The Star Virus

Further down the street was a larger bar, fronted with a lit-up advertising display. Kulthol pointed. "Let's tank up." Pushing through swing doors, they crowded into a big, dusky room. A group of locals seated at a table inspected them curiously, warily. Noisily Rodrone's people debouched on to a cluster of tables, calling to the bar at the other end of the room for drinks. But Kulthol headed straight for the bar and Rodrone, Clave and a few others drifted after him.

Kulthol's practiced eye ranged over the rows of bottles and casks. "What's that green stuff?"

The barman was chewing a stick of something that gave off a faint flavor of spice. "The local brew. 'Roadrunner.'

“I'll try some of that."

The man poured out several glasses. Kulthol picked up one and knocked it straight back. Rodrone took one too, drank it more cautiously. At the first sip a thousand red-hot needles seemed to be gouging out the inside of his mouth, but after that he became numb and it was fairly pleasant.

"What the hell do you make this poison from?" Kulthol demanded, taking another.

"It's brewed from a desert plant. It pulls its roots up and migrates with the seasons."

"You mean to say you have seasons out here?"

"The plants think so, but I don't."

They laughed briefly. "We saw your ships coming down," the barman said. "You here on business?"

"Just dropped in for a drink," Clave said. The barman looked uneasy but moved off to serve the others.

Probably scared we're going to loot the town, Rodrone thought. He glanced around at the locals in the bar, then became aware of moaning harmonies emanating from some-where above them. Clave's gaze went to the ceiling as if in fascination.

"Listen to that!" he murmured.

The barman returned in time to hear his evident praise. "That's Ruby," he declared proudly. "Plays just beautifully, doesn't she?" He jerked his thumb. "We've got another place upstairs. You can go and listen if you want. It will be pretty crowded soon, though."

"I think I will." Clave made for a stairway. Rodrone moved to restrain him, then thought better of it.

"What's wrong?" Kulthol whispered a few moments later. He was quick to notice any change on Rodrone's face.

Rodrone stroked his beard uncertainly. "Let's go upstairs," he said finally.

The upper room was more luxuriously furnished than the one down below. The lights were warm, soft and skillfully arranged. The drinks were dispensed from a decorated counter.

"Just listen to it. That's real music."

The remark was made reverently by a man sitting at a corner table. A girl sat with him, her face as rapt as his own.

From the opposite end of the room came an apallingly ugly noise compounded of gut-jarring discords and childish travesties of melody. A grossly fat woman sat at an electronic instrument, the flesh of her upper arms rippling as she attacked the keyboard. She was dressed in a frilly, flowered frock grotesquely inappropriate to her bulging form.

Something in Rodrone's mind began to crawl. Clave, he saw, was as hooked as the locals. Kulthol seemed slightly puzzled but apparently was not sure whether he had noticed anything unusual. He drifted between the occupied tables towards the bar.

Suddenly the music changed slightly, giving out sharp, irregular bursts. Rodrone saw the barman's face go into a seizure of uncontrolled twitches, and at the same time felt tentative tugs at the muscles of his own face.

He walked across to the seated fat woman, leaning low so that she could hear him.

"You certainly are talented," he said pleasantly. She made a small tossing movement with her head, her lips pursing in the tight smile of a woman who drinks praise.

"Thank you," she murmured. Meanwhile her hands continued to roam at random over the keyboard, producing her atrocious parody of music.

"Can you play the Maid of Arrailis?"

"Of course."

"I'm surprised," Rodrone told her. "Well, listen: you're going to play it all night long. And the minute I start getting any strange feelings, I'm going to blast your head right off your shoulders." He tapped the handgun on his thigh. The woman shot him a glance of pure hatred from beady eyes. Her fingers faltered; then her hands withdrew to her lap.

Rodrone made his way back to Clave and gave him a nudge. "I think this job is best dealt with as soon as possible." Then to Kulthol: "Keep things under control. If anything funny happens, get out fast."

Clave followed him down the stairs and into the street Rodrone gave scarcely a glance at the others. He stood on the sheened surface, glancing up and down the street. He didn't trust the woman upstairs to obey him, but there was little he could do about it for the moment if he was to carry out his mission.

"Rodrone…" Clave's usually glassy stare contained a dazed, puzzled look. "Did something happen in there?"

"That woman at the organ," Rodrone said. "She rules this town, though the people here don't know it. It's all to do with that organ she plays."

"Organ? She plays damned well, but—"