The Star Virus

"Damned planet-bound trash!" the redhead cursed. "They started it, not us. We lost four inside: three men and a girl. We ought to hammer this town right into the ground."

"Never mind about that, let's get out of here."

Kulthol yelled a command. They all broke into a run, quickly covering the remaining distance to the runabouts. Less than a minute later they were roaring towards the outskirts of Maintown in a reckless convoy. As they struck the desert, Ruby apparently turned her instrument up to an unexpectedly powerful amplification, for the howling shrieks of the organ reached out to them to set their skulls vibrating.

The lights receded behind them, the wheels of the trucks riding quietly over the yellow dust. Rodrone's pity for the town was mingled with contempt, as well as disgust for the woman responsible for its degradation. Behind them, headlights probing the darkness told him that a pursuit was in progress. Picking up a bulky beam tube from the floor of the truck, he sent a searing bolt of destructive energy crackling over the desert. Let them bite on that.

But the danger was past, apart from a few random shots that zipped occasionally past them. In minutes they had reached the ships and without delay winched the trucks aboard. Rodrone made straight for the control room, where he sat brooding for some minutes, vaguely aware that some of his crew had excitedly manned the ship's armaments and were sending warning shots crashing into the desert floor. If he gave his men their head, he thought, they would probably wipe out the pursuers in revenge for the killings, and follow it up by destroying the town.

Kulthol's face appeared on an image plate, transmitting from the Revealer. "Shall we sit here or take off?"

"Take off. This place nauseates me."

"Me too. How about dropping a shell on the whole nasty little mess? They deserve it."

"No, let them alone, they've got punishment enough." Kulthol did not understand him, but made no reply.

Thoughtfully Rodrone took the pilot's seat and gave the warning takeoff signals. The air thrummed momentarily as the drover engines took effect, herding atoms so as to produce an irresistible net motion in one direction, and the Stond slid smoothly into the air. Swiftly they rose beyond the atmosphere. Kulthol's face showed itself again. "Orbit? Or do we have a destination?"

"We do." Rodrone fished in his pocket and brought out the last piece of paper he had torn from the Jal-Dee computer's print-out unit. He held it up to the scanner tube. "Take a record of this. We'll intercept at the earliest point possible. Work it out for me, will you, and give me the figures."

"A cargo, yet!" Kulthol crowed. "Have they got something nice?"

"We're not robbing Jal-Dee this time," Rodrone told him. "We're doing a snatch from the Streall."

He noted the startled look on Kulthol's face, followed by a pensive, nervous look in his eye. But he gave him no time to argue.

"Call me back with the figures. I'll explain when we're en route." With that, he cut the connection.

III

Rodrone pointedly ignored the divided opinion that he knew had arisen both within his own ship and the Revealer coasting on a parallel course some dozen miles distant. Loyalty, obedience and faith in his judgment were qualities that he never attempted to cultivate in any under his command. He led by pure nerve. He did not believe in permanent coercion, either physical or psychological.

Paradoxically, it was the best method of creating a dependable following, though not always conducive to the interests of safety. The fool, the madman, the crank, obstinately oblivious to dangers frighteningly obvious to anyone else, often took up the lead at the point where the nerve of the more cautious faltered.

At any rate, Rodrone was adamant in his resolve and the misgivings of a few crew members soon ceased to reach his ears, as he had known they would. And in one companion at least, he had every possible support: Clave delighted in the prospect of an escapade that would enrage both the house of Jal-Dee and the awesome Streall in one blow.

He knew little, of course, of the heady, crazed moment of feeling that had prompted Rodrone's decision. It had felt like pulling out the rock that would bring an avalanche down on his own head; but once he had formed it, he refused to reverse his intention. Anything over which the inhuman Streall took such trouble must possess unusual properties. Probably it was a Streall artifact, which itself was sufficient to arouse Rodrone's interest.