S.T.A.R. Flight Read online

  S.T.A.R. FLIGHT

  E. C. TUBB

  www.sf-gateway.com

  Enter the SF Gateway …

  In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:

  ‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’

  Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.

  The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.

  Welcome to the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy. Welcome to the most comprehensive electronic library of classic SFF titles ever assembled.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Gateway Introduction

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Website

  Also by E.C. Tubb

  Dedication

  Author Bio

  Copyright

  ONE

  Martin Preston opened his eyes and stared at a vaulted ceiling of natural stone. Through a mullioned window bright sunshine threw a pattern of lines and splotches over the high mound of the coverlet. Somewhere a bird twittered and, from below, came the harsh crunch of booted feet. Sentries, he thought and, suddenly, was wide awake.

  Stretching, he looked about the room. It was small, bare, gay only with fabrics but it was in the Schloss Steyr with all that implied. He stretched again. The bed was soft, the coverlet made of genuine eiderdown, the sun bright on archaic furnishings.

  He rose, showered in a small annex, not noticing the anachronism, shaved and combed his hair. The organizers had made things easy. He wore his own shirt, pants and shoes, slipping ornamented covers over the footwear, covering his twenty-first century clothes with a long robe with its girdle and jeweled dagger. He drew it. The blade was polished but of soft metal. He could, he supposed, do some damage with a really vicious thrust and would be able to cut butter if he had to but it was more of an ornament than a weapon. Lastly he donned the hat, a fore-and-aft affair with a feather.

  After breakfast he examined the schloss.

  Once there had been banners, trumpets, and full panoply of rank and privilege with armed and armoured men bristling like cockerels fiercely jealous of their pride. But that, thought Preston sadly, had been a long time ago. A time when the stars had been lanterns carried by angels to light the paths of souls to Heaven instead of the luminaries of habitable worlds. Now, though there were still banners and men carrying arms; tall halberdiers and those who, like himself, wore costume, it was a thing of make-believe; the pride that of those engaged in a successful business venture. Somehow it was not the same.

  Outside, with the sun warm on back and shoulders, he looked at the ancient, lichened stone of the schloss. Once that stone had given adequate protection to those within; the stone and the great portcullis which was ceremoniously lowered each evening at dusk. But that too was make-believe — a postern gave uninterrupted access to the hotel.

  Turning, he filled his lungs with the clean mountain air. It carried the scent of pine from what remained of the forest below. Looking at the scanty trees it was hard to realize that when this castle was new, later even, the forest had stretched further than the eye could see. There had been wildlife, too — wolves, boars and smaller game. Bears too, perhaps. He must remember to ask.

  “Good morning, Herr Preston.” The man was small, round, wearing the tabard of a herald. “You are enjoying your holiday?”

  Preston nodded. “What little I’ve had of it.”

  “Ah, you arrived but late yesterday — now I remember.” The herald spoke a curiously stilted Galactic. It was obviously an attempt to stay in character but, thought Preston, to have done the job properly he should have used Latin or Norman French or some other forgotten tongue. But then, he asked himself, who would have been able to understand him?

  “You slept well,” said the herald. “All who come here sleep well. The air,” he touched the tips of bent fingers to his lips before throwing them to the horizon, “is superb!”

  Preston could agree with that. He hadn’t slept so soundly or eaten breakfast with such an appetite for years.

  “I come to announce the Great Tourney,” said the little man importantly. “Late this afternoon knights will joust for the love of their ladies and the honour of their coat armour. There —”

  “What is coat armour?” interrupted Preston.

  “You see this?” The herald gestured towards his tabard. “In the old days, ordinary people, you understand, could not read. And, when in armour, the face of the man could not be seen. But all could recognize symbols. So a knight wore certain devices on his shield and surcoat to identify himself. Coat armour came to mean the badge of himself or his House. You understand?”

  Preston nodded.

  “There will be prizes,” continued the herald. “Wagers may be laid. There will be refreshments and a Great Melee. And there will be real horses,” he added. “Especially bred and flown in for the occasion. No expense has been spared to make this a unique spectacle. It is one you should not miss.”

  “I don’t intend to,” said Preston. He’d heard about these jousts. Not only real horses but real armour and weapons were used. There was real blood and sometimes real death. Watching the carnage made the girls excited, erotic and eager for romance. Tonight, with luck, he wouldn’t sleep alone.

  “You are wise,” said the herald. “Late this afternoon, remember. A ticket may be purchased from reception. It would be best not to delay.”

  He nodded and moved on, a colourful little figure working hard to maintain an illusion. Preston watched him go, then entered the castle.

  Inside were still ancient stones and stained arches, narrow, spiral stairs and wedge-shaped embrasures ending in cruciform arrow-slits. Even the cracked paving stones belonged to the distant past. But now they were covered with a layer of clear plastic, the once-ubiquitous dampness had been dried from the air, the natural gloom dissipated by strategically placed flambeaux. Colourful synthetics had replaced the tapestries which had once striven to soften the bleak walls. Burnished steel made spots of glitter against the stone.

  Preston had an interest in weapons. He studied them, feeling a trace of envy for the soldiers of ancient times. Life had been much simpler then and war a personal thing. A man had to really be a man in those days, he t
hought. It was him against his opponent and no dodging. No hiding either. No running, what with wearing blazons of identity. There had to be pride then, he told himself. Pride of position. Pride in the symbols you wore. Above all pride of self. Pride, he thought. A devalued word in the currency of today.

  The armour was like a mirror, reflecting his face in distorted lines but not so distorted that it was grotesque. It was a strong face, hard, the eyes a little too deep, the mouth a little too thin. A young face prematurely aged by strain and responsibility.

  Another joined it, smoother, softer, stamped with arrogance.

  “You are interested in old things?” The Kaltich stood so close that Preston could smell the scent he wore, an acrid, orange-like perfume, hear the slight metallic sounds as he moved the arm from which dangled his whip.

  Immediately he turned to face the alien. “Yes, sire.”

  “It is a tendency I have noted,” mused the Kaltich. He was old, the skin around his eyes creped with faint lines, corpulent beneath the wide belt he wore. He was dressed all in yellow and black. A beta, thought Preston. Probably an officer in charge of the blacks. “You people seem to be enamored with the past. Even this,” he gestured with his whip at the hotel, “is symptomatic. Why do you go to such trouble to recreate an ancient way of life?”

  “As a diversion,” said Preston. “As a novelty. It is something different,” he explained. “People like to dress in exotic clothes and share a party atmosphere. It doesn’t mean anything,” he added. “It is only for amusement.”

  “And the men who will try to kill each other this afternoon?”

  “That too,” insisted Preston.

  “An odd form of amusement. The watchers I can understand. The participants I cannot. They do it for reward?”

  “There are prizes,” admitted Preston.

  “But not for all?”

  “No, sire. Only for those who win.”

  The alien twitched his whip. Preston watched it with a cautious eye. The thing was an eighteen-inch length of woven metal, the whole covered with minute barbs carrying a particularly painful form of nerve-poison. A man could never forget having been struck with such a whip.

  “I assure you, sire,” he said, “it is so.”

  The Kaltich made no comment. He was, thought Preston, new to Earth. New and a little curious and probably more than a little suspicious. He felt a wave of anger. To hell with him! If he didn’t like the way Earth lived he could leave. They could all leave, the whole supercilious bunch. We can do without them, he told himself. They and their ways and nasty little habits. Their insistence on a respectful form of address and their quickness to whip anyone who forgets. But, he thought bleakly, were they wholly to blame?

  “I must congratulate you,” said the alien abruptly. “Your Galactic is faultless.”

  “Thank you, sire,” said Preston. “For many years now it has been taught in all our schools.”

  “That is wise,” said the Kaltich. “Such enterprise is to be encouraged. It is important that you people should be able to communicate with those who live on other worlds. It will not be long,” he added, “before you will be meeting them face to face.”

  “We live for the day, sire,” said Preston tightly. He wondered if his rage was obvious. “It seems a long time in coming.”

  “It will come.” Again the twitch of the whip. “When you are ready, it will come.”

  And so, thought Preston savagely, will Christmas, free longevity for all, pie in the sky and a mule and forty acres for every man. Promises, he told himself. I’m sick of their damned promises. They’ve fed them to us for fifty years. We’ve lapped them up since they came among us from nowhere and made our own space programme seem like the pathetic efforts of children. We should have kept on, he thought. No matter how silly those rockets seemed. At least they would have been ours. We wouldn’t have had to wait, begging, in the hope of being permitted to use their Celestial Gates. Wait and fall over backwards in trying to please them. We shouldn’t have had to throw away our pride.

  “You are attending the tourney this afternoon.” The Kaltich was abrupt. “I shall require you to explain any detail of which I may riot have knowledge. Arrange it.”

  He strode away without waiting for a reply.

  Fuming, Preston made his way to reception. He had looked forward to the tourney but now the enjoyment was gone. And so, he thought bitterly, was his vacation. Having found himself a convenient guide in Preston, the alien wouldn’t bother to find another. Preston could refuse and possibly nothing would happen if he stayed out of the alien’s way. But, in years to come, when he had need of what they offered, he would be refused. The Kaltich were never successfully opposed. Men valued life too highly for that.

  “Yes, sir?” The girl behind the counter was young, lovely, more than beautiful in her robe of surrogate samite. Thick coils of hair were looped beneath a long, pointed hat from which trailed a veil of gossamer.

  “I was talking to an alien,” said Preston hopefully. “A beta. How long is he staying?”

  “Cee Thurgood,” she said promptly. “He is the only one we have staying with us,” she added. “He is here for two weeks.”

  Preston was booked for one. “I want a ticket to the tourney,” he said dully. It was going to be a pretty grim week.

  “A ticket to the joust? Certainly, sir.” Her smile was radiant. “Your name?” He told her. Thoughtfully she pursed her lips. “I believe there was a message for you, sir. Have you received it?”

  “No.”

  “It was sent to your room. A moment, if you please.” She went to a rack, returned with an envelope. “Your pardon, sir. You were to have been paged.”

  He took the envelope, ripped it open, read the message. It had originated in New York and consisted of two worlds. Lewis Carroll.

  “Damn!” The transition was too abrupt. He had adjusted his mind to the prospect of an uninterrupted vacation, prepared to sink into the make-believe world of the castle. It had been the first chance to enjoy himself for years. He crumpled the scrap of paper in his fist.

  “Is something wrong, sir?” The girl was concerned.

  “Bad news,” he said. “I’m afraid that I’ll have to cancel my booking. Can that be arranged?”

  She was dubious. “It isn’t normal sir. I don’t know if a refund can be granted. The schloss is full and we don’t accept short bookings.”

  “Look,” he urged. “I’m not going to be eating anything for the rest of the week. Not here. Can’t I at least be refunded the value of the food?”

  “I really don’t know,” she insisted. “The decision isn’t mine to make. I’ll ask the manager, but —”

  “You do that,” he interrupted. “Later. In the meantime is there a flight to New York this morning?” He brooded as she went to find out. The message was obvious when you knew the code. Carroll, his story and, more particularly, his poem.

  “The time has come, the walrus said, to speak of many things …”

  It was Raleigh who wanted to speak, of course, not the walrus. Preston wondered what the local chief of STAR had on his mind. Something important or he would never have been sent for. The time has come!

  He dropped the message into his pocket as the girl returned.

  “There is no direct flight this morning, sir.” She paused and Preston felt a guilty satisfaction. If he couldn’t get away then it wouldn’t be his fault. “However, there is an ICPM leaving Salzburg for New York within the hour. If you hurry you will just be able to catch the local flight to the field. Shall I book you a place?”

  “Do that,” said Preston. And ran upstairs to change.

  TWO

  There was trouble in the city. Preston sat glowering as the cab made yet another detour. He was tense, irritable, head and body aching from the punishing thrust of the rocket which had flung him six thousand miles in distance and six hours backwards in solar time. Intercontinental passenger missiles were all right, he thought, as long as you didn’t
have to ride in them. It was an experience he didn’t want to repeat. And, after the schloss, New York smelt like a sewer. Even at five in the morning it stank. The city, he thought, was rapidly becoming nothing more than a festering abscess. Someone should lance it and soon.

  He grunted with impatience as the cab braked to a halt. Leaning forward, he yelled through the partition. “What’s it this time?”

  “A roadblock.” The driver was phlegmatic. You couldn’t be anything else if you drove in the city and hoped to remain sane. “Relax, buddy. It can’t hold us up forever.”

  Preston slumped back in his seat.

  “You know,” said the driver, “that’s the trouble with the world. Too many guys in a hurry. And for what? To get somewhere fast. And what do they do when they get there? They sit down and beef about how long it took them. Now, what I say is if they didn’t take time out to gripe they wouldn’t have to be in such a hurry. Like the man said; what’s the point of saving a coupla minutes if you don’t know what you’re going to do with them?”

  Preston made noises, looking through the window at a red glow in the sky.

  “Fire,” said the driver. “All the time now we get fires. Like I was reading once, someone must be flame-happy. A piro … paro …”

  “Pyromaniac,” said Preston.

  “That’s the word. Some guy just loves the sight of a good fire. A frustrated fireman, maybe? What do you think, bud?”

  “How long do you think we’re going to be stuck here?”

  “So who cares? An hour, a day, what’s the difference? Listen,” said the cab driver. “You got all the time in the world. We both have. You know all that three score and ten crap? Well, that’s just for the birds. We got plenty of time. So why not sit back and enjoy yourself? You want music?” He thumbed the button of a radio. “You got music. You want something to eat? That I can’t give you. You want to stop feeling hungry? Just think of all those kids starving in the east. Anything else?”