Uncharted Stars Page 12

  “It is well for me that you did so, but ill for my comrades that it was not sooner.” He, too, spoke Basic now. “You are right that it was a raid for the treasures we found within a tomb. It is a very rich find and a remainder of a civilization not heretofore charted. So it is worth far more than just the value of the pieces—it is worth knowledge!” And he provided that last word with such emphasis as I might accord a flawless gem. “They will sell the treasure to those collectors who value things enough to hide them for just their own delight. And the knowledge will be lost!”

  “You know where they take it?” Eet asked.

  “To Waystar. So it would seem that that is not a legend after all. They have one there who will buy it from them, as has been done twice lately with such loot. We have tried to find who has betrayed our work to these stit beetles, but as yet we have no knowledge. Where do you take me now?” He changed the subject with an abrupt demand.

  “We have no co-ordinates from here except those for return to Lylestane. We can take you there.”

  “Not so!” His denial was sharp. “To do that would be to lose important time. I am hurt in body, that is true, but the body mends when the will is bent to its aid. I must not lose this trail—”

  “They blasted into hyper. We cannot track them.” Ryzk shook his head. “And the site of Waystar is the best-guarded secret in the galaxy.”

  “A mind may be blocked where there is fear of losing such a secret. But a blocked mind is also locked against needful use,” returned Zilwrich. “There was one among those eaters of dung who came at the last to look about, see that nothing of value was left. His mind held what we must know—the path to Waystar.”

  “Oh, no!” I read enough of the thought behind his words to deny what he suggested at once. “Maybe the Fleet could blast their way in there. We cannot.”

  “We need not blast,” corrected Zilwrich. “And the time spent on the way will be used to make our plans.”

  I stood up. “Give us the co-ordinates of your base world. We will set you down there and you can contact the Patrol. This is an operation for them.”

  “It is anything but a Patrol operation,” he countered. “They would make it a Fleet matter, blast to bits any opposition. And how much would then be left of the treasure? One man, two, three, four”—he could not move his head far but somehow it was as if he had pointed to each of us in turn—“can go with more skill than an army. I shall give you only those co-ordinates.”

  I had opened my mouth for a firm refusal when Eet’s command rang in my head. “Agree! There is an excellent reason.”

  And, in spite of myself, in spite of knowing that no excellent reason for such stupidity could exist, I found myself agreeing.

  X

  It was so wild a scheme that I suspected the Zacathan of exerting some mental influence to achieve his ends—though such an act was totally foreign to all I had ever heard of his species. And since we were committed to this folly, we would have to make plans within the framework of it. We dared not go blindly into the unknown.

  To my astonishment, Ryzk appeared to accept our destination with equanimity, as if our dash into a dragon’s mouth was the most natural thing in the world. But I held a session in which we pooled what we knew of Waystar. Since most was only legend and space tales, it would be of little value, a statement I made gloomily.

  But Zilwrich differed. “We Zacathans are sifters of legends, and we have discovered many times that there are rich kernels of truth hidden at their cores. The tale of Waystar has existed for generations of your time, Murdoc Jern, and for two generations of ours—”

  “That—that means it antedates our coming into space!” Ryzk interrupted. “But—”

  “Why not?” asked the Zacathan. “There have always been those outside the law. Do you think your species alone invented raiding, crime, piracy? Do not congratulate or shame yourselves that this is so. Star empires in plenty have risen and fallen and always they had those who set their own wills and desires, lusts and envies, against the common good. It is perfectly possible that Waystar has long been a hide-out for such, and was rediscovered by some of your kind fleeing the law, who thereafter put it to the same use. Do you know those co-ordinates?” he asked Ryzk.

  The pilot shook his head. “They are off any trade lane. In a ‘dead’ sector.”

  “And what better place—in a sector where only dead worlds spin about burned-out suns? A place which is avoided, since there is no life to attract it, no trade, no worlds on which living things can move without cumbersome protection which makes life a burden.”

  “One of those worlds could be Waystar?” I hazarded.

  “No. The legend is too plain. Waystar is space-borne. Perhaps it was even once a space station, set up eons ago when the dead worlds lived and bore men who reached for the stars. If so, it has been in existence longer than our records, for those worlds have always been dead to us.”

  He had given us a conception of time so vast we could not measure it. Ryzk frowned.

  “No station could go on functioning, even on atomics—”

  “Do not be too sure even of that,” Zilwrich told him. “Some of the Forerunners had machines beyond our comprehension. You have certainly heard of the Caverns of Arzor and of that Sargasso planet of Limbo where a device intended for war and left running continued to pull ships to crash on its surface for thousands of years. It is not beyond all reckoning that a space station devised by such aliens would continue to function. But also it could have been converted, by desperate men. And those criminals would thus have a possession of great value, if they could continue to hold it—something worth selling—”

  “Safety!” I cut in. Though Waystar was not entirely Guild, yet surely the Guild had some ties there.

  “Just so,” agreed Eet. “Safety. And if they believe they have utter safety there we may be sure of two things. One, that they do have some defenses which would hold perhaps even against Fleet action, for they cannot think that the situation of their hole would never be discovered. Second, that having been so long in the state of safety, they might relax strict vigilance.”

  But before Eet had finished, Ryzk shook his head. “We had better believe the former. If anyone not of their kind had gotten in and out again, we would know it. A story like that would sweep the lanes. They have defenses which really work.”

  I called on imagination. Persona detectors, perhaps locked, not to any one personality, but rather to a state of mind, so that any invader could pass only if he were a criminal or there on business. The Guild was rumored to buy or otherwise acquire inventions which the general public did not know existed. Then they either suppressed them or exploited them with care. No, such a persona detector might be possible.

  “But such could be ‘jammed,’” was Eet’s answer.

  Ryzk, who could follow Eet’s mental broadcast but not mine (which was good for us both, as I well knew), looked puzzled. I explained. And then he asked Eet:

  “How could you jam it? You can’t tamper with a persona beam.”

  “No one ever tried telepathically,” returned the mutant. “If disguise can deceive the eye, and careful manipulation of sound waves, the ear, a change in mental channels can do the same for a persona detector of the type Murdoc envisioned.”

  “That is so,” Zilwrich agreed. I must accept the verdict of the two of our company who best knew what was possible with a sixth sense so few of my own species had.

  Ryzk leaned back in his seat. “Since we two do not have the right mental equipment, that lets us out. And you, and you”—he nodded to Eet and Zilwrich—“are not able to try it alone.”

  “Unfortunately your statement is correct,” said the alien. “Limited as I now am by my body, I would be a greater hindrance than help—in person—to any such penetration. And if we wait until I am healed”—he could not move enough to shrug—“then we are already lost. For they will have disposed of what they have taken. We were under Patrol watch back there—”


  I stiffened. So we had been lucky indeed in our quick descent and exit from the island world. Had we come during a Patrol visit—

  “When the expedition’s broadcast signal failed they must have been alerted. And since the personnel of our expedition are all listed, they will be aware of my absence. But also they have evidence of the raid. The Jacks must have foreseen this, since they have been acting on a reliable source of information. And so they will be quick to dispose of their loot.”

  I thought I saw one fallacy in his reasoning. “But if they have taken the loot to Waystar, and they need not fear pursuit there, then they may believe they have plenty of time to wait for a high bid on it and not be so quick to sell.”

  “They will sell it, probably to some resident buyer. No Jack ship will have the patience to sit on a good haul.” Surprisingly Ryzk took up the argument. “They may even have a backer. Some Veep who wants the stuff for a private deal.”

  “Quite true,” said Zilwrich. “But we must get there before the collection is dispersed, or even, Zludda forbid, broken up for the metal and gems! There was that among it—yes, I will tell you so you may know the prime importance of what we seek. There was among the pieces a star map!”

  And even I who was sunk in foreboding at that moment knew a thrill at that. A star map—a chart which would give those who could decode it a chance to trace some ancient route, even the boundaries of one of the fabled empires. Such a find had never been made before. It was utterly priceless and yet its worth might not be understood by those who had stolen it.

  Not be recognized for what it was—my thoughts clung to that. From it sprang a wilder idea. My father had had fame throughout the Guild for appraising finds, especially antiquities. He had had no ambition to climb to Veep status with always the fear of death from some equally ambitious rival grinning behind his shoulder. He had indeed bought out and presumedly retired when his immediate employer in the system had been eliminated. But he was so widely known that he had become an authority, borrowed at times from his Veep to assist in appraising elsewhere. And he had been noted for dealing with Forerunner treasure.

  Who would be the appraiser on Waystar? He would have to be competent, trusted, undoubtedly with Guild affiliations. But supposing that a man of vast reputation turned up at Waystar fleeing the Patrol, which was a very common occupational hazard. He might make his way quietly at first, but then that very reputation would spread to the Veep who had the treasure and he might be asked for an independent report. All a series of if’s, and’s, but’s, but still holding together with a faint logic. The only trouble was that the man who could do this was dead.

  I was so intent upon my thoughts that I was only dimly aware that Ryzk had begun to say something and had been silenced by a gesture from Eet. They were all staring at me, the two who were able to follow my thoughts seemingly bemused. My father was dead, and that appeared to put a very definite end to what might have been accomplished had he been alive. It was a useless speculation to follow, yet I continued to think about the advantages my father would have had. Suppose an appraiser in good standing with the Guild when he retired, one with special knowledge of Forerunner artifacts, were to show up at Waystar, settle down without any overt approach to the Veep who had the treasure. It would very logically follow that he would be asked to inspect the loot and then—But at that point my speculation stopped short. I could not foresee action leading to the retaking of the treasure—that could only be planned after the setup on Waystar had been reconnoitered.

  Must be planned! I was completely moon-dazed to build on something impossible. Hywel Jern was dead for near to three planet years now. And his death, which had undoubtedly been ordered by the Guild, would be common knowledge. His reputation, in spite of his years of retirement, was too widespread for it to be otherwise. He was dead!

  “Reports have been wrong before.” That suggestion slid easily into my thoughts before I knew Eet had fed it.

  “Not in the case of executions carried out by the Guild,” I retorted, aroused from my preoccupation with a plan which might have been useful had I only stood in my father’s boots.

  My father’s boots—had that been a sly manipulation of Eet’s? No, I was sensitive enough now to his insinuations to be sure that it had been born inside my own mind. When I was a child I had looked forward to being a copy of Hywel Jern. He had filled my life nearly to the exclusion of all else. I did not know until years later that my luke-warm feeling for his wife, son, and daughter must have come from the fact that I was a “duty” child, one of those babies sent from another planet for adoption by a colony family in order to vary what might become too inborn a strain. I had felt myself Jern’s son, and I continued to feel that even when my foster mother disclosed the true facts after Jern’s death, jealously pointing out that my “brother” Faskel was the rightful heir to Jern’s shop and estate.

  Hywel Jern had done as well by me as he could. I had been apprenticed to a gem buyer, a man of infinite resources and experience, and I had been given the zero stone, as well as all I could absorb of my father’s teachings. He had considered me, I was fully convinced, the son of his spirit, if not of his body.

  There might be some record somewhere of my true parentage; I had never cared to pursue the matter. But I thought that the same strain of aloof curiosity and restlessness which had marked Hywel Jern must also have been born into me. Given other circumstances I might well have followed him into the Guild.

  So—I had wanted to be like Hywel Jern. Would it be possible for me to be Jern for a period of time? The risk such an imposture would entail would be enormous. But with Eet and his esper powers—”

  “I wondered,” the mutant thought dryly, “when you would begin to see clearly.”

  “What’s this all about?” Ryzk demanded with some heat. “You”—he looked almost accusingly at me—“you have some plan to get into Waystar?”

  But I was answering Eet, though I did so aloud, as if to deny the very help which might be the key to the whole plan. “It is too wild. Jern is dead, they would be sure of that!”

  “Who is Jern and what has his death got to do with it?” Ryzk wanted to know.

  “Hywel Jern was the top appraiser for one sector Veep of the Guild, and my father.” I stated the facts bleakly. “They murdered him—”

  “On contract?” asked Ryzk. “If he’s dead, how is he of any use to us now? Sure, I can see how an appraiser with Guild rank might get into Waystar. But—” He paused and scowled. “You got some idea of pretending to be your father? But they would know—if there was a contract on him, they’d know.”

  Only now I was not quite so sure of that. My father had been in retirement. True enough, he had been visited from time to time by Guild men. I had had my proof of that when I had recognized as one of those visitors the captain of the Guild ship who had ordered my questioning on the unknown world of the zero-stone caches. Jern must have been killed by Guild orders for the possession of the zero stone, which his slayers did not find. But supposing they had left a body in which they thought life extinct and my father had revived? There had been a funeral service carried out by his family. But that, too, was an old cover for a man’s escape from vengeance. And on the sparsely settled frontier planet he had chosen for his home, they could not have investigated too much for fear of detection.

  So, we had Hywel Jern resurrected, smuggled off world perhaps—There were many radical medical techniques—plastic surgery which could alter a man. No, that was wrong. It must be an unmistakable Hywel Jern to enter Waystar. I tried again to dismiss the plan busy fitting itself together piece by piece in my mind—utter folly, logic told me it was. But I could not. I must look like Hywel Jern. And my appearance would be baffling, for who would believe that someone would assume the appearance of a dead man, and one who had been killed by Guild orders? Such a circumstance might give me even quicker access to the Veeps on Waystar. If past rumor spoke true, there was a rivalry between the Veeps of Waystar and the
center core of the Guild. The former might well receive a fugitive, one they could use, even if he were now Guild-proscribed. After all, once at their station, he would be largely a prisoner they could control utterly.

  Thus—Hywel Jern, running from the Patrol. After all, I had been a quarry of both sides for a while because I had the zero stone. The zero stone. My thoughts circled back to that. I had not put to any use the one I carried next to my body—not experimented to step up the Wendwind’s power as Eet and I had discovered it could do. I had not even looked at it in weeks, merely felt in my belt at intervals to know I still carried it.

  To dare even hint that I carried such would make me an instant target for the Guild, break the uneasy truce, if that still held, between the Patrol (who might suspect but could not be sure) and me. No, that I could not use to enter the pirate station. Back to Hywel Jern. He had never been on Waystar. Of that I was reasonably certain. So he would not have to display familiarity with any part of it. And with Eet to pick out of minds what I should know—

  But could I be Hywel Jern for the length of time it would—might well—take for the locating of the loot? I had held my scar-faced disguise for only hours, the alien countenance I had devised for the Lylestane venture even less. And I would have to be Hywel Jern perhaps for days, keeping up that façade at all times lest I be snooped or surprised.

  “It cannot be done, not by me,” I told Eet, since I knew that he, of the three facing me, was the one waiting for my decision, preparing arguments to counter it.

  “You could not hold it either,” I continued, “not for so long.”

  “There you speak the truth,” he agreed.

  “Then it is impossible.”

  “I have discovered”—Eet assumed that pontifical air which I found most irksome, which acted on me as a spur even when I was determined not to be ridden by him in any direction—“that few things, very few things, are impossible when one has all the facts and examines them carefully. You did well with the scar—for one of your limited ability—your native ability. You did even better with your alien space man. There is no reason why you cannot—”