S.T.A.R. FLIGHT
Authors: E.C. Tubb
S.T.A.R. FLIGHT
E. C. TUBB
In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:
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Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.
The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.
Welcome to the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy. Welcome to the most comprehensive electronic library of classic SFF titles ever assembled.
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Martin Preston opened his eyes and stared at a vaulted ceiling of natural stone. Through a mullioned window bright sunshine threw a pattern of lines and splotches over the high mound of the coverlet. Somewhere a bird twittered and, from below, came the harsh crunch of booted feet. Sentries, he thought and, suddenly, was wide awake.
Stretching, he looked about the room. It was small, bare, gay only with fabrics but it was in the Schloss Steyr with all that implied. He stretched again. The bed was soft, the coverlet made of genuine eiderdown, the sun bright on archaic furnishings.
He rose, showered in a small annex, not noticing the anachronism, shaved and combed his hair. The organizers had made things easy. He wore his own shirt, pants and shoes, slipping ornamented covers over the footwear, covering his twenty-first century clothes with a long robe with its girdle and jeweled dagger. He drew it. The blade was polished but of soft metal. He could, he supposed, do some damage with a really vicious thrust and would be able to cut butter if he had to but it was more of an ornament than a weapon. Lastly he donned the hat, a fore-and-aft affair with a feather.
After breakfast he examined the schloss.
Once there had been banners, trumpets, and full panoply of rank and privilege with armed and armoured men bristling like cockerels fiercely jealous of their pride. But that, thought Preston sadly, had been a long time ago. A time when the stars had been lanterns carried by angels to light the paths of souls to Heaven instead of the luminaries of habitable worlds. Now, though there were still banners
and men carrying arms; tall halberdiers and those who, like himself, wore costume, it was a thing of make-believe; the pride that of those engaged in a successful business venture. Somehow it was not the same.
Outside, with the sun warm on back and shoulders, he looked at the ancient, lichened stone of the schloss. Once that stone had given adequate protection to those within; the stone and the great portcullis which was ceremoniously lowered each evening at dusk. But that too was make-believe — a postern gave uninterrupted access to the hotel.
Turning, he filled his lungs with the clean mountain air. It carried the scent of pine from what remained of the forest below. Looking at the scanty trees it was hard to realize that when this castle was new, later even, the forest had stretched further than the eye could see. There had been wildlife, too — wolves, boars and smaller game. Bears too, perhaps. He must remember to ask.
“Good morning, Herr Preston.” The man was small, round, wearing the tabard of a herald. “You are enjoying your holiday?”
Preston nodded. “What little I’ve had of it.”
“Ah, you arrived but late yesterday — now I remember.” The herald spoke a curiously stilted Galactic. It was obviously an attempt to stay in character but, thought Preston, to have done the job properly he should have used Latin or Norman French or some other forgotten tongue. But then, he asked himself, who would have been able to understand him?
“You slept well,” said the herald. “All who come here sleep well. The air,” he touched the tips of bent fingers to his lips before throwing them to the horizon, “is superb!”
Preston could agree with that. He hadn’t slept so soundly or eaten breakfast with such an appetite for years.
“I come to announce the Great Tourney,” said the little man importantly. “Late this afternoon knights will joust for the love of their ladies and the honour of their coat armour. There —”
“What is coat armour?” interrupted Preston.
“You see this?” The herald gestured towards his tabard. “In the old days, ordinary people, you understand, could not read. And, when in armour, the face of the man could not be seen. But all could recognize symbols. So a knight wore certain devices on his shield and surcoat to identify himself. Coat armour came to mean the badge of himself or his House. You understand?”
Preston nodded.
“There will be prizes,” continued the herald. “Wagers may be laid. There will be refreshments and a Great Melee. And there will be real horses,” he added. “Especially bred and flown in for the occasion. No expense has been spared to make this a unique spectacle. It is one you should not miss.”
“I don’t intend to,” said Preston. He’d heard about these jousts. Not only real horses but real armour and weapons were used. There was real blood and sometimes real death. Watching the carnage made the girls excited, erotic and eager for romance. Tonight, with luck, he wouldn’t sleep alone.
“You are wise,” said the herald. “Late this afternoon, remember. A ticket may be purchased from reception. It would be best not to delay.”
He nodded and moved on, a colourful little figure working hard to maintain an illusion. Preston watched him go, then entered the castle.
Inside were still ancient stones and stained arches, narrow, spiral stairs and wedge-shaped embrasures ending in cruciform arrow-slits. Even the cracked paving stones belonged to the distant past. But now they were covered with a layer of clear plastic, the once-ubiquitous dampness had been dried from the air, the natural gloom dissipated by strategically placed flambeaux. Colourful synthetics had replaced the tapestries which had once striven to soften the bleak walls. Burnished steel made spots of glitter against the stone.
Preston had an interest in weapons. He studied them, feeling a trace of envy for the soldiers of ancient times. Life had been much simpler then and war a personal thing. A man had to really be a man in those days, he thought. It was him against his opponent and no dodging. No hiding either. No running, what with wearing blazons of identity. There had to be pride then, he told himself. Pride of position. Pride in the symbols you wore. Above all pride of self. Pride, he thought. A devalued word in the currency of today.
The armour was like a mirror, reflecting his face in distorted lines but not so distorted that it was grotesque. It was a strong face, hard, the eyes a little too deep, the mouth a little too thin. A young face prematurely aged by strain and responsibility.
Another joined it, smoother, softer, stamped with arrogance.
“You are interested in old things?” The Kaltich stood so close that Preston could smell the scent he wore, an acrid, orange-like perfume, hear the slight metallic sounds as he moved the arm from which dangled his whip.
Immediately he turned to face the alien. “Yes, sire.”
“It is a tendency I have noted,” mused the Kaltich. He was old, the skin around his eyes creped with faint lines, corpulent beneath the wide belt he wore. He was dressed all in yellow and black. A beta, thought Preston. Probably an officer in charge of the blacks. “You people seem to be enamored with the past. Even this,” he gestured with his whip at the hotel, “is symptomatic. Why do you go to such trouble to recreate an ancient way of life?”
“As a diversion,” said Preston. “As a novelty. It is something different,” he explained. “People like to dress in exotic clothes and share a party atmosphere. It doesn’t mean anything,” he added. “It is only for amusement.”
“And the men who will try to kill each other this afternoon?”
“That too,” insisted Preston.
“An odd form of amusement. The watchers I can
understand. The participants I cannot. They do it for reward?”
“There are prizes,” admitted Preston.
“But not for all?”
“No, sire. Only for those who win.”
The alien twitched his whip. Preston watched it with a cautious eye. The thing was an eighteen-inch length of woven metal, the whole covered with minute barbs carrying a particularly painful form of nerve-poison. A man could never forget having been struck with such a whip.
“I assure you, sire,” he said, “it is so.”
The Kaltich made no comment. He was, thought Preston, new to Earth. New and a little curious and probably more than a little suspicious. He felt a wave of anger. To hell with him! If he didn’t like the way Earth lived he could leave. They could all leave, the whole supercilious bunch. We can do without them, he told himself. They and their ways and nasty little habits. Their insistence on a respectful form of address and their quickness to whip anyone who forgets. But, he thought bleakly, were they wholly to blame?
“I must congratulate you,” said the alien abruptly. “Your Galactic is faultless.”
“Thank you, sire,” said Preston. “For many years now it has been taught in all our schools.”
“That is wise,” said the Kaltich. “Such enterprise is to be encouraged. It is important that you people should be able to communicate with those who live on other worlds. It will not be long,” he added, “before you will be meeting them face to face.”
“We live for the day, sire,” said Preston tightly. He wondered if his rage was obvious. “It seems a long time in coming.”
“It will come.” Again the twitch of the whip. “When you are ready, it will come.”
And so, thought Preston savagely, will Christmas, free longevity for all, pie in the sky and a mule and forty acres
for every man. Promises, he told himself. I’m sick of their damned promises. They’ve fed them to us for fifty years. We’ve lapped them up since they came among us from nowhere and made our own space programme seem like the pathetic efforts of children. We should have kept on, he thought. No matter how silly those rockets seemed. At least they would have been ours. We wouldn’t have had to wait, begging, in the hope of being permitted to use their Celestial Gates. Wait and fall over backwards in trying to please them. We shouldn’t have had to throw away our pride.
“You are attending the tourney this afternoon.” The Kaltich was abrupt. “I shall require you to explain any detail of which I may riot have knowledge. Arrange it.”
He strode away without waiting for a reply.
