To The Stars

“Well, sir, it looks like they’re giving you first class transportation.” The change in the Security man’s attitude was very abrupt and Jan knew that his new status was far higher than the man had expected. “There’s a military jet on the way for you now. If you would like to wait in the bar I’ll have someone come and get you when the plane arrives. Is that all right? I’ll look after your bag for you.”

Jan nodded and headed for the bar, not as pleased with his new high-ranking status as Security was. He was by himself, completely alone. It is one thing to consider that in theory, another to actually be subjected to it. The shadowy form of Thurgood-Smythe lurked behind him all of the time, but that just made him more insecure. A pawn on a chessboard with Thurgood-Smythe manipulating all of the pieces. Not for the first time did he wonder just what the man was planning.

The beer was tasteless but cold, and he limited himself to one bottle. This was not a day to have a thick head. He was alone with the Egyptian bartender who solemnly polished glass after glass in silence. There was apparently little traffic through Cairo airport. Nor was there any sign of the occupation troops that featured so largely in President Mahant’s speech. Had it all been a ruse? There was no way of telling. But his position was real enough and he was not looking forward to the coming encounters with any great enthusiasm. Events were rushing past him, getting ahead of him so that it was growing more and more difficult to keep up with the accelerating changes. The boring years he had spent on Halvmork seemed almost attractive by comparison. When he returned — if he returned — life would be quiet and satisfactory. He would have a family there, his wife, a child on the way, more children. The future of the planet to worry about. Alzbeta; she had scarcely been in his thoughts at all of late. Too little time. He saw her now in his mind’s eye, smiling, her arms out to him. But it was hard to hold this image; it melted away, was overlaid with the far stronger one of Dvora, naked and close, the musky smell of her body in his nostrils.

Damn! He drained his glass and signaled for a second one. Life was very complex. As dangerous as it had been since his arrival back on Earth it also had been… what? Fun? No, he couldn’t call it that. Interesting, it was surely that, and damn exciting once he knew that he was going to live for at least a little bit longer. He shouldn’t be thinking about the future now, not until he was sure that he was going to have one. Wait and see, that was all that he could do.

“Technician Halliday,” the PA system said. “Technician Halliday to Gate Three.”

Jan heard the message twice before it penetrated that it was for him. His new identity. He put down his glass and headed for Gate Three. The same Security officer was waiting for him there.

“If you’ll come with me, sir. The plane’s been refueled and is ready to go. Your bag’s aboard already.”

Jan nodded and followed the man out into the heat of the day, the sun reflected the glaring from the white concrete. They came to a supersonic two-place fighter marked with the white star of the United States Air Force; travel in style indeed. The mechanics held the stairs as Jan climbed aboard, one of them following him up to close and seal the hatch. The pilot turned and waved his hand over his shoulder in greeting.

“Someone sure in a hurry to get your ass out of here. Pulled me out of a poker game, never even let me play my hand. Strap in.”

The jets roared and vibrated beneath them and they were airborne almost as soon as they turned into the runway.

“Where are we going?” Jan asked, as soon as the gear was up and they were in a steady climb up to cruising altitude. “Mojave?”

“Shit no. I wish we were. I been out in a desert field here so long I’m beginning to grow a hump like a camel. And hump, real hump, that’s what I’d be getting if I were flying into Mojave. No, we’re vectored right into Baikonur, soon as I get above the commercial lanes. Them Russkies don’t like no one, even themselves. Lock you in a little room, guards with guns everywheres. Sign eight thousand goddamn forms for the fuel. Get crabs from the furniture, I swear I know an old boy lay over there and got crabs. Says they jump further than Texas crabs and they jump fourteen feet…”

It took no large effort to tune out the pilot’s reminiscences. Apparently his voice worked separately from his mind because he flew the plane with great precision, instrument and navigation checks and all. Without shutting up for a second.

Baikonur. Somewhere in southern Russia, that’s all Jan remembered. Not an important base, too small for anything other than orbital lifters. Probably just there to prove that the Soviets were members of the big-nation club. He was undoubtedly going to be put into space from there. With no idea yet of his final destination.