The Star Virus

His black cloak flowing behind him in the hot breeze, he fitted well with the boisterous wastrels and adventurers who swarmed over the rigidified concrete. He moved easily among stalls, quarreling merchants, and the variegated forms of spaceships that were scattered about, not yet ready to take off—and so regarded as fixtures by the ever-shifting populace of the ten-mile ground. In his thoughts, he recounted his interview of a few minutes ago at the Council Chambers of the Merchant's Guild.

The Stond's departure from Kelever had left Rodrone with a simple problem: what now? It was still his ambition to gain total knowledge and control over the lens, but at first he was at a loss for ideas. On the one hand, he felt that Streall knowledge was necessary; on the other, the Streall were the people he must at all cost avoid.

In the end he had decided to put in at Stundaker. Atomic scientists of repute were known to live there, and in addition there had been tentative Streall contacts in the past, so perhaps he could gain a lead. Also, the planet was not tightly controlled. It remained a frontier planet, and was largely decentralized—a salient factor where a freebooter's safety was concerned. Believing he had long ago shaken off pursuit, Rodrone had deemed it no risk to land.

In that, he was mistaken. Others besides himself had been undertaking research in the past few months. No sooner had the Stond's engines cooled than he had received a summary order to appear at the elegant building on the edge of the 'ground. The building was an office of the House of Drone, which held sway over the local cluster. Though Rodrone, in common with most space-adventurers, had little respect for the Merchant Guilds which were constantly trying to constitute themselves into a form of interstellar government, he had imagined that their powers of action on Stundaker were probably limited and had decided to appear.

He had been surprised to find that he was not dealing with Drone alone. Representatives from the houses of Jal-Dee and Kormu were also present. They presented a richly-bedecked, self-satisfied crew to Rodrone, but he was keenly aware that their apparent smugness veiled a well-informed appreciation of the real nature of the doings of the free traders and hired captains who sustained man's presence in the center of the galaxy.

He had taken one look at their costly furs, their apparel whose tailoring would have taken a lifetime's wages from one of their bondsmen, and above all at their gross forms and money-dominated faces, and then had simply waited to hear what they had to say.

Jal-Dee's spokesman began without preamble. "We believe that there has come into your possession a certain… article, named, by our information, the lens."

Rodrone scanned their faces. "I have an article fitting that description," he admitted.

The spokesman grunted in satisfaction. "Glad there's no argument about that, then. The lens belongs to the Streall. They're demanding it back. I'm afraid you'll have to hand it over."

Rodrone laughed shortly. He felt no fear of the Guild. He was a freeman, accustomed to behave as he pleased. "The whole damned lot of you collected to tell me that? Oh no. The lens is mine."

Jal-Dee's man sighed heavily and unpleasantly. Another merchant spoke up.

"The Streall's claims are of long standing," he said in a reedy voice. "Don't think that we will risk antagonizing an alien race—a powerful and potentially friendly race, I might say—because of the personal greed of a… man like yourself."

"What claim do the Streall have on the lens?" Rodrone asked them. "They merely say that they own it. But the lens is very old. It might have been made by a race now extinct. At any rate it's mine and I'm keeping it."

He stood, thinking to leave. "As to the friendliness of the Streall, I've had some experience of them. Going by their past actions, I'm astonished to hear you call them friendly."

The man from Jal-Dee snorted impatiently. "I know they've taken over systems, but they were ruled by inferior races for the most part, not by humans. In any case we have received their guarantee that they have no further stellar ambitions in the Hub. In the face of this, we must recognize their claim to the lens."

Rodrone wanted to laugh even louder at this, but an icy sense restrained him. As a student of history, certain patterns had meaning to him. But when he tried to explain where he had heard a similar phrase to the Streall's, none of the merchants had ever heard of Hitler.

Unlike them, Rodrone was not reassured by the Streall's philosophical, placatory moves. To the Streall humans also were an inferior race whose disorderly conduct was regarded as one would regard the playfulness of unruly pets or vermin. Rodrone did not think that the Streall's actions were without a pattern.