The Star Virus

They arrived at the spaceground to find that a situation had developed that must have been in the making all the afternoon. The police had begun the search, and a group of three ships was resisting. Enfiladed by police cars, the ships were answering an attack by rifles and handguns with similar fire. Rodrone noticed a heavy-weapons blister halfway up one of the ships. It wouldn't be long, he thought, before the spacemen became angry enough to resort to that.

The whole spaceground was in an uproar. Some of the ships were warming up to lift off if the trouble spread, and the sound of engines was deafening.

"What the hell—"

Jermy swerved to avoid a bunch of excited crewmen who were slapping their hip holsters and handing out energy charges. The runabout drove through a blast of hot gases from the pre-takeoff vent of an interplanetary freighter, and then they were in sight of the Stator. Jermy accelerated over the final stretch, nearly crushing them with his sudden stop at the cargo portal.

"Get it aboard," he ordered briefly.

"Look at that!" Clave said suddenly.

The three besieged ships were lifting, a magnesium-bright haze at the stern of each. They were using the maximum-force propulsion system—maximum force, minimum deadweight, was how engineers described it—and it took from half an hour to an hour to ready the system for use. The battle must have been going on for at least that long, even though few had been aware of it.

A uniformed figure strode up and spoke to Jermy through the open window. "Everybody out of this car," he said, "this is a search."

Jermy took a small handgun from an alcove in the dashboard and with complete unconcern shot him.

"Now get a move on," he snapped to the two men in the back. He opened the car door, kicking aside the body.

As they were transferring the lens from the runabout, an amplified voice rang out.

"SHIP SEARCH, SHIP SEARCH. LOWER YOUR PORTALS AND PRESENT FOR SEARCH. LOWER YOUR PORTALS AND—HEY, YOU THERE!"

"Hurry it up!" Jermy snarled impatiently, his voice clipped. He still did not offer to help with the awkward burden, but slammed shut the door of the runabout. "Now we shall have to leave the car behind," he said in exasperation.

The police voice continued, offstage as though the speaker had turned his head away from the microphone. Rodrone did not allow himself time to see where the voice was coming from.

"Lieutenant, I think I've found it! They're taking something aboard that big bus over there." Then there was a gasp. "They've killed Roily!"

A siren howled, accompanied by the sound of running boots. A huge, beefy man appeared at the entrance of the cargo portal and reached down, almost tearing the lens from Rodrone's hands and hauling it inboard. Taking Rodrone's arm, he pulled him in after it.

Rodrone winced as the lens clanged to the floor. A gun-shot splattered white-hot metal from the side of the portal. Then the lid descended, cutting them off from the confusion of the spaceground… Gael Shone's voice boomed from the loudspeaker set high on the wall. "What news down there?"

"All aboard, chief!" the beefy man called.

"Fine!" Shone's voice rolled. "Then off we go!" Rodrone fancied he heard a faint thwang, but there was no sensation of acceleration and none of the expected engine noise. Jermy started climbing up a ladder.

"Here we are, gentlemen," the loudspeaker continued. "Five hundred miles aloft, gathering speed and heading out. The captain invites his passengers for a short drink in the control gallery; see you when you're ready."

The loudspeaker clicked. Rodrone raised his eyes at the beefy man, who shrugged and led them up a side passage. The interior of the Stator was not without character of an austere, depressing kind. Its inner construction was mainly of a metal identical in appearance and texture to pig iron, and it consisted of holds and galleries, connected and surrounded by corridors and ledges, many protected from a steep drop only by flimsy railings. It was the most monochromatic environment Rodrone could remember seeing: the lighting was stark, and there was not a scrap of color anywhere. The whole effect reminded him strongly of a prison he had seen on the Frozen Continent of Bofor.

The control gallery, the center of Captain Shone's life, was no different. It was oblong, forty feet long, fifteen feet wide and fifteen feet tall, and it was cold. A control desk stretching nearly the length of the gallery was its main item of furniture, though trophies, weapons and clothing hung on the walls, and Rodrone noticed that the ceiling possessed a purely ornamental scrollwork in black iron, without doubt the only decoration on the entire ship. A mattress and a heap of blankets thrown in one corner completed the picture.