familiar from his early training days with the terrifying story of
what had happened to those islands which had once existed across
the sea from his own native country. Volcanic action, followed by
tidal waves, had overwhelmed a whole nation in two days and a
night—so that Japan had utterly ceased to be—washed
from the maps of Terra.
“Here,” Mura reached the end of the corridor and
waved Dane through a half-open panel.
The steward had made no effort to decorate the walls of his
private quarters, and the extreme neatness of the cabin tended to
have a bleak effect. But on a pull-down table rested a globe of
plasta-crystal and what it contained drew Dane’s
attention.
A Terran butterfly, its jewelled wings spread wide, hung by some
magic in the very centre of the orb, sealed so for all time, and
yet giving every appearance of vibrant life.
Mura, noting Dane’s absorption, leaned forward and tapped
the top of the globe lightly. In answer to that touch the wings
seemed to quiver, the imprisoned beauty moved a fraction.
Dane drew a deep breath. He had seen the globe in the store
room, he knew that Mura collected the insect life of a hundred worlds to fashion his balls—there were two others on board
the Queen. One a tiny world, an aquatic one with fronds of weed
curling to provide shelter for a school of gemmed insect-fish which
were stalked by a weird creature two legged, two armed, but
equipped with wing-like fins and a wicked pronged spear. That was
in a place of honour in Van Rycke’s cabin. Then there was the
other—a vista of elfin towers of silver among which flitted
nearly transparent things of pearly lustre. That was the
Com-Tech’s particular treasure.
“One may create such, yes,” Mura shrugged. “It
is a way of passing time—like many others.”
He picked up the globe, rolled it in protecting fibre and stowed
it away in a partitioned drawer, cushioned against the take-off of
the Queen. Then he pulled aside a second panel to show Dane his new
quarters.
It was a secondary store room which Mura had stripped and
refurnished with a hammock and a foot locker. It was not as
comfortable as his old cabin, but on the other hand it was no worse
than the quarters he had had on both the Martian and Lunar training
ships during his Pool cruises.
They blasted off for Limbo before dawn and were space borne
before Dane aroused from an exhausted sleep. He had made his way to
the mess hall when the warning sounded again and he clutched the
table, swallowing painfully as he endured the vertigo which
signalized their snap into Hyper-space. Up in the control
compartment Wilcox, the Captain, and Rip would be at their
stations, not able to relax until the break-through was
assured.
He wouldn’t, Dane decided not for the first time since he
had entered training for space, be an astrogator for any reward the
Federation could dream up. One fractional mistake in
calculations—even with two computers taking most of the
burden of the formula run-off—would warp your ship into a
totally unknown lane, might bring you out inside a planet
instead of the necessary distance off its surface. He had had the
theory of the break-through pounded into him, he could go through
the motions of setting up a course, but he privately doubted if
he would ever have the courage to actually take a ship into
Hyper-space and out again.
Frowning at the unoffending wall he was once more listing his
own shortcomings when Rip called.
“Man—” the astrogator-apprentice dropped down
on a seat with a deep sigh, “well, we’re in once more
and nothing cracked!”
Dane was honestly surprised. He was no astrogator, it was all
right for him to feel some doubts. But that Rip should display
relief at having his own particular share of duty behind him for a
while was something else.
“What’s the matter?” Dane wondered if
something had threatened to go wrong.
“Nothing, nothing,” the other waved a hand.
“But we all feel easier after the jump.” Rip laughed
now. “Man, you think we don’t sweat it out?
We maybe hate it more than you do. What have you got to worry about
until we planet again? Nothing—”
Dane bristled. “No? We’ve only cargo control,
supplies, hydro—” he began to enumerate the duties of
his section. “What good does a successful break-through do
when your air goes bad—”
Rip nodded. “All right, none of us is dead weight. Though
this trip—” he stopped suddenly and glanced over his
shoulder in a way which surprised Dane.
“Did you ever meet an archaeologist before, Dane?”
The cargo-apprentice shook his head. “This is my first
trip out, remember? And we don’t get much briefing in history
at the Pool—except where it influences
Trade—”
Rip lounged back on the bench, but kept his voice trained low,
until it was hardly above a murmur.
“I’ve always been interested in the
Forerunners,” he began. “Got the tapes of
Haverson’s ‘Voyages’ and Kagle’s
‘Survey’ in my gear now. Those are the two most
complete studies that have been made so far. I messed with Dr. Rich
this morning. And I’ll swear he never heard of the Twin
Towers!”
Since Dane had never heard of them either, he couldn’t
quite see what Rip was trying to prove. But, before he could ask
any questions, the blankness of his look must have betrayed his
ignorance for the other made a quick explanation.
“Up to now the Twin Towers are about the most important
Forerunner find Federation Survey has ever made. They’re on
Corvo—standing right in the centre of a silicon
desert—two hundred feet high, looking like two big fingers
pointing into the sky. And as far as the experts have been able to
discover, they’re solid clear through—made of some
substance which is neither stone nor metal, but which certainly has
lasting properties. Rich was able to cover his slip pretty well,
but I’m sure he’d not heard of them.”
“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 which 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?