S.T.A.R. FLIGHT (2 page)

Fuming, Preston made his way to reception. He had looked forward to the tourney but now the enjoyment was gone. And so, he thought bitterly, was his vacation. Having found himself a convenient guide in Preston, the alien wouldn’t bother to find another. Preston could refuse and possibly nothing would happen if he stayed out of the alien’s way. But, in years to come, when he had need of what they offered, he would be refused. The Kaltich were never successfully opposed. Men valued life too highly for that.

“Yes, sir?” The girl behind the counter was young, lovely, more than beautiful in her robe of surrogate samite. Thick coils of hair were looped beneath a long, pointed hat from which trailed a veil of gossamer.

“I was talking to an alien,” said Preston hopefully. “A beta. How long is he staying?”

“Cee Thurgood,” she said promptly. “He is the only one we have staying with us,” she added. “He is here for two weeks.”

Preston was booked for one. “I want a ticket to the tourney,” he said dully. It was going to be a pretty grim week.

“A ticket to the joust? Certainly, sir.” Her smile was radiant. “Your name?” He told her. Thoughtfully she pursed her lips. “I believe there was a message for you, sir. Have you received it?”

“No.”

“It was sent to your room. A moment, if you please.” She went to a rack, returned with an envelope. “Your pardon, sir. You were to have been paged.”

He took the envelope, ripped it open, read the message. It had originated in New York and consisted of two worlds.
Lewis Carroll
.

“Damn!” The transition was too abrupt. He had adjusted his mind to the prospect of an uninterrupted vacation, prepared to sink into the make-believe world of the castle. It had been the first chance to enjoy himself for years. He crumpled the scrap of paper in his fist.

“Is something wrong, sir?” The girl was concerned.

“Bad news,” he said. “I’m afraid that I’ll have to cancel my booking. Can that be arranged?”

She was dubious. “It isn’t normal sir. I don’t know if a refund can be granted. The schloss is full and we don’t accept short bookings.”

“Look,” he urged. “I’m not going to be eating anything for the rest of the week. Not here. Can’t I at least be refunded the value of the food?”

“I really don’t know,” she insisted. “The decision isn’t mine to make. I’ll ask the manager, but —”

“You do that,” he interrupted. “Later. In the meantime is there a flight to New York this morning?” He brooded as she went to find out. The message was obvious when you knew the code. Carroll, his story and, more particularly, his poem.

“The time has come, the walrus said, to speak of many things …”

It was Raleigh who wanted to speak, of course, not the walrus. Preston wondered what the local chief of STAR had on his mind. Something important or he would never have
been sent for.
The time has come!

He dropped the message into his pocket as the girl returned.

“There is no direct flight this morning, sir.” She paused and Preston felt a guilty satisfaction. If he couldn’t get away then it wouldn’t be his fault. “However, there is an ICPM leaving Salzburg for New York within the hour. If you hurry you will just be able to catch the local flight to the field. Shall I book you a place?”

“Do that,” said Preston. And ran upstairs to change.

There was trouble in the city. Preston sat glowering as the cab made yet another detour. He was tense, irritable, head and body aching from the punishing thrust of the rocket which had flung him six thousand miles in distance and six hours backwards in solar time. Intercontinental passenger missiles were all right, he thought, as long as you didn’t have to ride in them. It was an experience he didn’t want to repeat. And, after the schloss, New York smelt like a sewer. Even at five in the morning it stank. The city, he thought, was rapidly becoming nothing more than a festering abscess. Someone should lance it and soon.

He grunted with impatience as the cab braked to a halt. Leaning forward, he yelled through the partition. “What’s it this time?”

“A roadblock.” The driver was phlegmatic. You couldn’t be anything else if you drove in the city and hoped to remain sane. “Relax, buddy. It can’t hold us up forever.”

Preston slumped back in his seat.

“You know,” said the driver, “that’s the trouble with the world. Too many guys in a hurry. And for what? To get somewhere fast. And what do they do when they get there? They sit down and beef about how long it took them. Now, what I say is if they didn’t take time out to gripe they wouldn’t have to be in such a hurry. Like the man said; what’s the point of saving a coupla minutes if you don’t know what you’re going to do with them?”

Preston made noises, looking through the window at a red glow in the sky.

“Fire,” said the driver. “All the time now we get fires. Like I was reading once, someone must be flame-happy. A
piro … paro …”

“Pyromaniac,” said Preston.

“That’s the word. Some guy just loves the sight of a good fire. A frustrated fireman, maybe? What do you think, bud?”

“How long do you think we’re going to be stuck here?”

“So who cares? An hour, a day, what’s the difference? Listen,” said the cab driver. “You got all the time in the world. We both have. You know all that three score and ten crap? Well, that’s just for the birds. We got plenty of time. So why not sit back and enjoy yourself? You want music?” He thumbed the button of a radio. “You got music. You want something to eat? That I can’t give you. You want to stop feeling hungry? Just think of all those kids starving in the east. Anything else?”

“Yes,” said Preson. “How much do I owe you?”

“You figuring on getting out, buddy? Here?”

“That’s right.”

“Man, you’re crazy!” The driver shook his head. “The gangs are out and on the rampage. What do you think this holdup’s for? You wanna get chased? Beaten to a jelly? Robbed and maybe killed? Take my advice, buddy, you sit it out and stay safe. So what if it costs a little? What’s dough against skin? This heap’s got shatterproof glass and locked doors. They may be able to dent us a little, sure, but that’s all they can do. Solid tyres, armoured gas tank, sealed hood. Man, we’re impregnable!”

“How much,” said Preston tiredly. “For the ride,” he added. “I don’t figure on paying for anything else.”

“Fifteen,” said the driver. He saw Preston’s face. “All right,” he corrected hastily. “Just give me a fin.” He tripped the door lock as Preston handed him five gu’s. “Luck buddy. Watch yourself.” He slammed the door as Preston left the cab.

For the first half-mile there was no trouble. Rounding a corner, Preston saw a crowd and ducked back quickly before he was seen. Crossing the street, he ran the opposite
way towards the glow of the fire. There would be police there and firemen. Soldiers too, perhaps. He turned another corner and ran smack into a group.

“Hey there, man! Lookit what we got!” A youth, hair roached and dyed, naked but for moccasins, beads and a leather belt supporting an apron front and rear, jumped forward and gripped Preston by the arm. His other hand rested on the hilt of a knife tucked in his belt. “A square!” he yelled. “A regular square!”

“Gimmealook!” A girl, tall, lithe, young, breathed on Preston. She wore a loose, sleeveless dress, sandals, beads and a knife. Long plaits hung over prominent breasts. Like the youth she was hideous with paint. “Hey, man!” she shrieked. “Howdylike?” She turned and flipped up the back of her dress. She wore nothing beneath.

“You’re going to be scalped,” said the youth with roached hair. “Scalped but good!”

“Let’s do it for real.” Others joined the few around Preston. A pimply-faced character came up and spat in his face. A badge the size of a saucer dangled on his shaved chest:
No Trespass on Terra!
A girl clung to his arm. She wore her badge lower down:
Don’t Meditate_Copulate!

“Ransom,” she shrilled. “How much can he pay?”

“Take it all,” yelled a voice from the back of the crowd. “Strip him for the gauntlet.”

“Scalp him!”

“Skin him!”

“Use him for a target!”

“Who’s for long pig?”

Preston breathed deeply as he heard the suggestions. These kids weren’t playing. Their knives weren’t toys. The paint they wore in emulation of the old Indians was put on for the same basic reason. They were on the warpath hunting for prey. He had fallen right into their lap.

He looked at the youth with the roached hair. He was grinning, his grip not as tight as it had been, confident that the press of numbers would hold Preston safe. The girl
leaned against him on the other side, pointed fingernails an inch from his eyes. She had, he thought absently, a nice figure. Washed, she would be really attreactive.

Something hit him in the rear. He turned, spinning from the threatening nails, jerking his arm free of the youth’s grip. A bearded, filth-stained man of about twenty stood behind him. He wore what seemed to be a necklace of human ears around his neck and the pelt of a king-sized rat on his head. He carried a rusty pitchfork in both hands. He lifted it, aiming at the eyes, yelling as he jabbed it forward. Preston swung up one arm, knocking it upwards so that it passed over his head. The man swore. Preston kicked him in the groin.

He jumped forward as the man fell, springing over the writhing body, landing on both feet. He fronted a knife, a pair of slanting eyes and a badge reading
UP All Aliens!
He drove his fist into the centre of the badge, dodged the knife, hit at the neck with the stiffened edge of his palm. Slant eyes made a grunting noise and toppled to one side. Two others rushed at Preston, saw his expression and changed their minds. Instead they joined the crowd chasing him as he raced down the street. Cheering, screaming, baying like hounds, they ran after him as if they were huntsmen after a fox.

Head down, elbows tucked into his sides, he ran towards the fire.

It was near the Yonkers Gate, a small block of once high-priced apartments, long ago converted to a still high-priced slum, now wreathed in flame. The dispossessed stood about with a few hastily salvaged belongings. Hoses snaked from hydrants and a couple of helicopters were dropping oxygen-absorbing foam. Above the engines, the noise, the roar of flames could be heard the thin, spiteful sounds of shots. An armoured police truck swung up its dual machine guns and blasted a nearby rooftop. One of the helicopters swung low and robbed the place of breathable air. There were no more shots.

Preston skirted the fire, no longer running but still followed by the zanily dressed crowd. Somehow he had become the head of a yelling conga line. He led them towards the Gate where a triple line of armed soldiers stood on guard. The National Guard, he thought, or regular troops. They stood in a circle about the perimeter of the Gate and looked like they meant business.

“Hey, lookit the boy scouts!” The youth with the roached hair ran past Preston and thumbed his nose at the guards. The girl followed, turning and flipping up the back of her dress in unmistakable insult.

“Beat it,” snapped a guard. “Quick or you’ll get perforated.”

“Says who?” sneered the youth.

“Alien lover,” yelled the girl.

“I mean it,” said the guard. “We got orders. Start shoving and you’ll be sorry. Now get the hell out of here before you get hurt.”

He was on edge, sweating, the moisture running down his face from the inside of his helmet. His eyes were wild. The knuckles of both hands showed white where he gripped his gun. An automatic rifle, Preston noted. These boys were ready for anything.

Quietly he turned and walked away.

Off to one side a convoy of trucks stood with covered loads, the vehicles grouped in a tight echelon. Their drivers stood in a cluster, smoking, watching what was going on. Preston joined them and nodded towards the vehicles. “Waiting to unload?”

One of the drivers took the cigarlet from his mouth. A number three size, Preston saw; driving for the Gates paid well. “What’s it to you?”

“Fifty if you can get me inside.” It was a hopeless request but it served as an excuse. The zanies were still milling around and he didn’t want them to catch him alone. “Fifty,” he said again. “On!”

“You’re crazy.” The driver was a big man with a mottled face and a wart on the side of his nose. “So we put you in the truck and drive you up to the Gate,” he said. “What happens when we unload?”

“You put me in a crate,” said Preston. “Nail it tight. How are they going to know what’s in it?”

“They check every item,” said another driver. He looked at Preston and shook his head. “You wouldn’t have a chance,” he insisted. “They’d find you for sure.” He kicked thoughtfully at a tyre. “You ever been beaten with one of those whips?”

Preston didn’t answer.

“Once over the line, pal, and you’re in Kaltich territory. They don’t take kindly to trespassers. You get whipped and you’ll wish that you’d never been born. Anyway,” he said, “why do you want to get to the Gate? You thinking of passing through?”

“Maybe,” said Preston.

“Why? Isn’t Earth good enough for you?”

“That’s right,” said the driver with the wart on his nose. “You on the run, buster?”

“No,” said Preston. “It isn’t that.”

“Then what’s the idea of the bribe?” The driver glowered.

“Nothing,” said Preston. He began to walk away. “I only asked,” he said. “That’s all.”

“You a spot? You testing our loyalty or something?” The driver spat out his cigarlet and lifted a clenched fist. “Why, for two pins I’d —”

“Can it, Joe,” snapped the other driver. “So it was a test. We passed, didn’t we? So can it.”

“He was trying to bribe us,” said Joe. He sounded aggrieved. “We should report it, turn him in.”

Nice, thought Preston. One of your own kind, your own race, willing to do a thing like that. To tell an alien that you were trying to get close to his precious Gate. To open his big mouth and get you beaten and black-listed and maybe worse. Scum like that isn’t worth saving, he told himself. Let
them rot in their own slime. But they aren’t all like that, he thought. Maybe not even them, not really. It’s just that they’ve got good jobs and don’t want to lose them. But the rancour remained.