Sandcats of Rhyl (2 page)

“Big-time treasure, huh, Rod?”

A long pause followed, then Heuser added, “Have you seen any sign of Dr. Alfen’s notes?”

“Nope. Sure haven’t.” Nightwind tucked the four-by-eight-centimeter ferro-electric ceramic diary away in a small satchel he carried.

“Good. I was getting tired of working for a living!”

THE
AJAX
HAD BEEN SKIMMING through space with its load of passengers for over forty solar standard days. Nightwind and Heuser used the idle time to the fullest. They worked hard at relaxing and spending some of the money they’d earned. Their quarter of a million credits apiece for the work as guards hadn’t gone very far. It was exhausted in less than a week of wild spending, so great were Earthside prices.

Luckily, the pair’s salvage claim had been honored and the insurance company promptly paid them a fantastic sum. Which diminished before their eyes as the high Earth taxes eroded their budding fortune. Still, they had enough left to outfit themselves for the long trip to the planet Rhyl.

And enjoy the trip in royal style.

Nightwind strode into the virtually empty lounge located midships on the
Ajax.
In spite of living for over a full month on board, he had met very few of the other passengers. People made him edgy, especially in large groups. Left alone, Roderick Nightwind could be completely happy. It might have been an inherited trait from his maternal grandmother, a humanoid of feline ancestry from Schnurra. Or it might have been a general distrust of people he didn’t know well. Sometimes he found himself restlessly pacing, other times he was more than content to curl up and sleep the sleep of a cat. Instantly asleep, instantly awake and ready to fight.

He surveyed the few people gathered about. All but one were human. He avoided them and went to the bar. “Lemonade,” he ordered.

The robot bartender buzzed and a red light blinked balefully. From a speaker hidden where Nightwind couldn’t see it came, “Sire, the liquor sells for the same price. If you do not prefer alcoholic beverages, other substances are available for altering your state of consciousness.”

“That’s nice. My original order stands.” Nightwind’s eyes were as cold as the space between worlds. He had ordered what he wanted. He expected to get it. Whoever programmed the bartender should be forced to listen to it, then program a little efficiency into it.

The bartender buzzed again. “No Terran lemonade is available. We have synthetic. Also, lemonade from Hazmal VI is available.”

“The latter is satisfactory.” Nightwind watched as the crystalline goblet rose, filled, from the bowels of the machine.

He had just taken a small sip when a voice interrupted his enjoyment of the lemonade. “Most pardon, sire. Might ask we?”

Nightwind peered over the rim of the goblet as he began mentally classifying the alien. Four legs, immobile head apparently driven with cruel strength into the center of the body, four hands, two with coarse fingers, two with tendrils for fine work. Stilted speech pattern. Finally, all the data clicked into place. A Maezen, a creature capable of independent action but in constant telepathic contact with every other member of its race.

“Yes, ask.”

“Understand not we stimulant refusal.”

Nightwind wondered at the curiosity. The Maezen were not noted for their inquisitiveness. “Personal unit or group question?”

“Personal unit. I-we pick up odd emanations from your brain. Know I certain units poisonous find substances vended, but not your type because indulge much in stimulants. Check I if you new species.” The words were laboriously formed by lips not meant to speak any human language. Nightwind noticed the switching between “I” and “we,” indicating contact with others of its race.

“I don’t really understand your statement about the ‘odd emanations,’ but to answer the question, liquor and happy dust and most of the other substances vended dull my senses and slow my reflexes.”

“You feel threat?” The creature’s mouth barely moved as it spoke. Nightwind couldn’t discern any expression at all on its face.

“Constantly.” Nightwind was momentarily startled when the Maezen went into a trance. Its arms curled over its head indicating the creature was telepathically communicating with others of its race in preparation for death.

Nightwind hastily amended, “No danger to
your
body!” The creature’s reaction was so sudden it made Nightwind smile ruefully. Tenseness flowed from its supple limbs, and the Maezen sidled away, its question answered and assured no immediate danger existed to its person. With the inexplicability of an alien mentality, it seemed to be totally unconcerned now about what danger Nightwind might have sensed.

Another passenger had joined Nightwind in a soft chuckle. He turned to see a woman seated at a nearby table. She was lounging back in a reclining chair, long legs thrusting out from under the edge of an expensive, short green silk dress. She raised her glass to Nightwind in obvious invitation.

“Come, join me,” she called out in a lilting voice. “The lounge might fill up soon, and you won’t be able to find another seat.”

Nightwind knew the lounge would remain empty until after the midday meal. Even the Maezen had left. But he liked the come-on. And he liked the woman’s appearance. Young, perhaps twenty solar standard years, though with the cosmetics, plastic surgery and anti-geriatric drugs available, she could have been ten times that age and not looked much different. Shoulder-length brunette hair, soft brown eyes that danced with merriment, pursed ruby lips, a full figure and — the invitation.

“Suppose I grab this chair before the crowd steals it away. Thank you for having me over in my moment of need.” Sitting back in his chair, he placed his drink on the table and waited.

The woman frowned slightly. “You’re a strange one. A lovely girl invites you over to her table and you simply sit there. No big line to impress me, no heavy masculine ego buildup trying to seduce me. I find it hard to believe you’re — ”

Nightwind shrugged. “I’m not. And I find you very lovely. But it was you who called me over. I assumed you had something you wanted to say to me.” He didn’t stir. His cold black eyes bored into the woman’s softer brown eyes until she looked away in sudden discomfort.

“I … nothing. I just wanted someone to talk to. Sorry to have bothered you.”

Nightwind still didn’t move. “You seemed to be amused at the short conversation I had with the Maezen.”

“You don’t say much, do you?” she snapped, her eyes blazing again. Impulsively she said, “I’m Steorra.”

“Steorra? A lovely name. Is that your name or your home planet?”

“My name, silly! There’s no planet named Steorra. Though I think it would be such a nice … vanity! Yes, a vanity!”

Nightwind wondered at the woman’s intentions. She was working hard to maintain the conversation. He wondered why. He might possess a masculine charm, but he doubted it. Cold, ebon eyes such as his were sure to drive off all but the most determined woman. And he was not that physically attractive. He was too tall, too thin. Lacking in bulky muscles, Nightwind made up for it with quickness and brains. And being a shrewd judge of character, Steorra wasn’t stupid; she was play-acting to make him think she was just another bored, rich traveler. He was sure Steorra wanted something from him, something more than companionship for one tired of being locked inside the belly of a starship.

“I just don’t understand you. Don’t I interest you at all?” The woman was beginning to look perplexed. That put Nightwind on his guard. She should have been vexed. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have been as witty and charming as possible to her. But some small thing refused to leave Nightwind’s mind, kept nagging at him that Steorra was more than she appeared.

“Yes, you are very attractive to me. I just don’t understand what you see in me.” Before she could answer, he went on, “It’s not mere boredom. Not with almost two hundred passengers from a dozen planets on this ship.”

“Why can’t I find you more attractive than the others?” Again the fake determination, the set to her lips telling him more than her words. Nightwind sensed the truth. Information was all he possessed that Steorra could want. He idly wondered if she was interested in his and Heuser’s little treasure hunt to Rhyl? Was she competition for the prize, whatever it might be?

Rhyl, the desert world where Dr. Alfen had made a monumental discovery of treasure beyond belief.

“No reason.” Nightwind sipped his lemonade as Heuser entered the lounge. Seeing his friend occupied with a woman, the cyborg simply went to the bar. His order pleased the robot bartender, giving the machine something more demanding to do than dispensing lemonade like any cheap home-unit model.

Nightwind said, “It’s just that I’ve worked as a security guard. Maybe I worked at it too long and have grown … suspicious.”

“A security guard? That’s awfully dangerous work, isn’t it?” Steorra’s face showed concern. Her eyes told a completely different tale.

“Not really. My friend at the bar and I worked for a drug cartel on Earth. We finally decided to take a vacation, have a leisurely sightseeing tour of the galaxy. How about you?”

For a moment, panic filled the girl’s eyes. She quickly covered it, and Nightwind knew whatever she said would be a lie. “I came into a bit of money and decided to see a couple different worlds, too. Been on Earth all my life. You can appreciate wanting to get away from there.”

“Overcrowding, yeah.” That part rang true, at least. Earth had more people than any planet should reasonably have to support. It hung suspended on a thin thread having to import most of its food in exchange for the dubious export of a well-run bureaucracy.

“You must have dozens and dozens of exciting stories to tell about your time in space. Tell me some! Something recent and shivery!” Steorra leaned forward, eager.

There it was. The woman might as well have carried a sign advertising her intent. Nightwind dismissed the girl as unimportant. She was probably as young as she looked. Certainly lacking in experience, Steorra was no trained interrogator. He had always played fair with the drug cartel; she couldn’t work for them. And he scrupulously avoided politics. No world government would have the slightest interest in him. That left his trip to Rhyl as the object of her interest.

Nightwind began telling stories, mostly fabricated on the spot. Steorra’s impatience grew steadily as Nightwind steadfastly avoided any mention of his last trip in space and the salvage of Dr. Alfen’s expedition ship.

The brunette finally broke down and asked, “What about your last trip? Surely, something wonderful happened?”

“Ummm, no. Fairly routine trip.” Nightwind was beginning to enjoy Steorra’s agitation. Her emotions could be seen as easily as the overacted tri-dim recorded play running in the far corner of the lounge. She’d have to have a lot of experience before she could move into the league that Nightwind enjoyed pitting his wits against.

“Surely something — ” she started. Steorra’s words were cut off by a loud argument coming from the bar. Both the brunette and Nightwind turned to see a massively built man shove Heuser off his stool. Heuser’s face never changed from its innocent set. The stranger read no sign of menace in the blazing, intensely blue eyes. Nightwind did. Heuser would break this impudent drunk into small pieces and never work up a sweat.

Nightwind gracefully rose, bowed to Steorra saying, “Excuse me, milady. I’ll return in a moment,” then pivoted and grabbed the man’s arm before he could complete his swing at Heuser.

The vise grip on his forearm stopped the man as surely as the cold words, “Don’t even think of hitting him again,” pouring like melted snow from Nightwind’s thin lips.

“Nobody says what he did to Dhal Shu-tri!” the man cried.

“Says what?”

“He said I reeked!”

Heuser raised himself to his full one-and-six-tenths-meter height and looked completely ineffectual. Nightwind knew his friend would be able to bend steel bars in his current rage.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it quite the way you seem to have taken it. He could’ve been more diplomatic.”

“What’ya mean?” Dhal bellowed.

Nightwind said sweetly, a smile lingering on his lips, “He might have recommended the ship’s excellent sanitary facilities to a person obviously not fully availing himself of them.”

“Huh?”

“Okay, mister,” Nightwind said, losing patience. “You reek. And it was a fool mistake hitting someone half your size.” Nightwind felt the muscles of the forearm tense and knew what was coming.

He easily ducked the awkward swing. As Dhal’s fist cut the air centimeters over his head, Nightwind’s arms encircled the man’s body. Without any display of strain on his part, Nightwind lifted Dhal and tossed him to the far end of the bar.

In a deceptively soft voice, he told Dhal, “Leave before you get hurt. You’re outclassed, Dhal Shu-tri.”

The use of the man’s name seemed to shock, then enrage. Dhal recovered, bellowed like a bull and charged. Nightwind waited until the last possible moment before acting. Reaching out almost tenderly, he gripped Dhal’s right arm and lapel, stuck a foot out that caught the attacking man’s kneecap, then twisted to the left. Nightwind watched Dhal cartwheeling to the other side of the room. Before the man could regain his feet, Nightwind grabbed both ankles and quickly dragged him from the room. In less than a minute, the thin man returned looking as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

He leaned on the bar and said in a controlled voice, “Lemonade, please. Hazmal VI is fine.”

The robot bartender buzzed and produced another goblet. Nightwind sardonically nodded his thanks to the machine and went back to Steorra’s table.

“Now that’s over and done with, where were we?” he asked, as if bouncing obnoxious drunks was all in a day’s business.

“You … you handled him so easily!” the girl blurted out.

“No matter. He was drunk. At least, I think he was.” Nightwind analyzed the woman’s reaction. The abortive attack on Heuser seemed more than just a drunk making trouble for another customer. Dhal hadn’t moved or acted like he was intoxicated, not as much as if he were intentionally looking for a fight. And Steorra acted as if she knew what was going to happen — up to the point where Dhal was bounced like a rubber ball.