Between Planets (7 page)

The officer looked up from a desk. “Get that sour look off your puss, Don,” he snapped. “I haven’t had much sleep either.”

“What do you want of me?”

“Take off your clothes.”

“Why?”

“Because we are going to search you. You didn’t really think I’d let you take off without it, did you?”

Don planted his feet. “I’ve had just about enough pushing around,” he said slowly. “If you want my clothes off you’ll have to do it.”

The police officer scowled. “I could give you a couple of convincing answers to that, but I am fresh out of patience. Kelly! Arteem! Strip him.”

Three minutes later Don had an incipient black eye and was nursing a damaged arm. He decided that it was not broken, after all. The lieutenant and his assistants had disappeared into a rear room with his clothing and pouch. It occurred to him that the door behind him did not seem to be locked, but he dropped the idea; making a dash for it through Gary Station in his skin did not appear to make sense.

Despite the inevitable defeat his morale was better than it had been in hours.

The lieutenant returned presently and shoved his clothes at him. “Here you are. And here’s your ticket. You may want to put on clean clothes; your bags are back of the desk.”

Don accepted them silently, ignored the suggestion about a change in order to save time. While he was dressing the lieutenant said suddenly, “When did you pick up that ring?”

“Forwarded to me from school.”

“Let me see it.”

Don took it off and flung it at him. “Keep it, you thief!”

The lieutenant caught it and said mildly, “Now, Don, it’s nothing personal.” He looked the ring over carefully, then said, “Catch!” Don caught it and put it back on, picked up his bags and started to leave. “Open sky,” said the lieutenant.

Don ignored him.

“‘Open sky,’ I said!”

Don turned again, looked him in the eye and said, “Some day I hope to meet you socially.” He went on out. They had spotted the paper after all; he had noticed that it was missing when he got back his clothes and pouch.

This time he took the precaution of getting an anti-nausea shot before up-ship. After he had stood in line for that he had barely time to be weighed in before the warning signal. As he was about to get into the elevator he saw what he believed to be a familiar figure lumbering onto the cargo lift nearby—“Sir Isaac Newton.” At least it looked like his passing acquaintance of the day before, though he had to admit that the difference in appearance between one dragon and another was sometimes a bit subtle for the human eye.

He refrained from whistling a greeting; the events of the past few hours had rendered him less naive and more cautious. He thought about those events as the elevator mounted up the ship’s side. It was unbelievably only twenty-four hours, less in fact, since he had gotten that radio message. It seemed like a month and he himself felt aged ten years.

Bitterly he reflected that they had outwitted him after all. Whatever message lay concealed in that wrapping paper was now gone for good. Or bad.

Couch 64 in the
Glory Road
was one of a scant half dozen on the third deck; the compartment was almost empty and there were marks on the deck where other couches had been unbolted. Don found his place and strapped his bags to the rack at its foot. While he was doing so he heard a rich Cockney voice behind him; he turned and whistled a greeting.

“Sir Isaac Newton” was being cautiously introduced into the compartment from the cargo hold below with the help of about six spaceport hands. He whistled back a courteous answer while continuing to supervise the engineering feat via voder. “Easy, friends, easy does it! Now if two of you will be so kind as to place my left midship’s foot on the ladder, bearing in mind that I cannot see it—Wups! Mind your fingers. There, I think I can make it now. Is there anything breakable in the way of my tail?”

The boss stevedore answered, “All clear, chief. Upsy-daisy!”

“If you mean what I think you mean,” answered the Venerian, “then, ‘On your mark; get set—GO!’” There was a crunching metallic sound, a tinkle of breaking glass, and the huge saurian scrambled up out of the hatch. Once there he turned cautiously around and settled himself in the space left vacant for him. The spaceport hands followed him and secured him to the deck with steel straps. He waggled an eye at the straw boss. “You, I take it, are the chieftain of this band?”

“I’m in charge.”

The Venerian’s tendrils quitted the keys of the voder, sought out a pouch by it, and removed a sheaf of paper money. He laid it on the deck and returned to the keys. “Then, sir, will you favor me by accepting this evidence of my gratitude for a difficult service well performed and distribute it among your assistants equitably and according to your customs, whatever they may be?”

The human scooped it up and shoved it into his pouch. “Sure thing, chief. Thanks.”

“The honor is mine.” The laborers left and the dragon turned his attention to Don, but, before they could exchange any words, the last of the compartment’s human freight came down from the deck above. It was a family party; the female head thereof took one look inside and screamed.

She swarmed back up the ladder, causing a traffic jam with her descendants and spouse as she did so. The dragon swiveled two eyes in her direction while waving the others at Don. “Dear me!” he keyed. “Do you think it would help if I were to assure the lady that I have no anthropophagic tendencies?”

Don felt acutely embarrassed; he wished for some way to disown the woman as a blood sister and member of his race. “She’s just a stupid fool,” he answered. “Please don’t pay any attention to her.”

“I fear me that a merely negative approach will not suffice.”

Don whistled an untranslatable dragon sound of contempt and continued with “
May her life be long and tedious
.”

“Tut, tut,” the dragon tapped back. “Unreasoned anguish is nonetheless real. ‘To understand all is to forgive all’—one of your philosophers.”

Don did not recognize the quotation and it seemed pretty extreme to him, in any case. He was sure that there were things he would never forgive no matter how well he understood them—some recent events, in fact. He was about to say so when both their attentions were arrested by sounds pouring down the open hatchway. Two and perhaps more male voices were engaged in an argument with a shrill female voice rising over them and sometimes drowning them out. It appeared (a) that she wanted to speak to the captain (b) that she had been carefully brought up and had never had to put up with such things (c) that those hideous monsters should never be allowed to come to Earth; they should be exterminated (d) that if Adolf were half a man he wouldn’t just stand there and let his own wife be treated so (e) she intended to write to the company and that her family was not without influence and (f) that she
demanded
to speak to the captain.

Don wanted to say something to cover it up but he was fascinated by it. Presently the sounds moved away and died out; a ship’s officer came down the hatch and looked around. “Are you comfortable?” he said to “Sir Isaac Newton.”

“Quite, thank you.”

He turned to Don. “Get your bags, young man, and come with me. The captain has decided to give his nibs here a compartment to himself.”

“Why?” asked Don. “My ticket says couch sixty-four and I like it here.”

The ship’s officer scratched his chin and looked at him, then turned to the Venerian. “Is it all right with you?”

“Most certainly. I shall be honored by the young gentleman’s company.”

He turned back to Don. “Well…all right. I’d probably have to hang you on a hook if I moved you anyway.” He glanced at his watch and swore. “If I don’t get a move on, we’ll miss take-off and have to lay over a day.” He was up and out of the compartment as he spoke.

The final warning sounded over the announcing system; a hoarse voice followed it with, “All hands! Strap down! Stand by for lift—” The order was followed by a transcription of the brassy strains of Le Compte’s
Raise Ship!
Don’s pulse quickened; excitement mounted in him. He felt ecstatically happy, eager to be back in space again, back where he belonged. The bad, confusing things of the past day washed out of his mind; even the ranch and Lazy grew dim.

So timed was the transcribed music that the rocket-blast effect of the final chorus merged into the real blast of the ship’s tubes; the
Glory Road
stirred and lifted…then threw herself away into the open sky.

T
HE WEIGHT
of acceleration was no worse than it had been the day before in the
Santa Fé Trail
but the drive persisted for more than five minutes, minutes that seemed like an endless hour. After they passed the speed of sound the compartment was relatively quiet. Don made a great effort and managed to turn his head a little. “Sir Isaac Newton’s” great bulk was flattened to the deck, making Don think unpleasantly of a lizard crushed into a road. His eyestalks drooped like limp asparagus. He looked dead.

Don strained for breath and called out, “Are you all right?”

The Venerian did not stir. His voder instrument was covered by the sagging folds of his neck; it seemed unlikely that his tendrils could have managed the delicate touch required for its keys even had it been free. Nor did he reply in his own whistling speech.

Don wanted to go to him, but he was as immobilized by the blast weight as is the bottommost player in a football pile up. He forced his head back where it belonged a so that he might breathe less painfully and waited.

When the blast died away his stomach gave one protesting flip-flop, then quieted down; either the anti-nausea shot had worked or he had his space balance again—or both. Without waiting for permission from the control room he quickly unstrapped and hurried to the Venerian. He steadied himself in the air, holding with one hand to the steel bands restraining his companion.

The dragon was no longer crushed to the deckplates; only the steel hoops kept him from floating around the compartment. Behind him his giant tail waved loosely, brushing the ship’s plates and knocking off paint chips.

The eyestalks were still limp and each eye filmed over. The dragon stirred only in the meaningless motion of string in water; there was nothing to show that he was alive. Don clenched a fist and pounded on the creature’s flat skull. “Can you hear me? Are you all right?”

All he got out of it was a bruised hand; Sir Isaac made no response. Don hung for a moment, wondering what to do. That his acquaintance was in a bad way he felt sure, but his training in first aid did not extend to Venerian pseudo-saurians. He dug back into his childhood memories, trying to think of something.

The same ship’s officer who had rearranged the berthing appeared at the forward or “upper” hatch, floating head “down.” “All okay this deck?” he inquired perfunctorily and started to back out.

“No!” Don shouted. “Case of blast shock.”

“Huh?” The officer swam on into the compartment and looked at the other passenger. He swore unimaginatively and looked worried. “This is beyond me; I never carried one before. How the deuce do you give artificial respiration to a thing as big as that?”

“You don’t,” Don told him. “His lungs are completely enclosed in his armor box.”

“He looks dead. I think he’s stopped breathing.”

A memory floated to the top in Don’s mind; he snatched it. “Got a cigarette?”

“Huh? Don’t bother me! Anyhow the smoking lamp is out.”

“You don’t understand,” Don persisted. “If you’ve got one, light it. You can blow smoke at his nostril plate and see whether or not he’s breathing.”

“Oh. Well, maybe it’s a good idea.” The spaceman got out a cigarette and struck it.

“But be careful,” Don went on. “They can’t stand nicotine. One big puff and then put it out.”

“Maybe it’s not such a good idea,” the ship’s officer objected. “Say, you sound like a Venus colonial?”

Don hesitated, then answered, “I’m a Federation citizen.” It seemed like a poor time to discuss politics. He moved over to the dragon’s chin, braced his feet against the deckplates and shoved, thus exposing the Venerian’s nostril plate, which was located under the creature’s head in the folds of his neck. Don could not have managed it, save that they were in free fall, making the bulky mass weightless.

The man blew smoke at the exposed opening. It eddied forward, then some of it curled inside; the dragon was still alive.

Still very much alive. Every eyestalk sprang to rigid attention; he lifted his chin, carrying Don with it, then he sneezed. The blast struck Don where he floated loosely and turned him over and over. He threshed in the air for a moment before catching a handhold on the hatch ladder.

The ship’s officer was rubbing one wrist. “The beggar clipped me,” he complained. “I won’t try that again soon. Well, I guess he’ll be all right.”

Sir Isaac whistled mournfully; Don answered him. The spaceman looked at him. “You savvy that stuff?”

“Some.”

“Well, tell him to use his squawk box. I don’t!”

Don said, “Sir Isaac—use your voder.”

The Venerian tried to comply. His tentacles hunted around, found the keys of the artificial voice box, and touched them. No sounds came out. The dragon turned an eye at Don and whistled a series of phrases.

“He regrets to say that its spirit has departed,” Don interpreted.

The ship’s officer sighed. “I wonder why I ever left the grocery business? Well, if we can get it unlatched from him, I’ll see if ‘Sparks’ can fix it.”

“Let me,” said Don and squirmed into the space between the dragon’s head and the deckplates. The voder case, he found, was secured to four rings riveted to the Venerian’s skin plates. He could not seem to find the combination; the dragon’s tendrils fluttered over his hands, moved them gently out of the way, unfastened the box, and handed it to him. He wiggled out and gave it to the man. “Looks like he kind of slept on it,” he commented.

“A mess,” the other agreed. “Well, tell him I’ll have them fix it if possible and that I’m glad he wasn’t hurt.”