Rogue Star, Page 2

  "Sorry, sir." The dome's droning regret seemed entirely mechanical "Intergalactic travel is restricted, as you should know. We cannot approve transit without a reservation based on acceptable priority."

  Grumbling, he held up the message from Molly Zaldivar. The slim plasma finger reached down to scan it, hesitated, recoiled.

  "Sir, that document is not in the universal language."

  "Of course not," he snapped. "It's English. But it ought to be priority enough. Just read it!"

  "We have no equivalence data for English, sir."

  "Then I'll translate. It's from Earth—that's the mother planet of my race. The sender is a girl—I mean, a youthful female human creature—named Molly Zaldivar. Her message is addressed to me. She's begging for help. She gave the message an urgency index that implies danger to the whole planet..."

  "Sir!" Ahead of him, the multiple creature had disappeared into the transflex cube. The dragon was lumbering toward the opening iris. "You're delaying transit. I - must ask for an actual reservation number now."

  "But this is my priority!" He waved the yellow scrap of transfact tape. "Molly Zaldivar is in some kind of trouble with a rogue star ..."

  "Sir, that is not an acceptable priority. Please leave the ramp."

  "Confound you!" Quamodian shouted. "Can't you get anything through your neuroplasmic wits? This message implies a danger to the whole human race!"

  "Sir. The human race is identified in my files as a little breed of barbarians, just recently admitted to the galactic citizenship and still devoid of interesting traits, either physical, moral, or intellectual. No human being is authorized to issue priority for interstellar travel."

  "But Molly says we're in danger ..."

  "Sir, please leave the ramp. You may apply to any acceptable source for a transit priority, on the basis of which we can issue you a reservation number."

  "I have no time for that..."

  The dome signaled no reply, but ominously the plasma tendril thickened and began to spread.

  "Wait!" Quamodian cried desperately. "I'm a member of the order of Companions of the Star! Surely you know of them. Our mission is to protect humanity, and other races, too."

  "My indices do not show any authorization issued to you for this journey by the Companions of the Star, sir. You are holding up traffic. Please move off the ramp."

  Quamodian glanced bleakly at the citizen crowding up behind him: forty tons of sentient mineral, granite-hard, jagged and black, afloat on its own invisible transflection field and impatiently extending its own passport at the tip of a blue finger of plasma.

  "Don't shove, Citizen!" he barked. "There's been a misunderstanding. Listen, Control. Check your records. We humans are allied to the multiple citizen named Cygnus, which is a symbiotic association of fusorians, stars, robots, and men. Its chief star is Almalik—or don't you find sentient stars any more interesting than men?"

  His irony was wasted on the dome. "Get out of the line," its signal flashed imperatively. Then, a split second later, "You may wait on the side of the ramp. The multiple citizen Cygnus is listed on our indices. We will call the star Almalik, in Galaxy 5."

  Disgrunted, Quamodian switched his flyer out of line, giving up his place to the granite citizen, who passed him with an air of disdain. He hovered impatiently at the edge of the ramp, watching the gate ahead expand as it swallowed the gray-scaled dragon and its turret of symbiotic fellows.

  For a moment Quamodian thought of making a mad dash for the iris aperture, but there was no sense hi that However fast his flyer moved, the dome would be faster, and he would reduce his narrow chance of getting through.

  He sat for a time staring blankly out at the horde of beings slowly moving past him on the ramp. At last he shook himself.

  "Divert me," he said harshly. At once a more than humanly soprano voice began to sing from somewhere inside the flyer: "Mi, mi chiamano Mimi..."

  "No. Not opera."

  The voice fell silent. A holograph of a chessboard appeared on the communications panel, the pieces set up for a game; White's King's Pawn slid forward two spaces and waited for his reply.

  "I don't want to play chess, either. Wait a minute. Set up a probability matrix for me. Estimate the chances of the star Almalik granting me a priority!"

  "With running analysis, or just the predicted expectancy, Mr. Quamodian?" asked the flyer's voice.

  "With analysis. Keep me amused."

  "Well, sir! By gosh, there's a lot of stuff you got to consider, like ..."

  "Without the comedy dialect"

  "Certainly, Mr. Quamodian. These are the major factors. Importance of human race in universal civilization: low. Approximately point-five trillion humans, scattered on more than a hundred stellar systems in three galaxies; but these represent only about one one-hundredth of one per cent of the total population of universal civilization, even counting multiple and group intellects as singles. Concern of star Almalik with individual human Andreas Quamodian, negligible."

  "What about the concern of Almalik for the Companions of the Star?" cried Quamodian angrily.

  "Coming to that, Mr. Quamodian. Concern rated at well under noise level on a shared-time basis, but inserting the real-time factor makes it low but appreciable. So the critical quantity hi the equation is the relevance of the term 'rogue star.' I have no way of estimating the star Almalik's reaction to that, Mr. Quamodian."

  "The rogue stars are among the most important phenomena in the universe," said Quamodian, staring out at the ramp. "Exion Station was set up largely to study them."

  "In that case—hum—allowing for pressure of other affairs; you haven't kept up with the news, but there have been some unpleasant events reported on Earth—let's see, I give it point-seven probability, Mr. Quamodian. One hundred fourteen variables have been considered. They are respectively ..."

  "Don't bother."

  "It's no bother, Mr. Quamodian," said the machine, a little sulkily. They were all moody, these companionship-oriented cybernetic mechanisms; it was the price you had to pay for free conversation.

  Quamodian said soothingly, "You've done well. It's just that I'm upset over the danger represented by the rogue star,"

  "I can understand that, Mr. Quamodian," said the machine warmly, responding at once. "A threat to one's entire race..."

  "I don't give a hoot about the human race!"

  "Why, Mr. Quamodian! Then what..."

  "It's Molly Zaldivar I care about. Make a note of this, you hear? Never forget it: the welfare of Molly Zaldivar is the most important thing in the universe to me, because I love her with all my heart. In spite of ..."

  "Excuse me, sir," the flyer broke in. "An approaching craft is hailing us."

  "Who is it?"

  "The operator is your fellow human, Solomon Scott."

  "Scott?" He squinted into the glaring, terminal lights but saw no approaching craft. "It can't be Scott."

  "He's Solomon Scott," the flyer said flatly. "We have positive identification through his standard voice pattern. He entered the air space of Exion Four without official clearance, and the robot guardians are after him. But he says he has an urgent message for you."

  Chapter 3

  The hailing craft dived into the terminal lights, grazed the flyer, and crashed to the pavement near the ramp. Jolted out of his seat, Quamodian recovered his balance and blinked at the strange machine.

  It looked like something a dragon had mauled. A great steel globe, battered and fused and blackened. A few twisted projections looked like stumps of lost instruments or weapons. Without wings or jets or landing gear, it seemed entirely unfamiliar until he found traces of a symbol he knew under the scars and rust—the triple-starred emblem of Exion Station.

  "It is Scott," he whispered. "That's the environmental pod he left here in. Or part of it."

  "Stupid human!" the flyer huffed. "He nearly wrecked us. I'm calling the guardians."

  "Wait! He's the man Molly Zaldivar needs on Earth. Rea
d him the message from her. Ask him to help us stop Cliff Hawk from whatever he's doing to create a rogue."

  The flyer hummed quietly. Waiting for Scott to reply, Quamodian began to feel ashamed of himself. He couldn't help a dull regret that Scott had turned up to rescue Molly. His own chance was gone, he thought, to be her solitary champion.

  "Scott's speaking," the flyer whirred at last. "He says he has an urgent personal message for you. He wants you to come aboard his machine. He says he can't stand outside exposure here."

  "What about Cliff Hawk and Molly Zaldivar?"

  "He says Cliff Hawk's an arrogant fool. But he says Molly's wrong it she thinks Hawk's research is dangerous. He says the rogue stars are a harmless myth."

  'That's not what he thought when he was putting armor plate around that research machine," Quamodian muttered. "Tell him Molly is terrified."

  "Scott says she's another fool," the flyer purred. "He says he won't waste time on any crazy chase to Earth. But he's anxious to see you. Will you visit his machine?"

  Quamodian's hopes had soared again. If Scott wouldn't come to Earth, perhaps there was still some wild chance for him to be Molly's lone rescuer.

  "Uh?" He sank back to hard reality. 'Tell Scott I'm coming now."

  He scrambled out of the flyer. The terminal was miles above the altitude of the human habitat, and the bitter chill of the thin oxy-helium mix at this level took his breath. He ducked his head and ran for the damaged craft. A valve opened as he reached it, and a tall stranger reached down to haul him into the shadowy air lock.

  "Scott?" The wind had taken his voice. "I was looking for Solo Scott..."

  "I'm Solomon Scott," the stranger rasped. "Come inside."

  Quamodian recoiled. The stranger hi the lock looked as tall as Scott, but with that their resemblance ended. Scott had been a dark, aggressive vital man, as strong and ruthless as another Cliff Hawk. This man was gaunt and gray and slow, oddly clumsy in the way he reached out of his steel cave, somehow more mechanical than human.

  His dress was equally perplexing. He wore a monkish cowl of thick gray stuff and a long gray robe gathered with a golden chain around his waist. Slung from the chain was a thin golden dagger, which glowed queerly in the dark of the lock.

  Quamodian wanted to turn and run. He couldn't understand anything about Scott's arrival. He didn't like the flat glitter of Scott's haggard eyes, or even the greasy spots on the clerical robe. A sour whiff of something inside the globe almost gagged him.

  "Andy!" the stranger shouted into the oxy-helium wind. "Come on aboard."

  He tried to get hold of himself. After all, he saw no actual danger, and he wanted help for Molly. He grasped the reaching hand, which felt colder than the wind, and scrambled up into the dim steel cell.

  "Solo!" He tried to force his stiffened face into a grin. "It's great luck you turned up just now, because Molly Zaldivar is desperate for your expert aid. If you'll read her message ..."

  "Forget it!" Scott's gray claw slapped carelessly at Molly's transfac tape. "Come out of this cold, so we can talk."

  But Quamodian hung back, his stomach turned by one glimpse of the gloomy space beyond the haggard man and the inner valve. Filthy rags and torn paper. Tumbled piles of broken scientific instruments. Empty plastic food containers. Dust and rust and human dung.

  "What's all this?" He couldn't help shivering. "I—I hardly knew you, Solo. What has happened to you?"

  "I suppose I am a changed man." Scott's quiet voice seemed almost rational. "What happened is that I learned something. I learned the message I bring to you."

  "Whatever happened, it's great good luck you came along." Quamodian raised his voice to hide revulsion, "Molly says the Companions back on Earth don't believe in rogue stars ..."

  'They're right." The gray cowl nodded solemnly. 'The rogues are a myth—that's something I learned." The gaunt man bent nearer, and Quamodian tried not to shrink from his breath. "Andy, the great thing I learned is that we human beings have always followed a false philosophy of life."

  The words seemed commonplace, but Scott's hollow voice gave them a hypnotic power that Quamodian knew he would never forget.

  "We tried to make competition the basic law of being. I guess we came to make that blunder because our forefathers had lived by hunting for too many million years, killing for survival. Anyhow, Andy, the rogue star is the mythic ideal of our killer kind. The perfect individual. Absolutely free. Omnipotent as anything. Immortal as the universe. Nothing anywhere can curb a rogue star."

  "I know." Quamodian nodded uneasily. "That's why I'm afraid ..."

  "The rogue was once my own ideal." The gaunt man ignored the interruption. "Hawk's, too, I should imagine. When I came here to set up the stellar section, I was competing with everybody else in my field of science. I was a man and that was the game. I had to challenge the best brains from all the galaxies, gathered here at Exion. I had to beat the robots, all linked together in their transflex webs, sharing memory banks and programs that united them into a single monstrous mind. I had to match all the multiple citizens, pooling their logical processes as the robots did. I had to compete with all my fellow human beings who had given up their individual freedom for symbiotic union with the fusorians." The gray cowl tossed. "That was the rogue ideal, which pitted me against Cliff Hawk, and led me out to the runaway star he found."

  "Solo, what happened there?"

  "I found Hawk's so-called rogue." Scorn chilled the grating voice. "No rogue at all. A sentient sun—but born so far from all the galaxies that it had never encountered another intelligence. A feeble thing, ignorant and afraid. In flight from the whole universe. Its untrained mind was weaker than my own. It was afraid of me!"

  He cackled into shrill laughter that bent him double and became a paroxysm of asthmatic wheezing. Quamodian caught his bony arm to steady him, and peered uncomfortably into his dark lair beyond the valve.

  'That was my lesson," Scott gasped when he could speak. "I never came back to the stellar section, because I've learned a higher principle. The law of association. That's the law that drew the first cells of life together to begin the evolution of man. The same law the plants obey When they exhale oxygen for men to breathe, and the law we obey when we exhale carbon dioxide for them. That's the law that ties men into families and clans and nations. Andy, that's the same universal law that is now knitting men and fusorians and sentient stars into the symbiotic citizen called Cygnus."

  "Maybe so," Quamodian muttered. "But what has this to do with my trip to Earth ..."

  "Forget the Earth." Scott's hoarse voice had become a croaking chant. "Forget Cliff Hawk and Molly Zaldivar. Forget all the false concerns of your misguided self and all the worthless goals you've been striving for. Forget the fool's law of competition. Try association."

  Quamodian was edging warily backward.

  "Listen, Andy." Scott's cold claws gripped his shoulder. "I've given up the rogue ideal. I'm telling the association story. That's my message for you. I beg you to join us in the universal fellowship of Cygnus."

  Swept with a sudden panic, Quamodian twisted free. He retreated to the outer valve and stopped there, frowning, grasping for sanity. "I guess everybody has to make his own terms with society," he said at last. "But I don't want symbiosis. As a Companion of the Star, I'm a useful citizen. All I really need is Molly Zaldivar ..."

  His voice caught when be saw the gray claws on that thin gold blade. He dodged back to get a breath of cleanair.

  "Watch it, Scott!" he gasped. "Don't touch me." "My touch is eternal life." Scott's flat, bright stare and his hollow voice held no trace of warmth or reason. "This syringe is loaded with symbiotic fusorians." His bloodless fist poised the glowing point. "A life-form older than our galaxy. Old enough to know the law of association. Flowing in your blood, the microscopic symbiotes will keep your body new. They'll mesh your mind with all of theirs, and with many billion human symbiotes, and with thesentient suns."

  "Hold on, Scott!
" Quamodian raised his empty hands and tried to calm his voice. "I can't quite imagine what you're up to. But I do know the citizen Cygnus—my own parents belong. I know that it allows no evangelism. People must ask to join. So I know you're somehow phony." He peered at the gaunt man. "If Molly didn't want you ..."

  "Let's forget our lonely selves," Scott was creaking. "Let's rejoice in everlasting union ..."

  As he spoke, the gold needle jabbed. Quamodian grabbed his sticklike wrist and felt a surge of metal force beneath the dirty robe. The needle quivered overhead, dripping yellow drops. Savage power forced it slowly downward.

  Quamodian gasped for breath and caught a nauseating reek. He lunged for open air. The gray robe tripped him. Falling against the wall of the lock, he clung to that twisting stick, fought it off his throat.

  "Forget the rogue!" Scott was wheezing. "Forget ..."

  His mad power died, and his rattling voice. The stick-wrist bent with a brittle crack. The lank frame slid down inside the dirty robe. Drops of gold fire spurted from the broken needle driven through the cowl.

  Quamodian looked once, and staggered out Into the icy wind. Hovering near, the flyer picked him up and carried him back to the edge of the ramp. before the robot guardians arrived. He lay gratefully back in his seat for a long time, shivering in the flyer's warmth and gasping for good air, before he started asking questions.

  'The guardians are unable to discover how Scott survived his encounter with the rogue star," the flyer informed him then. "They cannot determine how he got back to Exion Four, or why he landed here. But, they report that he is dead."

  "I guess—" Quamodian gulped uneasily. "I guess I killed him."

  'The guardians .observed the incident," the flyer said. “They saw him fall against the hypodermic needle which pierced his throat and caused his death. They will file no charge against-you."

  "How could the needle kill him?" Quamodian asked. "If it contained benign fusorians?"

  "But it didn't," the flyer said. "The luminescent fusorians in the syringe are not symbiotic. They are a related type, found in the reefs. of space, which act as a virulent toxin in the blood of your species. The guardians infer that Scott came here to murder you."