The Outposter Read online

  The guard turned his back on her and spoke to his mate.

  "Lift, Harry."

  Together, they picked up the limp body of Jarl Rakkal between them and carried it toward the little gate in the fence between the two landing stairs. The girl was left on her knees, staring after them. For a moment Mark hesitated, gazing at her. Then he turned away and mounted the passenger stairs.

  He stepped into the entry lounge and paused there at the desk of the duty officer to show his papers and give his name. The of­ficer accepted them with one hand, mean­while looking past Mark to the scene down by the foot of the stairs.

  "Admiral-General Jas Showell's kid," he said looking back at Mark. "Daddy should explain a few things to her." He glanced at Mark's papers, then at Mark's face. "Destination Ganera Six, Abruzzi Fourteen Station. First tour as an outposter?"

  "That's right. But I was born out there," said Mark.

  "Oh," said the duty officer. He stamped Mark's papers with the ship's signet and passed them back to him. "You'll be in state­room K Fourteen. Oh, by the way, here's a message that just came for you. To be held for your arrival on board."

  "Thanks," said Mark.

  He took the small, grey tube of the message cartridge and went past the desk, turning left down the long corridor gleaming whitely with the plastic surfacing that in this forward part of the ship hid the bare metal work of its structure. He passed the first circular ladder he came to, but mounted the second. At the first level up, he paused to sniff at a strange, flat scentlessness of the air. Then he con­tinued up one more level to a narrower, carpeted corridor along which he found the numbered door of his stateroom.

  He touched the blue latch button in the white concave outer surface of the door and stepped through as the door slid aside. It shut noiselessly behind him, and he looked about the twenty-by-seven-foot cubicle typical of a first-class accommodation on a ship like this. Two inflated armchairs, a table, and a short couch had already been extruded from panels in the walls, ready for his waking-hours occu­pancy. Other panels, still closed, held the collapsed structures that would transform the day-lounge appearance of the compart­ment into a bedroom for sleeping. He made a routine examination of the room, its equip­ment and storage cabinets, before taking out a message player and extruding a side table by one of the armchairs to hold it.

  He sat down in the armchair, inserted the message into the player, and flicked the switch.

  Abruptly the appearance of the compart­ment was gone from around him. Instead, he appeared to be seated in a room he knew well —the library-study of Wilkes Danielson, Mark's tutor since Mark's arrival on Earth from Garnera VI, five years before. The library was unchanged except for a new bookcase filling the corner where Mark's study console had formerly sat, to the left of the tall window on the other side of which was Wilkes's own console. Otherwise, in its heavy reference files, its bookcases full of ancient, paper-sheeted, cardboard-and-leather-bound books, the old room was the same.

  Mark could almost smell the books. Wilkes was sitting in his high wing chair, swivelled around now, away from his console, as Mark had seen him sit so many times in the eve­nings when their study periods were over, and their talk went off into many other topics— those same talks which had grown scarce, these last few years, as Mark had become more and more involved in the training needed to qualify him for his certificate as an outposter.

  Now the image of Wilkes Danielson looked at him—a slight, thin, black man in his mid-fifties, almost bald, but with something fragilely handsome and still youthful about him, underneath the wrinkles and the near-vanished hairline. The lips of the image moved, and Wilkes's voice came to Mark's ears.

  "Hello, Mark," it said. "I deliberately sent this on ahead of the ship, so that you wouldn't think I was still trying to talk you out of going."

  Wilkes hesitated.

  "I've done something you probably won't approve of—I don't know," he went on. "You never told me exactly why you wanted to go out and lose yourself there among the Colonies, when what everyone else wants—a secure home here in the Earth-City—could be yours almost for the asking. There are only ten Trophy winners in any academic year. With your Trophy and my recommendation it'd be only a matter of time until you made enough of a success for yourself, in any one of half a dozen fields, to be voted permanent ex­emption from the lottery ... but we've gone into this before..."

  Wilkes's eyes wandered. Once more he seemed to search for words.

  "I've never challenged you about your going out," he went on, after a few seconds, "be­cause I knew there was no point in asking if you didn't want to tell me. Ever since your foster father first sent you to me—a thirteen-year-old fresh from the Outposts—I've known two things. One, your mind isn't going to be changed on anything you set out to do, and two, whatever it is, if it's humanly possible, you'll end up doing it."

  He hesitated.

  "You're too intelligent to dedicate yourself to getting revenge for your parents—even if revenge were possible. How could anyone ever track down a Meda V'Dan ship that burn­ed an Outpost eighteen years ago? But what bothers all of us who've known you here is what other reason could there be for burying yourself in the Outposts and Colonies ? You're something more than just a Trophy winner, Mark. I've tutored Trophy winners before, which is why I've got my own exemption from the lottery. But in twenty-four years, Mark, I've never turned out one like you—"

  The thin, little man made a nervous gesture with one hand and dropped the subject in mid-sentence.

  "Never mind that," he said. "You'll be wondering when I'll get to the point, and what the point is. Briefly, it's that I've gone ahead and recommended you for the anthropology post at Alamogordo, just as if you were stay­ing here on Earth. And when they start to process it and find you gone, I'll continue re­newing my recommendation as long as I live."

  He straightened up and looked more direct­ly into the recorder that had taken down the message.

  "Which won't be long," he said. "I've had a new assessment of my bone cancer. A year and a half, they say now, at the most. After that, you'll always be able to come home to the Earth-City like any other outposter, but your chances of starting a career that can lead to lottery exemption are going to be close to zero. In a year and a half there will be two new classes of Trophy winners, and their tutors will still be alive and pushing them for all the posts that count.

  "Think about it, Mark, during the next year and a half," Wilkes said. "The Earth-City needs you, and you need it."

  The message ended abruptly, and the state­room was again visible around Mark. He reached out and took the message unit from the player, opened a wall compartment, and put both message and player out of sight.

  He had been close to Wilkes, as close as he had been to anyone on Earth. With an effort of will, he shrugged off the emotional appeal of the older man's message and put both of them out of his mind at once.

  Curiously, disconcertingly, he found him­self thinking instead about the girl at the foot of the boarding stairs, and loneliness was like a chill, heavy hand pressing down upon him.

  Chapter Two

  At 0643 hours, local time, loading was completed, all outer and inner doors locked, and the Wombat lifted. Four hours later the ship broke traffic pattern from Earth orbit and headed for open space on plasma engines. Nineteen hours after that, all doors still locked and personnel in position, it went into preparation for the first transportation shift.

  Twenty minutes later, with the shift suc­cessfully completed and recalculation begun, the sound of three notes chimed throughout the ship, including the speaker panel in one wall of Mark's stateroom.

  "The ship is now interstellar," said a voice from the panel as the last note died away. "All normal doors on unlock. The passenger lounge and dining areas are now open for service."

  Mark, who had waked from a light doze with the sound of the chimes, rose, and shaved and dressed as carefully as if he were still a trainee and going on parade. He />
  checked his side arm, slipped it into its leg holster, and went out of his room toward the main dining lounge.

  When he got there, the tables scattered around the wide, low-ceilinged but pleasant room were empty, except for one to the right of the door, halfway between it and a long table set against a farther wall. It was a small table set for three, and two men in outposter grey were already occupying two of its chairs, facing each other,

  One was a man no more than in his mid-thirties but already half-bald, his close-cropped black hair like a tonsure above his narrow, tanned face. The other man was per­haps ten years older, tall and built like an athlete, with stubbled grey-blond hair fitting his round head like a cap. The black-haired man was eating a steak, while the other was involved with a large order of ham and eggs. There was a bottle of aquavit in a bowl of ice on the table between them, already down by perhaps a sixth of its contents. Both men's side arms were drawn and laid on the table to the right of their plates.

  Mark, nodding to the half-bowing dining-room steward, walked over to the empty chair at their table and stood behind it.

  The other two went on eating and drinking without looking up. After a little more than a minute the black-haired man raised his eyes from his plate, but only to look across the table at the outposter opposite.

  "Looks like we've got ourselves another ap­prentice, Whin," he said.

  "I noticed," said Whin. His voice was more tenor than baritone, and slightly hoarse. He poured himself a small shot of the colourless, powerful liquor and swallowed it. Then, still without looking up, he added, "What's your name, Prents?"

  "Mark William Ten Roos," said Mark. "For Abruzzi Fourteen Station, Ganera Six."

  "That's Brot Halliday's station," said the black-haired man. For the first tune, he glanced up at Mark and examined him briefly, before turning back to Whin. "This must be that kid who's a Trophy winner. Chav and Lila's boy—you remember, Whin? Brot adopted him after a Meda V'Dan ship hit their Post Station, seventeen years ago—that right, Prents?"

  "Eighteen," said Mark.

  "Second generation," said Whin with his mouth full. He swallowed and he too glanced up at Mark. "Doesn't look much different from any other Prents to me. Want to let him sit down?"

  "Don't mind if you don't," said the other. He looked at Mark. "Sit down, Prents."

  Mark drew his side arm, laid it to the right of the plate on the table before him, and sat down. He did not touch the menu on the plate or anything on the table.

  "Know who you're talking to, Prents?" asked the dark-haired man. Mark nodded. "I checked the passenger and cargo lists before boarding," he said. "Senior Outposter Alvin Morthar and"—he looked at Whin—"Outpost Station Master Whinfeld Orby Proith."

  "All right," said Whin. "Let him eat, Al?"

  "Why not? Go ahead and order, Prents."

  Mark picked up the menu and unfolded it. To the understeward who materialized at his elbow, he indicated the second line from the bottom of the left-hand page.

  "Number four," he said. "Bacon, eggs, coffee."

  "Coffee?" said Alvin Morthar. He reached for the aquavit bottle and poured half a water-glassful into a tumbler before Mark's plate. "Drink that, Prents."

  "Thanks," said Mark, without moving to pick up the glass. "But no, thank you."

  "No!" Al's black eyebrows were suddenly straight in line above his eyes. He was not smiling. "Did you say no to me, Prents?"

  "Sorry," said Mark, looking back at him. "I may have duties."

  "Duties?" It was Whin. "What duties? You're not on Post yet."

  "There's a Meda V'Dan aboard," said Mark.

  The two old outposters stared at him.

  "What're you talking about, Ten Roos?" said Al. "There wasn't any Meda V'Dan on the passenger list I saw."

  "Probably he's one of the party of six listed with Admiral-General Jaseth Showell," said Mark.

  The other two sat looking hard at him.

  "You've got something special against the aliens on account of your folks, is that it?" Whin said.

  "Yes," said Mark.

  "What've you got in mind for this one—if there is one?" said Al. "Come to think of it, if the alien's not listed, how do you know he's aboard?"

  "They have deodorizers working on level J —didn't you smell the difference in the air there when you came aboard?" Mark said. "There's no reason for deodorizers in the pas­senger section unless it's to make it possible for a Meda V'Dan to live with us."

  Whin nodded, rubbing his lower lip thoughtfully with a long, heavy forefinger. "Sounds like it," he said.

  "I asked you," said Al, "what you had in mind for this alien if he is aboard."

  "I just want to send a message with him to the other Meda V'Dan," said Mark.

  "What kind of message?"

  "That Abruzzi Fourteen Station is open for trading."

  Al turned to Whin. "The kid wants to be raided," Al said, "so he can kill him some aliens."

  "Just so long as he doesn't plan to kill one on board here," said Whin. He turned pale, flat-looking blue eyes on Mark. "You aren't planning to use your gun on this Meda V'Dan?"

  "Only in self-defence."

  "Then there's no worry," said Whin to Al. "Whoever the alien is, he won't even talk to anyone but his own interpreter, let alone admit he recognizes an outposter in the same room with him."

  "Good enough," said Al, sitting back. He turned to Mark. "But I think, just to play safe you better drink down that aquavit after all."

  Mark did not move to pick up the glass.

  "Duties," he said.

  Their eyes locked.

  "Let's not push him, Al," said Whin unex­pectedly. " 'Duties' is a big word."

  Al sat back again.

  "All right, Prents," he said. "But you better look good every way else the rest of this trip."

  The understeward came with Mark's break­fast order, but as he picked up a fork to eat, a female voice spoke at his ear.

  "Sir—Mr. Ten Roos? If you don't mind?"

  He turned, saw the girl of the landing stairs, and got to his feet, pushing his chair back.

  "Miss Showell?" he said. "Have you met Senior Outposter Alvin Morthar, Outpost Station Master Whinfeld Orby Proith?"

  "Oh, pleased to meet you both." She looked at Mark. "But could I speak to you privately for a moment, though?"

  "Of course." Mark followed her toward the empty side of the room where the long table gleaming with silverware still waited for the ship's captain and his particular guests.

  "I'm sorry," she said, in a low voice, halting at last beside the long table. "I wanted to apologize for acting the way I did out there. The guards explained to me that they'd have had to shoot Jarl if you hadn't stopped him the way you did. You really saved his life for him, doing what you did. I didn't under­stand."

  Her tone was soft, almost humble. They were standing close together, and she was dressed now in some flowing, filmy blue stuff that floated around her as she moved and hovered as she stayed still. Within it, looking down at the floor, she seemed both small and innocent, and once more he felt the deep at­traction to her that had laid hold of him when he had first seen her outside the ship. He had to remind himself that all that operated upon his emotion was probably a pose, that she was of that class accustomed to getting its own way regardless of the means used.

  She would, Mark told himself, have some­thing up her sleeve, to seek him out and apolo­gize this way. However forewarned was fore­armed, and it would do no harm to play along with her until her motives were revealed.

  "I didn't expect you to," said Mark.

  "But that's no excuse. I should have known." She smiled up at him. "But it's like someone like you, I suppose, not to blame me. Look, I'd like my father to meet someone like you. He's—oh, I suppose you know?"

  "Admiral-General Showell." Mark nodded.

  "Why don't you have breakfast with us here, at the captain's table?"

  "Thank you," said Mark, "but the captai
n hasn't asked me. Also, I've already ordered breakfast at my regular table."

  "They can bring it over here. And don't worry about the captain. As long as you're part of Dad's party—" She broke off to turn and speak to a passing understeward about bringing Mark's breakfast order to the captain's table.

  "Come on," she said, leading him up the table to two chairs near the head of it, "sit down with me here, and tell me about out-posters. It's really sad. I don't know anything about your people. I don't think Dad does either—the way he should."

  She pulled a chair out from the table. He held it for her as she sat down, then took the chair beside it that she had pointed out a second before.

  "Would you like a drink?" she said, as an understeward came to hover over them. "No? I'll have a crushed rum and orange juice, steward. Mark—you don't mind my calling you Mark?" There was a glittering cube of some polished material hanging by a chain around her neck—an expensive alien orna­ment of the sort in which the Meda V'Dan traded. It twirled, catching his eyes with flashes of light as she spoke.

  "No," said Mark.

  "I asked the duty officer your name when I came on board. My name's Ulla. You can call me that if you like." She grimaced. "That was pretty bad of me out there. I called you a "dis­posable." That's as bad as calling the colo­nists "garbage."

  An understeward slid a tall fluted glass of orange liquid before Ulla and placed a plate with bacon and eggs in front of Mark.

  "The names exist," said Mark. "And every­one's got one."

  "Everyone?" She stared at him, her glass in hand. "Oh, go ahead and eat. But there are only you outposters and the colonists out there who have names."

  "There's the Navy. And the Meda V'Dan."

  The pupils of her eyes enlarged.

  "The Navy?" she echoed. "You mean the men under Dad's command at some place like Blue One—there's a name for them?"

  "Men and officers. Everyone," said Mark, eating. "They're called 'scarecrows.'"

  "Scarecrows?" She had put her glass back down without tasting its contents. "Why?"