S.T.A.R. FLIGHT (11 page)

“Preston.” He ignored the outstretched hand. “What are you in for?”

“I had a girl. A nice girl. We was going to get married. Had permission and everything. A delta saw her and wanted to use her. I didn’t like the idea.” Hughen sucked in his cheeks. “I knocked his hand off her arm,” he said. “When he gave me the whip I kicked him where it hurt most. Stupidest damn thing I ever did,” he said. “I lost the girl, most of my neck, everything. You?” Preston told him. Hughen whistled. “Man, are you in trouble! An alpha! Where did you get the gear?”

Preston didn’t answer. A stoolie, he thought. A pigeon. They must think I’m green putting me in here with him. Do they really expect me to spill all I know? If you do you’re dead, he warned himself. As yet they don’t know I killed that alpha. They can’t think that way. To them a man wearing red is the next thing to God.

“You know the best thing to do in a case like yours?” said Hughen. “Tell them everything they want to know. Cooperate all along the line. That’s what I’d do,” he said. “That’s what I did. Now I’m all fixed. They got me a job,” he explained. “Another chance to make good. Tough, maybe, but it’s more than I deserve. Not after kicking that delta. You play along with them and you’ll be all right,” he summed up. “Take my tip and tell them all they want to know.”

“Go to hell,” said Preston.

“They’ll get it anyway,” his cell mate pointed out. “They can use drugs to spread you wide open. They can take out your brain and put it in a case …” He shuddered. “It makes me feel sick when I think of all the things they can do.

“Yes,” said Preston.

“I’m telling you, that’s all. Just telling you.”

Shut up, damn you, thought Preston. I don’t need you to tell me the spot I’m in. So far I’ve been lucky. Somehow I got Dultar’s goat. He lost his head and went too far. But it isn’t over yet.

Irritably he began to pace the cell. It was solid, broken only by the barred door. He went to it, leaned against it,
tried to look down the corridor to either side. The bars were too close; he could see nothing but a short extension of the concrete wall. He examined the ceiling. Aside from the glowing plate it was as solid as the walls, the floor. He returned to the door and looked at the lock. It was, he guessed, electronically operated, controlled from a central point.

“If you’re looking for a way out,” said Hughen, “forget it. There isn’t one.”

“No,” said Preston. And yet there had to be a way. He couldn’t just sit here like a pig in a slaughterhouse waiting for them to come and empty his mind.

“Why don’t you just sit down and relax?” said Hughen. He coughed. “Listen,” he said apologetically. “From what you told me you haven’t much of a chance. Me, well I’m due to get out. If you want for me to carry a message or something?”

Preston turned from the door and looked at the man.

“A few words to the wife, maybe? Or the girl friend?” Hugen shrugged. “I’m only trying to be helpful,” he said. “You can trust me.”

“In a pig’s eye,” said Preston. He turned, looking through the door as footsteps approached. Two null guards halted outside the cell. One gestured to Preston.

“You. Back against the wall.” He pointed to Hughen. “You! Outside!” He stood back as the door slid open. “Hurry!”

The epsilon obeyed. In the corridor he hesitated, looking at Preston. “Take my advice,” he urged. “Play it smart. Tell them all they want to know and maybe they’ll go easy with you. After all,” he added. “What can you lose?”

“Not much,” admitted Preston. He came close to the door, hoping to catch a fold of his robe between the lock and its jamb. One of the nulls stepped forward, thrusting out his stiffened arm.

“Back!” he snapped. “Right back!”

Preston spat blood from his lacerated mouth.

Alone he gulped water, rinsing his mouth, taking stock of the situation. Aside from the robe he was naked. The robe and the chain. Again he examined it. The cuffs obviously contained the source of electrical energy together with the triggering mechanism. Gently he applied strain, hastily bringing his hands close together as pain stabbed at both wrists. Thoughtfully he stared at the glowing plate in the ceiling. It was just within reach and he ran the tips of his fingers around the edges. Nothing. His fingernails were too short and fragile to serve as screwdrivers. Again he looked at his manacles.

Water, he thought. The cuffs needn’t be waterproof and, if they weren’t, he could probably wreck the mechanisms, short them out in some way. Lifting the hem of his robe he tore at it with his teeth. The fabric, inferior plastic, yielded easily to the strain. Sliding the cuffs up each arm as far as they would go, he wrapped strips of the robe around each wrist, forcing the cuffs back over the crude insulation. Gritting his teeth he jerked. The chain snapped tight but held. Wincing, he closed his wrists together and tried again. The chain still held.

Wiping sweat from his forehead, he crossed to the faucet and looped the chain around the tap. Balancing on one leg, he pressed the other against the wall and thrust with all his strength. The tap bent a little, then the chain snapped with a vicious
ping
. Smoke rose from both wrists together with the stench of burning insulation. Quickly he turned on the faucet and held the cuffs in the stream of water. The smoke increased, something sparked, snapped, and the cuffs sprang open. Hastily he tore the burning plastic from his seared wrists. The stuff had softened with the heat, spreading and sticking like tar. When he ripped it off, skin tore free, leaving ugly raw patches seeping blood.

Cuffs and chain in hand he stepped towards the door and examined the lock. He fed the chain between the lock and jamb, making sure that it could move. He snapped shut the
cuffs about the lock and the opposing bar, then tugged at the chain. It grew red, softened, fell in molten droplets. The cuffs smoked as they released their energy into the lock. Preston jerked at the door. It opened. He stepped from the cell.

Outside, a corridor studded with barred doors and lit by a row of flowing plates in the ceiling ran to either side. The nulls had taken Hughen to the right. There would be a gate of some kind, an officer on duty, perhaps several. If he managed to get to the gate he would get no further. He ran along the corridor in the opposite direction halting when he saw the grill of an air vent. He thrust his fingers into the mesh and pulled. His position was awkward, the leverage all wrong. He gripped harder and swung up his legs, setting his feet to either side of the grill. Quickly, before gravity could overcome his limited strength, he heaved, using the full power of leg and shoulder muscles. The grill bent, cutting into his fingers, suddenly tearing free. He fell heavily. From one of the cells a face peered.

“Hey! What’s going on out there? Hey, you!”

“Shut your mouth!” snarled Preston. He flung the grill at the cell door and sprang towards the opening. It gave onto a narrow ventilation shaft. He dived down it, tearing his robe on slight projections, choking as he stirred up clouds of accumulated dust. He came to a junction and hesitated. Wetting a finger he held it before his face and felt a slight coldness on one side. Without hesitation he moved towards it, hurrying, clawing forward in the darkness, intent only on gaining as much distance as possible before the nulls commenced their search.

The dust, he knew, would make it a simple race against time.

The guards would have lights. They would spot his tracks. All they would have to do would be to follow them. His only hope lay in getting out of the ventilation system and finding somewhere safe to hide before they caught up with him. He swore as his head crashed against a barrier. Blindly he felt to
either side. One shaft led upwards, others to left and right. He forced his head into the one leading upwards, groping with his hands. Without conscious thought he began to climb, wedging himself against the side of the narrow shaft. He froze at the echo of voices.

“This way. Damn! I’ve got blood on my uniform.”

“Makes it easier for us to follow.”

“Get moving there!”

Galvanised, he surged upwards. He felt open space around his head and a slight pressure of air. Twisting from the shaft he turned, keeping the faint wind at his back, diving down an unsloping tube, crawling with elbow and knee motions, unable to lift himself higher. The tube narrowed still more and he felt the scrape of metal on back and stomach. Soon it pressed against his shoulders. He hesitated, wondering whether to retreat, then saw a flash of light ahead. Extending his arms he thrust himself forward with his feet. The light vanished as he touched a grill, replaced by a soft moonglow, barely strong enough to see the barrier. Bracing his feet he pushed, snarling as his bare feet slid on the smooth metal. Hunching his knees he drove himself headfirst against the metal. It yielded a little. Wedging himself in the shaft, he smashed against it with his shoulder. The grill was thin, strictly ornamental. It gave and he fell after it.

He was in a bathroom, the floor thickly carpeted, the furnishings luxurious. A soft glow came from above a wall mirror and he looked at a savage, smeared with dirt and blood, dressed in rags and with burning eyes. He turned and the savage turned with him. The place held a tub, a shower, a toilet, washbasin and bidet. Hunting through a cabinet he found a nailfile ten inches long. He rammed the blunt end into a cake of soap and stepped toward the door. The light in the bathroom had gone on, then off, so it was logical to assume that someone was in the other room. Perhaps more than one, but there was no time to be cautious. Preston
jerked open the door and found himself in a bedroom. Someone was in the bed.

“What —?”

He sprang forward, hitting with the edge of his hand, almost killing before he realized it was a woman. Barely in time he softened the blow, turning the vicious chop into a relentless pressure on the carotids. The woman sighed as she slumped into unconsciousness. A door clicked in another room.

Preston waited, crude knife poised as he crouched beside the door. Nothing. The click had signaled a departure not an arrival. Quickly he checked the wardrobe and found it full of feminine garments. A second bedroom opened from the first and this time the clothes belonged to a man. A gamma. Preston shed his rags and struggled into a uniform which was two sizes too small. Sweating with pain he forced his feet into the shoes then hobbled into a second bathroom, a twin of the first. He washed, combed his hair, found a cream which removed his stubble. Carefully he wiped himself dry, resisting the impulse to run and run and keep on running. First he had to have a plan. And no plan would be worth anything unless he managed to appear respectable. Somehow he had to get out of the building and away from the hunt.

Just let me keep moving, he told himself, and I’ll be all right. Once they’ve lost the trail they’ll have the hell of a job to find it again. No more mistakes, he promised. No more taking things for granted. And, he thought grimly, no more interrogation. That above all.

Taking a deep breath he left the bedroom. The outer rooms were empty; he made sure of that with a quick inspection. Some bottles stood on the table and he helped himself to brandy. The spirit warmed his stomach and he poured himself a second drink while he stood, thinking.

I mustn’t forget anything, he thought. Luck like I’ve had can’t last. Am I dressed right? The whip? The belt? The uniform cap? Do I look right? Indolent. A little bored and
more than a little arrogant. What’s my name? Where am I going? Where have I come from? He swallowed the brandy and paused, looking at drawn curtains. A window, he thought. The first I’ve seen. A chance to look at this world of the Kaltich. It could help.

He drew the curtains.

He looked at sky, land and, in the far distance, the incredible bulk of a building rising like a mountain from a featureless plain. A truncated cone wreathed in cloud so vast that he could only guess at the size.

“Kalthis,” said a voice from behind. A smooth, hatefully familiar voice. “That isn’t a window, of course. Did you think it was?”

Preston turned, slowly, the hand holding the crude knife at his side, shielding it from view with his body. Dultar stood a few yards distant. He was armed with a small pistol which he kept levelled in his left hand. His right toyed with his whip.

“Not a window,” repeated the interrogator. “A simulated projection. But look at the ground. Can you appreciate what has been done in so short a time? New soil from a dozen worlds to replace our sterile loam. Soon we shall have trees and grass and flowers blooming where only slag existed before. This interests you?”

“Very much.” Preston turned a little more, slowly, carefully. In his hand the knife slid through his fingers until he gripped the point of the file. “How did you find me?”

“We traced you. Once we had you trapped there was no immediate hurry.” Dultar looked at Preston’s borrowed clothes. “You seem to have a penchant for imposture. What is your real class?”

“Ordinary man.”

“An epsilon?” Dultar raised his eyebrows. “Surely not. How could a common white show such initiative? Such disregard for rank? You interest me,” he mused. “We shall have many sessions together.”

“I don’t think so,” said Preston.

The interrogator shrugged. “You have no choice in the matter. I am rather looking forward to our talks,” he said. “I shall extract every grain of information you carry. In time I will have the entire truth. I misjudged you before,” he admitted. “I allowed you to inflame my temper. Anger is not good in one of my profession. But,” he added meaningfully, “I shall not make the same mistake again. You will not escape so easily. Soon, my enigma, you will be begging me to grant you the release of death.”

Preston threw his weapon.

It was clumsy, but it was pointed and weighted and that was enough. Dultar made a strangled sound as the point of the file ripped into his eye, the weight of the soap driving it through the socket into the brain. He threw up his head, already dead, reflex constricting his finger as he fell.

The pistol flamed into stammering life.

Preston felt a giant hand smash into his chest, heard an idiot hammer shatter the facsimile window, saw an invisible pick gouge at the wall. He fell, rolled, stared at the blood gushing from his chest.