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  Dane climbed down into the cargo hold, studying its empty space and making a few measurements of his own. If they were fortunate enough to get a pay load he wanted to be ready for its stowing. The hold was in two sections—a wide chamber which took in almost a third of the ship and a small cabin sized space above it in which choice or unusual items could be stored.

  In addition, on the same level, was the tiny room where was shelved and boxed their “trade goods”, small items used to attract the attention of savages or backward civilizations—gadgets, mechanical toys, trinkets of glass, wire, enamelled metal. Dane, trying out his memorization of the store catalogue, made the rounds of the cases. He had been taken on two tours of instruction by Van Rycke, but he had not yet lost his sense of wonder at the kinds and quality of the goods, and the display of knowledge and imagination of the Cargo-Master who had assembled this collection. Here were the presents for chieftains and petty kings, the exciters which would bring the people of primitive villages flocking to view such off-world wonders. Of course the supply was strictly limited, but it had been chosen with such care, such insight into humanoid and X-Tee psychology, that it must go a long way to win customers for the Queen.

  Only on Limbo such preparations would be useless. It was not possible that any intelligent life had survived the burn off. If there had been any natives the Survey team would certainly have reported them and that might have raised the value of the planet—even kept it out of the Trade auction until government men had more time to study it.

  Dane tried to forget the fiasco of Limbo by applying himself to the study of the “contact” goods. Van Rycke had been patient with him on their rounds of this store house, using incidents from his own past to point up the use of each object in the cases or on the protected shelves. Some of the material, Dane gathered, was the handiwork of the crew.

  Long drives through space, with the ship locked on its automatic controls, with few duties for her crew, tended to become monotonous. Boredom led to space mania and those who followed the Galactic lanes had early learned that skills of brain and hand were the answer. These could vary widely.

  On board the Queen, Captain Jellico was a xenobiologist, far past amateur standing. While he could not bring back his specimens alive—save for such “pets” as the blue Hoobat now caged in his cabin—the tri-dee shots he had taken of animal life on unknown worlds had earned him fame among naturalists. Steen Wilcox, whose days were spent wrestling with obtuse mathematics, was labouring to transpose such formulae into musical patterns. And the oddest employ Dane had so far uncovered among his new companions was that of Medic Tau, who collected magic, consorting with witch doctors and medicine men of alien primitives, seeking to discover the core of truth lying beneath the mumbo-jumbo.

  Dane picked up a piece of Mura’s handiwork, a plasta-crystal ball in which floated, to all examination alive, a rainbow winged insect totally unfamiliar to him. But a shadow gliding in the panel to his left brought him out of his absorption. Sinbad, the Queen’s cat, leaped gracefully to the top of a case and sat there, regarding the apprentice. Of all the native Terran animals the one which had most easily followed man into space was the feline.

  Cats took to acceleration, to free fall, to all the other discomforts of star flight, with such ease that there were some odd legends growing up about their tribe. One was that Domestica Felinus was not really native to Terra, but had descended from the survivors of an early and forgotten invasion and in the star ships he was only returning to his former golden age.

  But Sinbad and those of his species served a definite purpose on board ship and earned their pay. Pests, not only the rats and mice of Terra, but other and odder creatures from alien worlds, came aboard with cargo, sometimes not to be ordinarily detected for weeks, even months after they had set up housekeeping in the hidden corners of the ship. These were Sinbad’s concern. When and where he caught them the crew might never learn, but he presented the bodies of the slain to Van Rycke. And, from all accounts, on past voyages some of the bodies had been very weird indeed!

  Dane held out his hand and Sinbad sniffed lazily at his fingers and then blinked. He accepted this new human. It was right and proper for Dane to be here. Sinbad stretched and then leaped down from the box to go about the room on regular patrol. He lingered near one bale with such profound sniffing that Dane wondered if he shouldn’t open it for the cat’s closer inspection. But a distant gong startled them both and Sinbad, one who never overlooked the summons to a meal, flashed out of the room, leaving Dane to follow at a more dignified pace.

  Neither the Captain nor the Cargo-Master had returned, and the atmosphere at mess continued to be sober. With two other Free Traders in port any cargoes too small to tempt Company ships, would be at a premium, but they were all startled when the communication light from the outer hatch clicked on overhead.

  Steen Wilcox jumped for the corridor and Dane was only seconds behind him. With Jellico and Van Rycke off ship, Wilcox was the nominal commander of the Queen, and Dane the representative of his section—on duty until the Cargo-Master returned.

  A scooter was drawn up at the foot of the ramp, its driver sitting behind the controls. But a tall man, thin and burnt brown was climbing confidently up to the entrance hatch.

  He wore a scuffed, hard duty leather tunic and frab-cord breeches, with thigh-high boots of corval skin, the dress of a field man on a pioneer world. On the other hand he did not affect the wide brimmed hat of the men Dane had seen in town. Instead his head was covered with a helmet of metaplast which had the detachable visor and the bubble ear pockets of a built in short wave receiver—the usual head gear of a Survey man.

  “Captain Jellico?” his voice was crisp, authoritative, the voice of a man who was used to giving orders and having them unquestioningly obeyed.

  The astrogator shook his head. “Captain’s planet-side, sir.”

  The stranger halted, drumming his fingers on his wide, pocket-walled belt. It was plain he was annoyed at not finding the commander of the Queen on board.

  “When will he be back?”

  “Don’t know,” Wilcox was not cordial. Apparently he had not taken a fancy to the caller.

  “You are open to charter?” was the other’s surprising inquiry.

  “You’ll have to see the Captain—” Wilcox’s coolness grew.

  The tattoo of fingers on the belt became faster. “All right, I’ll see your Captain! Where is he—can you tell me that?”

  A second scooter was approaching the Queen and there was no mistaking the bulk of its driver. Van Rycke was returning to the ship. Wilcox had sighted him too.

  “You’ll know in a minute. Here’s our Cargo-Master—”

  “So—” the man swung around on the ramp, his lithe body moving with trained speed.

  Dane grew intent. This stranger was an intriguing mixture. His dress was that of a pioneer-explorer, his movements those of a trained fighting man. Dane’s memory presented him with a picture—the exercise ground at the Pool on a hot summer afternoon. That under swing of the arm—the betraying hunch of the shoulder—This fellow was a force-blade man—and a practised one! But force-blades—illegal—no civilian was supposed to be familiar with their use.

  Van Rycke circled the waiting scooter which had delivered the stranger and came at his usual ponderous pace up the ramp.

  “Looking for someone?”

  “Is your ship up for charter?” the stranger asked for the second time.

  Van Rycke’s bushy brows twitched. “Any Trader is always open to a good deal,” he answered calmly. “Thorson—” his attention swept past the other’s impatience to Dane, “go in to the Green Whirly Bird and ask Captain Jellico to return—”

  Dane ran down the ramp and got into Van Rycke’s scooter. He glanced back as he put the small vehicle in gear and saw that the stranger was now following the Cargo-Master into the Queen.

  The Green Whirly Bird was half cafe, half restaurant and Captain Jellico was seated at a table n
ear the door, talking to the dark man who had bid for Limbo at the auction. But as Dane came into the murky room the other Trader shook his head firmly and got to his feet. The Captain made no move to detain him, only shoved the tankard before him an inch or so to the right, concentrating upon that action as if it were some intricate process he must master.

  “Sir—” Dane dared to put a hand on the table to attract attention.

  The Captain looked up, and his eyes were bleak and cold. “Yes?”

  “There’s a man at the Queen, sir. He’s asking about a charter. Mr. Van Rycke sent me for you—”

  “Charter!” The tankard went over on its side, to bump to the floor. Captain Jellico flung a piece of the local metal money on the table and was already on his way to the door, Dane hurrying after him.

  Jellico took control of the scooter, starting off at a wild pace.

  But before they had gone the length of the street the Captain slowed and when they drew up before the Queen no one could have guessed they were in a hurry.

  It was two hours later that the crew assembled once more to hear the news. And the stranger sat with Jellico as the Captain told the crew of their luck.

  “This is Dr. Salzar Rich,” he made a brief introduction. “He is one of the Federation experts on Forerunner remains. It seems that Limbo isn’t such a flame out after all, men. The Doctor informs me that Survey located some quite sizeable ruins on the northern hemisphere. He’s chartered the Queen to transport his expedition there—”

  “And,” Van Rycke smiled benignly, “this in no way interferes with our own trading rights. We shall have a chance to explore too.”

  “When do we lift?” Johan Strotz wanted to know.

  “When can you be ready, Dr. Rich?” Jellico turned to the archaeologist.

  “As soon as you can stow my equipment and men, Captain. I can bring my supplies up right away.

  Van Rycke got to his feet. “Thorson.” He brought Dane to him with that call, “we’ll make ready to load. Send in your material as soon as you wish, Doctor.”

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  LIMBO LANDING

  During the next few hours Dane learned more in practice about the stowage of cargo than he had ever been taught in theory at the Pool. And, cramped as the crew of the Queen were, they also discovered that they must find space for not only Rich but for three assistants as well.

  The supplies went into the large cargo hold, most of the work being volunteer labour on the part of Rich’s men, since the Doctor hammered home the fact that delicate instruments and perishable goods were included and he had no intention of allowing any of the boxes to be tossed about by the hustlers hired by the Field.

  But inside the ship the final stowage of material was, as Van Rycke speedily let him know, solely the problem of the crew. And they could do it without any amateur advice. So Dane and Kosti sweated, swore and tugged, with the Cargo-Master himself not above lending a hand, until all the supplies were in place according to the mechanics of weight for take-off. Then they sealed the hatch for the duration of the flight.

  On their way up they discovered Mura in the smaller cargo compartment rigging space hammocks for Rich’s assistants. The accommodations were crude, but the archaeologist had been warned of that before he had thumbprinted the charter contract—the Queen had no extra passenger cabins. And none of the newcomers were grumbling.

  Like their leader they were a type new to Dane, giving an impression of tough endurance—a quality which, he supposed, was very necessary in any field man sent out to prospect on strange worlds for the relics of vanished races. One of them wasn’t even human—the green-tinted skin and hairless head stamped him a Rigellian. But his faintly scaled body, in spite of its odd sinuosity, was clad just like the others. Dane was trying not to stare at him when Mura came up and touched his arm.

  “Dr. Rich is in your cabin. You’ve been moved into the store cubby—along here—”

  A little irked by being so high-handedly assigned to new quarters, Dane followed Mura down to the domain which was the steward’s own. There was the galley, the food storage freezers, and, beyond, the hydro garden which was half Mura’s concern, half Tau’s, as air officer.

  “Dr. Rich,” Mura explained as they went, “asked to be near his men. He made quite a point of it—”

  Dane looked down at the small man. Just why had Mura added that last?

  More than any of the crew Mura presented an enigma to Dane. The steward was of Japanese descent—and the apprentice had been familiar from his early training days with the terrifying story of what had happened to those islands which had once existed across the sea from his own native country. Volcanic action, followed by tidal waves, had overwhelmed a whole nation in two days and a night—so that Japan had utterly ceased to be—washed from the maps of Terra.

  “Here,” Mura reached the end of the corridor and waved Dane through a half-open panel.

  The steward had made no effort to decorate the walls of his private quarters, and the extreme neatness of the cabin tended to have a bleak effect. But on a pull-down table rested a globe of plasta-crystal and what it contained drew Dane’s attention.

  A Terran butterfly, its jewelled wings spread wide, hung by some magic in the very centre of the orb, sealed so for all time, and yet giving every appearance of vibrant life.

  Mura, noting Dane’s absorption, leaned forward and tapped the top of the globe lightly. In answer to that touch the wings seemed to quiver, the imprisoned beauty moved a fraction.

  Dane drew a deep breath. He had seen the globe in the store room, he knew that Mura collected the insect life of a hundred worlds to fashion his balls—there were two others on board the Queen. One a tiny world, an aquatic one with fronds of weed curling to provide shelter for a school of gemmed insect-fish which were stalked by a weird creature two legged, two armed, but equipped with wing-like fins and a wicked pronged spear. That was in a place of honour in Van Rycke’s cabin. Then there was the other—a vista of elfin towers of silver among which flitted nearly transparent things of pearly lustre. That was the Com-Tech’s particular treasure.

  “One may create such, yes,” Mura shrugged. “It is a way of passing time—like many others.”

  He picked up the globe, rolled it in protecting fibre and stowed it away in a partitioned drawer, cushioned against the take-off of the Queen. Then he pulled aside a second panel to show Dane his new quarters.

  It was a secondary store room which Mura had stripped and refurnished with a hammock and a foot locker. It was not as comfortable as his old cabin, but on the other hand it was no worse than the quarters he had had on both the Martian and Lunar training ships during his Pool cruises.

  They blasted off for Limbo before dawn and were space borne before Dane aroused from an exhausted sleep. He had made his way to the mess hall when the warning sounded again and he clutched the table, swallowing painfully as he endured the vertigo which signalized their snap into Hyper-space. Up in the control compartment Wilcox, the Captain, and Rip would be at their stations, not able to relax until the break-through was assured.

  He wouldn’t, Dane decided not for the first time since he had entered training for space, be an astrogator for any reward the Federation could dream up. One fractional mistake in calculations—even with two computers taking most of the burden of the formula run-off—would warp your ship into a totally unknown lane, might bring you out inside a planet instead of the necessary distance off its surface. He had had the theory of the break-through pounded into him, he could go through the motions of setting up a course, but he privately doubted if he would ever have the courage to actually take a ship into Hyper-space and out again.

  Frowning at the unoffending wall he was once more listing his own shortcomings when Rip called.

  “Man—” the astrogator-apprentice dropped down on a seat with a deep sigh, “well, we’re in once more and nothing cracked!”

  Dane was honestly surprised. He was no astrogator, it was all right for h
im to feel some doubts. But that Rip should display relief at having his own particular share of duty behind him for a while was something else.

  “What’s the matter?” Dane wondered if something had threatened to go wrong.

  “Nothing, nothing,” the other waved a hand. “But we all feel easier after the jump.” Rip laughed now. “Man, you think we don’t sweat it out? We maybe hate it more than you do. What have you got to worry about until we planet again? Nothing—”

  Dane bristled. “No? We’ve only cargo control, supplies, hydro—” he began to enumerate the duties of his section. “What good does a successful break-through do when your air goes bad—”

  Rip nodded. “All right, none of us is dead weight. Though this trip—” he stopped suddenly and glanced over his shoulder in a way which surprised Dane.

  “Did you ever meet an archaeologist before, Dane?”

  The cargo-apprentice shook his head. “This is my first trip out, remember? And we don’t get much briefing in history at the Pool—except where it influences Trade—”

  Rip lounged back on the bench, but kept his voice trained low, until it was hardly above a murmur.

  “I’ve always been interested in the Forerunners,” he began. “Got the tapes of Haverson’s ‘Voyages’ and Kagle’s ‘Survey’ in my gear now. Those are the two most complete studies that have been made so far. I messed with Dr. Rich this morning. And I’ll swear he never heard of the Twin Towers!”

  Since Dane had never heard of them either, he couldn’t quite see what Rip was trying to prove. But, before he could ask any questions, the blankness of his look must have betrayed his ignorance for the other made a quick explanation.

  “Up to now the Twin Towers are about the most important Forerunner find Federation Survey has ever made. They’re on Corvo—standing right in the centre of a silicon desert—two hundred feet high, looking like two big fingers pointing into the sky. And as far as the experts have been able to discover, they’re solid clear through—made of some substance which is neither stone nor metal, but which certainly has lasting properties. Rich was able to cover his slip pretty well, but I’m sure he’d not heard of them.”