Star Hunter (2 page)

"I think not." Hume's cool glance met Wass'. "We only need a youth of
the proper general physical description and the use of a conditioner."

Wass' expression did not change, there was no sign that Hume's hint
had struck home. But when he replied there was a slight change in the
monotone of his voice.

"You seem to know a great deal."

"I am a man who listens," Hume replied, "and I do not always discount
rumor as mere fantasy."

"That is true. As one of the guild you would be interested in the root
of fact beneath the plant of fiction," Wass acknowledged. "You appear
to have done some planning on your own."

"I have waited and watched for just such an opportunity as this," Hume
answered.

"Ah, yes. The Kogan-Bors-Wazalitz combine incurred your displeasure. I
see you are also a man who does not forget easily. And that, too, I
understand. It is a foible of my own, Out-Hunter. I neither forget
nor forgive my enemies, though I may seem to do so and time separates
them from their past deeds for a space."

Hume accepted that warning—both must keep any bargain. Wass was
silent for a moment, as if to leave time for the thought to root
itself, then he spoke again.

"A youth with the proper physical qualifications. Have you any such in
mind?"

"I think so." Hume was short.

"He will need certain memories; those take time to tape."

"Those dealing with Jumala, I can supply."

"Yes. You will have to provide a tape beginning with his arrival on
that world. For such family material as is necessary I shall have
ready. An interesting project, even apart from its value to us. This
is one to intrigue experts."

Expert psycho-techs—Wass had them. Men who had slipped over the
border of the law, had entered Wass' organization and prospered there.
There were some techs crooked enough to enjoy such a project for its
own sake, indulging in forbidden experimentation. For a moment, but
only for a moment, something in Hume jibbed at the intent of carrying
through his plan. Then he shrugged that tinge aside.

"How soon do you wish to move?"

"How long will preparation take?" Hume asked in return, for the second
time battling a taste of concern.

"Three months, maybe four. There's research to be done and tapes to be
made."

"It will be six months probably before the Guild sets up a safari for
Jumala."

Wass smiled. "That need not worry us. When the time comes for a
safari, there shall also be clients, impeccable clients, asking for it
to be planned."

There would be, too, Hume knew. Wass' influence reached into places
where the Veep himself was totally unknown. Yes, he could count on an
excellent, well above suspicion, set of clients to discover Rynch
Brodie when the time came.

"I can deliver the boy tonight, or early tomorrow morning. Where?"

"You are sure of your selection?"

"He fulfills the requirements, the right age, general appearance. A
boy who will not be missed, who has no kin, no ties, and who will
drop out of sight without any questions to be asked."

"Very well. Get him at once. Deliver him here."

Wass swept one hand across the table surface. On the red of the stone
there glowed for seconds an address. Hume noted it, nodded. It was one
in the center of the port town, one which could be visited at an odd
hour without exciting any curiosity. He rose.

"He will be there."

"Tomorrow, at your convenience," Wass added, "you will come to this
place." Again the palm moved and a second address showed on the table.

"There you will begin your tape for our use. It may take several
sessions."

"I'm ready. I still have the long report to make to the Guild, so the
material is still available on my note tapes."

"Excellent. Out-Hunter Hume, I salute a new colleague." At last Wass'
right hand came up from the table. "May we both have luck equal to our
industry."

"Luck to equal our desires," Hume corrected him.

"A very telling phrase, Out-Hunter. Luck to equal our desires. Yes,
let us both deserve that."

The Starfall was a long way down scale from the pleasure houses of the
upper town. Here strange vices were also merchandise, but not such
exotics as Wass provided. This was strictly for crewmen of the star
freighters who could be speedily and expertly separated from a
voyage's pay in an evening. The tantalizing scents of Wass' terraces
were reduced here to simply smells, the majority of which were not
fragrant.

There had already been two fatal duels that evening. A tubeman from a
rim ship had challenged a space miner to settle a difference with
those vicious whips made from the tail casings of Flangoid flying
lizards, an encounter which left both men in ribbons, one dead, one
dying. And a scarred, ex-space marine had blaster-flamed one of the
Star-and-Comet dealers into charred human ash.

The young man who had been ordered to help clear away the second loser
retired to the stinking alley outside to lose the meal which was part
of his meager day's pay. Now he crawled back inside, his face
greenish, one hand pressed to his middle section.

He was thin, the fine bones of his face tight under the pallid skin,
his ribs showing even through the sleazy fabric of the threadbare
tunic with its house seal. When he leaned his head back against the
grime encrusted wall, raising his face to the light, his hair had the
glint of bright chestnut, a gold which was also red. And for his
swamper's labor he was almost fastidiously clean.

"You—Lansor!"

He shivered as if an icy wind had found him and opened his eyes. They
seemed disproportionately large in his skin and bone face and were of
an odd shade, neither green nor blue, but somewhere between.

"Get going, you! Ain't paying out good credits for you to sit there
like you was buying on your own!" The Salarkian who loomed above him
spoke accentless, idiomatic Basic Space which came strangely from
between his yellow lips. A furred hand thrust the handle of a mop-up
stick at the young man, a taloned thumb jerked the direction in which
to use that evil-smelling object. Vye Lansor levered himself up the
wall, took the mop, setting his teeth grimly.

Someone had spilled a mug of Kardo and the deep purple liquid was
already patterning the con-stone floor past any hope of cleaning. But
he set to work slapping the fringe of the noisome mop back and forth
to sop up what he could. The smell of the Kardo uniting with the
general effluvia of the room and its inhabitants heightened his
queasiness.

Working blindly in a half stupor, he was not aware of the man sitting
alone in the booth until his mop spattered the ankle of one of the
drinking girls. She struck him sharply across the face with a
sputtering curse in the tongue of Altar-Ishtar.

The blow sent him back against the open lattice of the booth. As he
tried to steady himself another hand reached up, fingers tightened
about his wrist. He flinched, tried to jerk away from that hold, only
to discover that he was the other's prisoner.

And looking down at his captor in apprehension, he was aware even then
of the different quality of this man. The patron wore the tunic of a
crewman, lighter patches where the ship's badges should have been to
show that he was not engaged. But, though his tunic was shabby, dirty,
his magnetic boots scuffed and badly worn, he was not like the others
now enjoying the pleasures of the Starfall.

"This one—he makes trouble?" The vast bulk of the Vorm-man who was
the Starfall's private law moved through the crowd with serene
confidence in his own strength, which no one there, unless blind,
deaf, and out-of-the-senses drunk, could dispute. His scaled,
six-fingered, claw hand reached out for Lansor and the boy cringed.

"No trouble!" There was the click of authority in the voice of the man
in the booth. His face, moments earlier taut and sharp with
intelligence, was suddenly slack, his tone slurred as he answered:
"Looks like an old shipmate. No trouble, just want a drink with an old
shipmate."

But the grip which had pulled Vye forward, swung him around and down
on the other bench in the booth, was anything but slack. The Vorm-man
glanced from the patron of the Starfall to its least important
employee and then grinned, thrusting his fanged jaws close to
Lansor's.

"If the master wants to drink, you dirt-rat, you drink!"

Vye nodded vigorously, and then put his hand to his mouth, afraid his
stomach was about to betray him again. Apprehensive, he watched the
Vorm-man turn away. Only when that broad, green-gray back was lost in
the smoky far reaches of the room did he expel his breath again.

"Here—" The grip was gone from his wrist, but fingers now put a mug
into his hand. "Drink!"

He tried to protest, knew it was hopeless, and used both hands to get
the mug to his lips, mouthing the stinging liquid in dull despair.
Only, instead of bringing nausea with it, the stuff settled his
stomach, cleared his head, with an after glow with which he managed
to relax from the tense state of endurance which filled his hours in
the Starfall.

Half of the mug's contents inside him and he dared to raise his eyes
to the man opposite him. Yes, this was no common crewman, nor was he
drunk as he had pretended for the Vorm-man. Now he watched the milling
crowd with a kind of detachment, though Vye was sure he was aware of
every move he himself made.

Vye finished the liquid. For the first time since he had come into
this place two months earlier he felt like a real person again. And he
had wits enough to guess that the potion he had just swallowed
contained some drug. Only now he did not care at all. Anything which
could wipe out in moments all the shame, fear, and sick despair the
Starfall had planted in him was worth swallowing. Why the other had
drugged him was a mystery, but he was content to wait for
enlightenment.

Lansor's companion once more applied that compelling pressure to the
younger man's bony forearm. Linked by that hold they left the
Starfall, came into the cooler, far more pleasant atmosphere of the
street. They were a block away before Vye's guide halted, though he
did not release his prisoner.

"Forty names of Dugor!" he spat.

Lansor waited, breathing in the air of early morning. The confidence
of the drug still held. At the moment he was certain nothing could be
as bad as the life behind him, he was willing to face what this
strange patron of the Starfall had in mind.

The other slapped his hand down on an air-car call button, stood
waiting until one of the city flitters landed on beam before them.

From the seat of the air-car Vye noted they were heading into the
respectability of the upper city, away from the stews ringing the
launch port. He tried to guess their destination or purpose, not that
either mattered much. Then the car descended on a landing stage.

The stranger waved Lansor through a doorway, down a short corridor
into a room of private quarters. Vye sat down gingerly on the foam
seat extending from the wall as he neared. He stared about. Dimly he
could just remember rooms which had this degree of comfort, but so
dimly now he could not be sure they did not exist only in his vivid
imagination. For Vye's imagination had buoyed him first through the
drab existence in a State Child's Crèche, then through a state-found
job which he had lost because he could not adapt to the mechanical
life of a computer tender, and had been an anchor and an escape when
he had sunk through the depths of the port to the last refuge in the
Starfall.

Now he pressed both his hands into the soft stuff of the seat and
gaped at a small tri-dee on the wall facing him, a miniature scene of
life on some other planet wherein a creature enveloped in short black
and white striped fur crept belly flat, to stalk long-legged,
short-winged birds making blood-red splotches against yellow reed
banks under a pale violet sky. He feasted on its color, on the sense
of freedom and off-world wonders which it raised in him.

"Who are you?"

The stranger's abrupt question brought him back, not only to the room
but to his own precarious position. He moistened his lips, no longer
quite so aglow with confidence.

"Vye—Vye Lansor." Then he added his other identification, "S. C. C.
425061."

"State child, eh?" The other had pushed a button for a refresher cup,
then was sipping its contents slowly. He did not ring for a second to
offer Vye. "Parents?"

Lansor shook his head. "I was brought in after the Five-Hour Fever
epidemic. They didn't try to keep records, there were too many of us."

The man was watching him levelly over the rim of that cup. There was
something cold in that study, something which curbed Vye's pleasant
feeling of only moments earlier. Now the other set down his drink,
crossed the room. Cupping his hand under Lansor's chin, he brought up
his head in a way which stirred a sullen resentment in the younger
man, yet something told him resistance would only bring trouble.

"I'd say Terran stock—not more than second generation." He was
talking to himself more than to Vye. He loosed his hold on the boy's
chin, but he still stood there surveying him from head to foot. Lansor
wanted to squirm, but he fought that impulse, and managed to meet the
other's gaze when it reached his face again.

"No—not the usual port-drift. I was right all the way." Now he
looked at Vye again as if the younger man did have a brain, emotions,
some call on his interest as a personality. "Want a job?"

Lansor pressed his hand deeper into the foam seat. "What—what kind?"
He was angry and ashamed at that small betraying break in his voice.

"You have scruples?" The stranger appeared to think that amusing. Vye
reddened, but he was also more than a little surprised that the man in
the worn space uniform had read hesitancy right. Someone out of the
Starfall should not be too particular about employment, and he could
not tell why he was.