S.T.A.R. FLIGHT (16 page)

He veered again as they crossed the edge, yelled to the agent as he forged ahead, led the way to where a street ran crookedly from the Gate. Panting, his heart thudding, face streaming with perspiration, Preston ducked down the first intersection, crossed the street, ducked down an inviting alley. A trash can gonged as he stumbled in the gloom. Exhausted, he fell into a deep doorway and waited, ears strained for sounds of pursuit.

Beside him John fumbled in his pockets. “I’ve got the gas,” he whispered. “If they find us, get close —”

Preston nodded, lacking breath to speak, lacking strength to do anything but fight for air. Footsteps passed the end of the alley, hesitated, returned.

“Down here,” said a voice.

“Are you sure?” His companion was doubtful.

“There are shadows. They could be in a doorway. Behind the trash cans even. Come on.”

Preston tensed, hand falling to his whip. I might get one of them, he thought. If I’m quick enough and lucky enough. But never both. I’m to beat for that. “That gas,” he wispered to John. “How far will it travel?”

“A few feet.”

It would have to do. “All right,” breathed Preston. “I’m going out. Spray when you get the chance.”

He stepped from the doorway, hands lifted to shoulder height, halting when he saw the two nulls. As he had guessed from their footsteps they were about twelve feet distant. They froze when they saw him, guns levelled.

“Don’t shoot,” said Preston quickly. He stepped forward, then sagged, a man obviously at the limit of his strength.

“Where’s the other one?” A null stepped closer. “Answer! Where is he?”

Preston gestured with his whip. “Down there,” he mumbled. “I couldn’t keep up. Just had to rest. I —” He broke off, gasping.

“Don’t move!” The nulls came closer, their eyes watchful, manner suspicious. Preston sagged a little more, swaying as if he was about to fall. A null stepped immediately before him. Reaching for the whip, he began to slip the loop from Preston’s wrist. Preston dropped his other hand down to the null’s gun and pushed it aside as he fetched up his knee. The gun exploded as the man doubled in pain.

“You —!” The other null jumped back, gun lifted, knuckle white on the trigger. Preston fell, clawing at the gun in his victim’s hand. He gained it as something dark ran from the doorway. A gun barked once, twice.

Preston fired the third shot. The null slumped, a hole
between his eyes. John groaned as he tried to stem the gush of blood from his stomach.

“You damned fool!” Preston lifted the man’s head. “Why didn’t you use the gas?”

“I tried. The range was too far. Not much good in the open.” The GERM agent coughed. “You’d better get moving,” he gasped. “Don’t worry about me.”

Preston stooped, lifted the man, sweating beneath the strain.

“Don’t!” The cry was almost a scream. “You can’t help me. Put me down! Damn you! Put me down!” John coughed again as he sagged on the concrete. “Get moving you fool! Run! Don’t let everything we’ve done go to waste!”

Preston took a deep breath. Rising, he looked towards the end of the alley. People, civilians, were gathered into the opening. Vultures, he thought. Attracted by the sight of blood, the aura of violence. They wore sober clothing and were probably harmless but, harmless or not, they would draw the attention of others.

He stooped, scooped up a gun, looked at John. The man had his eyes closed in the repose of death. “Goodbye,” said Preston. And ran.

Ten minutes later he halted and wiped the sweat from his face. There was no sign of pursuit and he doubted if there would be. He had penetrated too deep into the city, was too far from the Gate. For the first time he had the chance to look around and orient himself.

The city wasn’t New York.

At least it wasn’t the New York he knew. He tilted his head searching for a familiar skyline. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the whip. He couldn’t recognize anything he saw.

Chung Hoo sat at his desk and studied a graph. It was a simple thing and because of that carried no obvious threat or terror, but to anyone with imagination the two lines, one red and other green, spelled out a sickening message. The population was increasing faster than the total food production. Too fast. Every tick of the clock someone, somewhere, was dying of literal starvation.

But with every tick of that same clock how many new mouths came yelling into the world? A hundred? More? One would be one too many.

The handwriting on the wall, he thought, looking at the graph. The message any schoolboy had the intelligence to understand but which we’ve ignored for too long. Ignored because politicians aren’t schoolboys. Pushed to one side for later solution. There has to be a solution, he told himself fiercely. One way or another the teeming masses of the world had to be fed. Fed, he thought bleakly, or reduced.

His intercom hummed. He pressed a button. “Yes?”

“A visitor, sir,” said his secretary. “Gamma Eldon of the Kaltich.”

“Send —” The door burst open before he could finish. “Never mind.” He rose to greet his visitor. “Gamma Eldon, sire! This is a pleasure!”

“Not for me,” snapped the Kaltich. “And I doubt if it will be for you.” He sat without waiting for an invitation. “The patience of the Kaltich is close to exhaustion,” he said
abruptly. “We are on the verge of closing the New York Gate. Permanently,” he added. “And there could be others.”

“The reason?”

“The utter lack of cooperation we have been receiving from the local authorities. And,” said Eldon savagely, “by local I mean the authorities of this world. UNO, for example. The national services. Everyone.”

Chung Hoo sat down, thoughtful, his face its accustomed mask. An upstart, he thought, looking at the Kaltich. A man enjoying a recent promotion. Wanting to throw his weight about, prove something to himself, perhaps. It was an unpleasant change. At first the Kaltich had been pleasant, persuasive, eager to make mutually satisfying arrangements. They were still persuasive, he thought. But now it was the persuasion of the whip.

“Let us be more precise,” he said. “Are you speaking of the demonstration?”

“That and other things.”

“Such as?”

“A man named Martin Preston. An organisation known as STAR.” Eldon slashed his whip at the desk, the metal barbs scarring the carefully polished wood. “You must know about them.”

“STAR is a group of fanatical idealists,” said Chung Hoo quietly. “People of limited imagination. It amuses them to act as conspirators. But they have few members and little strength. They certainly do not have official backing.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Again the whip slashed a scar on the wood. He’s substituting, thought Chung Hoo. He really wants to send that lash across my cheek.

Quietly he said, “I must ask you to be more explicit. I cannot guess what is in your mind.”

“I want every member of STAR arrested and interrogated,” said Eldon. “We shall ask the questions. We have our methods,” he added. “But you must conduct the arrests.”

“Why?”

“It is your job. You have the men, the facilities, the local knowledge of where these people are to be found.”

“I didn’t mean that,” said Chung Hoo evenly. “Why do you want to question them?”

“It is not for you to ask questions,” snapped Eldon. The whip made a third scar. “It is for you to obey!”

Chung Hoo leaned back in his chair. Before him, on the desk, the warning graph hardened his resolve. “No,” he said deliberately. “I think not.”

“You defy the Kaltich?”

Act like a doormat, Nader had said, and you’ll be treated like one. “Yes,” said Chung Hoo blandly. “If to refuse to act as you dictate is to defy you then call it that. And,” he added gently, “what do you intend doing about it?”

“The Gates will be closed. All of them!” stormed Eldon. “The heads of your government will die — all the old and helpless will die. No more rejuvenation treatments,” he threatened. “No more spare parts for replacement surgery. No —” He broke off, looking at his host. “You don’t care,” he said wonderingly. “You simply don’t care.”

“That the old and ill and crippled will die?” Chung Hoo looked at the graph. “No,” he admitted, “I don’t care. In a way you would be doing Earth a favour.”

“You must be mad! Insane!”

Perhaps, thought Chung Hoo. No politician should ever allow himself the luxury of true emotion. For a moment he was tempted to further indulge himself, then reluctantly put temptation aside. Too well he knew how quickly those in high places would throw him to the wolves. Continued life, to them, was of greater importance than planetary pride. And yet he had gone too far for a simple apology.

“We digress,” he said. “But it is as well to clarify the position. You can, of course, rely on our full cooperation, but it would be helpful if we knew the full extent of the problem. We have laws,” he pointed out. “There has to be a reason for such mass arrests and interrogations. If you could
tell me a little more? You mentioned a name,” he hinted. “Martin Preston. Could we, perhaps, start with him?”

Eldon ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. His face was white, tense with strain and something else. Rage, thought Chang Hoo. Or could it be fear?

STAR, he thought as he listened. So they’ve finally managed to do it. This time they’ve gone too far. The fools, he told himself. The blind, stupid fools! To send a man in disguise through a Gate. To attack the Kaltich at a most sensitive time. STAR, he thought bitterly. Stupid Thoughtless Arrogant Reactionaries.

And Preston was one of the worst.

Eldon had travelled from the Gate in his own, official car. It waited outside the UNO building in flagrant disregard of the parking regulations. The two nulls in attendance looked stonily at all who passed. A uniformed policeman walked by as if they and the car were invisible. Lou Wensle grinned. “This,” he said, “is going to be a slice of cake.”

His companion grunted for answer. The two men stood in the main hall of the building, looking at the waiting car through the glass doors. Both were dressed as policemen — a disguise which had the double advantage of commanding respect and obedience as well as allowing them to carry pistols in quick-draw holsters. A disguise which also allowed them to use those pistols without causing alarm. The public were always on the side of armed authority.

“You sure he’s here?” Dan Marcey glanced to where the bank of elevators connected with the upper floors.

“I’m sure. We got the word and it’s good. Five hundred units good.” He chuckled again. “Big money,” he murmured. “And plenty more to come.”

Marcey grunted, looking at the elevators. A signal light halted on its downward path, hesitated, moved on down without stopping. “This could be him.”

“It could,” Wensle agreed. “Let’s go.”

Both men stepped forward as the elevator reached the
ground floor. The doors opened, revealing a flash of green. Both men entered, blocking the door, crowding the Kaltich into a corner.

“Down,” snapped Wensle to the operator and then, to Eldon. “Our apologies, sire. You are Gamma Eldon?”

“What is the meaning of this?” Eldon reached for his whip. “How dare you!”

“Zanies are congregating outside, sire,” said Wensle quickly. “They plan a demonstration. We suspect they may have guns. For your own safety, sire, we beg you to cooperate. Your car,” he added, “is waiting in the basement car park.”

The elevator reached the lower floor. The doors opened. Eldon hesitated, relaxing as he caught a glimpse of familiar black.

“Please, sire.” Marcey had stepped outside as if to stand guard. “Hurry before the zanies can figure out what we mean to do.”

“Yes,” said Wensle, no longer polite. His left hand dropped, catching the half of the whip. His right hand put the barrel of his pistol into Eldon’s spine. “Hurry before I blow you in half!”

It was, he thought, one of the smoothest snatch-jobs he had ever pulled.

Jim Raleigh slammed his hand down on the table careless of the bruising impact. “You’re mad,” he said. “Stark, raving insane. What the hell do you hope to get out of it? A medal?”

Oldsworth coughed, saying nothing, his eyes bright and watchful over his handkerchief.

“Kidnapping the Kaltich!” Raleigh threw up his hands. “Hiring gangsters to do it. How long do you think they’ll cover up for you if questioned?”

“I deny it,” said Oldsworth. “I deny everything.”

“That isn’t good enough.” Bernard King, his features as expressionless as ever, stared from where he sat at the table.
“Chung Hoo is no fool. How long will it take him to guess that his secretary was bribed to inform someone when Eldon came visiting? The call could be traced. All right,” he said. “So it went to a phone in some dive or other. That isn’t important. What is important is that STAR will get the blame. We’re skating on thin ice as it is. This could finish us.

“It could finish me,” said Jim Raleigh. “Chung Hoo knows that I’m connected with STAR. He gave me the message. Eldon gets turned loose or else.” He drew a finger across his throat. “Where is he, Harry? This thing has gone far enough.”

Oldsworth coughed again.

“Answer, damn your shouted Raleigh. “Do you want to kill us all?”

Hilda Thorenson lit a cigarlet and watched the smoke as it drifted from the glowing tip. “Let’s be logical about this,” she said. “The Kaltich has refused to give Oldsworth the longevity treatment. What is he supposed to do? Sit down and wait for death?”

“But —”

“He panicked,” she continued, not paying attention to Raleigh’s attempt to interrupt. “That, believe it or not, is about the only sensible thing he could have done. When you’ve nothing to lose, then you try anything, hoping that it might work. You kidnap the Kaltich. You offer to swap their lives for your own. You say to them ‘treat me and your people go free.” Is that right, Harry?”

Oldsworth gnawed at his lower lip. His teeth were yellow, stained. He looked at his veined, shaking hands. “Old,” he said. “Dying. What the hell have I got to lose?”

“So you did snatch Eldon?” Raleigh was quick to the attack, “You admit it?” He half-rose as if to grab the other man by the throat. “Do you realise what you’ve done?”