Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (35 page)

“Could be.” Kayder didn’t like it. “He’s artful enough to try something like that. But we can check up. Are those snoops out of the base yet?”

“I’ll see.” Ardern flipped a tiny wall switch, spoke into the aperture above it. “Those intelligence characters still messing around?”

“They’ve just gone.”

“Swell, Philby. I’m coming along with Kayder to—”

“Don’t know what’s so fine about it,” interrupted Philby. “They took eight of our men with them.”

“Eight? What the devil for?”

“Further questioning.”

“Were those eight thoroughly blanked?” Kayder chipped in.

“You bet they were!”

“Then why worry? We’re coming to use the short-wave transmitter so get it warmed up.”

Reversing the wall switch, Ardern said, “First time they’ve dragged people away for questioning. I don’t like it. Do you suppose they’ve found a way to break mental blocks?”

“Then why didn’t they seize the entire bunch and come after you and me as well?” Kayder made a gesture of disdain. “It’s a gag designed to show they’re earning their keep. Come on, let’s deal with a thing at a time and get in touch with the
Fantôme.
”

The receiver’s big screen cleared, showed the features of a swarthy individual with a chest-mike hanging from his neck. The
Fantôme’s
operator.

“Quick. Ardern, give me that list of names of our men.” Kayder took it, licked his lips in readiness to begin.

“Name, please?” requested the operator, looking at him.

“Arthur Kayder. I want to talk to—”

“Kayder?” put in the operator. His face grew momentarily fuzzy as the screen clouded with static. Long streaks whirled diagonally across the fluorescent surface and were followed by other erratic patterns. Then it cleared once more. “We have a passenger waiting to speak to you. He was expecting your call.”

“Hah!” commented Ardern, nudging Kayder. “One of our men has got him marked.”

Before Kayder could reply, the operator bent forward, adjusted something not in view. His face flashed off the screen and another one replaced it. The newcomer was Raven.

“Could you learn to love me, Louse-ridden?” he inquired.

“You!” Kayder glowered at him.

“Me in person. I guessed you’d check up when the boat lifted but you were slow, very slow. Tsk-tsk!” He shook his head in solemn reproof. “I’ve been waiting your call. As you can see for yourself I am really and truly on board.”

“You’ll be sorry,” Kayder promised.

“Meaning when I reach the other end? I know that your next move will be to tell them I’m coming. You’ll get on the interplanetary beam and warn a world. I can’t help but find it most flattering.”

“The word will prove to be
flattening,
’’said Kayder, with unconcealed menace. “That remains to be seen. I’d rather live in hope than die in despair.”

“The one will be followed by the other whether you like it or not.”

“I doubt it, Bugsy, because—”

“Don’t call me Bugsy!” Kayder shouted, his broad features dark red.

“Temper, temper!” Raven chided. “If your looks could kill I’d drop dead right now.”

“You’re going to do it anyway,” Kayder bawled, now completely beside himself. “And as soon as it can be arranged.
I’ll
see to that!”

“Sweet of you to say so. Public confession is so good for the soul.” Raven eyed him calculatingly and added, “Better put your affairs in order as quickly as you can. You may be away quite a spell.”

He switched off, giving the furious Kayder no opportunity for further retort. His features vanished from the screen. The operator came back.

“Do you want someone else, Mr. Kayder?”

“No—it doesn’t matter now.” Immobilizing the transmitter with a savage flip of the thumb, he turned to Ardern. “What did he mean about me being away quite a spell? I don’t get it.”

“Me neither.”

For some time they stood stewing the problem, feeling inwardly bothered, until Philby came along and said, “There’s a call waiting from you-don’t-know-who.” Kayder took the phone, listened.

The familiar but unknown voice rasped, “I’ve more than enough on my plate without taking unnecessary risks to cover up loud-mouthed blabs.”

“Eh?” Kayder blinked at the instrument.

“It’s like getting down on one’s knees and begging for a kick in the rear to utter homicidal threats over an open transmission system with half the Intelligence listening in,” continued the voice, acid-toned. “Under Terran law the penalty is five to seven years in the jug. They can pin it on you beyond my power to unpin.”

“But—”

“You’re a choleric character and he knew it. You let him bait you into shouting illegal intentions all over the ether. You brainless cretin!” A pause, then, “I can’t cover you without giving myself away. There’s nothing you can do but get out fast. Take the boxes and burn them, contents and all. Then bury yourself until somehow we can smuggle you home.”

“How am I going to manage that?” asked Kayder, feeling futile.

“It’s your worry. Get out of that base—you mustn’t be found there. And be careful about visiting your house for those boxes. They may have a guard on the place already. If you can’t collect your stuff in the next hour you’ll have to abandon it.”

“But my army is there. With them I could—”

“You could do nothing,” contradicted the voice, sharply. “Because you won’t be given the chance. Don’t stand there arguing with me. Get out of sight and lie low. We’ll try to put you on a boat after the hue and cry has died down.”

“I can fight the charge,” Kayder pleaded. “I can say it was no more than meaningless abuse.”

“Look,” came back the voice wearily, “the Intelligence Service
wants
to tie you down. They’ve been seeking a pretext for months. Nothing can save you now except Raven’s own evidence that he knew you were ribbing—and you won’t get 
that.
Now shut up and make yourself hard to find.”

The other went off the line. Lugubriously Kayder cradled the phone, felt lost for suitable comment.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ardern, watching him.

“They’re going to try to lug me in for five to seven years.”

“Why? What for?”

“Threatening murder.”

“Holy smoke!” Ardern backed away, limping as he went. “‘They can do it too if they set their minds to it.” His face became strained with mental effort, his body appeared to lengthen itself slightly, then his feet left the ground and he soared slowly toward a ceiling shaft. “I’m going while there’s still time. I don’t know you. You’re a complete stranger to me.” He drifted up the shaft.

Kayder went out, surveyed his house from a vantage point, found it already covered. He walked the streets and back alleys until two in the morning, thought bitterly of those potent boxes lying in the back room of his home. Without them he was no better than any ordinary pawn. How could he reach them undetected? From how far beyond a ring of guards can one throw a stream of unbearable chirrups?

He was slinking cautiously along the darkest side of a square when four men came out of a black archway, barred his path.

One of them, a telepath, spoke with authoritative assurance. “You’re Arthur Kayder. We want you!”

It was useless to dispute a mind-probe, useless to battle against odds of four. He went with them surlily but quietly, still thinking of his precious boxes, still convinced that bugs are best.

The great crawling mists of Venus lay thick and yellow over the forepeak ports when Raven went into the main cabin for a look at the radar screen. A glistening serration across the fluorescent rectangle marked the huge range of the Sawtooth Mountains. Beyond these lay the rain forests that covered shelf after shelf down to the wide, lush plains on which mankind had established its strongest footholds.

A constant shuddering went through the entire length of the
Fantôme
as its great power plants strove to cope with their most difficult task: the relatively slow maneuvering of a giant designed for superfast motion. It was not easy. It was never easy.

Far below, hidden deep in the greenery of the rain forests, lay four crushed cylinders that once had been ships. At this moment the sole purpose of the
Fantôme'
s crew was to ensure that the number did not become five.

All passengers likewise recognized that this was the critical stage of their journey. The inveterate card players became tense and still. The chatterers were silent. The
tambar
drinkers sobered up. All eyes were on the radar screen, watching jaws of rock widen and grow larger as all too sluggishly the ship lowered past them.

In a flat, unemotional voice an officer in the pointed forepeak was reciting over the loudspeaker system, “One forty thousand, one thirty-five, one thirty thousand.”

Not sharing the general anxiety, Raven studied the screen and bided his time. The mountains passed center, moved toward the screen’s base, slid completely off it. Somebody sighed with relief.

Presently the oval edge of the great plain revealed itself, became clearer, more detailed, streaked with broad rivers. Vibration was now violent as the ship fought to hold its tonnage in near-balance with the planet’s gravitational field.

“Twenty thousand. Nineteen five hundred.”

Raven arose from his seat and left the cabin, several startled glances following his unusual action. Walking rapidly along a metal corridor he reached the fore starboard airlock. This, he decided, was as good a time as any. The crew had their hands full, their minds completely occupied. The passengers were concerned with the safety of their own skins.

Although long accustomed to humanity’s absorbed interest in self-preservation he still found the tendency amusing. So far as they were concerned, it was a case of ignorance being woe. Now if only they were better informed . . .

He was smiling to himself as he operated the automatic door, stepped into the lock, closed it behind him. That action would light a crimson telltale in the control room, set an alarm ringing, and someone would hotfoot along to see who was fooling with the exit facilities at this touchy stage. No matter. Any irate official would be at least half a minute too late.

The lock’s own little speaker was muttering in sympathy with its fellows scattered throughout the ship. “Fourteen thousand, thirteen five hundred, thirteen, twelve five hundred.”

Swiftly he released the seals of the outer door, unwound it, opened it wide. None of the vessel’s air poured out but some higher pressure Venusian atmosphere pushed in, bringing with it a warmth, dampness and strong odors of mass vegetation.

Somebody started hammering and kicking upon the airlock’s inner door, doing it with the outraged vigor of authority successfully defied. At the same time the loudspeaker clicked, changed voices and bawled with much vehemence.

“You in Airlock Four, close that outer door and open the inner. You are warned that operation of the locks by any unauthorized person is a serious offense punishable by—”

Waving a sardonic goodby to the loudspeaker. Raven leaped out. He plunged headlong into thick, moist air, fell with many twists and turns. At one instant the
Fantôme
was a long, black cylinder flaming high above him; at the next there was a whirling world of trees and rivers rushing up to meet him.

If anyone on the ship were quick enough with binoculars, he would derive much food for thought from the figure’s sprawling, tumbling, apparently uncontrolled descent. Conventionally, only two kinds of people jumped out of space-ships: suicides and fugitive floaters. The latter invariably used their supernormal power to drift down at safe and easy pace. Only the suicides fell like stones. Only two kinds of people jump out of spaceships—and it was inconceivable that there could be any who were not exactly people!

The drop took longer than it would have on Earth. One falls with regular acceleration only until effectively braked by mounting air-pressure, and here the cloying atmosphere soon piled up before a moving object.

By the time he was four hundred feet above the treetops the
Fantôme
had reduced to a foreshortened, pencil-sized vessel about to land just over the horizon. It was impossible for anyone aboard to witness his fate. At that point Raven slowed in mid-air.

This braking was a curious phenomenon having nothing in common with the taut-faced, mind-straining deceleration of an accomplished levitator. The sudden reduction of his rate of fall occurred casually, naturally, much in the manner of a dropping spider that changes its mind and pays out its line less rapidly.

At treetop height, still three hundred and fifty feet above ground, he was descending as if dangling from an invisible parachute. Between enormous top branches as thick as the trunks of adult Earth-trees he went down like a drifting leaf, hit ground with enough force to leave heel marks in the coarse turf.

This point was little more than a mile from the rim of the great plain. The gigantic trees were thinned out here, growing widely apart with quiet, cathedral-like glades between them. Fifty or sixty miles westward the real Venusian jungle began, and with it the multitudinous bad-dream forms of ferocity that only lately had learned to keep their distance from the even deadlier form called Man.

He was not at all worried about the possible appearance of a stray member of this planet’s thousand and one killers. Neither had he any apprehension about more efficient huntsmen of his own biped shape despite their being after him in full cry soon.

The news of his jump would gall whatever deputation might he waiting for him at the spaceport. But it would not fool them for a moment. Kayder’s message—assuming that they had received it—would tag him as a telepathic oddity to whom Terran characters like Heraty and Carson attached greater importance than apparently deserved. From that they’d deduce that whatever warranted this importance had been missed by Kayder and had yet to be discovered.

Now they’d face the fact that he had left the ship in the manner of a levitator but had not gone down like a levitator. Without hesitation they’d now accept the existence of some new and previously unsuspected quasi-levitatory talent and, adding that to what they’d already got, classify him as the first example of a creature often postulated and mightily feared: the multi-talented offspring of mixed mutants.