The Star Virus

"I'd like to but… we'll have trouble on our hands if we don't put a bit of distance between ourselves and here." He had not bothered to deaden his suit speaker for the last exchange and the captain evidently took great exception to his attitude. "You don't care how much trouble you leave in my hands," he objected in an aggrieved tone.

Clave lifted his gloved hand in a mock salute. "Some people are just born with the cards stacked against them," he said. "Don't worry, it wasn't your fault."

"Would you like to have to explain that to the Streall?" The captain's fear of the aliens was exaggerated and superstitious. Rodrone did not bother to explain that their cold logic would attach no blame to him, once they were persuaded that he was telling the truth.

Leaving the control room they made their way quickly to the personnel port. The others were coming up the corridor, pushing a big crate on a set of castors. Rodrone operated the port lock.

The inner lid should have swung open. But nothing happened.

Rodrone cursed. It was clear what was taking place. The captain had decided upon a last desperate attempt to foil the bandits, even if only for the sake of the record, now that the danger to himself personally was remote. By means of the central controls he had locked the ports fast, and now would be dispatching armed men to attempt to recover Rodrone's prize.

"Cover the corridor," he snapped. He had barely spoken when figures appeared around the corner and let loose a few zipping pencil-beams from handguns. No harm was done, and the assailants soon took cover when Rodrone's men returned the fire. Like most bondsmen, they did not have the stomach for a really determined fight.

Consequently only an occasional energy pencil flashed at random down the corridor. Rodrone motioned to a man who held a heavy-duty beam tube, silently indicating the inner door of the port. The man directed the broad beam on to the edge of the door, blasting a head-sized hole. Savagely Rodrone kicked the panel with the heel of his boot, then yanked at the emergency manual handle. Reluctantly the door slid back, its clamping field broken.

From then on their exit went without difficulty. Roughly they manhandled the crate through the door. Once free of the ship's artificial gravity, it floated in the globular cavity, drifting and rotating with inertia. Rodrone beckoned his men into the interport chamber, while the outer door received the same treatment as the first. As the panel was punctured, an automatic bulkhead slammed down behind them, cutting them off from immediate attack. A second or two later a woosh of air pushed them all out into space.

Then, clumsily because they had only their gas jets for leverage, they maneuvered the crate to the raft. Even while it was being lashed down the pilot took off, vibrating away towards the Stond that nestled gleamingly against the brilliant background of stars.

Behind them the Jal-Dee ship dwindled, leaving a crew who were pathetically wishing they were a thousand light-years away.

Rodrone had scarcely unsuited himself before the approach detector watch was sounding the alarm.

"Something coming up fast, roughly zenith-zero-zero-west. Estimated time of contact, twenty minutes from now."

"Looks like we only just beat them to it," Rodrone grunted. "And in five minutes time they'll know what's happened. All right, you know what to do."

Signals flashed between the Revealer and the Stond. They hurtled away, accelerating rapidly on divergent courses. With luck, the oncoming Streall would lose track of them before fully appreciating the situation.

But for once luck was not with them, or at least not all the way. They were lucky in that the Streall had sent only one ship, but it immediately tracked and pursued, and the ploy of separate courses failed in that it followed the Stond. Able to change direction with greater facility, it quickly began to close the distance.

When it came close enough for the detectors to form an outline, Rodrone realized he had problems. He had expected that the Streall, if they sent a warship at all, would send their equivalent of a light cruiser, somewhat comparable to the Stond in firepower and in keeping with the importance he imagined they attached to the mission. But the vessel now menacingly near was one of their rare capital ships, easily capable of taking on a dozen Stonds.

He calculated he had one advantage. The Streall would not want to risk destroying the article in the crate that now rested on the floor of his control room. With this in mind, he decided to attack on the instant and then try to slip out of sight.

The elongated, turreted shape swelled in the vision screens. Rodrone moved to the weapons desk console, rapping orders to the missile and gun crews.

"Masking volley away."