The Tar-aiym Krang (17 page)

“There’s
got
to be a way to pick up another half multiple!”

He didn’t notice the way her hand trembled when his covered it, nor the way she looked down at it. He removed it abruptly without being aware of the effect he’d had on his copilot. It joined the other in digging at their owner’s hair.

Flinx was also considering the problem, in his own way. He knew little about stellar navigation, and less about doublekay units . . . but Malaika had forgotten more than he might ever know. He couldn’t match the merchant’s knowledge, but he could remember for him. The links in the trader’s mind branched a million ways. Patiently, he tracked down now this, now that one, bringing long-forgotten studies and applications to the surface where Malaika’s own system would pick them up, look them over, and discard them. In a way it was like using the retrieval system at the Royal Library. He kept at it with a steadiness he hadn’t known he possessed, until. . . .

“But
akili!
Commonsense . . . !” He paused, and his eyes opened so wide that for a moment Atha was actually alarmed. “
Atha!”
She couldn’t prevent herself from jumping a little at the shout.

He had it. Somehow the idea had risen from its hiding place deep in his mind, where it had lain untouched for years.

“Look, when the Blight was first reached, survey ships went through it—some of it—with an eye toward mapping the place, right? The idea was eventually dropped as impractical—meaning expensive—but all the information that had originally been collected was retained. That’d be only proper. Check with memory and find out if there are any neutron stars in our vicinity.”

“What?”

“An excellent idea, captain,” said Wolf. “I think . . . yes, there is a possibility—outside and difficult, mind—that we may be able to draw them in after us. Far more enjoyable than a simple suicide.”

“It would be that, Wolf, except for one thing. I am not thinking of even a complicated suicide.
Mwalizuri,
talk to that machine of yours and find out what it says!”

She punched the required information uncertainly but competently. It took the all-inclusive machine only a moment to image-out a long list of answers.

“Why yes, there is one, Captain. At our present rate of travel, some seventy-two ship-minutes from our current attitude. Coordinates are listed, and in this case are recorded as accurate, nine point . . . nine point seven places.”

“Start punching them in.” He swiveled and bent to the audio mike. “Attention, everybody. Now that you two minions of peace and tranquility have effectively pacified half our pursuit, I’ve been stimulated enough to come up with an equally insane idea. What I’m . . . what
we’re
going to try is theoretically possible. I don’t know if it’s been done before or not. There wouldn’t be any records of an
un
successful attempt. I feel we must take the risk. Any alternative to certain death is a preferable one. Capture is otherwise a certainty.”

Truzenzuzex leaned over in harness and spoke into his mike. “May I inquire into what you . . .
we
will attempt to do?”

“Yes,” said Wolf. “I admit to curiosity myself, captain.”

“
Je!
We are heading for a neutron star in this sector for which we have definite coordinates. At our present rate of speed we should be impinging on its gravity well at the necessary tangent some seventy . . . sixty-nine minutes from now. Atha, Wolf, the computer, and myself are going to work like hell the next few minutes to line up that course. If we can hit that field at a certain point at our speed . . . I am hoping the tremendous pull of the star will throw us out at a speed sufficient to escape the range of the AAnn detector fields. They can hardly be expecting it, and even if they do figure it out, I don’t think our friend the Baron would consider doing likewise a worthwhile effort. I almost hope he does. He’d have everything to lose. At the moment, we have very little. Only we humans are crazy enough to try such a stunt anyway,
kweli?”

“Yes. Second the motion. Agreed,” said Truzenzuzex. “If I were in a position to veto this idiotic—which I assure you I would do. However, as I am not . . . let’s get on with it, captain.”

“Damned with faint praise, eh, philosoph? There are other possibilities,
watu.
Either we shall miss our impact point and go wide, in which case the entire attempt might as well not have been made and we will be captured and poked into, or we will dive too deeply and be trapped by the star’s well, pulled in, and broken up into very small pieces. As Captain I am empowered to make this decision by right . . . but this is not quite a normal cruise, so I put it to a vote. Objections?”

The only thing that came over the comm was a slight sniffle, undoubtedly attributable to Sissiph (she had given in to curiosity and flipped on her unit). It could not be construed as an objection.

“
Je!
We will try it, then. I suggest strongly you spend some time checking out your harnesses and spreading yourselves as comfortably as possible. Provided that we strike the star’s field at the precise tangent I am almost positive that the
Gloryhole
can stand the forces involved. If it cannot it will not matter, because our bodies will go long before the ship does.
Haidhuru.
It doesn’t matter. Physiologically I have no idea what to expect. So prepare your bodies and your spirits as well as possible, because in sixty . . .” he paused to glance at the chronometer, “six minutes, it will be all one way or all the other.”

He cut the mike and began furiously feeding instructions and requests into a computer auxiliary.

If they had one consolation, thought Flinx, it was that there would be no horrifyingly slow buildup of gravity within the ship. They would either fail or succeed at such a supremely high speed that it would be over in an instant . . . as Malaika had said, all one way or all the other. He did not care to imagine what would happen if they missed their contact point and dived too close to the star. Dwell in the well. Not funny. He saw himself and Pip mashed flat, like paper, and that proved unamusing also.

The chronometer, oblivious of mere human concerns, continued to wind down. Sixty minutes left . . . forty . . . twenty to . . . ten tofivetothreetotwo. . . .

And then, unbelievably, there were only sixty seconds left till judgment. Before he had time to muse on this amazing fact, there was a slight jar. A silent screaming from the farthest abyss of time flowed like jelly over the ship. He hung on the lip of a canyon of nothingness, while it tried desperately to ingest him. He refused to be ingested. REFUSED! A pin among other pins in a bowl of milk, while somewhere a million fingernails dug exquisitely scratching on a thousand hysterically howling blackboardssscRRRREEEEEEEE. . . .

Chapter Twelve

On board the destroyer
Arr
the chief navigational officer blinked at his detector screen, then turned to stare up at where the Baron sat in his command chair.

“Sir, the humanx vessel has disappeared from my screens. Also, we are rapidly approaching a neutron star of considerable gravitonic potential. Orders?”

Baron Riidi WW was noted for his persistence. The idea of a trapped quarry escaping him was most unappealing. Neither, however, was he a fool. His eyes closed tiredly.

“Change course thirty degrees, right to our present plane. Cut to cruising speed, normal.” He looked up then, eyes open, at the battlescreen. Somewhere out there was a white dot. Out there also, an invisible bottomless pit of unimaginable energy masked an impossible retreat. Or a quick suicide. An inklin
g
of the human’s intentions percolated through his cells. He did not feel the least inclined to try to duplicate the event. Whether the idiot was alive or dead, he would not know for many months . . . and that was the most infuriating thing of all.

He flexed his long fingers, staring at the brightly polished claws whose length was suitably trimmed to that for a high member of the aristocracy. Colloid-gems shone lavalike on two of them. He locked them over his chest and pushed outward. Those among the crew who were more familiar with the actions of the nobility recognized the gesture. It indicated Conception of Impractical Power. Under the circumstances it constituted a salute to their departed foe.

“Set a return course for Pregglin Base and signal our industrialist friend the following missive. No, I don’t wish an interstar hookup. Just send it. ‘Intercepted anticipated vessel and made positive audiovisual identification. Repeat,
positive.
Chased to points . . . give our current coordinates, shipmaster . . . ‘where contact with same was irretrievably lost due to,’ ” he smiled slightly, “ ‘an unexpected turn of speed on the part of the pursued vessel. In hostile action with same, the destroyer
Unn
was lost with all hands.’ Add this note, communicator, and scramble it to my personal code. ‘Sir. Your request has proven expensive in the extreme. Contrary to your indications we did not encounter, as you led me to believe, a terrified shipload of frightened moneylenders. As a result of your bungling, I now find myself in the uncomfortable position of having to account for my off-base time to my good friend Lord Kaath, C. How good a friend he is will now be put to a considerable test. As will your ability to place judicious bribes. I hope, for both our sakes, that the latter will be sufficient. Explaining the loss of the
Unn
will be rather more difficult. Should the true circumstances surrounding this idiocy leak out it would be more than enough to condemn us both to death by nth degree torture at the hands of the Masters. Kindly do keep this in mind.’

“Sign it, ‘yours affectionately, Riidi WW, Baron, etc., etc.’ And get me a drink.”

Chapter Thirteen

It was autumn. Mother Mastiff had closed up the shop, packed a lunch, and taken them both off to the Royal Parks. It was a cloudless day, which was why. Literally cloudless. On Moth this wasn’t merely a pleasant exception, it was an event. He could remember staring endlessly at the funny-colored sky. It was blue, so different from the normal light gray. It hurt his eyes. The thoughts of the animals, the birds, were odd and confused. And the hawkers sat listlessly in their respective booths, cursing softly at the sun. It had stolen all their customers. It was a softer sky, and softness of any kind was rare in Drallar. So everyone had taken the day off, including the king.

The Royal Parks were a great, sprawling place. They had originally been created by the builders of the first botanical gardens to use up the space left over from those great constructs. By some monstrous bureaucratic error it had been opened to the general public and had remained so ever since. The great flashing boles of the famous ironwood trees shot straight and proud to impossible heights over his boyish head. They seemed much more permanent than the city itself.

The ironwoods were molting. Every other week the royal gardeners would come and gather up all the fallen leaves and branches. Ironwood was rare, even on Moth, and the scraps where far too valuable to be swept away. The guards in their lemon-green uniforms sauntered easily about the park grounds, there more to protect the trees than the people.

Children were playing on the marvelous gyms and tangles that an earlier king had set up. As long as the people had abrogated the park, he felt that they might as well enjoy it to the fullest. The kings of Drallar had been greedy, yes, but not exceptionally so.

He had been too shy to join the giggling, darting shapes on the funchines. And they had all been frightened of Pip, silly things! There had been one little girl though . . . all curls and blue eyes and flushes. She had shuffled over hesitantly, trying hard to appear disinterested but not succeeding. Her thoughts were nice. For a change, she was fascinated by the minidrag rather than repelled by it.

They had been on the verge of making introductions in the simple but very correct manner that adults lose so quickly, when a great leaf had drifted down unseen and struck him fair between the eyes. Ironwood leaves are heavy, but not enough to produce injury, even to a small boy. Only embarrassment. She had started giggling uncontrolably. Furious, he had stalked off, ears burning with the heat of her laughter, his mind frozen with her picture of him. He had thought momentarily of siccing Pip on her. That was one of the impulses he had learned to control very early, when the snake’s abilities had been glass-gruesomely demonstrated on a persistent tormentor, a stray mongrel dog.

Even as he strode farther and farther away, the sounds of her laughter followed, ghostlike. As he walked he took vicious and ineffectual swings at the rust-colored leaves floating down uncaringly about him. And sometimes he didn’t even touch them when they dropped brokenly to the ground.

Chapter Fourteen

Then the sky wasn’t blue anymore. Nor light gray. It was pastel green.

He stopped flailing his arms and looked around, moving only his eyes. Pip stopped beating his pleated wings against his master’s face and flew off to curl comfortably against the nearest bed-bar, satisfied with the reaction it had produced. The minidrag’s tough constitution had apparently suffered few ill effects. Flinx didn’t know yet whether to curse it or kiss it.

He tried to sit up but fell back, exhausted by the brief effort. Oddly enough, his bones didn’t bother him at all. But his muscles! The tendons and ligaments too, all of the connective web that held the framework together. Felt like they’d been tied end to end, stretched out, rolled together into a ball, and pounded into one of Mother Mastiff’s less palatable meatloafs.

It was a trial, but he finally managed to sit up. The events of . . . how long had he been out? . . . came back to him as he rubbed circulation back into benumbed legs. As soon as he felt reasonably humanoid again, he leaned over and spoke into his shipmike. In case the others were in less positive shape than he, he enunciated slowly and clearly so as to be sure to be understood.

“Captain? Captain? Control? Is anyone up there?” He could sense all the other minds but not their condition, as his own was too addled to focus yet.

“
Rahisi, kijana!
Take it easy. Glad to hear you’re back too.” The trader’s voice was a familiar healthy boom but Flinx could read the strain on his mind. In another minute his picture flashed onto the small viewscreen. The blocky face had added another line or two, the beard a few white hairs, but otherwise the craggy visage was unchanged. And although his body and mind looked wearied by the stresses they had undergone, the face reflected old enthusiasms.

“Wolf and I have been up, although not about, by
moyo.
Uzito,
what an experience! It seems that our friend the hard-headed philosoph, who wears his bones inside out, stood it better than the rest of us. He’s been up here rubbing us poor softies back into consciousness.”

The voice of the insect came over the speaker from somewhere off-camera, but Flinx could place the thranx from the strength of its thoughts, which were indeed better organized than those of its companions.

“If the rest of your body was as hard as your head, captain, you, at least, would not need my aid.”

“
Je!
Well,
kijana,
Tse-Mallory’s been up the longest of us poor humans, and I believe Der Bugg is just now bringing Atha ’round . . . yes, bless her flinty
moyo.
We were going to send him in to see you next, Flinx, but I see that’s not necessary.”

“Did we . . .?” but Malaika seemed not to hear and Flinx was too tired to probe.

“
Mwanamume
and
mtoto,
what a buggy ride! Sorry, bwana Truzenzuzex. No offense intended. It’s an old Terran saying, meaning ‘to go like blazes,’ roughly. I know only that it’s appropriate to our present situation. Perhaps it’s designed to invoke a friendly Mungu,
je?
Metamorphosis! Flinx me lad, me
kijana,
me
mtoto,
we went past that star so fast after hitting that field that our transversion ‘puter couldn’t handle it! The mechanism wasn’t built to program that kind of speed, and I’d hate to tell you where the cut-off max is! If there were only some way this sort of thing could be done on a commercial basis . . . owk!”

He winced and gingerly touched a hand to the back of his neck.

“However, I must admit that at the present time there appear to be certain drawbacks to the system.
Uchawi!
I would have given much to have seen the face of our friend the Baron when we shot off his screens,
je!
Unannounced, as it were. I wonder if he . . . but unwrap yourself from that webbing,
kijana,
and get thee forward. I’ve a bit of a surprise for you, and it looks even better from up front.”

Flinx could feel the tone beginning to return to his muscles. He undid the rest of the harness and slid slowly off the bed. There was an awkward moment as he had to grab the wall for support, balancing himself on shaky legs. But things began to normalize themselves quickly now. He walked around the room a few times, experimentally, and then turned and headed for Control, Pip curled comfortably about his left shoulder.

Malaika swiveled slightly in his seat as Flinx appeared on the bridge.

“Well? What’s the surprise?” He noted that Truzenzuzex had disappeared, but could feel the insect’s presence in another part of the ship.

Apparently Malaika noted his searching gaze. Or possibly he was becoming sensitive. He’d have to be careful around the big trader.

“He’s gone to try to help Sissiph. She figured to be the last to return,
rudisha.”

That was undoubtedly true. Atha and Wolf he could clearly see busy at their instruments.

“
Kijana,
that big kick in the . . . boost we got shoved us far ahead of my anticipated schedule . . . on our prearranged path! I planned it that way when we were setting up the interception coordinates. No use wasting a brush with death if it can be utilized to profit also . . . but I honestly didn’t think the
Glory’
s field could hold us that steady. However, it did, and here we are.”

“Which is where?” asked Flinx.

Malaika was smug. “Not more than ninety minutes ship
-nafasi
from our intended destination!” He turned back to his desk, muttering. “Now if there’s only some way to make it commercially feas. . . .”

Flinx put together what he knew of how far they’d come when they were intercepted by the AAnn warship and how far they’d still had to go at that time. The result he came up with was an acceleration he had no wish to dwell on.

“That’s great, of course, sir. Still, it would also be nice if. . . .”

“Um? If what?”

“If when we get where we’re going we find some thing worth getting there for.”

“Your semantics are scrambled,
kijana,
but I approve the sentiment.
Mbali kodogo,
a little way off, perhaps, but I do indeed approve.”