S.T.A.R. FLIGHT (3 page)

Earthmen, he thought, on their knees to the Kaltich. To hell with them.

He walked quickly from the Gate, the fire, the suspicious drivers. The zanies had gone, running wild through the streets, probably looking for fresh prey, more mischief, something to hurt or destroy. Kids, he thought. Still wet behind the ears but all the more vicious because of it. Kids with the motivations of adults and the thoughtless cruelty of children.

They’re bored, he told himself. Kept too long at school and with nothing to do when they leave. No work, no place in society, nowhere decent to live. Just waiting, killing time until the Kaltich open the Celestial Gates. If they ever opened them. If they ever let the teeming billions of Earth through the empty worlds they swore were waiting.

And, thought Preston, in the meantime we wait, work, say yes, sire, no, sire, three bags full, sire. Eat dirt and grovel for the promise of what? Life, he admitted, that was real enough. The longevity shots they sold and which restored youth for a ten-year period. Spare parts for surgical implants. And the promise that, one day, they would open the Gates and give paradise to every man, woman and child on Earth.

One day.

Pie in the sky, he thought bitterly. Pie in the sky.

Close to the rendezvous he took care to make certain that he was not being followed. He doubted if anyone could have climbed on his tail but it was always possible. And so was something else. Carefully he checked his pockets. Keys, wallet, folding knife, money, pen, handkerchief, comb, cigarlets and lighter. His luggage was at the airport waiting later collection. The weather was too mild for topcoat or hat. He looked curiously at a small, flat, disc-like object
he’d found in the top outer pocket of his jacket.

The girl, of course. She must have slipped it there while she threatened him with her nails. Now he came to think of it there had been nothing childish about her body. A UNO agent? It seemed like it. She would hardly belong to STAR. They would have no reason to load him with a bug.

Hefting it in his hand he stood, eyes shadowed with thought. To dump it? Keep it? Render it inoperative?

He looked around. He was standing before an old building made of brick. The mortar had crumbled leaving deep recesses. He located a place mark, counted, slipped the bug firmly into a crack low down close to the sidewalk. He would recover it later if he wanted. For now it would do no harm. It might even draw out whoever was tagging him.

He glanced at his watch. He had no time to linger. He was late as it was.

Star had its New York special rendezvous in the cellar of a dilapidated restaurant owned by a member of the organization. Preston entered, walked to the bar and ordered a drink. “Lager. Brunmilch Black Label.”

The bartender dumped bottle and glass on the counter, opened the bottle and took the money. He left the cap lying beside the glass. Preston palmed it as he picked up his drink. Sipping it he stared over the restaurant.

Like most places it was open twenty-four hours a day and, no matter what the hour, there were always people eating, drinking, courting, reading or just sitting killing time. And always there was the resident bar-philosopher.

“You got a light, pal?” He was thin with a soiled shirt and tie, his face covered with tiny red lines from broken capillaries. The stump of a number five cigarlet hung from the corner of his mouth. “Thanks,” He puffed smoke. “You look intelligent,” he said. “You look as if you could follow a line of reasoned argument. Name’s Daler,” he said. “Sam Daler.”

Preston touched the proffered hand.

“I was telling that creep behind the bar how to cure our problems,” said Daler. “You know what they are? Too many people,” he said. “That’s the trouble with the world now. Too many goddamned people.”

Preston swallowed more of his lager.

“So what should we do about it?” said Daler. “Kill ’em?” He shook his head. “Can’t do that,” he said with an alcoholic’s concern with detail. “That would be murder. We just can’t kill ’em like a lot of vermin. No. You know what we should do?”

“Yes,” said Preston.

“You know?”

“Sure,” said Preston. “Let them all die of old age.” He winced at Daler’s roar of laughter.

“Say, that’s good!” he yelled. “That’s real good!” He squinted at Preston’s glass. “Let’s have a drink on that. You want another of the same?”

“No,” said Preston.

“Something else, then?”

Preston shook his head, finished his drink and walked from the bar. The toilets were upstairs. He reached them and looked behind. Nobody was watching. He passed the twin doors and ducked behind a curtain. It covered another, heavier door with a slotted box-lock. He slipped the bottle cap into the slot, waited three seconds, then pushed the door open. Beyond lay a flight of stairs leading to the cellar. At the foot was a door with a judas window. He knocked, waited, passed through as the door opened.

“You’re late,” accused Oldsworth. He slammed and barred the door. “We’ve been waiting. What held you up?”

“I ran into a bunch of zanies.” Preston told what had happened. “I was also bugged,” he said mildly. “Did it come from here?”

“Bugged?” Jim Raleigh turned white. “Did you —”

“I dumped it,” explained Preston. “I hid it somewhere safe. Maybe we can find out who is interested in my movements. My guess is that the UNO is getting nosy. Maybe the whole thing was a mistake.” He walked to the table in the centre of the room and sat down. Deliberately he looked around.

Raleigh, the local chief, sat beside Oldsworth, who owned an electronics factory. He looked older than Preston remembered. He must be about due for another treatment, he thought. Jim too, no wonder he acted so scared. The third man was Bernard King, head of local security. The fourth person at the table was a woman.

“Hilda Thorenson,” she introduced herself. “We haven’t
met. I’m a doctor.”

“Medicine, divinity or philosophy?”

“Medicine. I’m a surgeon. And you, of course are Martin Preston. One of STAR’s best agents. Did you enjoy your vacation?”

“Sure,” he said. “The whole seventeen hours of it.” Leaning back he lit a cigarlet and studied the woman. She had attractive, Nordic features and thick blonde hair. She also, thought Preston, had remarkably beautiful hands. “While we’re on the subject,” he said flatly. “Someone owes me some money. You don’t cancel bookings at the Schloss Steyr. You wanted me to get here in a hurry so you can make good the damage.”

“Money,” said Oldsworth. “Is that all you think about? Money!”

“Now, Harry, take it easy.” Raleigh laid a soothing hand on Oldsworth’s arm. “Martin has a right to say what he did. But he doesn’t mean it.”

“Think again,” said Preston coldly. “Look,” he said. “You’re laughing. Oldsworth has his own business, you’re something high up somewhere, King isn’t exactly broke.” He looked at the woman. “You’re all right, doctors come high. What have I got?” He answered his own question. “A half-share in a crummy debt collecting agency. Do you know how long it took me to save for that vacation?”

“Never mind,” said the woman. “You’ll get your money.”

“It’s not just that,” he said, mollified. “I had to bounce an alien.” He looked into their startled eyes. “That’s right. One of the Kaltich picked me to act as guide. I had to let him down. How much do I get paid for losing my chance at longevity?”

“Now really, Martin.” Oldsworth ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. He reminded Preston of a snake. “You can hardly blame that on us. In any case,” he added hopefully, “I doubt if he would remember you.”

“Talk sense.” Preston was irritated, the more so because the situation was of his own making. He had forgotten all
about the alien until he was packed aboard the ICPM. At least he could have pleaded sick or something. “He doesn’t have to remember me. All he needs to do is to notify their computer and it’s curtains for yours truly. Anyway,” he said. “It’s done now. What’s the urgency?”

“This,” said King. He threw a box on the table. It slid along, stopping just before Preston. He opened it.

It contained a neatly severed pair of human hands.

“Lassiter,” said King. He had a broad, flat face which diguised all emotion. He could have been talking about the weather. “I’ve checked the prints and there’s no doubt about it.”

“How did you get them?” Preston didn’t touch the contents of the box. They rested flaccid, pale pink on the palms, deep ebony the rest, strong, long-fingered, sensitive hands. Lassiter had liked to play the guitar and had been good at it. What was the point of a guitar player without hands? “How did you get them?” he said again.

“You don’t have to shout,” said Oldsworth.

“All right, Harry.” Again Raleigh quietened his friend, “They were sent to UNO,” he explained. “By normal post. We have contact there. One of them passed the box to me. To deliver,” he added. “Lassiter has a sister.”

“Chloe.” Preston slammed the lid back on the box. “You were going to give them to her?”

“No, of course not, but I had to let her know he was dead.”

“And when you’d done that, then what?”

“How do you mean?”

“What were you supposed to do with the hands?” Preston was impatient. “Bury them? Cremate them? Hang them out to dry?”

“I was going to destroy them,” said Raleigh. “In the furnace.”

“They don’t want them back at UNO,” said King. “If that’s what you were getting at.”

Preston nodded and looked at the doctor. “Have you examined them?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“They were very neatly removed,” she said clinically. “There are no signs of crushing or bruising nor the slightest trace of compression. They certainly were never chopped off and the wounds are too even for them to have been removed by hand. Something like a microtome could have done it but that’s about all.”

“And the rest of him?” Preston looked at the others, “The rest of Lassiter?”

Raleigh shook his head. “No one knows,” he admitted. “We can only assume that he is dead. They must have discovered him,” he said. “I knew the plan was stupid from the first. The Kaltich aren’t that easily deceived.”

“What happened?”

“We managed to get him among a bunch of selectees,” said King heavily. “It was his own idea. He reckoned he could make it. He intended to pass through, look around and find some way back so he could tell us what he’d seen.” He shrugged, broad face impassive. “That’s all. They must have discovered him in some way and killed him. Sending back his hands was just to let us know they knew about it. A warning.”

“Hands off,” said Preston. He looked at his own, clenched into fists. “Damn them,” he said. “The barbaric swine.” He looked at Raleigh. “What is the UNO going to do about it?”

Raleigh shook his head.

“STAR, then?”

“That’s why we sent for you.” Oldsworth coughed, shielding his mouth with a handkerchief. “We’ve got to make a decision.”

Preston raised his eyebrows.

“Let’s review the situation,” said Oldsworth. He was, Preston reminded himself, no fool. No man who had made his kind of money could be. “You don’t remember the
Kaltich arriving,” he said. “You weren’t born then. It was fifty years ago back in 1983. I was seventy years old then and had a cancer of the spleen. I’ll be honest — I was damned glad they’d come.”

“Sure,” said Preston. “They sold you a new spleen. They sold you the longevity treatment and made you young again for another ten years. You,” he added, “and everyone in your position. Hell, you begged them to give it to you. Gave the Kaltich everything they wanted. How do you like being a beggar, Oldsworth?”

“You’re not being fair,” said Hilda Thorenson. “You’re young and can’t appreciate the desperation of the old.”

“Think again,” he said curtly. “I watched my grandfather die when a thousand lousy units would have saved him. Given him another ten years at least,” he qualified. “I was eight at the time. Now I’m watching my old man go through the same hell. Only he doesn’t have to worry,” he added. “I’ve got his cash safely put to one side. He’ll make it — if he hasn’t upset the Kaltich in some way. Like I did,” he reminded them. “I let one down in order to attend this meeting.”

“He didn’t know you,” said Raleigh. “He can’t know who you are.”

“He could check. The schloss has my particulars.”

King cleared his throat. “Maybe we could do something about that.”

Preston shook his head. “It’s too late for that.” And then, to Oldsworth. “Sorry. For interrupting you, I mean.”

“That’s all right,” said Oldsworth mildly. “I guess you are right in what you say. We did go overboard for the Kaltich. They offered life. What more attractive bait could be dangled before the old? Life and youth both. Sure we took it. We still take it. We are still willing to beg. But that part is all wrong. We shouldn’t have to do that.”

Preston lit a fresh cigarlet, blew smoke, watched as it hit the table to bounce in spreading mist. They want something, he thought. They asked me to come here with a
prime-urgent message and now they’re dodging the problem. Or perhaps they weren’t dodging it. Perhaps they were being clever. He blew more smoke. Clever? He doubted it. King, perhaps, he was a born agent. Raleigh, maybe, he had to have something in order to be able to hold down two jobs, one on each of two opposing sides. The woman? Yes, but in a different way. Her skill was a thing of hands, brains and painstaking care. Oldsworth? He was the odd man out. The financier for the group. What did he have to gain?

“You sent for me,” he said abruptly. “I’m here. What is it you want from me?”

“We want you to go through a Gate,” said the woman evenly. “We want you to try.”

“And wind up like Lassiter?”

“No. There is danger,” she admitted. “He failed; so could you, but maybe not.”

Preston dragged at the cigarlet. “Tell me more.”

“The Kaltich have two great advantages over us,” she said. “One we can do something about. Our own geriatric sciences could, in time, maybe manage to duplicate the longevity treatment. If so, we can nullify one of their advantages. The other we can do nothing about. We still need their Celestial Gates. As yet we haven’t the faintest idea of how they work.”