S.T.A.R. Flight Page 6

  “Buy things. They own almost all of New York. They own airlines, farms, factories, power plants. You name it they’ve got it. And they buy food,” she said. “Fantastic amounts of food. And guns. And ammunition.”

  “Why? Do you think they want to start a war?”

  “I don’t know.” She threw away the cigarlet. “I just state the facts. STAR has been collecting data and we don’t like what we’ve found. In another twenty years the Kaltich will practically own the planet. In another fifty we’ll all be working for the aliens. Then what?”

  “We won’t let them get away with it,” he said. “We daren’t.”

  “Who is ‘we’?” she demanded. “You? Me? The guy next door? What the hell can we do about it? Nothing,” she said, answering herself. “The governments are for the aliens and they’ll keep us in line. It’s happened before,” she said. “The old North American Indians were robbed blind, dispossessed of their land, herded into reservations. I guess they thought it could never happen to them either. But it did. You know,” she said, looking at him, “the more I think about it the more it scares me. We’ve been invaded and don’t know it. We’ve been taken over without a struggle. Almost without a struggle. Thank God for STAR.”

  “Yes,” he said flatly. “I expect Lassiter felt like that.”

  “He was unlucky,” she said. “But let’s face it. What is one man’s life in a war to regain a planet?”

  “That depends on whose life you’re talking about.” Preston crushed out the butt of his cigarlet and threw it at the inflated duck. The filter made a popping sound as it hit the rubber. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed the swim and everything else, but I can do without the build-up. Why don’t you just tell me about the plan?”

  She looked at him, moving so as to let gravity claim her breasts, smiling at the involuntary motion of his eyes. “Now?”

  In the pool the duck bobbed, watching.

  “Beta,” said Preston. “Gamma. Delta. Gamma-delta. Delta-alpha.”

  “Look again.” Hilda Thorenson pressed the remote control and the slide jumped back onto the screen.

  “Delta-alpha-null,” he said. “I hadn’t noticed the black on the badge.”

  “Try this one.” A Kaltich, dressed all in black, showed on the screen.

  “Null.”

  “Now this.”

  “Null-alpha,” he said. The man was all in black but this time wore a red flash. A third null appeared, this time with a flash of yellow and blue. “Null-beta-delta.”

  “And this?”

  “Delta-null.”

  “Delta-null-epsilon,” she corrected. “You missed the white at the bottom of the flash. Now this … and this … and this …”

  It went on for another hour. Finally Hilda Thorenson pressed the switch and the screen went blank. She wore a figure-hugging robe of scarlet velvet; the thick tresses of her golden hair hung loose about her shoulders. In the dimness of the theatre her skin shone with a limpid translucence. “That’s enough,” she said. “If you don’t know about their badges of rank by now you never will.”

  Like coat armour, he thought, remembering the schloss. But no, these badges weren’t to identify the wearer in a personal sense.

  “To sum up,” she said briskly, “as far as we know all the Kaltich are divided into six classes; red, yellow, green, blue, white and black. A member of one class shows his superiority over other members of the same class by wearing a badge. A beta with a red flash is of higher rank than a beta with a green. A beta with no badge is lower than both and so on. Whites, the epsilons, seem to be of the lowest civilian rank. Nulls, the blacks, are the military or the law-enforcement body. What,” she demanded, “does this tell you?”

  “A caste system,” he said. “Something like the Hindus.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Such a system is usually unadaptable. A member of one class cannot, or will not, perform the duties of another.”

  “And?”

  “It is brittle,” he said slowly, thinking. “Inflexible.”

  “It is also concerned, to a remarkable degree, with symbols of status and position. Think of the army,” she suggested. “Any army. There you have an almost exact analogy. Privates, noncommissioned officers, officers … a multiple layer of various degrees of command. Now, if a private were to adopt the uniform of an officer — who would expose the impersonation? The men?”

  “I doubt it. They wouldn’t risk being wrong.”

  “Exactly. Their own system works to protect the impersonator.” Her eyes shone in the shadowed dimness. “That,” she said quietly, “is the plan.”

  Before he could answer she operated the remote control and the screen blazed with colour. This time it was a movie. A family of Kaltich dressed all in blue were shown wandering down a street.

  “Look at them,” she ordered. “A man, a woman, two children. An ordinary family. Tourists.”

  “So?”

  “We’re getting a lot more of them,” she said. “Groups like this one, family groups, travelling, looking around, staying at local hotels. The Kaltich, it seems, have lifted some form of restriction. Those people are vacationing.” The movie blurred, slowed to show a couple of men dressed in green. “Gamma out sightseeing. They eat, drink and act like ordinary people. Exactly like ordinary people. If we took one and dressed him in our clothing you wouldn’t be able to tell him from a native.”

  “So you imagine that, if one of us should dress like one of them, the converse would apply?” Preston frowned, thinking about it. “Would it be as simple as that? Surely they must have some form of identification?”

  “They probably have,” she agreed. “But I’m not just talking about dressing up like one of the Kaltich. It goes deeper than that. Listen,” she said. “You were sent for because of three things: you speak perfect Galactic, you are loyal to STAR — and you look almost exactly like a delta we’ve got on ice. That’s right,” she said. “I told you they acted just as if they were human. This one was lured away from his friends. He was on vacation and we made sure that he enjoyed it. We’ve got some attractive girls working for STAR,” she added. “He fell for one like a ton of brick.”

  “And?”

  “She took him to a hotel. He was doped and we went over him with a fine-tooth comb. Controlled hypnosis — we dragged out all we could find. You’re going to assimilate all we learned. You’ve got two days. In that time you’re going to stop being human and become a Kaltich.”

  He took out his cigarlets, lit one for himself, another for the woman. Smoke drifted before the glowing screen.

  “The Gate,” he said. “Maybe they have a encephalogram-check, something like that. The Kaltich aren’t fools. In the past fifty years others must have tried this.”

  “Maybe they have, we don’t know. STAR hasn’t.” She drew smoke into her lungs, blew it out in a spreading cloud. “You’ve got a good point,” she admitted, “but we’ve covered it. This delta comes from the Washington Gate. We lured him to New York and made sure that his friends knew about it. Now suppose we had a vicious riot. One bad enough to shatter the ring of perimeter guards. And assume that in the middle of all the fuss and excitement a group of Kaltich should come running towards the Gate. They would be chased, apparently in danger of their lives. Would the Gate custodian be so insistent on identification then? And, even if they were, could they check with Washington before letting you pass into safety?”

  “Maybe not,” he admitted, and then, “so this is the wonderful plan.”

  “It’ll work,” she said. “Do you think STAR’s been idle all this time? Those fires and demonstrations aren’t spontaneous. STAR is behind most of the zanies. And this is our big chance. The doubling of the longevity charge,” she explained. “There have been demonstrations each night since then. When we’re ready there’ll be a big one. In the chaos you’ll get your chance to walk into the Gate. You won’t be alone. You’ll be with others. If you’re smart you’ll let them carry you.”
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  “So I get into the Gate,” he said. “What then?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s up to you. We can’t do more than give you your chance.”

  “And the man I’m to impersonate?”

  “Forget him,” she said. “He won’t bother you. This is war, remember? What is one life against the destiny of the world?”

  On the screen the aliens still walked and talked and acted like ordinary humans. He reached out, took the switch from her hand and pressed it. In the following dimness he touched her knee, slid his hand along her thigh. “You’re beautiful,” he said in English. “So very beautiful.”

  “Fool!” She had muscles and used them. The impact of her hand numbed the side of his face. “Never use other than Galactic! Never!”

  He rubbed his cheek, watching her.

  “But thank you” she said softly. “Thank you very much.”

  She wore nothing beneath the robe.

  SEVEN

  All Celestial Gates followed the same pattern; a central dome flanked by long, low structures a little like flattened aircraft hangars, each standing in the centre of an expanse of open ground. Only the extent of the ground varied — the Gate in Moscow sat in ten acres, in London a quarter. The New York Gate was even more modest and Preston was glad of it.

  He ran towards the building with four others all wearing the vivid blue of the deltas. Like clowns, he thought with a strange detachment, or men in fancy dress — but, he reminded himself, this is no party you’re going to. This is serious. He thought of Lassiter and his severed hands. What, he wondered, would happen to him should his disguise be penetrated?

  Unconsciously he slowed, falling back from the others towards the crowd following close behind. The perimeter guards were lost in the organized chaos. A strategic fire blazed to one side, a leaping column of dancing colours. Overhead helicopters whirled their belly-floods showering swathes of light. The voice of the mob was a hungry roar.

  STAR, thought Preston, had done a good job. Good for him, if for no one else. Certainly not good for the old people who had been attracted to the Gate by lying propaganda, nor for those who must have been injured or killed. Did it always take the magic of blood, he wondered, to ensure the success of a plan?

  He stumbled and almost fell. The delta just ahead of him turned, his face ashen. “Keep up, man,” he rapped. “Those people are animals.”

  The man wore a flash of red which made him Preston’s superior. He was glad of it. His own badge of yellow put him above the other three but the other man would give the orders. In a situation like this it was always easier to follow than to lead.

  He stumbled again as they reached the building. The side doors were sealed, only the central opening with its ramp and unloading bays gave access to the Gate. A cluster of men in white, epsilons, worked stolidly at a pile of crates. Before them stood a null. He carried a squat-barrelled weapon and made an urgent gesture.

  “This way, sirs. Hurry!”

  Other nulls, similarly armed, appeared behind the first. Deploying, they dropped to one knee and aimed their weapons. From the rear of the crowd a magnesium flare climbed into the sky to hang a man-made star.

  “Hold your fire!” The delta-alpha stared at the crowd. The front ranks were slowing, veering to either side, turning back so as to avoid the menace of the nulls.

  “Shoot them!” One of the others, a delta-gamma, glared at the milling mass outside the opening. “They would have killed us,” he said. “Torn us to pieces. Kill them like the animals they are!”

  “Hold your tongue, Egart!”

  “Yes, sir, but —”

  “They’re going,” said the delta-alpha. And then, to the null, “Is everyone inside?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Seal the Gate.” A slab of reinforced concrete fell from the roof and sealed the opening. “All right,” said the officer. “Report for interrogation.”

  Preston followed the others calmly. His brain seemed to be alight with odd, seemingly unrelated scraps of information. Those epsilons, for example. They were loading crates onto a conveyor belt. The belt would carry them through the Gate but, before they reached it, they would pass through an electronic death trap which would take care of any bug, insect, vermin or unwanted stranger. There would be no risk of tarantulas among the bananas, no snakes among the fruit. No insidious germ. And no men. Nothing living could resist the barrier.

  Write off one method of crashing the Gates.

  Preston kept moving, following the rest, knowing where they were going and gaining confidence from the knowledge. Gamma Eldon was at his desk as they entered his office. He leaned back, looking at the first man. “Well?”

  “We were on vacation, sir. There was trouble, a riot of some kind, and we were advised to stay in our hotel.”

  “Advised? By whom?”

  “UNO men, sir,” he said, and Preston felt a perverse satisfaction. The men had been operatives of STAR but UNO would get the credit — as they would have got the blame.

  “I see. Continue.”

  “After a while we were advised to make a run for the Gate. We did so.” He turned and gestured to Preston. “He joined us on the way.”

  Eldon nodded. “Very good. Go and report in.” He lifted a hand as Preston made to follow the others. “Not you. Name?”

  “Leon Tonoch, sir. I’m from the Washington Gate,” he said quickly. “My details will not be on record here.”

  “Why did you return to this Gate?”

  “I’ve been very foolish, sir,” said Preston. He produced identifying papers from his pocket. The whip dangling from his wrist made a tapping sound on the edge of the desk as he laid them before the gamma. “As you see, I was on vacation. I parted from the rest of my party. There was a girl,” he explained. “I found her attractive. We travelled to New York together. I joined the others because I thought it best.”

  The truth, he thought, the first rule of any successful agent. Never lie if it can be avoided. But, he told himself, you don’t have to tell all of the truth. Would the real Tonach? The thought was dangerous. He was Tonach. His life depended on him remembering that.

  Eldon looked at the papers and picked up a phone. It was almost exactly like any Earth instrument. “Get me the Washington Gate,” he said, and then to Preston. “Stand over there. On that black circle. Do not move.” He spoke into the phone. “Keyman? Eldon here. Do you have a Leon Tonach, delta-beta attached to you? Yes, I’ll wait.” Idly he examined the papers Preston had given him. “Yes. That’s right,” he said into the phone. “Yes. Very good, Gamma Keyman. I’ll attend to it immediately.”

  He replaced the handset and stared at Preston. “You,” he said curtly, “are under arrest.”

  The punishment was seven lashes of a major whip. Preston took them on his naked back, ceremoniously, watched by every delta attached to the New York Gate. A null delivered the punishment. He didn’t need to use much force. The barbs were sharp; the nerve-poison did the rest.

  Preston lost consciousness at the second lash. He lost it again when they cut him down. He woke and screamed his throat raw before kindly blackness engulfed him for a third time. It didn’t last. He was dimly conscious of movement but all else was hidden by a red veil of pain. He became aware that he was in a cell eight feet square with a barred door, a single light, a cot and nothing else. The cot was of canvas stretched taut over a metal frame. Whimpering, he rolled over onto his face, blood running from bitten lips. The nails of his fingers dug crescent wounds into his palms.

  From time to time a null brought water, watching incuriously as he fumbled it into his mouth. Finally he was able to speak.

  “Where am I?”

  “Washington Gate, sir.”

  The use of a title was informative and so was his location. A race who moved between the stars would think nothing of transferring him to another city. The null had been respectful. Perhaps there was yet hope.

  Food came with the water and, after a long tim
e, a clean uniform. Then, when the pain had eased, the door swung open and he was free. Free of the cell if nothing else.

  “The punishment was severe but you deserved it.” Gamma Keyman looked thoughtfully at Preston as he stood in his office. It was a twin to that used by Eldon. Even the black circle on the floor was in the same position. Preston stood on it knowing that a touch on a button and he would be dead. The Kaltich took no chances. “Do you agree that the punishment was merited?”

  “Yes, sir.” To have argued would have been useless. Had Hilda Thorenson known what he was getting into? She tapped Tonach’s mind, thought Preston. Surely she must have known. Or perhaps she hadn’t bothered to find out. Or, he thought, perhaps she hadn’t told him for obvious reasons. No sane man would willingly suffer such agony.

  “Aside from the fact that you deliberately left your party, that you fraternized with a local woman and that you travelled beyond your permitted area, you chose to return to the New York Gate. Four violations, three serious, one both unnecessary and undesirable.” Gamma Keyman leaned back in his chair. “It did not please me to have the transgressions of one of my subordinates known to others.”

  “My apologies, sir,” said Preston humbly. He was beginning to understand. The Kaltich were human in their rivalries. “I lost my head,” he confessed. “I didn’t think of what I was doing. I deeply regret any inconvenience I may have caused. My punishment was more than just.” His voice was husky, strained from his recent ordeal.

  Mollified, the gamma allowed himself to relax. “All right, Tonach. I understand. These local women …” He made an expressive gesture, “But rules are not made to be broken.”

  “I realise that, sir.”

  “You seem to have the correct attitude and that is to your credit,” mused Keyman. “I don’t think this need go any further.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.” Pile it on, thought Preston savagely. Be humble, eat dirt, but keep him happy.

  “I’m returning you to duty,” the gamma decided. “Your back will be sore for a while, but that can’t be helped. You will also have to work an extra turn to make up for the time you were incommoded. I imagine,” he said dryly, “that it seemed a long ten days.”