Collected short fiction, p.338
Collected Short Fiction, page 338
“Did you pick up a visi-wave?” he asked hastily. “Is triangulation possible on the source?”
And back across that void, that light took many hours to bridge, the voice of the operator came instantly, consternation not hidden by its humming distortion:
“We heard the Basilisk, commander. But triangulation is impossible—because the message was transmitted from our own station! We haven’t yet discovered how our transmitter circuits picked it up. But guard yourself, Commander Kalam! You got the threat that you will be next?”
“I did,” Jay Kalam said. “If I am taken, Hal Samdu will take my place. The legion will carry on against the Basilisk. That criminal must be destroyed!”
HE DIALED OFF, called Hal Samdu on the Bellatrix, and told that veteran spaceman of the Basilisk’s last message.
“Draw it beside the Inflexible, Hal.” he said, “and come aboard. I want to discuss these last developments with you. And you will take command, if I become the hundredth man.”
“Aye, Jay.” The rumble of Hal Samdu came thinned and furred through the communicator. “But what of Giles? Have you heard anything?”
“Not yet.” Jay Kalam told him.
“I’m afraid for Giles, Jay.” The deep voice seemed hoarse with alarm. “After all, he’s an old man now, growing very feeble. And this Derron is powerful and desperate. I hoped that Giles would be clever enough. But Derron may have suspected—it’s a whole day, now, since we have heard.”
But Jay Kalam had hardly dropped the communicator before the sharp, insistent note of the emergency signal bade him take it up again. He touched the dial, and put the little black disk to his ear.
“Jay! Do you hear me, Jay?” It was the long-awaited voice of Giles Habibula, thinned, muffled with the hum of the instrument, and tense, the commander realized, with some desperate anxiety.
“I do, Giles.” he said into the little disk. “What is it?”
“Turn back. Jay,” came the faint, wheezing voice. “For life’s sake, turn your fleet back to the mortal System! Call off your mortal bloodhounds of space, and leave us be!”
“Turn back?” cried Jay Kalam. “Why?”
“Ah, Jay. there’s been a mortal error. This is not the Basilisk I’ve caught. My companion is but an honest, luckless man. And your chase is but a fearful waste of time. Jay. It is drawing you far out into space, and leaving the blessed System defenseless.
“In Earth’s name, Jay, I beg you to turn back!”
“Giles?” demanded the ragged voice of the commander. “The Basilisk is torturing you—making you speak? If he is—”
A dead click told him that the other instrument had been dialed off. He was fumbling the little disk, about to dial Giles Habibula’s call again, when the soft, musical tones of the ship’s call rang from it and he heard an orderly’s excited voice:
“We’ve got it, commander! Dead ahead, toward the object in Draco. A tiny ship. That’s why it took so long to spot. It registers just forty tons—must be smaller than the life tubes of the Inflexible! But it has power enough. It seems to be holding its lead. We have the range, commander. What is your order?”
Jay Kalam’s hand tensed on the communicator. And a cold wind seemed to blow past him, blowing away the walls of the ship, and blowing away the years. He saw Giles Habibula, a stout little man, strutting, grinning, as he had been when they were privates together in the legion. He knew that Giles Habibula was on the ship ahead. But the rushing of that wind became the husking whisper of the Basilisk, jeering at him. No man, not even Giles Habibula, could be weighed against the duty of the legion and the safety of the System.
“Do you hear me, commander?” the orderly’s voice was insisting. “What is your order?”
Jay Kalam slowly closed his eyes, and opened them again. His lean hand made a slow salute. Low and forced, his voice said:
“Fire at once with the vortex gun. Destroy the vessel ahead.”
Samdu’s cruiser, the long, fleet Bellatrix, was slipping in beside the mighty flagship, when the first vortex was fired. Watching through the ports of an air lock, lie saw the great white sun of spinning atomic doom rush out ahead, flaming ever brighter as its etheric forces drew in and annihilated all cosmic matter in its path.
“Well, Mr. Derron,” the cragged, gigantic admiral-general muttered with a grim satisfaction, “or Mr. Basilisk—now let’s see you get away!”
Hard-driven geodynes were pushing the two colossal ships through space—or, more accurately, around it—at effective speeds far beyond the velocity of light. But they touched so gently that their crews could feel no shock. Air valves were sealed for a moment together. And Hal Samdu stalked impatiently aboard the great flagship.
“Quick!” he boomed to the officers who received him. “Take me to Commander Kalam at once.”
But, when swift elevators and moving catwalks had brought them to the hidden door behind the chart room, the commander of the legion failed to answer their signal at his door. A call by visi-wave—even the emergency signal, G-39—failed to elicit any response.
The alarmed second officer came to unlock the armored door. Hal Samdu stalked ahead into the soft-lit, luxurious apartments of Jay Kalam. Silence met him, and emptiness. The commander of the legion was gone.
“Poor old Jay,” rumbled Hal Samdu. “The hundredth man!”
He turned abruptly upon the officers about him.
“Derron’s ship is still in range ahead? Then fire again with the vortex gun. And keep on firing till you get it.”
XV.
FACING Giles Habibula in the narrow corridor within the valve of the Phantom Atom, Chan Derron caught his breath. Still he was weaponless—and the black, tiny hole in the tip of the old man’s level cane looked at him like a deadly eye.
“Habibula?” his startled voice echoed. “Not the great Giles Habibula?”
Chan was weaponless—but the heavy little pack of the geopellor was still strapped to his shoulders, its control spindle still gripped in his hand. It could make a living bullet of his body. His hand began to close.
“Wait, lad!”
The old man lowered the menacing cane. “ ’Tis fishy eyes rolled fearfully. His wheezing voice was hoarse with a desperate appeal.
“For life’s sake, lad, forget your mortal tricks! There’s no need for you to crush old Giles Habibula to a bloody pulp with your blessed geopeller. For he’s but a feeble old soldier, doomed to perish soon enough, without. And he’s no enemy, lad. Ah, no! Old Giles Habibula comes to you as a precious friend!”
Chan Derron studied the old man with a grim suspicion. And suddenly he saw, behind Giles Habibula, the money that was stacked in the corridor. Thick packets of new Green Flail certificates, bound into great hales and piled high against the walls. The wrapper on every packet was printed with a yellow crescent. Here was the treasure of Caspar Hannas. Chan knew, that the Basilisk had taken from the New Moon’s vaults!
His hand jerked tense on the little black spindle.
“You aren’t—” he gasped hoarsely. “You aren’t the Basilisk?”
Giles Habibula quivered like a bag of jelly. The seamed moon of his face turned slightly green. He caught a croaking, asthmatic breath.
“No, lad!” he gulped. “In life’s name—no! I’m just a poor old soldier. Ah, but a hunted fugitive, lad. A friendless deserter from the legion!”
“Deserter, eh?” The dark-stained eyes of Chan Derron narrowed. “If you are the great Giles Habibula, why should you desert? And what are you doing here?”
Giles Habibula blinked his colorless eyes.
“Thank you, lad.” his thin voice quavered. “Ah, so, lad, from the bottom of my failing old heart. I thank you for calling me great. For the legion has forgotten me, lad!”
He wiped his eyes with the back of a fat hand.
“Once old Giles Habibula was the hero of the legion.” he sighed. “Aye, of the whole blessed System. For his noble courage, lad, his precious genius, have twice sated the very life of mankind—once from the hateful Medusa, and again from the frightful cometeers. And what reward has he got, lad?”
He choked, sobbed.
“A beggar’s reward, lad. Old Giles is forgotten. His precious medals tarnish in a box. The miserable bit of cash they gave him is all drunk up. A lonely, hopeless old soldier, dying on the ungrateful charity of those who had once been friends. Ah, lad, but life was mortal black—until I heard of your exploits!”
A brighter look came over his yellow face.
“Ah, so, lad!” lie cried. “You’re the sort that old Giles was. in the days when he was young. A bold man. aye! Reckless and dashing. Not caring whether he drove to sunward of the law or to spaceward. Taking his wine and his gold and his blessed women, wherever he found them! Ah, lad, old Giles has come to you. to beg you to give him back his own lost youth!”
The band of Chan Herron tensed again on the spindle.
“Don’t, lad!” gasped Giles Habibula. “Don’t . . . for life’s sake. It’s known to all the legion that you’re the Basilisk. Ah, so, and that’s a thing of which you should be precious proud—to stand alone against the law of all the planets, and mock the legion of space.”
CHAN DERRON shook his head, protestingly.
“But I’m not the Basilisk.” His voice was a little wild. “I’m just his victim. He has planted a hundred hits of evidence, to pin suspicion on me. Look at this money taken from the vaults of Hannas.”
Giles Habibula nodded, and his yellow face broke into a happy smile.
“Ah, so, lad!” he wheezed. “Look at it—millions and billions of dollars! Enough to keep a man in wine and women and luxury for a whole lifetime. Or two men. when the life of one is already run to the end. Shall we take off with our loot? Ah, it will he like the old days, lad—living in flight from the legion!”
The eyes of Chan Derron narrowed to an accusing stare.
“You admit you were an outlaw in the old days,” he muttered. “You are a master of locks. And you have learned all the scientific tricks of the Medusae and the cometeers. I believe you are the Basilisk, Giles Habibula!”
“Life, no, lad!” The old man turned pale. “Don’t think that—”
“If you aren’t.” rapped Chan Derron, “tell me one thing: how did you find the Phantom Atom, when all the legion failed?”
“Easy, lad.” wheezed Giles Habibula. “Among the keys I lifted from Dr. Charles Derrel in the Diamond Room was one stamped: ‘Control Sector 17B.’ And one question told me that Mirror 285, in that sector of the New Moon’s sign, was out of order. Then I knew where to meet you. But surely, lad, you don’t think—”
Chau Derron’s dark eyes stared at him.
“Giles Habibula.” he said, “I believe that you came here to catch the Basilisk. And I am going after the Basilisk. I have a clue, which is more than I believe the legion has. You may go with me, if you like.”
The small leaden eyes blinked at him, blankly.
“I told you, lad. that I came to seek the Basilisk.” Giles Habibula wheezed at last. “If you are not the Basilisk—and if you can take me to him—then I’ll go with you. And mortal gladly!”
Chan gestured briefly toward the compact living apartments aft.
“Make yourself at home.” he said. “I am going forward. We have got to slip out of the sign, and elude the fleet, and get to an object I have discovered near Thuban, in Draco. We’ve cathode plates enough to reach it, I think—but not to return. I shall expect you to stand a watch, later.”
“Ah, so, lad. You can depend on Giles Habibula!”
Chan Derron went up into the little pilot bay, and Giles Habibula waddled back into the galley. There, preparing an extravagant meal out of the slender stock of supplies he found, he made an immense deliberate clatter of pots and pans.
Presently his skillful thick fingers tuned the visi-wave relay hidden under his cloak. Keeping up the noise, to cover his voice, he put the communicator disk to his lips and dispatched his first brief message to Commander Kalam:
“Aboard Derron’s ship. Bound for mysterious object near Thuban in Draco. For life’s sake, follow!”
He finished getting the meal ready, tasting copiously from every dish, and carried a loaded tray forward to the pilot bay. Chan Derron was towering in that tiny space, concentrated on instruments and controls. His great hand motioned Giles Habibula impatiently back.
“What’s the mortal trouble, lad?” the old man demanded.
“We’ve a race on.” Chan Derron’s intent eyes didn’t look away from the controls. “Samdu’s fleet picked us up. We’d outrun them if we had enough margin of fuel. As it is—I don’t know. But leave me alone.”
Giles Habibula shrugged philosophically and carried the tray back to the galley. Deliberately, he demolished its contents, stretched and yawned, and looked hopefully about the shelves.
“A mortal pity,” he sighed, “that the Basilisk didn’t use his fearful magic to pick us up a few bottles of wine! If he’ll let me join him—I know a few good, well-guarded cellars—aye, vintages five centuries old—that his instrument could reach.”
He pried himself upright again with the cane, labored aft, and tumbled into one of the tiny staterooms. In a few minutes, above the keen hum of the hard-driven geodynes, could be heard a regular succession of sounds: whistle and flutter and sob and moan, whistle and flutter and sob and moan—the snore, of Giles Habibula.
WHEN THE regularity of those sounds had become well established, another person slipped out of the rearmost of the four tiny cabins. A woman. The quick grace of her tall, slim body spoke of unusual strength. Platinum-colored hair framed a face of surpassing loveliness. Alertly watchful, her clear eyes were violet.
Moving with no sound audible above the hastening song of the geodynes and the snoring of Giles Habibula, she went swiftly forward. One slender hand clung near a singular jewel, like a great white snow crystal, that hung from her throat. And the other, with a practiced and familiar grip, held a barytron blaster of the newest legion design.
She came to the little opening in the bulkhead behind the pilot bay, and stood watching Chan Derron, with the ready weapon leveled at his heart. His broad back was to her, as he stood over the vernier wheel. His whole big body was tense. His senses were all absorbed in the messages of his instruments. His big hands were moving upon swift, delicate little errands. He was fighting, she knew, to drag from power cells and geodynes the last possible quantum of energy.
For a long time she watched him.
Once a telltale flashed suddenly. Chan Derron started. His big hands moved convulsively, and the steady musical note of the geodynes rose higher in the scale.
“In tomorrow’s name!” she heard him mutter. “For one ton more of cathode plates!”
An unwilling little glisten had come into the violet eyes. Her blond head flung angrily. She caught her breath, and lifted the barytron blaster. Its bright tube pointed straight between his shoulders. He would never even know.
But the Basilisk should know. All his crimes bad earned a long, long taste of the bitterness of death. She let the blaster sink again and watched. Telltales and detectors told her that the fleet was in pursuit. Set up on the calculator board, she could read the destination of the Phantom Atom—a point in Draco, ten billion miles from the Sun. And every swift, tense movement of Chan Derron reminded her that he was running a desperate race.
What was the point? And why the race? Her pressure on the blaster’s release would destroy all hope of answering those questions. That was the only reason, the girl told herself, that she must wait. But she turned suddenly, and went swiftly and soundlessly back down the corridor, toward the cabin where site had been concealed.
The whistle and flutter and sob and moan of Giles Habibula’s snoring had never faltered. But, the instant after the girl had passed his cabin door, it ceased abruptly; and a wheezing voice softly advised:
“Stop, lass, right where you stand!”
The girl spun very swiftly, the barytron gun leaping up in her hands. She found Giles Habibula standing out in the corridor. His thick cane was leveled at her body, and her own weapon dropped from the look in his slate-colored eyes.
“Ah, thank you, lass,” he sighed. “ ’Twould be a shameful pity to destroy a thing as lovely as you are. And I beg you not to force my hand. For I know you, lass. Old Giles could never forget the mortal beauty of Luroa!”
Something swift and cold and deadly flashed in the violet eyes. The blaster jerked again in the girl’s strong hand. But it was met by an instant motion of the cane. And suddenly the girl smiled—a smile so brilliant that the old man blinked and gasped.
“And I know you,” her smooth voice said. “You are Giles Habibula. I don’t think any other man could have caught me as you did.”
The yellow face beamed at her.
“Ah, so, I am Giles Habibula. Aye, and forty years ago you would have heard my name—or a dozen of my names—in the underworlds of every planet. For Giles Habibula, in his own day, was as great an operator—as bold, as clever, as successful—as you have been in yours, Luroa.”
The girl still smiled her dazzling and inscrutable smile.
“But now it seems that the two of us.” wheezed Giles Habibula. “are out to bunt another as great as we have been—greater, aye, unless we prove otherwise by catching him.”
His Hat, leaden eyes blinked at her.
“Shall we join forces, lass?” be asked. “Until we have destroyed the Basilisk?” His round, yellow bead jerked aft, toward Chan Derron in the pilot bay. “With my own blessed genius.” he said, “and with the deadly cunning and the fearful strength and the mortal beauty that Eldo Arrynu gave to you—ah, no, lass, with all of them we cannot fail.”
He peered at her, anxiously.
“If you will join me, lass—man and android, against the Basilisk!”
For an instant the girl’s white loveliness bad frozen, so that the wonder of her smile seemed a hollow, painted thing. But her face abruptly softened. She slipped the blaster into a bolster that her white furs concealed, and held out a strong, slender band to Giles Habibula.
