The Star Virus

At first Rodrone thought the captain was going to disobey his order. But at the last minute the circular port slid open. Following a long established procedure, the pilot of the raft landed it squarely against the hull and fixed it there with adhesive clamps; they had abandoned the use of magnetic clamps when an enterprising defender had expelled their attack raft by applying a reverse magnetic field, leaving the boarders stranded in a hostile ship. A dozen men clambered out of the raft and drifted cautiously to the opening.

Rodrone was half expecting a trap. The captains of most house-owned ships did not have the stomach for a fight, but the present one would be in a state of fright because of his expected encounter with the Streall. But the chamber within was empty. Using their gas jets they moved to the inner port and operated the lock. The outer port closed, and in the next instant the inner one opened.

Facing them was a broad-shouldered man in a gaudy uniform. His insignia announced him as the second officer.

"You can put those away," he said, waving nonchalantly at their weapons. "You're in luck; the captain has decided to do business with you. If the rest will remain here, your leader may accompany me to the control room."

Rodrone pointed to Clave and stepped forward, accompanied by his sidekick. The second officer frowned. "I did say one . . . but… well, all right then."

Before leaving, Rodrone turned to the others. "If anything seems fishy, do something. The initiative's yours."

With a dignified, hurt silence the officer conducted them along corridors of plastic metal. Once he invited them to break the seals on their space helmets, but they declined. It was bad tactics to rely on an air supply which could easily be contaminated by the other party.

The control room was already occupied by three men, the captain and two crew members. Rodrone knew from their shifty looks that they were armed, though the weapons were not visible.

"All right," the captain began in clipped tones. He looked as if he was under great strain. "I suppose you want my cargo. Well, it's a good haul. We're carrying Daimler silks and quinqualine, mainly. Very costly materials. So make me an offer. I don't expect to get a fair price from you scoundrels, but let me tell you that I'll fight rather than let it go for a ruinous one…"

He trailed off. Something in Rodrone's ominous silence unnerved him.

"Well dammit, get on with it!" he cried in exasperation. "You robbers are absolutely intolerable. You board my ship at gunpoint, you jam my communicators—an even worse breach of principle—and then you stand there like robots without even the courtesy of uncovering your faces!"

Rodrone broke his silence, his voice sounding through the speaker on his chest.

“Item 401."

The captain's face paled. He seemed unable to believe that the very worst was happening. "What do you mean?"

"Your silks and quinqualines are safe this time. We only want one small item. No. 401 on your list of lading."

"Impossible." The captain had to lean on a panel of the capacious control boards, as if in danger of falling. "I don't know where you heard about it or why you want it, but in any case it's—it's—"

"It's wanted by the Streall," Clave finished for him. His dry voice chuckled eerily from his suit speaker. "Don't worry, honor's satisfied. You can't do a thing against our firepower."

As Clave spoke, Rodrone moved against the two crew-men, his suited body bulking frighteningly over them. They made no move under the threat of his battle beamer and he quickly disarmed them. Then he moved ponderously about the control room, hurling open cupboards, pulling open drawers and flinging stacks of papers to the floor.

At the same time he switched off his suit speaker and put himself in contact with the men by the entrance port. "Proceed to the stowage area," he instructed. "You are looking for cargo item 401."

"What do you want; what are you doing?" shouted the captain, his fear drowning in fury.

"Your stowage listing!" Rodrone boomed at him. "We could spend hours rummaging in that hold of yours!" He wanted to move fast, to offset the chance that the crew might be well-informed enough to prepare a fake cargo item.

"We don't have stowage listings. Everything's sorted out at the unloading."

Rodrone didn't believe him. In the interests of rapid delivery there was nearly always a pattern to the stowage dispositions.

He continued to search. But a scant ten minutes later his communicator beeped.

"We've found it, chief. We managed to persuade one of the staff to be our guide."

"Is it portable?"

"Yeah, if you've got two or three pairs of spare hands."

"Good, then it will go through the personnel port. Move it to the raft and we'll join you there."

"Are we taking anything else? They've got some good stuff."