 Chapter 5 The Perilous Seas The gorp hunters straggled through the grassed forest in family groups, and the Terran saw that the Enterprise had forced another uneasy truce upon the district, for there were representatives from more than just Paph's own clan. All the Salariki were young, and the parties babbled together in excitement. It was plain that this hunt, staged upon a large scale, was not only a means of revenge upon a hated enemy, but also a sporting event of outstanding prestige. Now the grass trees began to show ragged gaps, open spaces between their clumps, until the forest was only scattered groups, and the party the Terrans had joined walked along a trail cloaked in knee-high yellow-red fern growth. Most of the Salariki carried unlit torches, some having four or five bundled together, as if gorp hunting must be done after nightfall. But it was fairly late in the afternoon before they topped a rise of ground and looked out upon one of Sargal's seas. The water was a dull metallic gray, broken by great swaths of purple, as if an artist had slapped a brush of color across it in a hit-or-miss fashion. Sand of the red grit, lightened by the golden flecks which glittered in the sun, stretched to the edge of the wavelets, breaking with only langer on the curve of earth. The bulk of islands arose in serried ranks farther out, crowned with grass trees all rippling under the sea wind. They came out upon the beach where one of the purple patches touched the shore, and Dane noted that it left a scummy deposit there. The Terrans went on to the water's edge. Where it was clear of the purple stuff they could get a murky glimpse of the bottom, but the scum hid long stretches of shoreline and outer wave, and Dane wondered if the gorp used it as a protective covering. For the moment the Salariki made no move toward the sea which was to be their hunting ground. Instead, the youngest members of the party, some of whom were adolescents not yet entitled to wear the claw-knife of manhood, spread out along the shore and set industriously to gathering driftwood, which they brought back to heap on the sand. Dane, watching that harvest, caught sight of a smoothly polished length. He called week's attention to the water-rounded cylinder. The oiler's eyes lighted as he stooped to pick it up. Where the other sticks were from grass-trees, this was something else. And among the bleached pile it had the vividness of flame, for it was a strident scarlet. Week's turned it over in his hands, running his fingers lovingly across its perfect grain. Even in its crude state it had beauty. He stopped the Salariki who had just brought in another arm-load of wood. "'This is—what?' he spoke the trade-lingo haltingly. The native gazed somewhat indifferently at the branch. "'Tansil,' he answered. It grows on the islands. He made a vague gesture to include a good section of the western sea before he hurried away." Week's now went along the tide-line on his own quest, Dane trailing him. At the end of a quarter hour, when a hail summoned them back to the side of the now-lighted fire, they had some ten pieces of the tansil wood between them. The fines ranged from a three-foot section, some four inches in diameter, to some slender twigs no larger than a riding-steel, though, but all with high polish, the warm flame coloring. Week's lashed them together before he joined the group where Groft was outlining the technique of gorp hunting for the benefit of the Terrans. Some two hundred feet away, a reef, often awash and stained with the purple scum, angled out into the sea in a long curve which formed a natural breakwater. This was the point of attack. But first the purple film must be removed so that land and sea-dwellers could meet on common terms. The fire blazed up, eating hungrily into the driftwood. And from it ran the young Salariki with lighted brands, which at the water's edge they whirled about their heads and then hurled out onto the purple patches. Fire arose from the water and ran with frantic speed across the crests of the low waves, while the Salariki coughed and buried their noses in their perfume-boxes, for the wind drove shoreward an overpowering stench. Where the cleansing fire had run on the water there was now only the natural metallic gray of the liquid, the cover was gone. Older Salariki warriors were choosing torches from those they had brought, doing it with care. Groft approached the Terrans carrying four. These you use now! What for, Dane wondered? The sky was still sunlit. He held the torch watching to see how the Salariki made use of them. Groft led the advance, running lightly out along the reef with agile and graceful leaps to cross the breaks where the sea hurled in over the rock. And after him followed the other natives, each with a lighted torch in hand. The torch they hunkered down to plant firmly in some crevice of the rock before taking a stand beside that beacon. The Terrans, less sure-footed in the space-boots, picked their way along the same path, wet with spray, wrinkling their noses against the lingering puffs of the stench from the water. Following the example of the Salariki they faced seaward, but Dane did not know what to watch for. Cam had left only the vaguest general descriptions of Gorp and beyond the fact that they were reptilian, intelligent, and dangerous, the Terrans had not been briefed. Once the warriors had taken up their stand along the reef, the younger Salariki went into action once more. Lighting more torches at the fire they ran out along the line of their elders and flung their torches as far as they could hurl them into the sea outside the reef. The gray steel of the water was now yellow with the reflection of the sinking sun, but that ochre in gold became more brilliant yet as the torches of the Salariki set blazing up far-floating patches of scum. Dane shielded his eyes against the glare and tried to watch the water, with some idea that this move must be provocation and what they hunted would so be driven into view. He held his sleep-rod ready just as the Salariki on his right had claw-knife in one hand and in the other, open and waiting, the net intended to entangle and hold fast a victim binding him for the kill. But it was at the far tip of the barrier the post of greatest honor which Groft had jealously claimed as his that the gorp struck first. At a wild shout of defiance, Dane half-turned to see the Salariki noble cast his net at sea-level and then stab viciously with a well-practiced blow. When he raised his arm for a second thrust, Greenish Icker ran from the blade down his wrist. Dane! Thorson's head jerked around. He saw the V of ripples headed straight for the rocks where he balanced. But he'd have to wait for a better target than a moving wedge of water. Instinctively he half-crouched in the stance of an embattled spaceman, wishing now that he did have a blaster. Neither of the Salariki stationed on either side of him made any move, and he guessed that was hunt etiquette. Each man was supposed to face and kill the monster that challenged him without assistance. And upon his skill during the next few minutes might rest the reputation of all Terrans as far as the natives were concerned. There was a shadow outlined beneath the surface of the metallic water now, but he could not see well because of the distortion of the murky waves. He must wait until he was sure. Then the thing gave a spurt, and only inches beyond the toes of his boots, a nightmare creature sprang half-way out of the water, pincher claws as long as his own arms snapping at him. Without being conscious of his act he pressed the stud of the sleep-rod aiming in the general direction of that horror from the sea. But to his utter amazement the creature did not fall supinely back into watery world from which it had emerged. Instead those claws snapped again, this time scraping across the top of Dane's foot, leaving a furrowing material the keenest of knives could not have scored. Give it to him! That was Rip shouting encouragement from his own place farther along the reef. Dane pressed the firing stud again and again. The claws waved as the monstrosity slavered from a gaping frog's mouth, a mouth which was fanged with a shark's vicious teeth. It was almost wholly out of the water, creeping on a crab's many legs, with a clawed upper limb reaching for him when, suddenly, it stopped. Its huge head turning from side to side in the sheltering carapace of scaled natural armor. It settled back, as if crouching for a final spring, a spring which would push Dane into the ocean. But that attack never came. Instead the gorp drew in upon itself until it resembled an unwieldy ball of indestructible armor and there it remained. The Salariki on either side of Dane let out cries of triumph and edged closer. One of them twirled his net suggestively, seeing that the Terran lacked what was to him an essential piece of hunting equipment. Dane nodded vigorously in agreement and the tough strands swung out in a skilful cast which engulfed the motionless creature on the reef. But it was so protected by its scales that there was no opening for the claw-knife. They had made a capture, but they could not make a kill. However, the Salariki were highly delighted, and several abandoned their post to help the boys drag the monstrous shore where it was pinned down to the beach by stakes driven through the edges of the net. But the hunting party was given little time to gloat over this stroke of fortune. The gorp killed by Groft and the one stunned by Dane were only the vanguard of an army and within moments the hunters on the reef were confronted by trouble armed with slashing claws and diabolic fighting ability. The battle was anything but one-sided. Dane whirled as the air was rent by a shriek of agony, just in time to see one of the Salariki already torn by the claws of a gorp being drawn under the water. It was too late to save the hunter, though Dane, balanced on the very edge of the reef, aimed a beam into the bloody waves. If the gorp was affected by this attack he could not tell, for both attacker and victim could no longer be seen. But Ali had better luck in rescuing the Salarik who shared his particular section of reef and the native, gashed and spurting blood from a wound in his thigh, was hauled to safety. While the gorp, coiling too slowly under the taran ray, was literally hewn to pieces by the revengeful knives of the hunter's kin. The fight broke into a series of individual duels, carried on now by the light of the torches as the evening closed in. The last of the purple patches had burned away to nothing. Dane crouched by his standard torch, his eyes fastened on the sea, watching for an ominous v of ripples, betraying another gorp on its way to launch against the rock barrier. There was such wild confusion along that line of water-sprayed rocks that he had no idea of how the engagement was going. But so far the gorp showed no signs of having had enough. Dane was shaken out of his absorption by another scream. One, he was sure, which had not come from any Salariki throat. He got to his feet. Rip was stationed four men beyond him. Yes, the tall astrogator apprentice was there, outlined against the torch flare. Ollie? No, there was the assistant engineer. Weeks? But Weeks was picking his way back along the reef toward the shore, haste expressed in every line of his figure. The screams sounded for a second time freezing the tarans. Come back! That was Weeks gesturing violently at the shore and something floundering in the protective circle of the reef. The younger Salariki who had been feeding the fire were now clustered at the water's edge. Ollie ran and with a leap covered the last few feet, landing reckless knee-deep in the waves. Dane saw light strike on his rod as he swung it in a wide arc to center on the struggle churning the water into foam. A third scream died to a moan and then the Salariki dashed into the sea, their nets spread, drawing back with them through the surf a dark and now quiet mass. The fact that at least one gorp had managed to get on the inner side of the reef made an impression on the rest of the native hunters. After an uncertain minute or two, Groft gave the signal to withdraw, which they did with grizzly trophies. Dane counted seven gorp bodies, which did not include the prisoner ashore, and more might have slid into the sea to die. On the other hand, two Salariki were dead, one had been drawn into the sea before Dane's eyes, and at least one was badly wounded. But who had been pulled down in the shallows? Someone sent out from the queen with a message? Dane raced back along the reef, not waiting to pull up his torch, and before he reached the shore Rip was overtaking him. But the man who lay groaning on the sand was not from the queen. The torn and blood-stained tunic covering his lacerated shoulders had the IS badge. Ollie was already at work on his wounds, giving temporary first aid from his belt-kit. To all their questions he was stubbornly silent. Either he couldn't or wouldn't answer. In the end they helped the Salariki rig three stretchers. On one, the largest, the captive gorp, still curled in a round carapace protected ball, was bound with the net. The second supported the wounded Salariki clansmen, and on to the third the Terrans lifted the IS man. We'll deliver him to his own ship, Rip decided. He must have tailed us here as a spy. He asked a passing Salariki as to where they could find the company spacer. They might just think we are responsible, Ollie pointed out. But I see your point. If we do pack him back to the queen and he doesn't make it, they might say that we fired his rockets for him. All right, boys, let's up ship. He doesn't look too good to me. With the torch-bearing Salariki boy as a guide they hurried along a path taking in turns the burden of the stretcher. Luckily the IS ship was even closer to the sea than the queen, and as they crossed the slagged ground congealed by the break-fire they were trotting. Though the company ship was probably one of the smallest inter-salariki carried on her rosters, it was a third again as large as the queen, with part of that third undoubtedly dedicated to extra cargo space. Beside her their own spacer would seem not only smaller, but battered and worn. But no free trader would have willingly assumed the badges of a company man, not even for the command of such a ship fresh from the cradles of a builder. When a man went up from the training pool for his first assignment he was sent to the ship where his temperament, training, and abilities best fitted, and those who were designated as free traders would never fit into the pattern of company men. Of late years the breach between those who lived under the strict parental control of one of the five great galaxy-wide organizations, and those still too much of an individual to live any life but that of a half-explorer, half-pioneer, which was the free traders, had widened alarmingly. Antagonism flared, rivalry was strong. But as yet the great companies themselves were at polite cold war with one another for the big plums of the scattered systems. The free traders took the crumbs and there was not much disputing, save in cases such as had arisen on Sargal, when suddenly crumbs assumed the guise of very rich cake, rich and large enough to attract a giant. The party from the queen was given a peremptory challenge as they reached the other ship's ramp. Rip demanded to see the officer of the watch and then told the story of the wounded man as far as they knew it. The eyes he was hurried aboard, nor did his shipmates give a word of thanks. "'That's that,' Rip shrugged. "'Let's go before they slam the hat so hard they'll rock their ship off her fins.' "'Polite, aren't they?' asked Weeks mildly. "'What do you expect of Izies?' Ollie wanted to know. To them, free traders are just rim planet trash. Let's report back where we are appreciated.' They took a short cut which brought them back to the queen and they filed up her ramp to make their report to the captain. But they were not yet satisfied with Groft and his gorp slayers. No cellarick appeared for trade in the morning, surprising the parents. Instead, a second delegation, this time of older men and a storm priest, visited the spacer with an invitation to attend Paph's Funeral Feast, a rite which would be followed by the formal elevation of Groft to his father's position, now that he had revenged that parent. And from remarks dropped by members of the delegation it was plain that the bearing of the Terrans who had joined the hunting-party was esteemed to have been in the highest accord with cellaricky tradition. They drew lots to decide which two must remain with the ship, and the rest perfumed themselves so as to give no offence which might upset their now cordial relations. Again it was mid-afternoon when the cellaricky's escort sent to do them honour waited at the edge of the wood, and Mura and Tang saw them off. With a herald booming before them they travelled the beaten earth road in the opposite direction from the trading-center, off through the forest, until they came to a wide section of several miles which had been rigorously cleared of any vegetation which might give cover to a lurking enemy. In the centre of this was a twelve-foot high stockade of the bright red burnished wood which had attracted weeks on the shore. Each paling was the trunk of a tree, and it had been sharpened at the top to a wicked point. On the field side was a wide ditch, crossed at the gate by a bridge, the planking of which might be removed at will. And as Dane passed over he looked down into the moat that was dry. The cellaricky did not depend upon water for a defence, but on something else which his experience of the previous night had taught him to respect. There was no mistaking that shade of purple. The highly inflammable scum the hunters had burnt from the top of the waves had been brought inland and lay a greasy blanket some eight feet below. It would only be necessary to toss a torch on that, and the defenders of the stockade would create a wall of fire to baffle any attackers. The cellaricky knew how to make the most of their world's natural resources. End of chapter five. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Mark Nelson. Plague Ship by Andre Norton. Chapter six. Duelist's Challenge. Inside the red stockade there was a crowded community. The cellaricky demanded privacy of a kind, and even the unmarried warriors did not share barracks, but each had a small cubicle of his own. So that the mud brick and timber erections of one of their clan cities resembled nothing so much as the comb cells of a busy beehive. Although Paphs was considered a large clan, it numbered only about two hundred fighting men and their numerous wives, children, and captive servants. Not all of them normally lived at this center, but for the funeral feasting they had assembled, which meant a lot of doubling up and tending out under makeshift cover between the regular buildings of the town. So that the Terrans were glad to be guided through this crowded maze to the great hall which was its heart. As the trading center had been, the hall was a circular enclosure open to the sky above, but divided in wheel-spoke fashion with posts of the red wood, each supporting a metal basket filled with inflammable material. Here were no lowly stools or trading tables. One vast circular board, broken only by a gap at the foot, ran completely around the wall. At the end opposite the entrance was the high chair of the chieftain set up on a two-step dais. Though the feast had not yet officially begun, the Terrans saw that the majority of the places were already occupied. They were led around the perimeter of the enclosure to places not far from the high seat. Van Rijk settled down with a grunt of satisfaction. It was plain that the free traders were numbered among the nobility. They could be sure of good trade in the days to come. Delegations from the neighboring clans arrived in close companies of ten or twelve and were granted seats as had been the Terrans in groups. Dane noted that there was no intermingling of clan with clan. And, as they were to understand later that night, there was a very good reason for that precaution. Hope all our adaption shots work, Olly murmured, eyeing with no pleasure at all the succession of platters, now being born through the inner opening of the table. While the traders had learned long ago that the wisest part of Valor was not to sample alien strong drinks, ceremony often required that they break bread, or its other world equivalent, on strange planets. And so science served expediency, and now a trader bound for any galactic banquet was immunized, as far as was medically possible, against the evil consequences of consuming food not originally intended for Terrans' stomachs. One of the results being that Terrans acquired a far-flung reputation for possessing bird-like appetites, since it was always better to nibble and live than to gorge and die. Groft had not yet taken his place in the vacant chieftain's chair. For the present he stood in the center of the table circle, directing the captive slaves who circulated with the food. Until the magic moment when the clan themselves would proclaim their overlord, he remained merely the eldest son of the house, relatively without power. As the endless rows of platters made their way about the table, the basket-lights on the tops of the pillars were ignited, dispelling the dusk of evening. And there was an attendant stationed by each to throw on handsful of aromatic bark, which burned with puffs of lavender smoke, adding to the many warring scents. The Terrans had recourse at intervals to their own pungent smelling-bottles merely to clear their heads of the drugging fumes. Luckily, Dane thought as the feast proceeded, that smoke from the braziers went straight up. Had they been in a roofed space, they might have been overcome. As it was, were they entirely conscious of all that was going on around them? His reason for that speculation was the dance now being performed in the center of the hall, their fight with the gorp, being enacted in a series of bounds and stabbings. He was sure that he could no longer trust his eyes when the claw-knife of the victorious dancer-hunter apparently passed completely through the chest of another, wearing a grotesque monster-mask. As a fitting climax to their horrific display, three of the men who had been with them on the reef entered, dragging behind them, still enmeshed in the hunting net, the gorp which Dane had stunned. It was uncurled now, and very much alive, but the pincer claws which might have cut its way to safety were encased in balls of hard substance. Freed from the net, suspended by its sealed claws, the gorp swung back and forth from a standard set up before the high seat. Its murderous jaws snapped futilely, and from it came an enraged snake's vicious hissing. Though totally in the power of its enemies, it gave an impression of terrifying strength and menace. The sight of their ancient foe aroused the Salariki, in flaming warriors who leaned across the table to hurl tongue-twisting invective at the captive monster. Dane gathered that seldom had a living gorp been delivered helpless into their hands, and they proposed to make the most of this wonderful opportunity. And the Terran suddenly wished the monstrosity had fallen back into the sea. He had no soft thoughts for the gorp, after what he had seen at the reef, and the tales he had heard, but neither did he like what he saw now expressed in gestures, heard in the tones of voices about them. A storm priest put an end to the outcries. His done cloak, making a spot of darkness amid all the flashing color, he came straight to the place where the gorp swung. As he took his stand before the wriggling creature, the din gradually faded, the warriors settled back into their seats, a pool of quiet spread through the enclosure. Groft came up to take his position beside the priest. With both hands he carried a two handled cup. It was not the ornamented goblet which stood before each diner, but a manifestly older artifact, fashioned of some dull black substance, and having the appearance of being even older than the hall or town. One of the warriors who had helped to bring in the gorp, now made a quick and accurate cast with a looped rope, snaring the monster's head and pulling back almost at a right angle. With deliberation the storm priest produced a knife, the first straight bladed weapon Dane had seen on Sargal. He made a single thrust in the soft underpart of the gorp's throat, catching in the cup he took from Groft some of the icker which spurted from the wound. The gorp thrashed madly, spattering table and surrounding Salariki with its life fluid, but the attention of the crowd was riveted elsewhere. Into the old cup the priest poured another substance from a flask brought by an underling. He shook the cup back and forth, as if to mix its contents thoroughly, and then handed it to Groft. Holding it before him, the young chieftain leaped to the tabletop and so to stand before the high seat. There was a hush throughout the enclosure. Now even the gorp had ceased its wild struggles and hung limp in its bonds. Groft raised the cup above his head and gave a loud shout in the archaic language of his clan. He was answered by a chant from the warriors who would in battle follow his banner. Chant punctuated with the slinking slap of knife-blades brought down forcibly on the board. Three times he recited some formula and was answered by the others. Then in another period of sudden quiet he raised the cup to his lips and drank off its contents in a single draft, turning the goblet upside down when he had done to prove that not a drop remained within. A shout tore through the great hall. The Salariki were all on their feet, waving their knives over their heads in honor to their new ruler. And Groft, for the first time, seated himself in the high seat. The clan was no longer without a chieftain. Groft held his father's place. Show over! Dane heard Stott's murmur and Van Reich's disappointing reply. Not yet. They'll probably make a night of it. Here comes another round of drinks. And trouble with them! That was Captain Jellico being prophetic. By the Colesax ripcord! That exclamation had been jolted out of rip, and Dane turned to see what had so jarred the usually serene astrogator apprentice. He was just in time to witness an important piece of Sargalian social practice. A young warrior, surely only within a year or so of receiving his knife, was facing an older Salarik, both on their feet. The head and shoulder fur of the older fighter was dripping wet, and an empty goblet rolled across the table to bump to the floor. A hush had fallen on the immediate neighbors of the pair, and there was an air of expectancy about the company. Through his drink all over the other fellow, Rip Soft whisper explained, that means a dew. Here and now? Dane had heard of the personal combat proclivities of the Salariki. Should be to the death for an insult such as that, Ollie remarked, as usual surveying the scene from his chosen role as bystander. As a child he had survived the unspeakable massacres of the Crater War. Nothing had been able to crack his surface armor since. The young fool! That was Steen Wilcox sizing up the situation from the angle of a naturally cautious nature, and some fifteen years of experience on a great many different worlds. He'll be mustered out for good before he knows what happened to him. The younger Salarik had barked a question at his elder, and had been promptly answered by that dripping warrior. Now their neighbors came to life with an efficiency which suggested that they had been waiting for such a move. It had happened so many times that every man knew just the right procedure from that point on. In order for a Sargalian feast to be a success the terrors gathered from overheard remarks at least one duel must be stayed some time during the festivities. And those not actively engaged did a lot of brisk bedding in the background. Look there at that fellow in the violet cloak! Rip directed Dane. See what he just laid down? The noblemen in the violet cloak was not one of Groff's liegemen, but a member of the delegation from another clan. And what he had laid down on the table, indicating as he did so his choice as winner in the coming combat, the elder warrior, was a small piece of white material on which reposed a slightly withered but familiar leaf. The neighbor he wagered with eyed the stake narrowly, bending over to sniff at it, before he piled up two gem-set armlets, a personal set-box and a thumb-ring to balance. At this practical indication of just how much the Terran herb was esteemed, Dane regretted anew their earlier ignorance. He glanced along the board and saw that Van Rijk had noted that stake and was calling their captain's attention to it. But such side issues were forgotten as the duelists vaulted into the circle rimmed by the table, a space now vacated for their action. They were stripped to their loin-claws, their cloaks thrown aside. Each carried his net in his right hand, his claw-knife ready in his left. As yet the traitors had not seen Salarik against Salarik in action, and in spite of themselves they edged forward in their seats, as intent as the natives upon what was to come. The finer points of the combat were lost on them, and they did not understand the drilled cast of the nets, which had become as formalized through the centuries as the ancient and now almost forgotten sword-play of their own world. The young Salarik had greater agility and speed, but the veteran who faced him had the experience. To Terranize, the duel had some of the weaving, sweeping movements of the earlier ritual dance. The swift evasions of the nets were graceful, and so timed that many times the meshes grazed the skin of the fighter who fled in trapment. Dane believed that the elder man was tiring, and the youngster must have shared that opinion. There was a leap to the right, a sudden flurry of dart and retreat, and then a net curled high and fell, enfolding flailing arms and kicking legs. When the clutch-rope was jerk-tight, the captured youth was thrown off balance. He rolled frenziedly, but there was no escaping from the imprisoning strands. A shout applauded the victor. He stood now above his captive, who lay supine. His throat or breast ready for either stroke of the knife his captor wished to deliver. But it appeared that the winner was not minded to end the encounter with blood. Instead he reached out a long, beferred arm, took up a field goblet from the table and, with serious deliberation, poured its contents onto the upturned face of the loser. For a moment there was a dead silence around the feast-board, and then a second roar to which the honestly relieved Terrans added spurts of laughter. The sputtering youth was shaken free of the net and went down on his knees, tendering his opponent his knife, which the other thrust along with his own into his sash-belt. Dane gathered from overheard remarks that the younger man was, for a period of time to be determined by clan council, now the servant-slave of his overthrower, and that since they were closely united by blood ties this solution was considered eminently suitable. Though had the elder killed his opponent, no one would have thought the worse of him for that deed. It was the Queen's men who were to provide the next center of attraction. Groft climbed down from his high seat and came to face across the board those who had accompanied him on the hunt. This time there was no escaping the sipping of the potent drink, which the new chieftain slopped from his own goblet into each of theirs. The fiery mouthful almost gagged Dane, but he swallowed manfully and hoped for the best as it burned like acid down his throat into his middle, there to mix uncomfortably with the vions he had eaten. Week's thin face looked very white, and Dane noticed with malicious enjoyment that Ollie had an obtrusive grip on the table, which made his knuckles stand out in polished knobs, proving that there were things which could upset the imperturbable Camille. Fortunately they were not required to empty that flowing bowl in one gulp as Groft had done. The ceremonial mouthful was deemed enough, and Dane sat down thankfully, but with uneasy fears for the future. Groft had started back to his high seat when there was an interruption which had not been foreseen. A messenger threaded his way among the serving men and spoke to the chieftain, who glanced at the Terrans and then nodded. Dane, his queasiness growing every second, was not attending until he heard a bitten-off word from Rip's direction and looked up to see a party of the IS men coming into the open space before the high seat. The men from the Queen stiffened. There was something in the attitude of the newcomers which hinted at trouble. What do you wish, Sky Lords? That was Groft using the trade lingo, his eyes half closed as he lulled in his chair of state, almost as if he were about to witness some entertainment provided for his pleasure. We wish to offer you the good fortune desires of our hearts. That was Callie, the flowery words rolling with the proper accent from his tongue. And that you shall not forget us, we also offer gifts. At a gesture from their cargo-master the IS men sat down a small chest. Groft, his chin resting on a clenched fist, lost none of his lazy air. They are received, he retorted with the formal acceptance, and no one can have too much good fortune. The howlers of the black winds know that, but he tendered no invitation to join the feast. Callie did not appear to be disconcerted. His next move was one which took his rivals by surprise, in spite of their suspicions. Under the laws of Fellowship O'Groft, he clung to the formal speech, I claim redress. Ollie's hand moved. Through his growing distress Dane saw Van Reich's jaw tighten. The fighting mass snapped back on Captain Jellicoe's face. Whatever came now was real trouble. Groft's eyes flickered over the party from the Queen. Though he had just pledged cup friendship with four of them, he had the malicious humor of his race. He would make no move to head off what might be coming. By the right of the knife and the net, Ian toned, you have the power to claim personal satisfaction. Where is your enemy? Callie turned to face the free traders. I hereby challenge a champion to be set out from these off-worlders to meet by the blood and by the water my champion. The Salariki were getting excited. This was superb entertainment, an engagement such as they had never hoped to see, alien against alien. The rising murmur of their voices was like the growl of a hunting-beast. Groft smiled, and the pleasure that expression displayed was neither terren nor human. But then the clan leader was not either, Dane reminded himself. Four of these warriors are clan-bound, he said, but the others may produce a champion. Dane looked along the line of his comrades. Olly, Rip, Weeks, and himself had just been ruled out. That left Jellico, Van Rijk, Carl Costy, the giant jetman whose strength they had to rely upon before, Stotz, the engineer, Medic Tau, and Steen Wilcox. If it were strength alone he would have chosen Costy, but the big man was not too quick a thinker. Jellico got to his feet, the embodiment of a star-lane fighting man. In the flickering light the scar on his cheek seemed to ripple. "'Who's your champion?' he asked, Kali. The icy cargo master was grinning. He was confident he had pushed them into a position from which they could not extricate themselves. "'You accept challenge?' he countered. Jellico merely repeated his question and Kali beckoned forward one of his men. The icy who stepped up was no match for Costy. He was a slender, almost one slim young man, whose pleas smirk said that he too was about to put something over on the notorious free traders. Jellico studied him for a couple of long seconds, during which the hum of salaricky voices was the threatening buzz of a disturbed wasp's nest. There was no way out of this. To refuse conflict was to lose all they had won with the Klansmen, and they did not doubt that Kali had, in some way, triggered the scales against them. Jellico made the best of it. "'We accept challenge.' His voice was level. We, being guesting and groffs holding, will fight after the manner of the salaricky who are proven warriors. He paused as roars of pleased acknowledgement arose around the board. "'Therefore, let us follow the custom of warriors, and take up the net and the knife.' Was there a shade of dismay on Kali's face?' "'At the time,' grofft leaned forward to ask, but his satisfaction at such a fine ending for his feast was apparent. This would be talked over by every Sargallian for many storm seasons to come.' Jellico glanced up at the sky. "'Say, an hour after dawn, chieftain, with your leave, we shall confer concerning a champion.' "'My council room is yours.' grofft signed for a leech man to guide them.' End of chapter 6 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Mark Nelson. Plague Ship by Andre Norton Chapter 7 Barring Accident The morning winds rustled through the grass forest, and closer to hand it pulled at the cloaks of the salaricky. Clan Nobles sat on stools, lesser folks squatted on the trampled stubble of the cleared ground outside the stockade. In their many-colored splendor the drab tunics of the Terrans were a blot of darkness at either end of the makeshift arena which had been marked out for them. At the conclusion of their conference the Queen's men had been forced into a course Jellico had urged from the first. He and he alone would represent the free traders in the coming duel. And now he stood there in the early morning, stripped down to shorts and boots, wearing nothing on which a net could catch and so trap him. The free traders were certain that the IS men having any advantage would press it to the ultimate limit and the death of Captain Jellico would make a great impression on the salaricky. Jellico was taller than the Izzy who faced him, but almost as lean. Hard muscles moved under his skin, pale where the space-tanned had not burned in the years of his star-voyaging. And his every movement was with the liquid grace of a man who, in his time, had been a master of the force-blade. Now he gripped in his left hand the claw-knife given him by Groft himself, and in the other he looped the throwing rope of the net. At the other end of the field the Izzy man was industriously moving his boot-soles back and forth across the ground, intent upon coating them with as much of the gritty sand as would adhere. And he displayed the supreme confidence in himself which he had shown at the moment of challenge in the great hall. None of the free trading party made the mistake of trying to give Jellico advice. The captain had not risen to his command without learning his duties, and the duties of a free trader covered a wide range of knowledge and practice. One had to be equally expert with a blaster and a slingshot when the occasion demanded. Though Jellico had not fought a Salariki duel with net and knife before, he had a deep memory of other weapons, other tactics which could be drawn upon and adapted to his present need. There was none of the casual atmosphere which had surrounded the affair between the Salariki clansmen in the hall. Here was ceremony. The storm priests invoked their own particular grim providence, and there was an oath taken over the weapons of battle. When the actual engagement began the betting among the spectators had reached Dane decided epic proportions. Large sections of Sargullian personal property were due to change hands as a result of this encounter. As the chief priests gave the order to engage, both Terrans advanced from their respective ends of the fighting space, with a half-crouching, light-footed tread of spacemen. Jellico had pulled his net into as close a resemblance to rope as its bulk would allow. The very type of weapon, so far removed from any of the traders knew, made it a disadvantage rather than an asset. But it was when the Izzy moved out to meet the captain that ripped fingers closed about Dane's upper arm in an almost paralyzing grip. He knows. Dane had not needed that bad news to be made vocal. Having seen the exploits of the Salariki duelist earlier, he had already caught the significance of that glide of the way the IS champion carried his net. The Izzy had not had any last-minute instruction in the use of Sargullian weapons. He had practiced, and by his stance knew enough to make him a formidable menace. The clamor about the Queen's party rose as the battle-wise eyes of the Klansmen noted that and the odds against Jellico reached fantastic heights while the hearts of his crew sank. Only Van Rijk was not disturbed. Now and then he raised his smelling bottle to his nose, with an elegant gesture which matched those of the beferred nobility around him, as if not a thought of care ruffled his mind. The Izzy fainted in an opening which was a rather ragged copy of the young Salariki's more fluid move some hours before. But when the net settled, Jellico was simply not there. His quick drop to one knee had sent the mesh flailing in an arc over his bowed shoulders, with a good six inches to spare. And a cry of approval came not only from his comrades, but from those natives who had been gamblers enough to venture their wagers on his performance. Dane watched the field and the fighters through a watery film. The discomfort he had experienced, since downing that mouthful of the cup of friendship, had tightened into a fist of pain clutching his middle in a torturing grip. But he knew he must stick it out until Jellico's ordeal was over. Someone stumbled against him and he glanced up to see Ali's face, a horrible grey-green under the tan close to his own. For a moment the engineer apprentice caught at his arm for support, and then with a visible effort straightened up. So he wasn't the only one. He looked for rippin' weeks, and saw that they too were ill. But for a moment all that mattered was the stretch of trampled earth and the two men facing each other. The Izzy made another cast, and this time, although Jellico was not caught, the slap of the mesh raised a red welt on his forearm. So far the captain had been content to play the defensive role of retreat, studying his enemy, planning ahead. The Izzy plainly thought the game was his, that he had only to wait for a favourable moment and cinch the victory. Dane began to think it had gone on for weary hours, and he was dimly aware that the Salariki were also restless. One or two shouted angrily at Jellico in their own tongue. The end came suddenly. Jellico lost his footing, stumbled and went down, but before his men could move, the Izzy champion bounded forward, his net whirling out. Only he never reached the captain. In the very act of falling, Jellico had pulled his legs under him so that he was not supine but crouched, and his net swept at the ground level, clipping the IS man about the shins, entangling his feet so that he went crashing heavily to the sod, and lay still. The whip! That lalox whip-trick! Wilcox's voice rose triumphantly above the babble of the crowd. Using his net as if it had been a thong, Jellico had brought down the Izzy with a move the other had not foreseen. Graving hard, sweat running down his shoulders and making tracks through the powdery red dust which streaked him, Jellico got to his feet and walked over to the IS champion, who had not moved or made a sound since his fall. The captain went down on one knee to examine him. Kill! Kill! That was the Salariki, all their instinctive savagery aroused. But Jellico spoke to Grofft. By our customs we do not kill the conquered. Let his friends bear him hence. He took the claw-knife the Izzy still clutched in his hand and thrust it into his own belt. Then he faced the IS party and Callie. Take your man and get out! The rain he had kept on his temper these past days was growing very thin. You've made your last play here. Callie's thick lips drew back in something close to a Salariki snarl. But neither he nor his men made any reply. They bundled up their unconscious fighter and disappeared. Of their own return to the sanctuary of the Queen, Dane had only the dimmest of memories afterwards. He had made the privacy of the forest road before he yielded to the demands of his outraged interior. And after that he had stumbled along with Van Rijk's hand under his arm, knowing from other miserable sounds that he was not alone in his torment. It was some time later, months, he thought, when he first roused, that he found himself lying in his bunk, feeling very weak and empty as if a large section of his middle had been removed, but also at peace with his world. As he levered himself up, the cabin had a nasty tendency to move slowly to the right, as if he were a pivot on which it swung, and he had all the sensations of being in freefall, though the Queen was still firmly planted. But that was only a minor discomfort compared to the disturbance he remembered. Fed the semi-liquid diet prescribed by Tao and served up by Mura to him and his fellow sufferers, he speedily got back his strength. But it had been a close call. He did not need Tao's explanation to underline that. Weeks had suffered the least of the four, he the most, though none of them had had an easy time, and they had been out of circulation three days. The eyes he blasted last night, Rip informed him as they lounged in the sun on the ramp, sharing the blessed lazy hours of invalidism. But somehow that news gave Dane no lift of spirit. I didn't think they'd give up. Rip shrugged. They may be off to make a dust-off before the board. Only thanks to Van and the old man, we're covered all along the line. There's nothing they can use against us to break our contract. And now we're in so solid they can't cut us out with the Salariki. Groft asked the captain to teach him that trick with the net. I didn't know the old man knew Laylock's whip-fighting. It's about one of the nastiest ways to get cut to pieces in this universe. How's trade going? Rip's sonniness clouded. Supplies have given out. Weeks had an idea, but it won't bring in Koros. That red wood he's so mad about, he's persuaded Van to stow some in the cargo hold since we have enough Koros stones to cover the voyage. Luckily the Klansmen will take ordinary trade goods in exchange for that, and Weeks thinks it will sell on Terra. It's tough enough to turn a steel knife blade, and yet it's light and easy to handle when it's cured. Queer stuff, and the color's interesting. That stockade of it planted around Groft's town has been up to close to a hundred years and not a sign of rod in a log of it. Where's Van? The storm pre-sent for him. Some kind of gavel-fest on the star-star level I gather. Otherwise we're almost ready to blast, and we know what kind of cargo to bring next time. They certainly did, Dane agreed. But he was not to idle away his morning. An hour later a caravan came out of the forest, a line of complaining, burdened oracles, their tiny heads hanging low as they moaned their woes, the hard life which sent them on their sluggish way with piles of red logs last to their broad toad's backs. Weeks was in charge of the procession, and Dane went to work with the cargo plan Van had left, seeing that the brilliant scarlet lengths were hoist into the lower cargo hatch and stacked according to the science of stowage. He discovered that Rip had been right. The wood, for all its incredible hardness, was light of weight. Weak as he still was, he could lift and stow a full-sized log with no great difficulty. And he thought Weeks was correct in thinking that it would sell on their home world. The color was novel, the durability an asset. It would not make fortunes as the coro stones might, but every bit of profit helped, and this cargo might cover their fielding fees on Terra. Sinbad was in the cargo space when the first of the logs came in. With his usual curiosity, the striped Tomcat prowled along the wood, sniffing industriously. Suddenly he stopped short, spat and backed away, his spine fur a roughened crest. Having backed as far as the inner door, he turned and slunk out. Puzzled, Dane gave the wood a swift inspection. There were no cracks or crevices in the smooth surfaces, but as he stopped over the logs he became conscious of a sharp odor. So this was one cent of the perfume planet Sinbad did not like. Dane laughed. Maybe they had better have Weeks make a gate of the stuff and slip it across the ramp, keeping Sinbad on shipboard. Odd, it wasn't an unpleasant odor, at least to him it wasn't, just sharp and pungent. He sniffed again and was vaguely surprised to discover that it was less noticeable now. Perhaps the wood when taken out of the sunlight lost its scent. They packed the lower hold solid, in accordance with the rules of stowage, and locked the hatch before Van Rijk returned from his meeting with the Storm Priests. When the cargo master came back he was followed by two servants bearing between them a chest. But there was something in Van Rijk's attitude, apparent to those who knew him best, that proclaimed that he was not too well pleased with this morning's work. Sparing the feelings of the accompanying Storm Priests about the offensiveness of the Spacer, Captain Jellico and Steen Wilcox went out to receive them in the open. Dane watched from the hatch. Aware then in his present pariahhood it would not be wise to venture closer. The Terran traders were protesting some course of action that the Salariki were firmly insistent upon. In the end the natives won, and Costi was summoned to carry on board the chest which the servants had brought. Having seen it carried safely inside the Spacer the aliens departed. But Van Rijk was frowning, and Jellico's fingers were beating a tattoo on his belt as they came up the ramp. I don't like it, Jellico stated as he entered. It was none of my doing, Van Rijk snapped. I'll take risks if I have to, but there's something about this one. He broke off, two deep lines showing between his thick brows. Well, you can't teach a sasserole to spit, he ended philosophically. We'll have to do the best we can. But Jellico did not look at all happy as he climbed to the control section, and before the hour was out the reason for the captain's uneasiness was common property throughout the ship. Having sampled the delights of off-world herbs the Salariki were determined to not be cut off from their source of supply. Six Terran months from the present Sargolian date would come the great yearly feast of the Fifty Storms, and the priests were agreed that this year their influence and power would be doubled if they could offer the devout certain privileges in the form of Terran plants. Consequently they had produced and forced upon the reluctant Van Rijk the Koros collection of their order, with instructions that it be sold on Terra and the price returned to them in the precious seeds and plants. In vain the cargo master and captain had pointed out that galactic trade was a chancy thing at best, that accident might prevent return of the Queen to Sargol. But the priests had remained adamant, and saw in all such arguments only a devious attempt to raise prices. They quoted in their return the information they had levered out of the companymen, that traders had their code, and that once pay had been given in advance the contract must be fulfilled. They and they alone wanted the full cargo of the Queen on their next voyage, and they were taking the one way they were sure of achieving that result. So a fortune in Koros stones, which as yet did not rightfully belong to the traders, was now in the Queen's strong room, and her crew were pledged by the strongest possible tie known in their service, to set down on Sargol once more before the allotted time had passed. The free traders did not like it. There was even a vaguely superstitious feeling that such a bargain would inevitably draw ill luck to them. But they were left with no choice if they wanted to retain their influence with the Salariki. Cutting orbit pretty fine, aren't we? Alley asked Rip across the mess-table. I saw your two-star man sweating it out before he came down to shoot the breeze with us rocket monkeys. Rip nodded. Steens double-checked every computation and some he's done four times. He ran his hands over his close cropped head with a weary gesture. As a semi-invalid he had been herded down with his fellows to swallow the builder Mura had concocted and Tao insisted that they take, but he had been doing a half a night's work on the plotter under his chief's exacting eye before he came. The latest news is that, barring accident, we can make it with about three weeks' grace, give or take a day or two. Barring accident. The words rang in the air. Here on the frontiers of the star lanes there were so many accidents, so many delays which could put a ship behind schedule. Only on the main star trails did the huge liners or company ships attempt to keep on regularly timed trips. A free trader did not really dare to have an inelastic contract. What does Stott say? Dane asked Alley. He says we can deliver. We don't have the headache about setting a course. You point the nose and we only have to give her the boost to send her along. Rip sighed. Yes, pointer knows. He inspected his nails. Good-bye, he added gravely. These won't be here by the time we plant it here again. I'll have my fingers nod off to the first knuckle. Well, we lift at six hours. Pleasant strapped down. He drank the last of the stuff in his mug. Made a face at the flavor and got to his feet due back at his post in control. Dane, free of duty until the ship earthed, drifted back to his own cabin, sure of part of a night's undisturbed rest before they blasted off. Sinbad was curled on his bunk. For some reason the cat had not been prowling the ship before take-off as he usually did. First he had sat on Van's desk, and now he was here, almost as if he wanted human company. Dane picked him up and Sinbad rumbled a purr, arching his head so that it rubbed against the young man's chin in an extremely uncharacteristic show of affection. Smoothing the fur along the cat's jawline, Dane carried him back to the cargo master's cabin. With some hesitation he knocked at the panel, and did not step in until he had Van Reich's muffled invitation. The cargo master was stretched on the bunk, two of the take-off straps already fastened across his bulk as if he intended to sleep through the blast-off. Sinbad, sir, shall I stow him? Van Reich grunted and assent, and Dane dropped the cat in the small hammock which was his particular station, fastening the safety cords. For once Sinbad made no protest, but rolled into a ball and was promptly fast asleep. For a moment or two Dane thought about his unnatural behavior and wondered if he should call it to the cargo master's attention. Perhaps on Sargal Sinbad had had his equivalent of a friendship cup and needed a check-up by Tau. Stowage correct? The question, coming from Van Reich, was also unusual. The seal would not have been put across the holdlock had its contents not been checked and re-checked. Yes, sir, Dane replied woodenly, knowing he was still in the outer darkness. There was just the wood we stowed it according to Chart. Van Reich grunted once more. Feeling top-layer again? Yes, sir. Any orders, sir? No. Blast-offs at six. Yes, sir. Dane left the cabin, closing the panel carefully behind him. Would he, or could he, he thought drearily, get back in Van Reich's prophet column again? Sargal had been unlucky as far as he was concerned. First he had made that stupid mistake, and then he got sick. And now, and now, what was the matter? Was it just the general attack of nerves over the voyage and the commitments which forced their haste, or was it something else? He could not rid himself of a vague sense that the queen was about to take off into real trouble. And he did not like the sensation at all. End of Chapter 7 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Mark Nelson. Plague Ship by Andre Norton Chapter 8 Headaches They lifted from Sargal on schedule, and went into Hyper, also on schedule. From that point on there was nothing to do but wait out the usual dull time of flight between systems, and hope that Steen Wilcox had plotted a course which would cut that flight time to a minimum. But this voyage there was little relaxation once they were in Hyper. No matter when Dane dropped into the mess cabin, which was the common meeting-place of the Spacer, he was apt to find others there before him, usually with a mug of one of Murrah's special brews close at hand, speculating about their landing date. Dane himself, once he had thrown off the lingering effects of his Sargalian illness, applied time to his studies. When he had first joined the queen as a recruit straight out of the training pool, he had speedily learned that all the ten years of intensive study then behind him had only been an introduction to the amount he still had to absorb before he could take his place as an equal with such a traitor as Van Rijk, if he had the stuff which would raise him in time to that exalted level. While he had still had his superior's favor, he had dared to treat him as an instructor, going to him with perplexing problems of stowage or barter. But now he had no desire to intrude upon the cargo-master, and doggedly wrestled with the micro-tapes of old records on his own, painfully working out the why and wherefore for any departure from the regular procedure. He had no inkling of his own future status, whether the return to Terra would find him permanently earthed. He would ask no questions. They had been four days of ships' time in Hyper when Dane walked into the mess cabin, tired after his work with old records, to discover no mural busy in the galley beyond, no brew steaming on the heat-coil. Rip sat at the table, his long legs stuck out, his usually happy face very sober. What's wrong? Dane reached for a mug, then, seeing no pot of drink, put it back in place. Frank, sick! What? Dane turned. Illness such as they had run into on Sargal had a logical base, but illness on board ship was something else. Tau has him isolated. He has a bad headache, and he blacked out when he tried to sit up. Tau's running tests. Dane sat down. Could be something he ate. Rip shook his head. He wasn't at the feast, remember? And he didn't eat anything from the outside. He swore that to Tau. In fact, he didn't go dirt much while we were down. That was only too true, as Dane could now recall. And the fact that the steward had not been at the feast, had not sampled native food products, wiped out the simplest and most comforting reasons for his present collapse. What's this about Frank? Ali stood in the doorway. He said yesterday that he had a headache, but now Tau has him shut off. But he wasn't at that feast. Ali stopped short as the implications of that struck him. How's Tang feeling? Fine, why? The Comtech had come up behind Camille and was answering for himself. Why, this interest in the state of my health. Frank's down with something, in isolation, Rip replied bluntly. Did he do anything out of the ordinary when we were off ship? For a long moment the other stared at Shannon and then shook his head. No. And he wasn't dirt-side to any extent, either. So Tau's running tests. He lapsed into silence. None of them wished to put their thoughts into words. Dane picked up the micro-tape he had brought with him and went on down the corridor to return it. The panel of the cargo office was ajar, and to his relief he found Van Rijk out. He shoved the tape back in its case and pulled out the next one. Sinbad was there, not in his own private hammock, but sprawled out on the cargo master's bunk. He watched Dane lazily, mouthing a silent mew of welcome. For some reason, since they had blasted from Sargal, the cat had been lazy, as if his adventures afield there had sapped much of his vitality. Why aren't you outworking? Dane asked as he leaned over to scratch under a furry chin raised for the benefit of such a caress. You inspect the hole lately, boy? Sinbad merely blinked, and after the manner of his species looked infinitely bored. As Dane turned to go the cargo master came in. He showed no surprise at Dane's presence. Instead, he reached out and fingered the label of the tape Dane had just chosen. After a glance at the identifying symbol, he took it out of his assistant's hand, plopped it back in its case, and stood for a moment, eyeing the selection of past voyage records. With a tongue-click of satisfaction, he pulled out another and tossed it across the desk to Dane. See what you can make out of this tangle, he ordered. But Dane's shoulders went back as if some weight had been lifted from them. The old easiness was still lacking, but he was no longer exiled to the outer darkness of Van Reich's displeasure. Holding the micro-tape as if it were a first-grade coro stone, Dane went back to his own cabin, snapped the tape into his reader, adjusted the ear buttons, and laid back on his bunk to listen. He was deep in the intricacy of a deal so complicated that he was lost after the first two moves when he opened his eyes to see Ollie at the door panel. The engineer apprentice made an emphatic beckoning wave, and Dane slipped off the ear buttons. What is it? His question lacked a cordial note. I've got to have help, Ollie was terse. Costy's blacked out. What? Dane sat up and dropped his feet to the deck in almost one movement. I can't shift him alone, Ollie stated the obvious. The giant jetman was almost double his size. We must get him to his quarters, and I won't ask Stott's. For a perfectly good reason Dane knew. An assistant, two of the apprentices, could go sick, but their officer's continued good health met the most to the queen. If some infection were aboard, it would be better for Ollie and himself to be exposed, than to have Johann Stott's, with all his encyclopedic knowledge of the ship's engines, contract any disease. They found the jetman half sitting, half lying in the short foot or so of Corridor, which led to his own cubby. He had been making for his quarters when the seizure had taken him, and by the time the two reached his side, he was beginning to come around, moaning his hands going to his head. Together they got him on his feet and guided him to his bunk where he collapsed again, dead weight they had to push into place. Dane looked at Ollie. Tau? Haven't had time to call him yet. Ollie was jerking at the thigh straps which fastened costy space-boots. I'll go. Glad for the task, Dane sped up the ladder to the next section and threaded the narrow side-haul to the medics cabin where he knocked on the panel. There was a pause before Craig Tau looked out, deep lines of weariness bracketing his mouth, etched between his eyes. Costy, sir, Dane gave his bad news quickly. He's collapsed. We got him to his cabin. Tau showed no sign of surprise. His hands shot out for his kit. You touched him? At the other's nod he added an order. Stay in your quarters until I have a chance to look you over, understand? Dane had no chance to answer. The medic was already on his way. He went to his own cabin, understanding the reason for his imprisonment, but inwardly rebelling against it. Rather than sit idle, he snapped on the reader. But, although facts and figures were done into his ears, he really heard very little. He couldn't apply himself, not with a new specter leering at him from the bulkhead. The dangers of the space lanes were not to be numbered. Death walked among the stars a familiar companion of all spacemen. And to the free trader it was the extra and invisible crewmen on every ship that raised. But there were deaths and deaths. And Dane could not forget the gruesome legends van Rijk collected avidly as his hobby, had recorded in his private library of the folklore of space. Stories such as that of the ghostly New Hope, carrying refugees from the First Martian Rebellion. The ship which had lifted for the stars, but had never arrived. Which wandered for a timeless eternity, a derelict in freefall, its port closed but the warning deadlights on its nose. A ship which through five centuries had been sighted only by a spacer in similar distress. Such stories were numerous. There were other tales of plague ships wandering free with their dead crews, or discovered and shot into some sun by a patrol cruiser so that they might not carry their infection farther. Plague, the nebulous worst the traders had to face. Dane's screwed his eyes shut, tried to concentrate upon the droning voice in his ears, but he could not control his thoughts, nor his fears. At a touch on his arm he started so wildly that he jerked the cord loose from the reader and sat up, somewhat shame faced, to greet Tao. At the medics' orders he stripped for one of the most complete examinations he had ever undergone outside a quarantine port. It included an almost microscopic, inspection of the skin on his neck and shoulders. But when Tao had done, he gave a sigh of relief. Well, you haven't got it. At least you don't show any signs yet. He amended his first statement almost before the words were out of his mouth. What were you looking for? Tao took time out to explain. Here, his fingers touched the small hollow at the base of Dane's throat, and the fingers touched the small hollow at the base of Dane's throat, and then swung him around and indicated two places on the back of his neck and under his shoulder blades. Kosti and Mura both have red eruptions here. It's as if they've been given an injection of some narcotic. Tao sat down on the jump seat while Dane dressed. Kosti was dirt-side. He might have picked up something. Like Mura? That's it! Tao brought his fist down on the edge of the bunk. Frank hardly left the ship, yet he showed the first signs. On the other hand, you were all right so far, and you were off ship. And Olly's clean, and he was with you on the hunt. We'll just have to wait and see. He got up wearily. If your head begins to ache, he told Dane, you get back here in a hurry, and stay put, understand? As Dane learned, all the other members of the crew were given the same type of inspection. But none of them showed the characteristic marks which meant trouble. They were on course for Tara, but—and that butt must have loomed large in all their minds—once there would they be allowed to land. Could they even hope for a engineering? Plague ship. Tao must find the answer before they came into normal space about their own solar system, or they were in for such trouble as made a broken contract seem the simplest of mishaps. Kosti and Mura were in isolation. There were volunteers for nursing, and Tao, unable to be in two places at once, finally picked weeks to look after his crewmate in the engineering section. There was doubling up of duties. Tao could no longer share with Mura the care of the hydro-garden so Van Reich took over. While Dane found himself in charge of the galley, and while he did not have Mura's deft hand at disguising the monotonous concentrates to the point they resembled fresh food, after a day or two he began to experiment cautiously and produced a stew which brought some short words of appreciation from Captain Jellico. They all breathed a sigh of relief when, after three days, no more signs of the mysterious illness showed on new members of the crew. It became routine to parade before Tao, stripped to the waist each morning for the inspection of the danger points, and the medics of vigilance did not relax. In the meantime neither Mura nor Kosti appeared to suffer. Once the initial stages of headaches and blackouts were passed, the patients lapsed into a semi-conscious state, as if they were under a sedation of some type. They would eat, if the food was placed in their mouths, but they did not seem to know what was going on about them, nor did they answer when spoken to. Tao, between visits to them, worked feverishly in his tiny lab, analyzing blood samples, reading the records of obscure diseases, trying to find the reason for their attacks. But as yet his discoveries were exactly nothing. He had come out of his quarters and sat in limp exhaustion at the mess-table, while Dane placed before him a mug of stimulating calf-hag. I don't get it. The medic addressed the tabletop rather than the amateur cook. It's a poison of some kind. Kosti went dirt-side, Mura didn't. Yet Mura came down with it first. And we didn't ship any food from Sargal. Neither did he eat any while we were there. Unless he did, and we didn't know about it, if I could just bring him to long enough to answer a couple of questions. Sighing he dropped his weary head on his folded arms and within seconds was a sleep. Dane put the mug back on the heating unit and sat down at the other end of the table. He did not have the heart to shake Tao into wakefulness. Let the poor devil get a slice of bunk time. He certainly needed it after the fatigues of the past four days. Van Rijk passed along the corridor on his way to the Hydro, Sinbad at his heels. But in a moment the cat was back, leaping up on Dane's knee. He did not curl up, but rubbed against the young man's arm, finally reaching up with a paw to touch Dane's chin, uttering one of the soundless mews which were his bid for attention. What's the matter, boy? Dane fondled the cat's ears. You haven't got a headache, have you? In that second a wild surmise came into his mind. Sinbad had been planet-side on Sargal as much as he could, and on ship-board he was equally at home in all their cabins. Could he be the carrier of the disease? A good idea, only if it were true, then logically the second victim should have been Van, or Dane, whereas Sinbad lingered most of the time in their cabins, not costy. The cat, as far as he knew, had never shown any particular fondness for the gentleman, and certainly did not sleep in Carl's quarters. No, that point did not fit. But he would mention it to Tau, no use overlooking anything, no matter how wild. It was the sequence of victims which puzzled them all, as far as Tau had been able to discover, Mura and Costy had nothing much in common, except that they were crewmates on the same spacer. They did not bunk in the same section. Their fields of labor were totally different. They had no special food or drink-taste in common. They were not even of the same race. Frank Mura was one of the few descendants of a mysterious, or now mysterious, people who had had their home on a series of islands in one of Tara's seas, islands which almost a hundred years before had been swallowed up in a series of world-rending quakes. Japan was the ancient name of that nation. While Carl Costy had come from the once-thickly populated land masses half the planet away, which had borne the geographical name of Europe, no, all the way along the two victims had only very general meeting points. They both shipped on the solar queen, and they were both of Terran birth. Tau stirred and sat up, blinking bemusedly at Dane, then pushed back his wiry black hair and assumed a measure of alertness. Dane dropped the now purring cat in the medic's lap, and in a few sentences outlined his suspicion. Tau's hands closed about Sinbad. There's a chance in that. He looked a little less beat, and he drank thirstily from the mug Dane gave him for the second time. Then he hurried out with Sinbad under one arm, bound for his lab. Dane slicked up the galley, trying to put things away as neatly as Mura kept them. He didn't have much faith in the Sinbad lead, but in this case everything must be checked out. When the medic did not appear during the rest of the ship's day, Dane was not greatly concerned, but he was alerted to trouble when Ali came in with an inquiry and a complaint. Seen anything of Craig? He's in the lab, Dane answered. He didn't answer my knock, Ali protested, and weak says he hasn't been in to see Carl all day. That did catch Dane's attention. Had his half-hunch been right, there was tau on the trail of a discovery which had kept him chained to the lab, but it wasn't like the medic not to look in on his patience. You're sure he isn't in the lab? I told you that he didn't answer my knock. I didn't open the panel. But now Ali was already in the corridor heading back the way he had come, with Dane on his heels, an unwelcome explanation for that silence in both their minds, and their fears were reinforced by what they heard as they approached the panel, a low moan rung out of unbearable pain. Dane thrust the sliding door open. Tau had slipped from his stool to the floor. His hands were at his head, which rolled from side to side as if he were trying to quiet some agony. Dane stripped down the medics under Tunic. There was no need to make a careful examination. In the hollow of Craig Tau's throat was the tell-tale red blotch. Sinbad! Dane glanced around the cabin. Did Sinbad get past you? He demanded of the puzzled Ali. No, I haven't seen him all day. Yet the cat was nowhere in the tiny cabin, and it had no concealed hiding place. To make doubly sure, Dane secured the panel before they carried Tau to his bunk. The medic had blacked out again, passed into the lethargic second stage of the malady. At least he was out of the pain, which appeared to be the worst symptom of the disease. It must be Sinbad, Dane said as he made his report directly to Captain Jellico. And yet... Yes, he's been staying in Van's cabin, the captain mused, and you've handled him. He slept on your bunk. Yet you and Van are all right. I don't understand that. Anyway, to be on the safe side, you better find and isolate him before... He didn't have to underline any words for the grim-faced men who listened. With Tau, their one hope of fighting the disease gone, they had a black future facing them. They did not have to search for Sinbad. Dane, coming down to his own section, found the cat crouched before the panel of Van Reich's cabin, his eyes glued to the thin crack of the door. Dane scooped him up and took him to the small cargo space intended for the safeguarding of choice items of commerce. To his vast surprise, Sinbad began fighting wildly as he opened the hatch, kicking and then slashing with ready claws. The cat seemed to go mad, and Dane had all he could do to shut him in. When he snapped the panel, he heard Sinbad launch himself against the barrier as if to batter his way out. Dane, blood welling in several deep scratches, went in search of First Aid. But some suspicion led him to pause as he passed Van Reich's door. And when his knock brought no answer, he pushed the panel open. Van Reich lay on his bunk, his eyes half closed in a way which had become only too familiar to the crew of the solar queen. And Dane knew that when he looked for it, he would find the mark of the strange plague on the cargo master's body. CHAPTER IX PLEAGE Jellico and Steen Wilcox poured over the few notes Tau had made before he was stricken. But apparently the medic had found nothing to indicate that Sinbad was the carrier of any disease. Meanwhile, the captain gave orders for the cat to be confined. A difficult task since Sinbad crouched close to the door of the storage cabin and was ready to dart out when food was taken in for him. Once he got a good way down the corridor before Dane was able to corner and return him to keeping. Dane, Ollie, and Weeks took on the full care of the four sick men, leaving the few regular duties of the ship to the senior officers, while Rip was installed in charge of the hydro-garden. Mura, the first to be taken ill, showed no change. He was semi-conscious. He swallowed food if it were put in his mouth. He responded to nothing around him. And Costy, Tau, and Van Rijk followed the same pattern. They still held morning inspection of those on their feet for signs of a new outbreak. But when no one else went down during the next two days, they regained a faint spark of hope. Hope which was snapped out when Ollie brought the news that Stots could not be roused and must have taken ill during a sleep period. One more inert patient was added to the list. And nothing learned about how he was infected. Except that they could eliminate Sinbad, since the cat had been in custody during the time Stots had apparently contracted the disease. Weeks, Ollie and Dane, though they were in constant contact with the sick men, and though Dane had repeatedly handled Sinbad, continued to be immune. A fact, Dane thought more than once, which must have significance if someone with Tau's medical knowledge had been able to study it. By all rights, they should be the most susceptible, but the opposite seemed true. And Wilcox duly noted that fact among the data they had recorded. It became a matter of watching each other, waiting for another collapse. And they were not surprised when Tang Ya reeled into the mess, his face livid and drawn with pain. Rip and Dane got him to his cabin before he blacked out. But all they could learn from him during the interval before he lost consciousness was that his head was bursting and he couldn't stand it. Over his limp body they stared at one another bleakly. Six down, Ollie observed, and six to go. How do you feel? Tired, that's all. What I don't understand is that once they go into this stupor they just stay. They don't get any worse, they have no rise in temperature. It's as if they're in a modified form of cold sleep. How was Tang? Rip asked from the corridor. Usual pattern, Ollie answered. He's sleeping. Got a pain, fella? Rip shook his head. Right as a comm unit. I don't get it. Why does it strike Tang, who didn't even hit dirt much, and yet you keep on? Then grimaced. If we had an answer to that maybe we'd know what caused the whole thing. Ollie's eyes narrowed. He was staring straight at the unconscious com-tech as if he did not see that supine body at all. I wonder if we've been salted, he said slowly. We've been what, they demanded? Look here, we three, with weeks, like that brew of the Salariki, didn't we? And we were as sick as Venetian goblers afterwards, agreed, Rip. Light dawned. Do you mean, began Dane? So that's it, flashed Rip. It might just be, Ollie said. Do you remember how the settlers on Cambline brought their taran cattle through the first year? They fed them salt mixed with fancil grass. The result was that the herds didn't take the fancil grass fever when they turned them out to pasture in the dry season. All right, maybe we had our salt in that drink. The fancil salt makes the cattle filthy sick when it's forced down their throats, but after they recover they're immune to the fever, and nobody on Cambline buys unsalted cattle now. That sounds logical, admitted Rip, but how are we going to prove it? Ollie's face was black once more. Probably by elimination, he said morosely. If we keep our feet and all the rest go down, that's our proof. But we ought to be able to do something, protested Shannon. Just how, Ollie's slender brows arched, do you have a gallon of that Salariki brew on board you can serve out? We don't know what was in it, nor are we sure that this whole idea has any value. All of them had had first aid and basic preventive medicine as part of their training, but the more advanced laboratory experimentation was beyond their knowledge and skill. Had Tao still been on his feet, perhaps he could have traced that lead and brought order out of the chaos which was closing in upon the solar queen. But, though they reported their suggestion to the captain, Jellico was powerless to do anything about it. If the four who had shared that upsetting friendship cup were immune to the doom which now overhung the ship, there was no possible way for them to discover why or how. Ship's time came to have little meaning, and they were not surprised when Steen Wilcox slipped from his seat before the computer to be stowed away with what had become a familiar procedure. Only Jellico withstood the contagion apart from the younger four, taking his turn at caring for the helpless men. There was no change in their condition. They neither roused nor grew worse as the hours and then the days sped by. But each of those units of time in passing brought them nearer to greater danger. Sooner or later they must make the transition out of hyper into system space, and the jump out of warp was something not even a veteran took lightly. Rips round face thinned while they watched. Jellico was still functioning, but if the captain collapsed the whole responsibility for the snap out would fall directly on Shannon. An infinitesimal error would condemn them to almost hopeless wandering, perhaps, forever. Dane and Ollie relieved Rip of all duty but that which kept him chained in Wilcox's chair before the computers. He went over and over the data of the course the astrogator had set. And Captain Jellico, his eyes sunk in dark pits, checked and rechecked. When the fatal moment came Ollie manned the engine room with weeks at his elbow to tend the controls the acting engineer could not reach. And Dane, having seen the sick all safely stowed in crash-webbing, came up to the control cabin, riding out the transfer in Tangya's place. Rip's voice horsed into a croak, calling out the data. Dane, though he had had basic theory, was completely lost before Shannon had finished the first set of coordinates. But Jellico replied, hands playing across the pilot's board. Stand by for snap out. The croak went down to the engines where Ollie now held Stolz's post. Engine's ready! The voice came back, thinned by its journey from the Queen's interior. Aught five-nine! That was Jellico. Dane found himself suddenly unable to watch. He shut his eyes and braced himself against the vertigo of snap out. It came and he whirled sickeningly through unstable space. Then he was sitting in the laced Comtex seat looking at Rip. Runnels of sweat streaked Shannon's brown face. There was a damp patch darkening the tunic between his shoulder blades, a patch which it would take both of Dane's hands to cover. For a moment he did not raise his head to look at the vision plate which would tell him whether or not they had made it. But when he did, familiar constellations made the patterns they knew. They were out and they couldn't be too far off the course Wilcox had plotted. There was still the system run to make, but snap out was behind them. Rip gave a deep sigh and buried his head in his hands. With a throb of fear, Dane unhooked his safety belt and hurried over to him. When he clutched at Shannon's shoulder, the astrogator apprentice's head rolled limply. Was Rip down with the illness too? But the other muttered and opened his eyes. "'Does your head ache?' Dane shook him. "'Head? No.' Rip's words came drowsily. "'Just sleepy. So sleepy.' He did not seem to be in pain. But Dane's hands were shaking as he hoisted the other out of his seat and half carried, half led him to his cabin, praying as he went that it was only fatigue and not the disease. The ship was on auto now until Jellico as Pilots set a course. Dane got Rip down on the bunk and stripped off his tunic. The fine drawn face of the sleeper looked wan against the foam rest, and he snuggled into the softness like a child as he turned over and curled up. But his skin was clear. It was real sleep and not the plague which had claimed him. Impulse sent Dane back to the control cabin. He was not an experienced pilot officer, but there might be some assistance he could offer the captain now that Rip was washed out, perhaps for hours. Jellico hunched before the smaller computer, feeding pilot tape into its slot. His face was a skull under a thin coating of skin, the bones marking it sharply at jaw, nose, and eye socket. Shannondown? His voice was a mere whisper of its powerful self. He did not turn his head. He's just worn out, sir. Dane hastened to give reassurance. The marks aren't on him. When he comes around telling the cohards are in, Jellico murmured, see he checks the course in ten hours. But sir, Dane's protest failed as he watched the captain struggle to his feet, pulling himself up with shaking hands. As Thorson reached forward to steady the other, one of those hands tore at a tunic collar, ripping loose the ceiling. There was no need for explanation. The red splotch signaled from Jellico's sweating throat. He kept his feet, holding out against waves of pain by sheer willpower. Then Dane got a grip on him, got him away from the computer, hoping he could keep him going until they reached Jellico's cabin. Somehow they made that journey, being greeted with raucous screams from the Hubat. Furiously Dane slapped the cage, setting it to swinging, and so silencing the creature which stared at him with round malignant eyes as he got the captain to bed. Only four of them on their feet now, Dane thought bleakly as he left the cabin. If Rip came out of it in time they could land. Dane's breath caught as he made himself face up to the fact that Shannon might be ill, that it might be up to him to bring the queen in for a landing. And in where? The terror quarantine was Luna City on the moon, but let them signal for a set down there, let them describe what had happened and they might face death as a plague ship. Wearily he climbed down to the mess cabin to discover weeks and Ali there before him. They did not look up as he entered. "'Old man's got it,' he reported. "'Rip was Ali's crossing question. A sleep,' he passed out. "'What?' weeks swung around. "'Worn out,' Dane amended. Captain fed in a pilot tape before he gave up. "'So, now we are three,' was Ali's comment. "'Where do we set down, Luna City?' "'If they let us,' Dane hinted at the worst. "'But they've got to let us,' weeks exclaimed. "'We can't just wander around out here.' "'It's been done,' Ali reminded them brutally, and that silenced weeks. "'Did the old man set Luna?' After a long pause Ali inquired. "'I didn't check,' Dane confessed. "'He was giving out, and I had to get him to his bunk.' "'It might be well to know,' the engineer apprentice got up, his movements lacking much of the elastic spring which was normally his. When he climbed to control, both the others followed him. Ali's slender fingers played across a set of keys, and in the small screen mounting on the computer a set of figures appeared. Dane took up the master course-book, read the connotation, and blinked. "'Not Luna?' Ali asked. "'No, but I don't understand. This must be for somewhere in the asteroid belt.' Ali's lips stretched into a pale caricature of a smile. "'Good for the old man. He still had his wits about him, even after the bug bit him. "'But why are we going to the asteroids?' Ali's lips asked, reasonably enough. "'There are medics at Luna City. They can help us.' "'They can handle known diseases,' Ali pointed out. "'But what of the code?' Weaks dropped into the context-place as if some of the stiffening had vanished from his thin but sturdy legs. "'They wouldn't do that,' he protested, but his eyes said that he knew that they might. "'They well might.' "'No, face the facts, man.' Ali sounded almost savage. We come from a frontier planet. We're a plague-ship.' He did not have to underline that. They all knew too well the danger in which they now stood. "'Nobody's died yet.' Weaks tried to find an opening in the net being drawn about them. "'And nobody's recovered.' Ali crushed that thread of hope. "'We don't know what it is. How it is contracted. Anything about it. Let us make a report saying that, and you know what will happen, don't you?' They weren't sure of the details, but they could guess. "'So I say,' Ali continued, the old man was right when he set us on an evasion course. "'If we can stay out until we really know what is the matter, we'll have some chance of talking over the high brass at Luna when we do plan it.' In the end they decided not to interfere with the course the captain had set. It would take them into the fringes of solar civilization, but give them a fighting chance at solving their problem before they had to report to the authorities. In the meantime they tended their charges, let rip sleep, and watched each other with desperate but hidden intentness, ready for another to be stricken. However they remained, although almost stupid with fatigue at times, reasonably healthy. Time was proving that their guess had been correct. They had been somehow inoculated against the germ or virus which had struck the ship. Rip slept for twenty-four hours, ship-time, and then came into the mess cabin ravenously hungry to catch up on both food and news. And he refused to join with the prevailing pessimistic view of the future. Instead he was sure that their own immunity having been proven they had a talking point to use with the medical officers at Luna, and he was eager to alter course directly for the quarantine station. Only the combined arguments of the other three made him unwillingly agree to a short delay. And how grateful they should be for Captain Jellico's foresight they learned within the next day. Ollie was at the comm-unit, trying to pick up Solarian news reports. When the red alert flashed on throughout the ship it brought the others hurrying to the control cabin. The code squeaks were magnified as Ollie switched on the receiver full strength, to be translated as he pressed a second button. Repeat, repeat, repeat, Free Trader, Solar Queen, Terror Registry, 65724910JK, Suspected Plague Ship, Took Off from Infected Planet, Warn Off, Warn Off, Report Such Ship to Luna Station, Solar Queen from Infected Planet, To Be Warned Off and Reported. The same message was repeated three times before going off, ether. The four in the control cabin looked at each other blankly. But, Dane broke the silence, how did they know? We haven't reported in. The IZ's, Ollie had the answer ready. That IS ship must be having the same sort of trouble and reported to her company. They would include us in their report and believe that we were infected too, or it would be easy to convince the authorities that we were. I wonder, Rip's eyes narrowed slits as he leaned back against the wall. Look at the facts. The survey ship which charted Sargal, they were dirt-side there about three, four months, yet they give it a clean bill of health and put it up for trading rights auction. Then Cam bought those rights. He made at least two trips in and out before he was blasted on limbo. No infection bothered him or survey. But you've got to admit it hit us, Weeks protested. Yes, and the IZ ship was able to foresee it. Report us before we snapped out of hyper. Sounds almost as if they expected us to carry a plague, doesn't it? Shannon wanted to know. Planted? Ollie frowned at the banks of controls. But how? No IZ came on board. No Salarick either, except for the cub who showed us what they thought of Catnip. Rip shrugged. How would I know how they did? He was beginning when Dane cut in. If they didn't know about our immunity the Queen might stay in hyper and never come out. There wouldn't be anyone to set the snap out. Quite enough. But on the chance that somebody did keep on his feet and bring her home, they were ready with a cover. If no one raises a how, Sargal will be written off the charts as infected. IZ sits on her tail fins a year or so and then she promotes an investigation before the board. The survey records are trotted out, no infection recorded. So they send in a patrol probe. Everything is all right. Though it isn't the planet after all. It was that dirty old free trader. And she's out of the way. IZ gets the Coros trade all square and legal and we're no longer around to worry about. Need as a Salarickie netcast and right around our collective throats, my friends. So what do we do now? Weeks wanted to know. We keep on the old man's course. Lost in the asteroids until we can do some heavy thinking and see a way out. But if IZ gave us this prize package, some trace of its origin is still aboard. And if we can find out, why, then we have something to start from. Mura went down first, and then Carl. Nothing in common. The old problem faced Dane for the hundredth time. No, but, all he arose from his place at the Comm Unit. I'd suggest a real search of first Franks and then Carl's quarters. A regular turnout, down to the bare walls of their cabins. Are you with me? Fly boy, we're ahead of you. Rip contributed, already at the door panel. Down to the bare walls it is. End of chapter nine.