The Space Guardian (4 page)

“Will you take a guest?” Lahks asked into the speaking tube.

With commendable promptness, the door opened. It neither swung nor slid, but pushed away at right angles from the building. As Lahks went in she saw the reason for its width. One could enter from either side, but the central portion was taken up by the huge mechanism that pushed the door outward, So much power to open a door?

A simian humanoid—one of those races that had developed intelligence late in its evolutionary process—regarded her questioningly. The threat inherent in the hulking four-hundred-kilo body, the beetling brows, the saber-like fangs, and long powerful arms was totally false. Like most races that had been dominant before developing intelligence, the gorls were very gentle. Since they had nothing to fear in their environment except natural catastrophes, their aggressive tendencies had been easily channeled by their intelligence into scientific achievement. By and large their worlds were paradises. In fact, it was very unusual to see a gorl off a gorl world.

“This is a hotel?” Lahks asked.

“More drinking house-meeting hall, but have beds.”

The Basic sounded as if it were being produced by a boiling teakettle. Any species with vocal apparatus and a connected orifice with soft, flexible parts could speak Basic, but long, protruding fangs did not improve its clarity. The gorl language had never developed any sounds that necessitated closing the total orifice and humming behind it. Such sounds always hissed and bubbled in gorl Basic, although they remained recognizable.

“I’ll take a bed. I expect to be here for a while. My baggage is outside.”

The gorl gestured toward the interior of the dome. “Go through. Take any open room. Bring baggage from drom. Feed drom. Pay soon.”

Lahks nodded and walked forward. The entire central section of the dome was obviously what the gorl had said, a drinking and meeting place. It was well lit by innumerable patches of the clear, vitreous stuff set throughout the ceiling. All around the circumference the walls merged into the upper portion of the dome and blocked off separate rooms. All the doors except three were open. A few showed fairly large rooms that contained tables and chairs—accommodations, Lahks assumed, for private parties and business meetings. The others were cubicles containing a bed, a chest, and an odd-looking chair. Lahks chose one that was as far as possible from any of the meeting rooms. Something told her that private parties on Wumeera were likely to be loud.

Within moments of making her choice, the gorl had followed with Lahks’ bags. He put them down and held outa hand. “Five credits. Bed, food. Fed drom. Name Fanny.”

Lahks opened her pouch and took out a twenty-GC note. The omission of all personal pronouns from gorl speech patterns sometimes caused difficulties in comprehension. Lahks grinned as she handed the note over. That dropping of personal pronouns had given and was giving the sem-psychs nervous breakdowns. Although the gorls had no words for “I,” “you,” “he,” “she,” or “it” in their own language and apparently could not bring themselves to say those words in any other language, they had a strong sense of individuality and personal possession. This, said the sem-psychs, was impossible. But, Lahks thought, so was traveling faster than the speed of light. You only had to find out how it was done to make it reasonable.

“Thank you, Fanny,” she said. “My name is Tamar Shomra. Keep the whole note. 1 will be staying a few days, at least. Do you own this hotel?”

“Yes.” The gorl nodded and bared his fangs in a ferocious snarl. Lahks remained unmoved, except to smile back at a polite gesture.

“It must be a great deal of work,” she remarked.

“Not much. Barman serves drinks. Few come to Wumeera.”

That was obviously a question as to Lahks’ purpose although it was phrased as a statement. She had just opened her mouth to answer when a small voice at Fanny’s belt said, “Door.”

The gorl gestured around the room. “Need something, ask. Get comfortable. Come out. Have drink. Talk later.” He then hurried away to work the mechanism that opened the door.

Lahks looked after him for a moment, then closed her own door. A few minutes later she came out with fresh clothing over her arm. A short survey showed her the fresher, fortunately close by. When she emerged the sudden dark of a desert climate had blacked out the transparent patches in the dome. Around the circular walls, smokeless torches burned, giving a dim, golden light. A few voices murmured in the central section where the round service counter was also torchlit. The barman moved softly, placing two mugs on the counter. A chair scraped as it was pushed back, the sound loud in the quiet room, and Lahks’ eyes were drawn to the minor disturbance.

Shock!

Joy! Emptiness filled!

“Ghrey!” Lahks cried, dropping her clothes and flinging herself across the room.

The broad shoulders of the man who had just risen twisted, and the blond head turned. Lahks, her arms outflung, skidded to a halt, gasped with terror, and then giggled weakly with relief. The blond giant with idiot’s eyes turned fully and began to advance toward her.

“Shom, stop.”

The giant hesitated, a look of indecision crumpling his face pathetically. Lahks dropped her arms and began to back away. The idiot’s face twisted in pain and a silent wail of such misery and loss struck Lahks that she reeled.

“He won’t hurt you. Don’t be afraid of him.”

There was panic in the voice that issued that assurance, but Lahks could not answer. First she had to deal with the hurt she had inadvertently inflicted. Words would not serve. Somewhere she had to find gladness. But that was beyond even her, just then. Ghrey had been given back to her and then snatched away again. all in a heartbeat. Yet it was not the fault of the now-cringing giant. Lahks pushed the little black button in her brain that turned her emotions off completely. A choked whimper came from the idiot, a tiny sound, pathetic in its contrast with its maker’s size.

There were arguments about whether or not telepaths could lie or be lied to; there were none about empaths. The creature Lahks faced now was surely empathic. He had reacted with warmth to her outpouring of joy and welcome, then with pain to her revulsion and rejection, and, worst of all, with terror to the cessation of emotional projection that must be the equivalent of death to an empath. Lahks took her finger off the black button in her brain. Warmth seeped back into her. Pity, kindliness, welcome to a fellow being, reassurance of acceptance.

“Come on, Shom, sit down.”

A thin, brown hand, bone and whipcord, fastened on the giant’s arm, but the idiot’s eyes remained fixed on Lahks’ face. She came forward and took his other arm.

“Yes, let’s all sit down.”

On such a planet there would be no privacy booths or screens for the tables. Fortunately, the place was not crowded. Perhaps it was too early, or perhaps it was never crowded. All three sat at a round table about halfway back from the service counter. Automatically, Lahks patted the idiot’s hand, but now her eyes sought the other man.

Her immediate impression was of a feral being—a sly running animal, lean and lithe, hunted and hunting. Fear and shock showed in the eyes that were lit by a remnant of red hate that was rapidly fading into a cautious acceptance. The man himself was a Terra-type humanoid, dark and sleek of skin, eyes, and hair. The lips were thin, the nose sharp and a trifle hooked; an expression of intense alertness added to the weasel-like impression. Both men were dressed in worn, common coveralls. They did not look like natives, nor as if they were prosperous. A plan, full and complete, leaped into Lahks’ mind.

“I’m sorry 1 startled your . . . friend?”

“I’m sorry he startled you.” Without its overtones of panic, the dark man’s voice was a light, pleasant tenor. The flatness of the statement, however, gave no implied answer to Lahks’ question.

“I thought he was someone I . . . I knew. From the back . . .”

“Yes, he’s a perfect Shomir type. I guess they do look a lot alike from the back.” He smiled, white teeth gleaming through thin, dark lips, the canines a little longer, a little sharper-pointed than normal. “You were kindness itself to sit down with us. Fanny said if Shom scared someone else we would have to leave. Where the hell else is there to go on this planet?”

“I don’t know. 1 have only just arrived myself. My name is Tamar Shomra.”

“Tamar of Shomir? You are no Shomir.”

Lahks shrugged. “Half. My father was in Trade.”

“The Shomir do not trade.” Suspicion sharpened his voice, but he shook his head. “None of my business. Sorry.”

“Perhaps it is your business, or will be.” Lahks gestured with her head. “Is he always so hard to handle?”

Heat flickered in the dark eyes. “Not unless someone gets to him. Are you a telepath or an empath?”

Lahks widened her eyes. “Not a receiver, but it is not impossible that I am a weak sender. Many Shomir are one or the other. My mother was a Shomir. You are perfectly right. The Shomir do not go into Trade. I was . . . well . . . overcome by emotion. I had better tell you.”

No change of expression, no quiver of muscular contraction indicated the suspicion that must be aroused by her ingenuousness. Lahks was well satisfied. That the dark man should watch her and be suspicious could do no harm. Although the story she was about to tell would be a tissue of lies, it would grow more and more truthful in appearance because the purposes she claimed were true. These men were almost certainly for hire— one way or another—and they seemed ideal. Lahks felt a lifting of spirits, a welling of ever-ready laughter. She was traveling a rainbow of good fortune and the pot of gold at the end of it would be Ghrey.

The big hand she was patting moved. Lahks turned. Shom was smiling. Lahks caught her breath, smiled back, then touched his face with her fingers.

“He wasn’t always this way. What happened to him?” she asked.

The lean shoulders lifted, showing knobs of bone under the thin coveralls. Lahks wondered briefly if the dark man ate enough or if he was older than he looked. Certainly Shom gave no sign of undernourishment. The loyalty factor seemed enormous, and since Shom would be no trouble this could be molded into quite a team.

“What happened? His mind-partner died, very horribly, while they were linked. That is the fact. Beyond that is all guesswork. There is a lot the med-psychs do not know. They think Shom—that is not his name, but he answers to it—stayed linked to . . . to give comfort. He was a physical mess when it was over. It was a miracle the stigmata did not kill him. As for his mind—who knows? Burned out, it may be, or in such deep-shock retreat that nothing could reach it.”

Inside Lahks’ breast, emotion twisted painfully. Shom uttered a small whimper and reached toward her. She slid her arm across his hulking shoulders, hugged them briefly, then patted his back.

“Not to worry, Shom,” she soothed. “It’s all right. Not to worry.” Reassurance flowed from her. The big man, childlike in his immediate response, smiled again. Lahks nodded, returned her attention to the dark partner. After looking at him for a moment, she drew a datarec from her belt and laid it on the table, but without pushing the start switch. “Yes,” she said, “I will tell you. I think I can offer you a Deal that will benefit us all, but I need to know a few things first.”

“Deal first, then information.”

Lahks frowned. She did not want to seem too eager. “So you can fit the information to the Deal?” Then, without waiting for the answer, she laughed. “Why not? As long as the story can be fixed to explain what I want explained, why should I care?”

“I don’t want trouble with the Guild.”

Lahks shuddered. “I hope not. We might need them to get us out of here.” She grinned. “No cautions about the Patrol?”

“You said you had Trade connections. The Patrol will always listen to Trade.”

Laughing, Lahks replied, “So will the Guild.” Then she sobered, pushed the start on the datarec, and put her left hand on the table, palm up.

“Deal Name: Tamar Shomra.”

It did not matter what name she gave. As soon as it was started, the datarec identified the individuals involved in any business or personal contract. It made visual, aural, and biophyschem records that could not be altered or erased. Although the machine could be destroyed, the molecular records were easy to reconstruct. There were ways to get around a datarec. There were ways to get around anything, but for ordinary people and even ordinary criminals, the record of a datarec was the ultimate

guarantee. Lahks wanted to be taken seriously; once she switched on the datarec, there could be no doubt of her intentions.

The dark man put his hand on the table, too, palm down, but he did not touch hers. He was willing to listen, but not to commit himself.

“Deal Name: Wesel Stoat.”

Lahks allowed herself a little chuckle. The name was undoubtedly as fictitious as her own, but the choice showed a sense of humor to which her whole being responded. Imagine a man who looked like that calling himself weasel-weasel! Lahks did not allow her appreciation to divert her from the business at hand.

“Deal Merchandise: Heartstones.” She saw the muscles in Stoat’s hand quiver, but it was impossible to judge whether the instinct had been to withdraw or to make contact.

“Deal Question: Personal or commercial?”

“Deal Answer: Both.” Lahks closed her hand but did not remove it from the table. Stoat’s hand closed also without withdrawing. He was prepared to listen to her explanation and recognize it was not part of the Deal. “I told you my father was in Trade. He has had misfortunes of various kinds. He was finally driven to make Contract for a heartstone.”

“Then he has just added a final calamity to his misfortunes.”

“There are heartstones. I have seen dead ones and read everything about them.”

“There are heartstones, but you do not pick them up in the public street.”

“I know that, but this is important, not just commercial. You saw how I reacted to Shom. I have a brother—half brother—Absalom, my mother’s son out of her first husband. Even so, we were close and my father was crazy about Ab. He wasn’t a good Trader; he had too many religious convictions. But he was an incipient empath and marvelous as a first-contact man and Deal Reader. Well, about five S-years ago he disappeared on a first contact. My father was wild. We did”—Lahks shook her head— “everything.”

“I can see why you were startled by Shom.”

Lahks nodded acceptance, but she did not divert from her story. “There was no trace . . . none. One day he was there, the next day he was gone. Nothing else was missing or disturbed—tent, bedroll, supplies and there was no evidence of antagonism among the locals. One of them, a hunter who had been out at night, said he had seen a new light in the sky.”

Shom stirred uneasily in his seat, reacting to the genuine distress Lahks felt as she described her father’s disappearance. Stoat’s eyes flickered to the big man and the cynicism faded a little in his eyes. He lifted his hand from the table. Lahks stopped speaking at once.

“Shom, go get us some drinks.”

The idiot rose at once. Lahks also lifted her hand from the table. What she was about to say had no connection at all with the Deal. “How much of what we say does he understand?”

“1 have no idea. He follows direct instructions quite intelligently, even pretty complicated instructions when they relate to physical acts. On the other hand, any abstract question even what his name is or how he feels if he does not have an immediate physical sensation to describe gets no response.”

“Does he talk?”

For a reply Stoat gestured toward the service counter. Shom was just rumbling “Three drinks” in a bass voice.

“He talks enough to get what he needs, but he never says anything—if you know what 1 mean.”

Lahks nodded, then lowered her clenched hand to the table again. Stoat responded with a similar action. “I won’t upset him again, I hope. Just raking up Ab’s disappearance. . .” Her voice faltered. She set her lips, paused, then went on steadily. “After a long time my father was ready to give up. He left feelers out, of course, but he thought Ab was dead. Only my mother said he wasn’t. She is not a telepath and not even as good a Deal Reader as Ab, but she insisted Ab was alive somewhere out ‘there.” Lahks gestured in the direction she remembered as that of Ghrey’s sending. “So we kept looking, but ‘there’ covers a lot of space.”

Shom returned with the three stone mugs clasped in one hand. He set them down, passed them around. Lahks drank thirstily, damping down reawakened sorrow and new enthusiasm.

“We finally got a message—a real weirdie. It was from Necrocivita.” Stoat’s hand quivered, almost lifted. Lahks hesitated until it was set steadily on the table again. “All it said was that if a heartstone was delivered. Ab would turn up and my father’s misfortunes would be canceled. Well, we . . . uh . . . tried other things, but in the end my father made Contract.”

“And sent you alone?”

Lahks opened her hand. No outside help, except what they could get for themselves, was part of the Deal. “Deal Answer: Alone. I told you my father had misfortunes. He was not free to come.”

Stoat’s eyes narrowed. A “not free” Trader meant total financial disaster—a ship sold or impounded at worst, lack of sufficient money for liftoff fuel and supplies at best (which only led to the worst in a short time). He opened his hand.

“Deal Question: If the Trader is not free, where will we find a profit? Deal Corollary: Necrocivita does not pay in gems, and I have no interest in their form of payment.”

“Deal Answer: What will not suffice for a Trader is often enough for a party. Deal Question: Do you want to discuss terms?”

There was a long pause. Finally Stoat closed his hand. He was drawn to this young woman in a way that made him very wary, but his situation demanded that he place physical survival before emotional problems. “I thought you wanted to ask questions.”

“You have already answered many of them. They were mostly about Shom. The others concern the details of the story for the locals. Somehow I have the feeling that an eye is kept on heartstone hunters and that not many reap the profits of their labors.”

Stoat laughed shortly and bitterly. “You are not as innocent as you look.”

Lahks laughed, too. “I am a Trader’s daughter.”

He nodded, opened his hand suddenly, and laid the palm against hers.

“Deal Question: Final or open-end?” he asked.

“Deal Answer: Open-end.”

“Deal Question: Whose option?”

“Deal Answer: Mutual.”

“Deal Statement: Open-end terms on mutual agreement accepted.”

The palm-to-palm contact was changed into a brief grasp. Stoat broke the hand clasp, closed his fist, and lifted his mug.

“Nice feel to your hand, Trader’s daughter. There might be a Contract in this.”