Calvin M. Knox Read online

  Three days aboard a slow-moving transport ship got them to Hennim, sister world of Vyom. Hennim was an oxygen world, not much larger than Earth but cursed by a fiercely capricious climate. Torrential rain was falling as Catton landed at the spaceport; within an hour, a searing blast of solar radiation was baking the mud that the fields had become.

  The natives of Hennim were humanoids, squat and sturdy, who peered quizzically at Catton from oval eyes the color of litde silver buttons. It developed that most of them had never seen a Terran before. A Skorg interpreter informed Catton that less than a hundred Earthmen had ever visited this system; it was too remote to attract Terran industry, and the tourist trade was put off by the difficulties in getting there from any major world of the galactic lens. Of course, there were no diplomatic relations between Earth and any world of this system. When Catton replied that he was going to Vyorn, exclamations of surprises were audible on all sides. No more than a handful of Terran travelers had ever gone to Vyom.

  The shuttle left Hennim the next day. Catton and Nuuri were in the oxygen-breathers' section of the vessel, along with several dozen Hennimese and a few Skorgs. Behind a partition, Catton learned, eight Vyomi were traveling, breathing their peculiarly poisonous chlorine atmosphere.

  The trip took six hours. Near its conclusion, a Hennimese in crew uniform appeared in the passenger cabin to announce—first in his own language, then in Skorg—that landing would shortly take place. "All oxygen-breathing entities are required to wear breathing-suits for their own protection. Those who are without suits may rent them from the purser."

  Catton and Nuuri rented suits, standard medium-size hu-

  manoid type, for small sums payable in Skorg currency. Cat-

  ton adjusted his to the familiar chemical makeup of Earth's

  atmosphere; it was the first time he had breathed it since

  the assignment began. B

  Not long after, the planet they sought came into view. It was vaguely circular, swathed in a thick green shroud of chlorine. The shuttle-ship landed with minor difficulties. After the last jolt, the Hennimese purser reappeared to convey the oxygen-breathing passengers through the airlock to the waiting spaceport coach.

  Outside, Catton got his first look at Vyorn. Flat, barren land stretched outward to the horizon. The greenish murk hung low overhead. The scenery was utterly alien, totally strange. Within his protective suit, he was comfortable enough—but the temperature outside, he knew, was no more than 250 degrees above Absolute. It was a cold, ugly, forbidding world, alien in every respect.

  And here, Catton thought, are produced the matter duplicators designed for the destruction of Terran civilization.

  XV.

  Three of Carton's allotted five days on Vyom slipped by before he got his first inkling of Doveril's whereabouts.

  The Vyomi were of ho help. They refused to give any information. They were remote, unpleasant creatures: the size of a Terran, but unhumanoid in form, with six jointed arms and three legs; their bodies were dead white, waxy in appearance, and their eyes glowered beadily out of protruding triangular sockets. Better than 90 percent of the life-bearing worlds of the universe produced oxygen-breathing creatures; Vyorn was different. Its inhabitants breathed an atmosphere of chlorine and gave off carbon tetrachloride as respiratory waste. The Vyomi plant life broke the carbon tet down into chlorine and complex hydrocarbons, and so the cycle of respiration went on. In every way these beings were different from all others in the galaxy.

  The difference was psychological as well as physiological. The Vyomi seemed cosmically indifferent to the ways of the oxygen-breathers who came to their world. There was no organized government on Vyom, nor any legal system. All Vyomi were free to do as they pleased, so long as they brought no harm to a fellow Vyomi.

  Catton, via a Skorg interpreter, spoke with the Vyorni who was in charge of the residence compound for oxygen-breathing beings. "Tell him I'm here to find a Morilaru named Doveril Halligon. That it's important for the security and peace of the galaxy that I find him."

  The interpreter reeled off a string of harsh, clicking, consonant-heavy words. After a moment the Vyorni replied: three clucking syllables.

  The Skorg translated. "He says he doesn't care."

  "Tell him it's vital—that I'll pay him for information."

  Once again the Skorg spoke, and once again the Vyorni replied—this time with one snapped grunt.

  "Well?" Catton said.

  "He doesn't want to be paid. He just isn't interested in helping you."

  "Tell him I'm a crime-prevention officer! I'm a member of the Interworld Commission."

  Shrugging, the Skorg translated. The answer was curt. "This is Vyom," he says. "Oxygen-breathers' law is no good here."

  Catton sighed. "Okay. I see I'm not going to get anywhere with him. Maybe you can help me, then. Is there some central registry of immigrants here? Or a Morilaru consulate where I could ask about my man?"

  "There's no central registry of any kind here. Nor any consulates. Vyom doesn't enter into diplomatic relations with oxygen-breathing worlds."

  Further investigation later got him more of the same. The Vyorni were not interested in cooperating. If oxygen-breathers wanted to come here to do business, they were welcome, but they would not necessarily be treated with warmth. Cat-ton began to understand how this race could so casually manufacture things like matter duplicators. The Vyomi were not motivated by profit or any other typical oxygen-breather motivation. But they derived some sort of satisfaction from seeing their products go forth and harass and confuse the oxygen-breathers who occupied most of the universe's worlds.

  Catton began asking questions. He went about it with care, for he did not want word to reach Doveril—if Doveril were still on Vyom—that an Earthman was here, asking questions about him. Catton let Nuuri do most of the actual questioning. There were about twenty Morilaru in the compound, engaged in trade with the Vyorni. She approached them one by one, subdy leading the discussion around to Doveril.

  On the third day they got some concrete information at last. Nuuri was talking to an abnormally plump Morilaru named Gudwan Quinak, who ostensibly was on Vyom to deal in furs, but who, Catton privately suspected, was involved with some sort of drug trade. Catton had Nuuri approach him slyly, wheedlingly, and within ten minutes she had him talking.

  "He's a drug man, all right," she reported later to Catton. "And he knows Doveril pretty well. He's at another Vyomi city, about two hundred miles from here. According to Quinak, Doveril landed here about a month ago, and let drop a couple of hints that he was involved in something big. Doveril could never resist boasting."

  "How do we get to him?"

  "Well have to rent a jetsled. There's no public transport between here and there. Vyorni don't travel much, it seems."

  They rented the jetsled at an extravagant cost from a knowledgeable, covertly smiling Skorg who had a lpcal concession. The Skorg's beady eyes glinted as Catton paid over the stiff deposit, as if the Skorg itched to make some remark about the relationship between a Terran and a Morilaru woman who were renting a sled together. But the Skorg kept his own counsel, probably afraid of losing the sale.

  The sled was well built, a compact bullet-shaped vehicle totally enclosed in duriplast, with keen snow-runners and a triple array of rocket tubes. Catton checked out the mechanical parts of the sled with great care before they left. He knew enough about the Vyorni by now to realize that if their sled broke down somewhere in the frozen wastes, they would be left to rot before anyone came out to rescue them.

  They left the residence compound about mid-day, with Vyorn's small yellow sun directly overhead, dimly visible behind the thick atmospheric swath of chlorine. Catton kept the speed at fifty miles an hour; more might be dangerous. There was no road, just a well-worn track through the bleak tundra. Scattered Vyomi settlements fined the route: odd needle-shaped homes, thirty feet high and no more than twelve feet wide at the base, and farmland ploughed by weird sw
aybacked creatures whose bodies were segmented like crustaceans and whose eyes had a haunting wisdom about them, as if they were the eyes of intelligent beings who had been subjugated by the Vyorni.

  The sun had nearly set—Vyom's day lasted only some sixteen Galactic hours—when the sled reached the outskirts of the village that was Catton's destination. They pulled up outside a domed building much like the other residence compound.

  "You go inside," Catton ordered. "Find out if Doveril's around. If he is, see if you can get him to come out here.

  Nuuri slipped through the exit hatch of the jetsled and trotted toward the compound's airlock. Catton waited in the sled, cradling a small blaster in his hand. Five minutes passed; then Nuuri returned. She was alone.

  "Well?"

  "He's across town at the spaceport. Supervising a cargo loading."

  "Looks like we got here just in time." Catton slapped down the starter switch on the sled, and it shot off down the road.

  The spaceport was a small one, a few miles from the compound. Catton saw only three ships—two small shuttles bearing Hennimese insignia, and one larger, unmarked ship that stood by itself at the edge of the field, glinting dull gray in the gathering darkness. A dozen Vyorni were going back and forth between the ship and a nearby cargo shed. They were bearing wooden crates two feet square into the ship. A figure in a spacesuit stood near the open hatch, counting the crates as they entered the ship.

  "Should I go over to him?" Nuuri asked anxiously.

  "Wait. They've almost finished loading the ship."

  The Vyorni made one last trip to the shed, then paused as if waiting for further orders. The figure in the spacesuit seemed to be dismissing them.

  The hatch on the gray spaceship closed abruptly. The space-suited figure started to walk off the field, toward the administration building at the edge of the blast area.

  "Okay," Catton said. "Go over and talk to him. I'm tuned in on the wavelength of your suit radio."

  Nuuri ran across the field. Crouching in the jetsled, Cat-ton heard her cry out: "Doveril! Doverill"

  The spacesuited figure halted. "Nuuri? What are you doing here?"

  "I—came to see you, Doveril."

  "Followed me all the way to Vyorn? How did you know where I was?" Doveril demanded suspiciously. "Who sent you here?"

  "Beryaal sent me," she said evenly. "I have a message for you.

  "What dealings have you had with Beryaal?" "He employs me," Nuuri said. "Come with me to that jet-sled. I have a message-disk from Beryaal for you, in it." "Ill wait here," Doveril said cautiously. "Go get it."

  "No—come with me." "Go get it, I saidl"

  Catton, waiting hidden beneath the jetsled seat, caught his breath. Doveril suspected a trap. The former music teacher was a wary one.

  Nuuri came to the jetsled alone. Bending over Catton, she cut her radio and touched her helmet to his to say, "Give me a weapon. He won't come."

  Catton handed her his auxiliary blaster. "Here. But don't use it. I want him alive."

  She took the weapon without replying, and returned to Doveril. Catton picked up the words over his suit radio.

  "Here's the message, Doveril." She extended her space-gloved hand. The gun's nozzle protruded. "Your schemes are finished. I know about the Earthgirl, Estil. I know how you treated her, and how you treated me. This is the time for vengeance, Doveril."

  "Nuuri? Are you crazy? You—"

  A sudden purple spear of light flashed from the blaster in Nuuri's hand. But Doveril had already launched himself forward as if to tackle her. The energy bolt went wild, passing over the Morilaru's shoulder and dissipating itself harmlessly in the atmosphere. Before Nuuri had a chance to fire again, Doveril was upon her, hurling her to the ground, his hand grasping for the blaster she still clutched.

  Catton scowled. The girl had disobeyed him! He flipped up the jetsled's exit hatch and ran toward the struggling pair as they grappled on the frozen field.

  Nuuri was screaming hysterically, blanketing the audio channel with her outpouring of hatred. But Doveril's hand grasped the wrist that controlled the blaster, and she could not fire. Catton was still twenty yards away from them when Doveril pounced on the blaster, ripping it from the girl's hand, and leaped back, dragging Nuuri in front of him as a shield.

  "Put down your gun, Earthman, or 111 kill the girl," Doveril said evenly.

  They faced each other over a twenty yard gap, with Nuuri between them. Catton felt naked and unprotected. If Doveril chose to fire, he could kill the Earthman easily.

  But Doveril was backing away, toward the ship. Catton saw the Morilaru's lips moving, but Doveril was talking on another audio channel. Nuuri shouted, "I can hear him, Catton! He's ordering the crew to ready the ship for blastoff! Kill him, Catton! Kill him!"

  Catton tensed. Doveril said, "You'll kill her too, Earth-man."

  "I don't want to loll anybody. I want to stop that ship from blasting off."

  Doveril laughed mockingly. "Of course you do. But I'm afraid that's impossible."

  Catton weighed the chances. Doveril was no more than forty feet from the ship's open airlock. The Vyorni who had loaded the cargo were standing in a row at the edge of the field, showing no interest in what was taking place.

  Doveril was close to the airlock now. Suddenly Nuuri squirmed in his grasp, twisted round, pummelled with both gloved hands on his helmet as if trying to break it. Momentarily confused, Doveril shoved her away from him.

  Catton fired, but the shot went wild. A microsecond later Doveril's blaster spouted energy too. But Nuuri, launching herself at Doveril in a frenzied attack, caught Doveril's beam and was hurled to one side by the energy bolt. Catton fired again quickly. The second bolt caught Doveril at the waist and ripped open his breathing-suit, cutting a flaming hole through the middle of his body. The Morilaru screamed.

  Catton ran forward and knelt over Nuuri. The bolt had ripped her suit open at the shoulder. She was still alive. "Did you . . . kill . . . him?" she asked feebly.

  "Yes."

  "Good. Thanks, Earthman." She started to close her eyes. He grabbed her. "Nuuri! The hypnojewel secret—tell me!"

  She giggled hysterically. "They're made on Skorg, Earth-man. I . . . took you a litde out of your way, didn't I? Too bad."

  She was dead. The airlock of the waiting ship slammed shut. The warning gong that was the clear-the-field signal sounded. He ran from the field. The ship was blasting off.

  Unconcerned Vyorni were standing idly by in the spaceport's administration building. Catton gestured with drawn blaster to a Skorg. "Do you speak Vyorni?"

  "Yes."

  "Take me to the control center."

  At blaster-point, the Skorg did not stop to argue. He led Catton down a corridor to a gravlift, then up to the top of the building. They burst into a central monitoring tower. Three Vyorni peered quizzically at Catton as he entered.

  He glanced at the viewscreen that monitored the field. The ship outside had retracted its atmosphere fins, and landing jacks. In a moment it would be blasting off. Catton snapped to the Skorg, "Tell them that they mustn't let that gray ship blast off. That they must withdraw clearance and immobilize its controls."

  A simple radiolock was all that would be needed to freeze the ship. The Skorg obediendy translated Carton's order and drew a blunt, brief reply from the Vyorni. "They refuse to do it," the Skorg said. "They won't get involved in other beings' private quarrels."

  "But this isn't private! Do you know what's aboard that ship? If—" Catton scowled. He waved the blaster fiercely at the emotionless Vyomi. "Tell him 111 kill them if they don't freeze that ship," he said to the Skorg.

  "They won't listen to you," the Skorg said.

  The Skorg seemed to be right. The Vyorni did not fear his blaster. And now it was too late to do anything. On the field, the ship was rising, incinerating the bodies of Nuuri and Doveril in its rocket-blast. An instant later the ship lurched upward and out of sight—bearing its deadly cargo of matter
duplicators intended for Earth.

  XVI.

  By the time, two hours later, that Catton had finished ransacking Doveril's quarters at the residence compound, night had fallen. Catton did not trust himself to make the two hundred mile journey safely during the night. He slept over in the dead man's bed, and left early the following morning.

  There was no inquiry, no question raised by the Vyorni. Oxygen-breathers could evidently kill each other with impunity on Vyom without arousing curiosity.

  Catton was not happy over the way his pursuit of Doveril had ended. Nuuri, who might have been useful again, was dead; and Doveril, whom Catton had hoped to capture alive, was dead as well. Hardly a molecule of their bodies had survived the holocaust of the rockets. Nuuri had tricked him; she had not wanted to help him capture her faithless Doveril, merely to get herself to wherever Doveril was and exact her vengeance. Catton wondered about her last statement—that the hypnojewels were made on Skorg. Another of her lies? A deathbed fantasy? Or was it the truth, and had she deliberately led him away from Skorg to hunt down Doveril?

  Worst of all, the cargo ship had escaped. Documents he found in Doveril's room told him that the ship contained a cargo of one thousand matter duplicators, built on Vyom. No doubt it was simple to build the duplicators; all you needed were two pilot models, and the rest could be made by self-duplication. They were being shipped to Morilar, and from there to Earth. The trip to Morilar would take the freighter almost a month, which meant that Catton would arrive there about the same time as the cargo ship. And then—

  And then would come the moment of crisis. Catton knew he had to intercept that ship before it left for Earth. Once it became lost in the infinite expanse of nullspace, there would be small chance of tracking it. The matter duplicators would get safely through to Earth. And one day, between one dawn and the next, a thousand crates would drift down through Earth's atmosphere, a thousand matter duplicators would land.