to be still, he dared not even shift his eyes now. There was something here, something which broadcast such a threat of menace that it tore at his nerves.
Dane forced himself to breathe deeply, evenly. Mura was there, but he could not turn his head to make sure—A fraction of an inch at a time he began to shift his position. He had no idea of what he had to face as yet, but fear was there—he could almost taste it, see it as a murky cloud in the air.
He could see the door now, and from beyond he could hear the murmur of voices. Perhaps both the Captain and Van Rycke were still in the outer room. Yes, the door, and now a scrap of the wall by it. His eyes took in a Tri- Dee painting, a vivid landscape from some eerie world, a world dead, sterile of life, and yet in its way beautiful. Now he dared to move his hand, burrowing under those feather-weight covers, striving to arouse Mura, sure that the other would not betray himself, even when waking.
Hand moved, head moved. The picture—and beyond it a strip of woven stuff hanging, glittering with threads which might have been spun of emerald and diamond, a bright, too bright thing which hurt the eyes. And now by that, his shoulders blotting out part of it—
Salzar!
Only an exercise of will such as he had not known he could command kept Dane immovable. Luckily the outlaw was not watching the bed. He was taking a serpent’s silent way to the door.
To all outward appearances he was a man again, but there was no sanity in those dark fixed eyes. And in his hands he fondled a weird tube set on an oddly shaped handstock, a thing which must be a weapon. He was gone from in front of the hanging, his head cut the picture. Three feet more and he would be at the door. But the hand Dane had sent to warn Mura was met, enfolded in a warm grasp. He had an ally!
Dane tried to plan the next move. He was on his back, muffled in the thick covers of the bed. It would be impossible to jump Salzar without warning. Yet the outlaw must not be allowed to reach the door and use that weapon.
The hand which Mura had grasped now received a message—it was pushed back towards him forcefully. He hoped that he interpreted that correctly. He tensed and, as a wild cry broke from the throat of his bedmate, Dane rolled over the edge to the floor.
Lightning rent the air, fire burst from the bed. But Dane’s hand closed on a strip of Paravian carpet and he gave it a furious tug. Salzar did not lose his balance, but he fell back against the wall. He swung the weapon towards the scrambling cargo-apprentice. Then hands, competent, unhurried, closed about his throat from behind and dragged him to Van Rycke’s barrel chest as the cargo-master proceeded to systematically choke him into submission. Dane and Mura got up from the floor, the blazing bed between them.
There was more confusion, an eruption of Patrolmen, the removal of Salzar and some hasty firefighting. Dane settled down on a bench with a confirmed distaste for beds. Just let him get back to his bunk on the Queen—that was all he asked. If he could ever bring himself to try and sleep again.
Van Rycke laid the captured weapon down on the table. “Something new,” he commented. “Perhaps another Forerunner toy, or maybe just loot. The Feds can puzzle it out. But at least we know that the dear doctor is now under control.”
“Thanks to you, sir!” Dane gave credit where it was due.
Van Rycke’s brows raised. “I only supplied the end—there might have been another had we not had warning. Your voice, I believe, Frank,” he nodded to the steward.
Mura yawned politely behind his hand. His tunic was hanging open, he had a slightly dishevelled air, but his emotions were all neatly under cover as always.
“A joint enterprise, sir,” he returned. “I would not have been awake to cry out had not Thorson attended to it. He also delivered the motive power with the carpet. It is a wonder to me why Salzar did not burn us first, before he tried to get at you—”
Dane shivered. The smell of the burned bed clothing was strong enough to turn his stomach. He wanted fresh air and lots of it. Also he did not want to think of such alternatives as Mura had just spoken about.
“That seals it up,” Captain Jellico came back into the room followed by the Patrol Commander. “You’ve got Rich—what do we do—continue to sit on our fins while you comb the mountains to discover how many ships he smashed up here with that hellish gadget of his?”
“I don’t think, Captain, that you will have to stay much longer,” began the Commander when Van Rycke interrupted:
“Oh, we’re in no great hurry. There is the problem of our rights on Limbo. That hasn’t been discussed as yet. We have a Survey Auction claim, duly paid for and registered, reinforced by an “All Rights” claim good for twelve Terran months. How much these cover salvage and disposal of wrecks found here, and their contents, must be decided—”
“Wrecks as a result of criminal activity,” began the Commander once more, only to have the cargo-master cut in smoothly for the second time:
“But there were wrecks here before Salzar found the planet. The machine appears to have run erratically since the Forerunners left. Historically speaking there must be a mine of priceless relics buried in the soil of these mountains. Since those smash-ups cannot be considered the result of criminal activity, I do not doubt we can advance a very legal claim to them. Our men discovered—and without much of a search—at least two ships which antedate Salzar’s arrival here. Two—there may be hundreds—” he beamed good naturedly at the Commander.
Captain Jellico, listening, lost much of his impatience. He came to sit down beside his cargo-master as if ready to conduct a perfectly normal trade conference.
The Patrolman laughed. “You’re not going to pull me into any such squabble, Cargo-master. I can relay your claim and protest to Headquarters—but at the same time I can send you off to quarantine station on Poldar—that’s our nearest post—at once—under escort if necessary. I don’t think that the Federation is going to turn over any Limbian rights to anyone for some time to come.”
“If they move to cancel contracts made in good faith,” Van Rycke pointed out, “they are going to pay for it. In addition there will be Video men on Poldar—and we are not Patrol—your rule of silence does not in any way prevent us from answering questions as to our activities of the past few days. This is colourful news, Commander—in a manner of speaking a legend come to life. ‘The Sargasso of Space’—a planet filled with a treasury of long lost ships. The romance of it—” Van Rycke’s eyes half closed, as if he were slightly overcome by the romantic aspects of his own speech. “You will draw sightseers from all over the Galaxy.”
“Yes,” Captain Jellico chimed in, “and they’ll come equipped with digging apparatus too. Van,” he spoke to the cargo-master, “this is going to be a big thing—”
“How true. Luxury hotels—guided tours—claims staked out for digging. A fortune—a veritable fortune.”
“No one will land here without official permission!” The Commander struck back.
“Then I do not envy you the patrol you’ll have to keep. How the Video boys will love this story,” Van Rycke went back into his daydream. “And,” he opened his eyes wide and stared straight at the Commander, “you needn’t have any thoughts about putting us in cold storage either. We shall appeal to Trade in Hyper code—that you can’t jam.”
The Patrolman appeared hurt. “Have we given you any indication that we intend to treat you as criminals?”
“Not at all—just some hints here and there. Oh, we’ll go off to quarantine like the good, honest, law-abiding Galactic citizens that we are. But as good, honest, law abiding citizens we shall also tell our story far and wide— unless some adequate arrangements may be made.”
The Commander came directly to the point: “And what is your idea of an ‘adequate arrangement’?”
“Suitable reparation for our loss of claims here—along with reward money.”
“What reward?”
Van Rycke ticked points off on his fingers. “You landed here intact because men from the Queen had turned off that installation. The same party from our ship discovered the Rimbold. I believe you have been feverishly seeking her for some time now. And we also delivered Salzar to you, neatly done up in a package. I can undoubtedly make other additions to this list—”
Once more the Patrolman laughed. “Who am I to argue with a Trader over his proper profit? I’ll post your claim at Headquarters if you promise to hold your collective tongues at quarantine—”
“For a week,” Van Rycke answered. “Just seven Terran days. Then Video shall have the story of our lives. So tell your big brass to get moving. We’ll lift today—or rather tonight—and we’ll go to Poldar. Also we shall notify
