Postmarked the Stars sq-4 Read online

  Postmarked the Stars

  ( Solar Queen - 4 )

  Andre Norton

  POSTMARKED THE STARS

  by Andre Norton

  1. RUDE AWAKENING

  He was crawling on hands and knees through a world of steam, of greasy mud that sought to engulf him bodily. He could not breathe—yet he must go—get away—out—

  His lanky body was sprawled across the bed, arms wide and spread. Hands clawed feebly at the wrinkled covering bunched under it as his head turned with slow, agonized steadiness back and forth on the slightly raised section at one end of that narrow shelf.

  Humid heat, gluey mess holding him—but he must keep going. It was very necessary—he must!

  He was breathing in gasps, which grew into shudders, shaking his whole lean length. And though his eyes were still closed, he endeavored to push himself up and away from the surface on which he lay.

  He could see—his eyes relayed a message to his brain—that he was not crawling over any steam-pillared swamp. Instead, he lifted his head higher to look at walls that appeared to raise and lower rhythmically to his gasping.

  Dane Thorson, assistant cargo master, the free trader Solar Queen, Terra registry 65-724910-JK—as if they were part of a flaming scarlet sign printed on the heaving surface before him, he read those words. And they made sense, although—did he see them? He—he was Dane Thorson. And the Solar Queen—

  With a gasp that was half cry, he gave himself a push so he was seated, not lying, on the bed, though he had to hold on tightly while the surface, which should have offered solid security, bucked and swung under him.

  But as if recognition of his identity unlocked some barrier, he could think. He was still deathly ill and dizzy, but he could force himself to sort out the events of the immediate past, or at least part of it. He was

  Dane Thorson, acting cargo master of the Queen because Van Ryke, his superior, was off-world and would join them only at the end of this voyage. And this was the Solar Queen, a free trader—

  But as Dane turned his head carefully, he knew that that was not true. He was not in his familiar cabin on board ship—this was a room. He forced himself to study his surroundings for some clue to aid limping memory. There was the bed on which he had been lying, two snap-down seats pulled out of the wall, no windows but an air plate near the ceiling, two doors, both closed. A wan light came from a ceiling set rod.

  It was a bare room, not unlike a cell. A cell—memory spiraled back.

  They had been Patrol Posted. This was a cell—No! That was all done with. They had finned down on Xecho, ready to ship out for Trewsworld on their first mail run—

  Ship out! As if those two words were a spur, Dane tried to get to his feet. He nearly fell, but somehow he balanced along the wall, his stomach heaving for tortured moments of misery. He caught at the nearest door, his weight dragging it open, and found that some merciful instinct had brought him to the fresher. Then he proceeded to be thoroughly and violently ill.

  Still shaking from racking spasms, he managed to get to water and splash it over his face and upper body, thus becoming aware for the first time that he was not wearing his uniform tunic, though breeches and space boots still clothed him.

  The water and, oddly, the nausea, seemed to pull him farther out of the fog. He wavered back into the room, staring about him while he thought. His last clear memory was—what?

  Message—what message? That there was a registered package to be picked up, under standard one priority. For a few seconds he had a clear mental picture of the cargo master’s office on the Queen, of Tang Ya, the com-tech, standing in the door.

  Last-minute pickup—last minute! The Queen was set for takeoff!

  Panic hit him. He did not know what had happened. The message—and he must have left the ship—but where was here? And—even more important—when was now? The Queen had a schedule all the more important because she was, if temporarily, a mail ship. How long had he been here? Surely they would not have lifted without him! And how and why, as well as where—

  Dane rubbed a hand across his sweating forehead. Odd, he was dripping with sweat, and yet he shook with a chill inside. There was a tunic—He wavered to the bed and fumbled with the garment that had been tossed there.

  Not his. It was not the sober brown of a spaceman but rather a gaudy, though faded, purple with raveling embroidery. But because he was so cold, he pulled it about him. Then he made for the other door, one that must get him out of here—wherever here was! The Queen set to lift and he not on board—

  His legs still tended to buckle under him, but he kept on them and walking. The door gave to his weak shove, and he was in a corridor, with a long line of other doors, all closed. But at the far end was an arch and beyond that movement and sound. Dane headed for that, still trying to remember more. The message for a pickup—He must have left the Queen at once. Now he halted to look down at his body under the flapping of the unfastened tunic, too tight and short for him. His safe belt—yes, he was still wearing that. But—

  With one hand he investigated. Its pockets were all empty except the one holding his ident disk, but no one would have any use for that. It was keyed to his body chemistry. Let another take it, and within minutes the information on it would be erased. So he had been robbed.

  But why the room? If he had been jumped, they would have left him lying—Gingerly he felt his head—no painful bruise or lump. Of course there were nerve holds that knocked a man out, and if sleep gas had been blown in his face—But why the room?

  Time for puzzles later. The Queen and takeoff—he had to reach the Queen! And where was he? How much time did he have? But surely when he had not returned, they would not have gone. Rather they would have come looking for him. The crew of the Solar Queen was too close-knit a companionship to leave one of their members planet-side without a search.

  At least he could move better now, and his head was clear. Dane pulled the tunic close about him, though he could not seal it, as he reached the arch and looked beyond. The large room was familiar. Half of it had booths set along the wall with dials for quick meals in their tables. The other half had a registration robo, a message bank, and a newscast screen. This was the—the—

  He could not remember the name, but it was one of the small, cheap inns at the port, catering mainly to crewmen who were waiting to ship out. He had eaten at that table right over there with Rip Shannon and Ali Kamil just yesterday—or was it yesterday?

  The Queen and lift time—Panic-fed urgency clamped on him again. At least he was not miles from the port, though on this world where dry land was merely strings of islands set in shallow, steaming seas, one could not get miles from the port and still be on the same blob of land.

  All that was of no consequence now. He must get back to the Queen. To hold to that was going to take all his concentration. Dane took one careful step after another, heading for the nearest door.

  Had he or had he not seen one of those men seated in the nearest booth start up as if he wanted to stop him? Maybe he looked as if he needed assistance. But just let him get to the Queen—!

  If he attracted any more attention, Dane neither knew nor cared. What filled his world was the supreme luck of seeing an unoccupied scooter just outside. He fumbled his ident disk out, and as he fell rather than sat on the seat, he fed that into the proper slot and punched out “go.”

  Already he was straining to see the launch strip. One, two, three ships! And the last one in line was the Queen! He would make it. The scooter whirled him at its top speed, though he did not remember punching it. It was almost as if the machine sensed his fear and impatience.

  The cargo hatch was closed, but, of course, he had seen to that himself. T
he ramp was still out. As the scooter swept up, he tottered from it to the ramp and pulled himself up hand over hand by the guardrail.

  His will kept him going, but the weakness and dizziness were returning. And now, the ramp was moving! They were preparing for takeoff!

  Dane made a convulsive effort, gained the end of the ramp and then the hatch. He could not reach his own cabin in time to strap down. Where? Van Ryke’s was the nearest—up ladder.

  His own body was the enemy he must fight. Dane was dimly aware of the struggle with the ladder, of half falling through a cabin door, of reaching the bunk and dropping on it. Then he blacked out.

  No dream now of wading through an adhesive swamp or veils of steam. There was a heavy pressure on his chest, smothering him, a harsh rasping on his chin. Dane opened his eyes to stare into inquisitive feline ones. Sinbad, ship’s cat, nosed him again, kneaded his paws on Dane under his own portly frame with vigor enough to bring a protest out of the man.

  There was the familiar vibration, though. This was Sinbad. He had reached the Queen, and they were out in space. A vast relief flooded through Dane.

  Then, for the first time he was able to think farther than just reaching the ship before it lifted. He had gone to make a registered pickup. And somewhere he had been jumped and robbed. Before or after he had made the pickup? A new worry presented itself. If he had signed for it, then he, or rather the Queen, was responsible for the loss. The sooner he reported to Captain Jellico, the better.

  “Yes,” he said aloud, pushing Sinbad away to sit up. “Got to see the Old Man—”

  His first awakening in the inn had been tough. This was almost as bad. He had to hold onto the bunk and close his eyes, not sure if he could move. There was the com on the wall. Get to that, call for help— Poison? Could they—the mysterious they—or he—or it—who had initiated his attack have used poison on him? Once before he had been so wracked, on Sargol, when, by native custom as a successful Gorp hunter, he had shared a ceremonial drink—to pay for that compliance later. Tau—Medic Tau—

  Dane set his teeth, grasped Van Ryke’s file of micro films, which jutted conveniently from the wall, and pulled himself up. He managed to jerk the mike from its hook, but when it came to thumbing the button for sick bay, he could not be sure—they were a blur. He had to chance it.

  Now that he was up, he was almost afraid to return to the bunk. The waves of sickness seemed less overpowering when he was on his feet. Maybe if he tried now to get around—Besides, he had to report to Jellico, must do that—

  He heard a warning growl from Sinbad as his foot touched something soft. And the big cat, his dignity injured by interference with his tail, slapped back, his claws grating on Dane’s space boot.

  “Sorry.” Dane, trying to avoid the rest of Sinbad’s bulk, staggered forward, out of the door, into the well of the ladder. He held out groping hands for that. Captain—must report—

  “What the—?”

  Dane had not trodden on the head of the man climbing up, but it was a near thing. As with Sinbad, he tried to avoid collision and swung out so far he would have fallen had not the newcomer caught him. Ali Kamil’s finely featured face swung back and forth in Dane’s sight, but then the assistant engineer’s tough grip steadied him.

  “Got—to—report,” Dane said. “See—Captain—”

  “What by the Five Names of Stayfol!” Kamil supported him back against the wall. His face was clear and then blurred in Dane’s sight.

  “See Jellico—” Dane repeated. He knew he was saying that, but he could not hear his own voice. Nor could he twist free from Kamil’s grip.

  “Down—come on—”

  Not down—up! He had to go to see Jellico—

  He was on the ladder. He must have made Ali understand. Only, they were going down—down—up—in space which was which? Dane shook his head to clear it, and that only made it worse, so that he dared not move at all, but clung to the ladder, a sole anchor in a spinning world.

  Hands pulled at him. He heard talking, only the words had no meaning.

  “Report—” With a vast effort he got that out in a rasping whisper.

  There were two of them with him, Ali and someone else. Dane dared not turn his head to see. And they were steering him to a cabin door. Ali pushed that back, and they entered, Dane limp between them.

  Then for a stark moment the mists were gone, wiped away. He hung between the two who had supported him, but he could see, as if the shock of what lay on the bunk had pulled him out of the dizzy spin of the sickness.

  The sleeper lay quietly, acceleration straps still about him as if he had not recovered from takeoff. His tunic—his head—the face—

  Dane gave a jerk that loosened the grasp of those with him. Their astonishment must have been as great as his. He stumbled forward the step or two to the bunk to stare down at the man who lay there, eyes closed, apparently asleep or unconscious. Then, holding on with one hand to keep his precarious balance, Dane reached out the other to assure himself by touch that someone did lie there, that his eyes were not playing tricks on him, for the face against the raised end of the bunk was the one he saw in mirrors. He was looking down at—himself!

  There was solid flesh and bone meeting the prod of his finger. But if a body did lie there, the face—was that a dream out of his illness? Dane turned his head. Kamil was there, and with him Frank Mura, the cook steward. Both of them were staring at the man on the bunk.

  “No!” Dane choked out a denial of what he saw. “I’m—I’m—me! I’m Dane Thorson.” And he recited the same formula that had come to him in the inn on his first waking into the nightmare.

  “Dane Thorson, assistant cargo master, the free trader Solar Queen, Terra registry 65-724910-JK.” His ident disk! He had that as proof. Now he got it out of his belt pocket, held it so they might see it, too, and know that he was Dane Thorson. But if he was Dane Thorson, then who—

  “What is going on?”

  Tau! Medic Tau! With relief Dane hunched around, still keeping his hold on the bunk lest he sprawl on the floor. Tau would know who he was. Why, he and Craig Tau had gone through almost as bad as this together—on Khatka.

  “I’m Dane,” he said. “I can prove it. You’re Craig Tau, and we were on Khatka, where you used magic to make Limbulo hunt himself. And—and”—he pointed with the ident disk to Ali, his hand shaking as he did it—“you’re Ali Kamil, and we found you trapped in a maze on Limbo. And you, you’re Frank Mura. You piped us into that maze.” There, he must have proved it. No one but Dane Thorson would know all that. They must believe him now.

  But then who—what—lay on his bunk, wearing his tunic—because it was his. There was the mend he had done by thoro-weave three days ago. He was Dane Thorson—

  “I am Dane Thorson—” Not only were his hands shaking now; his whole body quivered. And he was going to be sick again. He couldn’t help it. Maybe—maybe this was all some kind of crazy dream!

  “Steady! Get him, Kamil.” Tau was with him. Then he was in the fresher once more, vomiting.

  “Can you hold him?” He heard Tau’s voice faintly as if it came from a distance. “I’ll have to get a shot. He’s been—”

  “Poisoned, I think,” Dane heard himself say. But whether he spoke aloud, he could not tell. At the same moment the lights went out.

  For the third time he roused, but this time lazily. It was not Sinbad’s weight on his chest and the cat’s rasping tongue that drew him back to consciousness. Rather it was a feeling of peace, as if he had thrown off some burden. And for a long moment he was content until memory began its irritating prick-prick of summons to full awareness.

  There was something—something about a report to the captain. Dane’s thoughts uncoiled sluggishly. He opened his eyes, turned his head a little, and things dropped into focus. He was in sick bay. Though he had never lain here before, the cabin was familiar. He stirred, and the medic came into Dane’s line of vision.

  “With us again, eh? Let’s s
ee—” He went to work with quick competence to run a check on Dane’s still inert body. “Fair enough, though by rights you should be dead.”

  Dead? He had been dead—Dane frowned. There had been a body in his bunk.

  “The man in my bunk?” He made that a question, though he did not finish it.

  “Dead. And I think you are fit enough now—” Tau went to the wall com. “Sick bay calling Captain.”

  Captain—report to the captain! Dane tried to get up, but Tau had already pressed the button bringing part of the surface up under him as a support. A little dizziness returned but then was gone.

  “That man—how—”

  “Acceleration with a heart condition. He had no business trying to get off-planet,” Tau told him.

  “His—his face—”

  Tau took something from a nearby shelf. He faced Dane, holding out a plasta mask. Save that it had no eyes, only holes, it was like looking in a mirror. And a back stretch covered with blond hair like Dane’s turned it into a full head covering.

  “Who was he?” The mask possessed a macabre fascination. Dane looked away from it quickly. It was almost like seeing a part of himself limp and flaccid in the medic’s grasp.

  “We were hoping—are hoping—you know,” Tau returned. “But the captain wants it now.”

  As if that were an introduction, Captain Jellico came in. His deeply tanned face with the blaster scar along one cheek showed no readable emotion, as was usual. But he glanced from the mask Tau was holding to Dane and back again.

  “Diabolically clever piece of work,” he commented. “Not a quick job.”

  “Nor made on Xecho either, I would say.” Tau put away the mask, to Dane’s relief. “That is the product of an expert.”

  The captain came to Dane’s side and held out his hand. On the palm rested a colored tridee. It was of a man. His skin did not have the brown tan of a crewman but was bleached looking, though he must be Terran or Terran colonial bred. There was an odd, fixed look in his eyes, a frozen stillness to his features that was disquieting. His hair was sparse, sandy brown, his eyebrows above those fixed eyes were thin and ragged, and he had a rash of freckles across his upper cheekbones. To Dane he was a complete stranger.