Dark Benediction

Roki pretended to ponder the statement while he eyed the big man coldly. “True, perhaps. It would he dangerous for you to go to Coph, I think. You would probably be killed rather quickly.”

The angry color reappeared, but the man smiled politely. “A nation of duelists, I believe, military in character, highly disciplined. Yes? They sometimes serve in the Sixty-Star Forces, eh?”

The words left no doubt in Roki’s mind that the Solarian knew who had blasted their ship and why. But he doubted that the man had guessed his identity.

“I know less of your world, Solarian.”

“Such ignorance is common. We are regarded as the galactic rurals, so to speak. We are too far from your dense star cluster.” He paused. “You knew us once. We planted you here. And I feel sure you will know us again.” He smiled to himself, finished his drink, and arose. “May we meet again, Cophian.”

Roki nodded and watched the giant stride away. Pok was breathing asthmatically and picking nervously at his nails. He let out a sigh of relief with the Solarian’s departure.

Roki offered the frightened interpreter a stiff drink, and then another. After two more, Pok swayed dizzily, then fell asleep across the table. Roki left him there. If Pok were an informer, it would be better to keep him out of the meeting with the patrol officer, Captain WeJan.

He hailed a cab and gave the driver the scrap of paper. A few minutes later, he arrived before a small building in the suburbs. WeJan’s name was on the door—written in the space-tongue—but the officer was not at home. Frowning, he tried the door; locked. Then, glancing back toward the street, he caught a glimpse of a man standing in the shadows. It was a Solarian.

Slowly, Roki walked across the street. “Got a match, Bristleface?” he grunted.

In the light of triple-moons, he saw the giant figure swell with rage. The man looked quickly up and down the street. No one was watching. He emitted a low animal-growl, exposing the brutal teeth. His arms shot out to grasp the Cophian’s shoulders, dragging him close.

Roki gripped the Multin automatic in his pocket and struggled to slip free. The Solarian jerked him up toward the bared teeth.

His throat about to be crushed, Roki pulled the trigger. There was a dull chug. The Solarian looked surprised. He released Roki and felt of his chest. There was no visible wound. Then, within his chest, the incendiary needle flared to incandescent heat. The Solarian sat down in the street. He breathed a frying sound. He crumpled. Roki left hastily before the needle burned its way out of the body.

He hadn’t meant to kill the man, and it had been in self-defense, but he might have a hard time proving it. He hurried along back alleys toward the spaceport. If only they could leave Tragor immediately!

What had happened to WeJan? Bribed, beaten, or frightened away. Then the Solarians did know who he was and where he was going. There were half a dozen men around the spaceport who knew—and the information would he easy to buy. Pok had known that he was to meet with WeJan, and the Solarian had evidently been sent to watch the captain’s quarters. It wasn’t going to be easy now—getting to Sol III and landing.

What manner of creatures were these, he wondered. Men who supplied mercy cargoes to the galactic nations—as if charity were the theme and purpose of their culture—yet who seemed as arrogant as the warriors of some primitive culture whose central value was brutal power? What did they really want here? The Solarian had called him “manthing” as if he regarded the Cophian as a member of some lesser species.

The Solarians were definitely different. Roki could see it. Their heads were plump and soft like a baby’s, hinting of some new evolutionary trend—a brain that could continue growing, perhaps. But the jaws, the teeth, the quick tempers, and the hypersensitive ears—what sort of animal developed such traits? There was only one answer: a nocturnal predator with the instincts of a lion. “You shall get to know us again,” the man had said.

It spelled politico-galactic ambitions. And it hinted at something else—something that made the Cophian shiver, and shy away from dark shadows as he hurried shipward.

Daleth Incorporated was either asleep or out. He checked at the ship, then went to the Administration Building to inquire about her. The clerk seemed embarrassed.

“Uh… E Roki, she departed from the port about five.”

“You’ve heard nothing of her since?”

“Well… there was a call from the police agency, I understand.” He looked apologetic. “I assure you I had nothing to do with the matter.”

“Police! What… what’s wrong, man?”

“I hear she went unescorted and unveiled. The police are holding her.”

“How long will they keep her?”

“Until some gentleman signs for her custody.”

“You mean I have to sign for her?”

“Yes, sir.”

Roki smiled thoughtfully. “Tell me, young man—are Tragorian jails particularly uncomfortable?”

“I wouldn’t know, personally,” the clerk said stiffly. “I understand they conform to the intergalactic ‘Code of Humanity’ however.”

“Good enough,” Roki grunted. “I’ll leave her there till we’re ready to go.”

“Not a bad idea,” murmured the clerk, who had evidently encountered the cigar-chewing lady from Daleth.

Roki was not amused by the reversal of positions, but it seemed as good a place as any to leave her for safekeeping. If the Solarians became interested in him, they might also notice his pilot.

He spent the following day watching the Sol ship, and waiting fatalistically for the police to come and question him about the Solarian’s death. But the police failed to come. A check with the news agencies revealed that the man’s body had not even been found. Roki was puzzled. He had left the giant lying in plain sight where he had fallen. At noon, the Solarian crew came bearing several lead cases slung from the centers of carrying poles. They wore metal gauntlets and handled the cases cautiously. Roki knew they contained radioactive materials. So that was what they purchased with their surgibank supplies—nuclear fuels.

Toward nightfall, they loaded two large crates aboard. He noted the shape of the crates, and decided that one of them contained the body of the man he had killed. Why didn’t they want the police to know? Was it possible that they wanted him free to follow them?

The Sol-ship blasted-off during the night. He was surprised to find it gone, and himself still unmolested by morning. Wandering around the spaceport, be saw WeJan, but the man had developed a sudden lapse of memory. He failed to recognize the Cophian visitor. With the Solarians gone, Roki grew bolder in his questioning.

“How often do the Solarians visit you?” he inquired of a desk clerk at Administration.

“Whenever a hospital places an order, sir. Not often. Every six months perhaps.”

“That’s all the traffic they have with Tragor?”

“Yes, sir. This is our only interstellar port.”

“Do the supplies pass through your government channels?”

The clerk looked around nervously. “Uh, no sir. They refuse to deal through our government. They contact their customers directly. The government lets them because the supplies are badly needed.”

Roki stabbed out bluntly. “What do you think of the Solarians?”

The clerk looked blank for a moment, then chuckled. “I don’t know, myself. But if you want a low opinion, ask at the spaceport cafe.”

“Why? Do they cause trouble there?”

“No, sir. They bring their own lunches, so to speak. They eat and sleep aboard ship, and won’t spend a thin galak around town.”

Roki turned away and went back to the Idiot. Somewhere in his mind, an idea was refusing to let itself be believed. A mercy ship visited Tragor every six months. Roki had seen the scattered, ruined cargo of such a ship, and he had estimated it at about four thousand pints of blood, six thousand pounds of frozen bone, and seven thousand pounds of various replaceable organs and tissues. That tonnage in itself was not so startling, but if Sol III supplied an equal amount twice annually to even a third of the twenty-eight thousand civilized worlds in the galaxy, a numbing question arose: where did they get their raw material? Surgibank supplies were