The Star Virus

II

They landed some miles out in the desert. It was dry, dusty and yellow; uneven plains were strewn with what looked like dirty sulphur. The Stond and the Revealer—the elephantine, clapped-out freighter had been abandoned after the fifth breakdown—settled down amid clouds of tawny dust and stood there like twin castles standing guard over a desolated chessboard.

They were close to sunset. The stars, visible even at noon, were brightening into the familiar blazing aspect of the Hub by night. In the distance, on the edge of the wilderness, could just be seen the flat-roofed buildings of Maintown.

Kulthol clapped his hands together with relish. “It looks like a real border town. Well, I could do with a night out!”

“Not a bad procedure,” Rodrone mused. “No point in trying to be inconspicuous. We’ll all go in and sample the local color. While that’s going on, Clave and myself will get the print-out.”

He phased up the external view screen to maximum magnification. Lights were flicking on in the town as the sun faded. The buildings were of colored plastic, the universal building material that in the last few hundred years had crawled all over the galaxy like a gaudy cancer, creating camp towns, transit towns, and endless stretches of quickly erected temporary shelters that lasted forever.

At nightfall Rodrone took eighteen men and five girls and made off over the desert in runabouts. None of the ex-bondsmen were among them—they had elected to drop out during a stopover in order to seek quieter employment—but he would never have included them in a job like this anyway.

They parked in the main street. Superficially the town was much like a thousand others, although very few people seemed to be about. A dusk wind blew up and spilled desultory veils of dust into the streets, moaning between the buildings. Rodrone’s gaze traveled the frontages on either side of the street, locating the Desert Trading Company, an undistinguished building sandwiched between a bar and a small processing plant.

Despite its tawdry air, there was an undercurrent to the town, Rodrone decided. A gauntness, a skeleton-in-the-cupboard feeling. He fingered his beard thoughtfully. Probably they didn’t get many visitors here, he mused.

Further down the street was a larger bar, fronted with a lit-up advertising display. Kulthol pointed. “Let’s tank up.” Pushing through swing doors, they crowded into a big, dusky room. A group of locals seated at a table inspected them curiously, warily. Noisily Rodrone’s people debouched on to a cluster of tables, calling to the bar at the other end of the room for drinks. But Kulthol headed straight for the bar and Rodrone, Clave and a few others drifted after him.

Kulthol’s practiced eye ranged over the rows of bottles and casks. “What’s that green stuff?”

The barman was chewing a stick of something that gave off a faint flavor of spice. “The local brew. ‘Roadrunner’.”

“I’ll try some of that.”

The man poured out several glasses. Kulthol picked up one and knocked it straight back. Rodrone took one too, drank it more cautiously. At the first sip a thousand red-hot needles seemed to be gouging out the inside of his mouth, but after that he became numb and it was fairly pleasant.

“What the hell do you make this poison from?” Kulthol demanded, taking another.

“It’s brewed from a desert plant. It pulls its roots up and migrates with the seasons.”

“You mean to say you have seasons out here?”

“The plants think so, but I don’t.”

They laughed briefly. “We saw your ships coming down,” the barman said. “You here on business?”

“Just dropped in for a drink,” Clave said. The barman looked uneasy but moved off to serve the others.

Probably scared we’re going to loot the town, Rodrone thought. He glanced around at the locals in the bar, then became aware of moaning harmonies emanating from some-where above them. Clave’s gaze went to the ceiling as if in fascination.

“Listen to that!” he murmured.

The barman returned in time to hear his evident praise. “That’s Ruby,” he declared proudly. “Plays just beautifully, doesn’t she?” He jerked his thumb. “We’ve got another place upstairs. You can go and listen if you want. It will be pretty crowded soon, though.”

“I think I will.” Clave made for a stairway. Rodrone moved to restrain him, then thought better of it.

“What’s wrong?” Kulthol whispered a few moments later. He was quick to notice any change on Rodrone’s face.

Rodrone stroked his beard uncertainly. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said finally.

The upper room was more luxuriously furnished than the one down below. The lights were warm, soft and skillfully arranged. The drinks were dispensed from a decorated counter.

“Just listen to it. That’s real music.”

The remark was made reverently by a man sitting at a corner table. A girl sat with him, her face as rapt as his own.

From the opposite end of the room came an apallingly ugly noise compounded of gut-jarring discords and childish travesties of melody. A grossly fat woman sat at an electronic instrument, the flesh of her upper arms rippling as she attacked the keyboard. She was dressed in a frilly, flowered frock grotesquely inappropriate to her bulging form.

Something in Rodrone’s mind began to crawl. Clave, he saw, was as hooked as the locals. Kulthol seemed slightly puzzled but apparently was not sure whether he had noticed anything unusual. He drifted between the occupied tables towards the bar.

Suddenly the music changed slightly, giving out sharp, irregular bursts. Rodrone saw the barman’s face go into a seizure of uncontrolled twitches, and at the same time felt tentative tugs at the muscles of his own face.

He walked across to the seated fat woman, leaning low so that she could hear him.

“You certainly are talented,” he said pleasantly. She made a small tossing movement with her head, her lips pursing in the tight smile of a woman who drinks praise.

“Thank you,” she murmured. Meanwhile her hands continued to roam at random over the keyboard, producing her atrocious parody of music.

“Can you play the Maid of Arrailis?”

“Of course.”

“I’m surprised,” Rodrone told her. “Well, listen: you’re going to play it all night long. And the minute I start getting any strange feelings, I’m going to blast your head right off your shoulders.” He tapped the handgun on his thigh. The woman shot him a glance of pure hatred from beady eyes. Her fingers faltered; then her hands withdrew to her lap.

Rodrone made his way back to Clave and gave him a nudge. “I think this job is best dealt with as soon as possible.” Then to Kulthol: “Keep things under control. If anything funny happens, get out fast.”

Clave followed him down the stairs and into the street Rodrone gave scarcely a glance at the others. He stood on the sheened surface, glancing up and down the street. He didn’t trust the woman upstairs to obey him, but there was little he could do about it for the moment if he was to carry out his mission.

“Rodrone…” Clave’s usually glassy stare contained a dazed, puzzled look. “Did something happen in there?”

“That woman at the organ,” Rodrone said. “She rules this town, though the people here don’t know it. It’s all to do with that organ she plays.”

“Organ? She plays damned well, but—”

“She doesn’t play it at all,” Rodrone told him. “She just makes you think she does. I’ve come across one like it just once before in my life, and it’s lucky for us I did. There’s not much to it, really: the resonators are precisely tuned to rhythms in the nervous system. She can give those suckers up there any emotion she wants to. With a bit more skill she can take control of the motor system, make them walk, run, turn cartwheels. If she’s really skilled, which I don’t think she is, she can make them have thoughts, hallucinations. But as a matter of fact I don’t think she can even control it at motor level more than enough to play a few nasty tricks.”

Clave stared at him in amazement. “Why does she do it?”

“She enjoys it. She likes being Queen of the May. They all sit there and talk about how wonderful she is.”

Clave chuckled. Something of his old air came back as he struggled to overcome the degradation he felt at having been emotionally manipulated. “I guess we all have our thing.”

Yes, thought Rodrone, but few people found a way to such complete realization of such tawdry desires, as had the woman upstairs. When he thought of it, he had met her everywhere. Fat women in drinking places playing keyboard instruments of every description, jealously guarding the attention they imagined their position brought them and spitefully resentful towards any interloper.

Something of a mystery surrounded the origin of the nerve organs. Rodrone believed there were only a few in existence, created by some twisted master of the art. Many men had tried to make replicas, but they just didn’t work reliably.

“Say,” said Clave, “wouldn’t the Merchant Houses like to own gadgets like that!”

They sauntered down the street and slipped into the shadow in the porch of the Desert Trading Company. Clave slipped an instrument from his pocket, waved it about vaguely in the air. “No response.”

There wouldn’t be. The House of Jal-Dee was relying on subterfuge to guard its secrets, not alarm systems. Clave applied a small slab of metal to the door, near the lock. It clicked and hummed. Clave pressed a stud and pushed the door open.

“Enter O King,” he said, turning to Rodrone with a grin. They went inside, slipped on goggles and surveyed the interior by the light of an ultraviolet flashlamp so as not to be seen from outside. They were in an office: a couple of desks, chairs, and a cupboard. Three doors led to other rooms further back.

Clave waved his gadget about, expertly interpreting a series of writhing images that incoming pulse-trains built up on an image plate. “They’ve got it in the cellar,” he said. After trying all the doors, they located a flight of descending steps.

The computer stood in a steel mesh cage. The only access was through a tiny door which appeared deceptively simple to open.

“Yeah… well, this one has alarms, naturally.” Clave flashed the ultraviolet beam about in the darkness, then on a sudden thought switched to visible light and pushed back his goggles. He dipped into his tool-bag and pulled out something looking like a gun with a six-inch wide barrel

“Any problems?” Rodrone asked.

“No, there’s nothing very elaborate here. This thing should keep the alarm happy.” Locating the alarm, he fixed the gun to the wall nearby. Any changes in the flow of current which might trigger the alarm would automatically be compensated.

Stooping, they stepped into the cage and looked the computer over. It was a standard model with high capacity and an autonomous internal economy, befitting its function as an unsupervised storage unit. It would be in constant contact with Jal-Dee offices light-years away, using a short-burst space-tensor communicator that was suitable for computers, though inconvenient for normal human conversations.

A print-out unit was also attached. Clave had been worried that this part of the equipment might have been removed when the computer was installed, complicating the operation; all he had to do now was to induce the computer to render a print-out without notifying its masters, which wasn’t hard.

For the purpose he had brought along what was practically a miniature computer in its own right. It was box-shaped, just small enough to pick up with one hand. One surface was metallic and perfectly smooth; the other had a glistening picture plate, at the moment blank.

He blew dust off it, leaned with one hand on the computer to steady himself. He was, Rodrone realized, slightly less than sober. The Roadrunners he had drunk had taken effect.

“Say, I just thought.” Clave started to laugh. “All the others back there, being put through their paces by the Queen of the May. They’ll never live it down.”

Rodrone looked at him somberly. “Your humor could be classed as misplaced,” he said evenly. “That woman is evil and vicious. And that thing she plays can make your muscles contract so as to break every bone in your body.”

“What? And we left them in there?”

“It was either that or foul up the job. Besides, she can’t do much immediately. We’re strangers, not the usual townsfolk. There’s a warming-up period before the average nervous system begins to respond properly in resonance to the vibrations.”

“But what about me? I was—”

Rodrone could not help but smile, unable despite himself to save his friend from further indignity. “I said the average nervous system. You’re different. A perfect mark!”

Looking down at the floor, Clave considered the proposition wryly. “Well, we’d better not waste time,” he said finally.

Previously he had prepared some programs for the electronic computer thief. Placing the smooth side against the casing of the larger machine, he slid it about, searching for the best site. Numbers, symbols and evanescent diagrams flickered across the screen. Crouching, Clave studied them, found a convenient point to inject his signals. As he pressed a button, electronic probe beams passed through the casing and linked up with the computer’s circuits.

A brief clatter came from the print-out unit. Rodrone stepped over to it and ripped off a sheet of paper.

It was all there. Details of cargoes, and space-time coordinates for all planned shipments within fifty light-years for the next three months.

“This is what we want, let’s go.”

Clave stood up and put away the little box. They turned to leave.

But suddenly the print-out clattered again, breaking the silence of the cellar with a life of its own.

“What’s that, a second copy?”

“I guess it’s still obeying the order to print out,” Clave answered dubiously, “but it must be something new.”

Rodrone ripped off the new sheet and held it to the light. The computer was receiving a fresh input from somewhere. On the slick paper an angry conversation was emerging between Jal-Dee officials and an unknown interlocutor.

“We demand that you hand over the object.”

“Impossible. Ownership is in the hands of our clients.”

Evidently they had missed the first part of the argument while obtaining their own print-out. After a pause, the machine delivered another burst. Rodrone bent to read it.

“Human ownership of the object is not admissible. Streall claim is absolute. You will notify of whereabouts.”

“It is already in transit.” Jal-Dee seemed to be weakening.

“We will intercept. Notify.”

“Your claim must be made through the courts.” Even in the neutral print it was possible to detect the note of tired desperation.

“Human courts mean nothing to the Streall. Either you comply or Streall fleets will occupy the Kantor system.”

Kantor was more or less owned by Jal-Dee. Rodrone waited to see what the result of this bellicose threat would be. There was a long, suspenseful pause. Then, without further comment, a string of figures followed giving the route of the contended cargo. “The item you require is cargo item 401.”

“The Streall!” Rodrone breathed. “Trust Jal-Dee to back down, the spineless worm!”

Before Clave could answer a faint but regular phttt-phut-phttt sounded from the direction of the street. It was the sound of an alpha gun being fired. The two men glanced meaningfully at one another. Wordlessly, Rodrone ripped off the last sheet and squeezed through the cage door.

He waited while Clave swiftly closed the door and gathered up his equipment from where he had clamped it on the wall. Together they mounted the steps and peered through the windows of the front office.

From here the hideous noise of Ruby’s organ swelled out into the street, pouring hatred into the wretched town. Rodrone’s people were retreating from the drinking house, firing into it as they did so. It was easy to guess what had happened. Ruby, determined to have her way, had whipped up the townspeople into a frenzy of resentment against the newcomers. The rest was inevitable.

Worriedly he glanced at Clave. It was impossible to say how he would respond to the weird harmonies in this new situation.

“Go to the runabouts and stay there,” he ordered firmly. “Don’t move, just wait for us.”

Clave nodded uncertainly. Outside, they took opposite directions, Rodrone keeping close to the wall. Most of his people seemed to be already in the street, covering the bar entrance with a fusillade of fire to prevent anyone else coming out. But answering shots were beginning to come from the upstairs windows.

The men and girls were edging towards the runabouts, watching carefully for attack from another quarter. Rodrone sought out Kulthol.

“Damned planet-bound trash!” the redhead cursed. “They started it, not us. We lost four inside: three men and a girl. We ought to hammer this town right into the ground.”

“Never mind about that, let’s get out of here.”

Kulthol yelled a command. They all broke into a run, quickly covering the remaining distance to the runabouts. Less than a minute later they were roaring towards the outskirts of Maintown in a reckless convoy. As they struck the desert, Ruby apparently turned her instrument up to an unexpectedly powerful amplification, for the howling shrieks of the organ reached out to them to set their skulls vibrating.

The lights receded behind them, the wheels of the trucks riding quietly over the yellow dust. Rodrone’s pity for the town was mingled with contempt, as well as disgust for the woman responsible for its degradation. Behind them, headlights probing the darkness told him that a pursuit was in progress. Picking up a bulky beam tube from the floor of the truck, he sent a searing bolt of destructive energy crackling over the desert. Let them bite on that.

But the danger was past, apart from a few random shots that zipped occasionally past them. In minutes they had reached the ships and without delay winched the trucks aboard. Rodrone made straight for the control room, where he sat brooding for some minutes, vaguely aware that some of his crew had excitedly manned the ship’s armaments and were sending warning shots crashing into the desert floor. If he gave his men their head, he thought, they would probably wipe out the pursuers in revenge for the killings, and follow it up by destroying the town.

Kulthol’s face appeared on an image plate, transmitting from the Revealer. “Shall we sit here or take off?”

“Take off. This place nauseates me.”

“Me too. How about dropping a shell on the whole nasty little mess? They deserve it.”

“No, let them alone, they’ve got punishment enough.” Kulthol did not understand him, but made no reply.

Thoughtfully Rodrone took the pilot’s seat and gave the warning takeoff signals. The air thrummed momentarily as the drover engines took effect, herding atoms so as to produce an irresistible net motion in one direction, and the Stond slid smoothly into the air. Swiftly they rose beyond the atmosphere. Kulthol’s face showed itself again. “Orbit? Or do we have a destination?”

“We do.” Rodrone fished in his pocket and brought out the last piece of paper he had torn from the Jal-Dee computer’s print-out unit. He held it up to the scanner tube. “Take a record of this. We’ll intercept at the earliest point possible. Work it out for me, will you, and give me the figures.”

“A cargo, yet!” Kulthol crowed. “Have they got something nice?”

“We’re not robbing Jal-Dee this time,” Rodrone told him. “We’re doing a snatch from the Streall.”

He noted the startled look on Kulthol’s face, followed by a pensive, nervous look in his eye. But he gave him no time to argue.

“Call me back with the figures. I’ll explain when we’re en route.” With that, he cut the connection.