Fiction complete, p.57
Fiction Complete, page 57
“You might take a look at that ventilator,” suggested the astrogator; “something’s loose and clanking in there.”
“Loose grill,” Laril reported presently. “They tell me not to enter the cargo compartment. Why?”
The pilot flicked him a bored stare, but the Earthman shrugged. “Some whim of the captain’s, I suppose. Not that we carry anything very precious, as far as I know.”
Laril saw by the name-tag on the cap that the Earthman was called Rowley. He suspected from its expression that Rowley had little admiration for the captain.
He promised to repair the air vent later, and withdrew.
Walking slowly back toward the cargo compartment, he examined the side passages. His particular set of deck plans emphasized the breathing system of the ship, and he used them to orient himself.
Sliding open a door on a side-passage, he stepped into a cubicle used to store instruments and small tool parts. In a few moments, he had located the grill over the main air-duct passing this compartment, unfastened it, and pulled himself into the opening. He discovered that he was not too tight a fit, and could pull himself along with his tentacles.
“Lucky not to be all joints, like a Solarian,” he murmured. “Knowing Procyonites, I think it as well to see if they smuggle something—drugs, even robotin, for instance.”
He passed several small, secondary ducts leading to various compartments. When he reached a group of four vents, he checked his deck plans. Yes, the cargo compartment was here.
He saw that one of the openings had been welded shut. Illegal, he thought, but maybe that consignment of Martian wine they talk about is really expensive.
The second section he discovered to be crammed with soft, fantastically-thick furs; the third he was able to enter by removing a grill. He found a shipment of archeological specimens ranging from metal implements to what might have been bones. Most were packed in light containers of transparent plastic. He moved to the fourth compartment.
This could take time! he thought, seeing the contents.
These consisted of a number of minor consignments which were not packed uniformly. He delved into his reflective mind as he crawled between the securing nets, trying to remember the characteristics of robotin. Light, bulky powder, probably.
There could be little or none here, he decided after hefting a few bundles. He certainly did not feel like burrowing to the center of each netful to make sure.
SOME INSTINCT impelled Laril to return to the third section. “Not much use in this,” he told himself, edging between the nets of plastic bags and boxes. “Unless—could there be something mixed in that plastic?”
Impatiently, he dismissed the idea and glanced with a side-eye at a collection of small, ugly statuettes. He started to move on, but something about these objects held him against his will. No doubt, they represented some form of life, but which, Laril was not sure. The nearest parallel he could recall was a hideous temple image he had seen once on a planet of Altair. “Well, they can’t be made of robotin,” he decided.
He tore his attention from the statuettes, which were fascinating despite—or perhaps because of—their gruesome distortions. He had somehow lost interest in further search. “Stupid, anyway!” he droned aloud. “I’d better get back.”
Finally, he reached the opening by which he had originally entered the ventilation system, and pushed his way out into the instrument compartment. He picked up the grill and deliberately fastened it in place, ignoring the Procyonite who stood watching suspiciously.
When the grill was secure, Laril took out his pocket-recorder, glanced at one of his meters, and dictated a few numbers. The Procyonite stood quietly on its four lower legs, occasionally twitching an eyestalk or shivering with the drug-induced nervousness that made all its kind seem perpetually chilled. Laril completed his little act.
“I am Tseel,” the watcher introduced itself in the high, twittering speech of Procyon’s planets. “Captain will see you now.”
“For what?” inquired the Capellan.
“Captain,” insisted the other, fluttering its atrophied forelimbs in supposedly enlightening gestures. “Now. You and he. See. Talk.”
“I got your first story,” Laril buzzed disgustedly.
He could not quite believe that these crawlers were as stupid as they often acted. This one, especially, seemed none too bright for space work, he decided as he followed it toward the control compartment.
CHAPTER II
WHEN THEY arrived, Tseel engaged in a whistling exchange with the Procyonite captain. The same pair were still on duty as astrogator and pilot.
From the Solarian’s expression, Laril deduced that, although Rowley disliked Procyonites and even found their speech unpleasant, the astrogator was listening intently. It could do this undetected, while seeming to scan papers on its desk; for its external auditory organs—flat, crinkled appendages clinging to the sides of the head—were nearly immobile.
The captain turned on Laril. “You inspect air ducts? Where you go?” Laril gave a carefully-censored account of his inspection, stating that the air was at the best pressure and composition, considering economy and the varied requirements of the crew. The captain wanted to check the stored instruments; it called the crewman in charge of the cubicle, the Solarian Bulloch, and led the way to the spot.
Tseel pointed out the grill Laril had removed. The conversation was squeaked back and forth too rapidly for Laril to catch more than that the captain wished the air duct examined. Bulloch, after loosening and removing the grill, helped Tseel to climb into the opening.
As they waited, Laril was reminded of the robotin he had expected to discover in the cargo. Was it imagination, or did his antennae sense the presence of the drug now? He let his uppermost tendrils undulate gently and inoffensively. Yes, by the Five Spirits! The stimulus came from the direction of the captain! Like half of the inhabitants of the Procyon planets, it must be an addict. Still, that hardly proved that a large quantity of the drug was being smuggled.
Of course, Laril reflected, they might be trying to slip by with a small batch. Earthmen were notoriously touchy about the transportation of narcotics in their system, which Laril considered officious. After all, Earthmen were generally less susceptible to robotin than most people; was not its use for those other beings to choose or reject? Their attitude, he felt, was just another aspect of that arrogance which led them to call themselves “Earthmen” instead of “Solarians”, as would be proper.
Tseel reappeared in the opening and climbed head-first down to the deck. It answered the captain’s questions just slowly enough for Laril to grasp that marks of his little trip had been traced to the cargo compartments. The captain turned to him. “So you are agent of Solarian police!”
Laril wondered at his own reaction; his muscles had tensed involuntarily. Discreetly lowering the eye away from his questioner, he noted that the branching extremities of his tentacles had clenched into knots.
Why should that be? he asked himself.
“An agent of what?” he demanded, relaxing deliberately.
“Have ever been on Sol III?”
“I think so,” said Laril, trying to remember when.
“And never heard of their Narcotics Bureau?”
Laril searched his memory and denied frankly that he had. “What is it?” he asked, feeling vaguely that he should know.
The captain appeared agitated. The wrinkled, bluish-gray skin of the round head darkened. The eyestalks twisted wildly, and small muscles twisted and shivered along its flanks.
“How dumb can they come?” demanded the Earthman, Bulloch. “The reason we wanna know if—”
The captain interrupted with a shrill squawk of reproof. Laril wondered if he might not have heard the name after all. It had an elusive ring of familiarity. Somethings wrong, he thought. I can’t seem to think clearly!
He awoke to the fact that the two Procyonites and the Earthman were regarding him intently. His antennae warned even more urgently of the presence of robotin.
LARIL tried to leap aside as the captain made a sudden lunge at him. With one eye, he saw that the other had produced a tiny hypodermic needle from the pouch it wore on a narrow belt. Laril lashed at it with his nearest tentacle.
The captain whistled In anger and retired out of reach; the other two threw themselves at the Capellan.
He tripped the Earthman by snapping two tentacles around the thick legs, and pushed Tseel off with another. The latter reared high, pawing for a hold with stubby limbs. Laril braced himself on three legs and kicked the Procyonite heartily in the belly.
As Tseel thudded against the opposite bulkhead, Laril shoved the captain off-balance toward the doorway. He met Bulloch’s new charge with a kick at the thick part of the body, causing the blunt, crowded features to contort with pain.
Then one of the clumsy, jointed upper limbs swept aside his tentacle and the other struck at him. The surprising force of the blow carried Laril back toward the exit. He tried to wind tentacles about the Solarian’s limbs. With his rear eye, he saw the captain run in, low to the deck on all paws. Laril lifted one foot to kick, but the Earthman’s thrashing about spoiled his aim. He felt a sharp sting in the leg . . .
Laril relaxed helplessly. Bulloch broke free, and seemed to stand there peering at him out of malignant little eyes for an interminable time.
The Capellan’s conscious will retreated within his reflective mind. He succeeded in his effort to view the scene with detachment, yet there was a paradox. Visible action was impossibly slow. Then, abruptly, the rate of motion changed.
Robotin effect, he thought, remembering descriptions.
His trouble was that he observed through a sensory system affected by the drug, no matter how calmly his inner mind analyzed the information reaching it. That same inner ability, however, gave him an unsuspected advantage, should he be able to employ it. He felt perfectly capable of concentrating, although his sense of time was confused and erratic. He wondered to what extent the robotin might destroy volition. He had heard that with other beings it muffled all willpower.
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In a few minutes—or perhaps hours—he learned.
The captain and Bulloch appeared to the drugged Capellan to scurry about with frenzied speed, replacing instruments in their proper places and reviving Tseel. Laril suffered an infinite period of anxiety when the discomforted Procyonite hovered before him, glaring with pop-eyed resentment into the Capellan’s front eye. “Now,” said the captain, pushing Tseel aside, “we question!”
The words dragged out impossibly, although the voice remained shrill. Laril’s sense of speed had wavered.
Automatically, he answered the questions. He congratulated himself as his reflective mind withdrew to consider the replies detachedly. Yes, he told them, it was probably true he had never heard of the Narcotics Bureau of Earth. Probably, his inner self noted. He felt he had been on Earth, but had he?
This was perfect, he thought. Sure enough, they could not reach his inner mind with the drug, just as foreseen. They would get nothing out of him.
As foreseen? By whom? What was there to get out of him? Why could he not remember, either actively or reflectively?
The captain bleated that he must remember Earth.
No, honestly, he could not remember. Now? He was going to Sol III because he was tired of Mars. Yes, he had always been an air-and-safety tech, since first going into space. No, nothing else. Yes, he was sure.
Eventually, his attention began to waver. There were more questions, more automatically truthful answers; but he sensed a growing dissatisfaction among his questioners as they failed to connect him with Earth. He took obscure pleasure in that fact, even as he noticed that his physical senses were becoming blurred. He could no longer be sure just what happened outside his private reflections, out he was dimly aware of being carried back to his own compartment.
“False alarm,” he heard the captain shrilling as they heaved him into his sleeping net. “Now must watch for another.”
LARIL lay there, deeply withdrawn into his own ego, but unable to ponder the situation because his system was neither under his control nor naturally asleep. Before regaining normal consciousness, however, he must have slept; for he awoke alert. So alert that there must have been a cause.
Eyes still closed, Laril sought for the origin of the disturbance. He felt that considerable time had passed. There was no sound except for footsteps in the corridor. He swept his compartment with a swift glance; it was in order.
The padding steps halted at his doorway. Through the opening probed the eyestalk of a Procyonite. Laril shut all his eyes, thinking, I must guard against discovery; that is why I awoke!
The other being crept cautiously inside, almost flowing along the deck. Laril would never have heard it, except for the most sensitive auditory nerves in his antennae. Eyes shut, he smelled caution and distinguished stealthy movements.
Satisfied that Laril still slept, the visitor began to search the compartment. The Capellan carefully opened his rear eye and watched the reflection in the shiny metal of the fixture from which hung his net. It was Tseel.
The elongated creature shivered nervously as it examined Laril’s equipment, simultaneously handling instruments and probing into chests with various paws. Laril interpreted its jerky motions as evidence of frustration.
The Procyonite next turned to Laril himself. Without touching the sleeping net, it stared closely at him. Laril was almost caught peeping when the other dropped to all paws to creep under the net. He sneaked open another eye and saw Tseel scanning and tapping the bulkhead.
Disappointed, the Procyonite reared up beside the net, thoughtfully drumming upon the blue-gray, wrinkled skin of its belly with several paws. Laril sensed deep discouragement as Tseel finally padded out of the compartment.
As soon as he was alone, he slipped from the net. He saw that each of his possessions had been neatly replaced. “Now,” he asked himself, “what could I have that is more valuable or more dangerous than I know?”
He could think of nothing. On the other hand, what could the Procyonites have to make them so jittery? Perhaps he should have found a way to examine the wine cargo.
Or the miscellaneous baggage, he thought, but what is the use? For all I can tell, they may just be haunted by the spirits of those ugly little statues, or some such thing!
Realizing that he was hungry, he went out to the supply-compartment in search of food. It was closed. As Laril was debating whether anything he might possibly find would be worth forcing the door, Tseel ambled up from somewhere forward. “You have missed the eating period?” it inquired politely.
“Somehow or other—yes,” replied Laril with heavy irony.
He considered how much he would enjoy plucking the stubby limbs from the other’s body, one by one.
“Must get you food,” said Tseel; “was partly our fault.”
It whistled shrilly. After a moment, Bulloch arrived. At Tseel’s order, it unlocked the door and entered.
I shall think of something pleasant for you, also, Laril thought. I would like to know where you sleep l
In the face of Tseel’s affability, Laril saw no reason to reveal his grudge. “You understand,” the other twittered, “was all mistake. Are now sure you know nothing. Robotin never, never fails.”
Laril accepted without comment the synthetic rations produced from the supply room by Bulloch, and retired dourly.
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DURING the next several days, Laril could detect no signs of further tampering with his belongings. Of this he made sure by leaving certain small devices in operation whenever he was away. Apparently, he was indeed considered “safe.”
In routine fashion, he continued his rounds, testing less for structural strains, now, than for proper functioning of the air system. He did not pry again into the cargo compartments; having been there, he would remember all that he had seen. It was now merely a matter of interpreting his data.
What he did in his spare time would have disturbed his intended victims had they known. A varied, if compact, stock of chemicals was normally supplied for Laril’s job. Like any good tech, he carried with him a number of extra substances and gadgets picked up on many planets. With certain oi these materials, he now manufactured a quantity of bluish gas and sealed it under pressure into several small containers.
Next, he attached to the valves of these some radio-controlled switches pilfered from Bulloch’s stock, and then found opportunities to conceal them where he hoped they would do the most harm. One went into the air vent above Tseel’s sleeping net. Another was hidden among the spare parts in Bulloch’s compartment.
Unable to get into the captain’s quarters, Laril slipped the third little can into the duct ventilating the control compartment. This he did under guise of repairing the loose grill of which Rowley had complained. “There will be no more trouble with that, he lied to the astrogator as he replaced the grill.
He was well satisfied that, for once, a Procyonite had relieved the chief pilot. He suspected that the latter might have spotted the forgotten “tool” left in the vent.
Laril felt a certain grudging admiration for the ugly Centaurian. At least, it was not of a race that ran in packs. A member of a limited population which had to fight a worn-out planet for a living, Laril approved of self-confidence. An Earthman had once told him it could forgive any fault, at least partly, if the individual showed courage. A Capellan felt the same about self-sufficient independence.
“My relief,” Rowley interrupted Laril’s thoughts.
HE YIELDED his place to another Solarian and left the compartment with Laril. They walked aft to the tech’s quarters.
