Banasel shrugged. "Small fry. We'll take care of them later." He walked
over to the workbench, picking up Lanko's sword.
"I wondered about this before," he said. "Now, I'm sure about it. It
simply doesn't match a normal technology for this period."
Musa looked at him curiously. "But there are a lot of those around
Norlar," he said. "They're a rarity in the Galankar, to be sure, but--"
"That's what we mean," Lanko told him. "Too many anachronisms. First, we
have this sword. Then, we meet these priests of Kondaro, who discuss
meteorology, navigation, and pilotage with considerable understanding.
We've had communicators planted on that ship for several days now, and I
still can't see how the technology was developed that allowed the
manufacture of some of their instruments. We should have noticed
something wrong a long time ago.
"The priests use sextants, watches, compasses. And, just to make it
worse, we have one video recording of a priest laying out a course on an
accurate chart. He was using a protractor, which was divided into
Galactic degrees. That was the clincher. Somebody's out of place, and
we've got to find him--or them."
He took the sword from Banasel. "I think we'd better go on to the
eastern continent, see what we can find, then we can deal with our
friends. But first, Ban, you'd better run out a call for one of the
Sector Guardsmen to back us up if necessary. We could run into something
too hot for us to handle."
Banasel nodded and turned to the communicator. Lanko dropped into the
pilot seat, glanced at the screens, and moved controls. In the
viewscreen, the sea tilted, drew farther away, then became a level,
featureless blue expanse.
* * * * *
"Well, here's your eastern continent. In fact, this is the city of
Kneuros. It's where you wanted to go, isn't it?"
Musa looked at Banasel thoughtfully.
"Yes," he admitted. "It's where I thought I wanted to go, but now I
really know what I wanted in the first place."
"Oh?"
"Certainly. I was restless. I thought I liked being a trader in Karth,
and I was a fairly good trader, too. But I was just getting things at
secondhand. I turned down just what I really wanted, because it scared
me. That was a long time ago." He looked at the control panel. He'd
understood such panels once, some years ago.
"How do you plan to find your aliens--if there are any?"
"Search pattern." Lanko shrugged. "We'll cruise around in a grid pattern
until we pick up some sort of reading, or until we spot something
abnormal." He pointed at a series of instruments.
"They're bound to have a ship somewhere, and we'll pick up a small
amount of power radiation from their screens. If their ship were
orbiting in space, we'd have picked it up long ago, so we must assume
it's grounded. I think we'd better go right into a pattern. We can use
Kneuros as origin." He stared at the plotting instruments.
"Let's see. If I wanted to hide a ship, I'd use the most inaccessible
location I could find. We do that ourselves, in fact. And there are some
mountainous regions inland." He set up course and speed.
"Yeah," Banasel added, "and I'd worry a lot more about ground approach
than air accessibility, at least on this planet."
The ship gained altitude, accelerated, and sped eastward.
Day by day, the course trace built up, the cameras recorded the terrain
under the ship, and the two guardsmen built up their mosaic. The ship
crossed and re-crossed the continent, mapping as it went.
From time to time, Lanko made careful comparison of the new mosaic with
an earlier survey, noting differences. There were new settlements. Where
members of a nomadic culture had roamed the prairie, an industrial
civilization was rapidly growing.
Lanko tapped on the map. "Two cultures," he observed. "Two cultures,
separated by mountains and desert. Absolutely no evidence of contact,
but considerable similarity between them. This pattern begins to look
familiar."
He picked a tape from the shelves, ran it through a viewer, then
reversed it, and picked out various portions for recheck. Finally, he
made a superposition of some of their observation tape, examined it, and
turned. Banasel held up a hand.
"Don't tell us," he growled. "I studied about drones, too."
"Drones?" Musa looked at him, then glanced back at the viewer.
"Yes. Characters from one of the advanced cultures, who feel frustrated,
and fail to fit in. They often turn into pleasure seekers, and
frequently end up by monkeying with primitive cultures, to prove their
ability to themselves, at least."
"Things like this happen often?"
"Oh, not too often, I suppose, but often enough so that people like us
are stationed on every known primitive planet, to prevent activity of
the type. You see, the drones usually start out simply, by setting up
minor interference in business or government on some primitive planet.
Usually, they're caught pretty quickly. But sometimes they evade
capture. And they can end up by exerting serious influence in cultural
patterns. Some planets have been set back, and even destroyed as a
result of drone activity. Although their motives are different,
drones're just as bad and just as dangerous as any other criminal."
Lanko grinned a little. "Only difference is, they're usually easier to
combat than organized criminal groups with a real purpose. Generally,
they're irresponsible youngsters who don't have the weapons,
organization, or ability that the real criminals come up with." He
shrugged.
"Of course," he added, "we've called for help just in case. But we'll
probably be able to take care of this situation by ourselves. In fact,
unless there are unusual features, we'd better, if we don't want to be
regarded as somewhat ineffectual." He paused, glanced toward the
detector set, and tapped on the map again, then slowly traced out an
area.
"We should be picking up something pretty soon," he said, thoughtfully.
"Better set up a pattern around here, in the mountain ranges, Banasel.
We can worry about settled areas later."
* * * * *
A needle flickered, rose from zero, then steadied.
Somewhere, back of the instrument panel, a tiny current actuated a micro
relay, and an alarm drop fell.
As the warning buzz sounded, both Lanko and Banasel looked over at the
detector panel.
"Well, it's about time." Lanko leaned to his right, setting switches. A
screen lit up, showing a faint, red dot. He touched the controls,
bringing the dot to center screen, then checked the meters.
"Not too far," he remarked. "A little out of normal range, though. He
must have all his screen power on."
Banasel turned back to the workbench, studied the labels on the drawers
for a moment, then opened one.
"Guess we'll need a can opener?"
"We might. If he's aboard, we may have to get a little rough." Lanko
leaned back.
"Check the power pattern. Sort of like to know what we're running into
before we commit ourselves." He glanced again at the indicators, then
poked at switches.
"In fact, I think we'd better wait right here, till we get this boy
identified."
Banasel was whistling tunelessly as he set up readings on a computer.
Finally, he poked the activator bar, and watched as the machine spat out
tape. Above the tape chute, a series of graphs indicated the
computations, but Banasel ignored them, feeding the tape into another
machine.
"I suppose there are some characters who could make a positive
identification from the figures and curves. But I'm just a beginner.
That's why they furnish integrator directories, I guess."
Lanko smiled. "I don't know anything, either," he agreed. "But I
generally know where I can look up what I need." He set a compact reel
of tape into the computer.
They watched the directory as its screens glowed. Figures and
descriptions shimmered, and there was a rapid ticking. A sheet flowed
out toward them, and Banasel tore it off as the ticks ceased.
"Type seventeen screens," he read. "Probably Ietorian model Nan
fifty-seven generators. Strictly a sportster setup. He's got
electromagnetics and physical contact screens, but there's nothing else.
And, with the type of readings I've got here, I'd say he's running all
the power he's got. Do we go in?"
"Sure we do." Lanko nodded confidently as he slapped the drive lever.
"This thing we've got's only an atmosphere flier, but it's made to take
care of tougher stuff than luxury sportsters. Set up your can opener,
just in case our boy wants to argue with us."
Banasel nodded silently.
The small sportster was parked between two peaks. Before it was a tiny
level space, too small for any ship. Above it, towered bare rock, tipped
with eternal snow. Lanko examined the scene disgustedly.
"Inhospitable, isn't he?" he grunted. "He could at least have had enough
front yard for a visitor to land." He picked up a microphone, touched a
stud, and turned a knob. A faint hiss sounded from the speaker before
him.
"Philcor resident calling sportster," he snapped. "Come in, Over."
The hiss continued. Lanko punched another stud, and listened. The hiss
remained unchanged.
"Open him up, Banasel," he finally ordered. "I'm going in."
He rose from his chair, crossing to the exit port. For an instant, he
stood, checking his equipment belt. Then, he reached to a cabinet, to
pick up a tool kit. He opened the box, examined its contents, then
turned and nodded to Banasel.
The port opened wide, and he stepped through.
He dropped lightly to the space before the sportster, then stepped away,
crouching behind a rock out-crop, and turned his body shield to full
power.
"Screens down," he ordered.
* * * * *
A faint haze grew about the sportster. At first, it was a barely
perceptible fluorescence. Then, it became a fiercely incandescent glow.
It flamed for a few seconds, then faded, becoming green, yellow, red,
and at last, blinking to invisibility.
"They're damped," Banasel's voice announced. "Shall I give him some more
and knock out the generators?"
"Not necessary," Lanko told him. "Just hold complete neutralization.
I'll cut them from inside."
He rose from his position behind the rock, idly kicking at the face of
it as he walked past. A shower of dust crumbled to the ground.
"Good thing there aren't any trees around here," he laughed. "We'd have
to put out a forest fire."
He pulled his hand weapon from his belt, made a careful adjustment, then
walked over to the ship. After a quick examination, he directed the
weapon toward a spot in the hull.
"Lot of credits here," he commented laconically. "Shame to hurt the
finish too much."
A few minutes later, he stepped back, examining his work. Then, he
nodded and removed another instrument from his tool kit. He focused it
on the ship's port, flicked a switch on his belt, then snapped the
instrument on.
For a few seconds, nothing happened, then there was a grinding screech
of tortured metal, and the port swung open.
As Lanko stepped inside, he examined the control room with care. At
last, satisfied that no booby traps were set, he crossed to the control
panel. He located the communicator controls, and picked up the
microphone.
"All's well, Ban," he reported. "Ease off."
He watched as the overloaded generator recovered. When the needles were
at normal readings, he flicked the screen controls off, then picked up
the microphone again.
"Haul out, Banasel," he ordered. "I'm going to fix this can up again,
close the port, run up the screens, and wait for our boy to come home.
Like to talk to him."
* * * * *
The sportster had a well stocked galley. Lanko ate with enjoyment,
studying the tapes he had found interestedly. Finally, he pushed the
last reel aside, then sat back to gaze at the wall.
A low tone sounded, and the viewscreen activated. Lanko nodded to
himself, then went to the control room aperture, turning off the alarm
as he went through. A few strides took him to the entry port, where he
waited, weapon in hand.
The door swung open and Lanko touched his trigger. The newcomer's screen
flared briefly, then collapsed. Lanko stepped forward, examining his
prisoner.
He was humanoid. There were some differences from the usual type
encountered on the planet, but they were not serious. He could have
passed in most of the Galankar, if not anywhere. Some might even be
attracted by his slightly unusual appearance. Lanko drew him into the
ship, and closed the port.
He took his time, making a complete search of the captive's clothing,
and removing equipment and weapons. At last, he drew back, satisfied
that the being was harmless. He waited. It wouldn't be too long before
the business could begin.
As the paralysis effect wore off, the man on the floor flexed his
muscles, then got to his feet. Lanko watched him, his weapon resting on
his knees. As the man tensed to spring, Lanko raised the weapon a
little.
"You are Genro Kir?"
"Who are you? What's the idea?" Kir reached for his belt, then dropped
his hand again as he found nothing there.
"Resident Guardsman. Name's Lanko. You seem to be a little out of place
on this planet."
"I'm not responsible to some native patrolman." Kir's face became
stubborn. "I'm a Galactic Citizen."
"Possibly. We'll leave that to the Sector authorities." Lanko shrugged,
his face expressionless. "Meantime, you'll have to accept things as they
are. Or would you rather be paralyzed again?"
Genro Kir tensed again, making an obvious mental effort.
Lanko grinned at him in real amusement. "I took it. Wouldn't do you much
good anyway. They gave me heavy-duty equipment, you know." He waved
toward a chair with his weapon. "Might as well sit down and talk about
it. I've been through your tapes, of course."
Kir looked around unhappily, then sank into a chair. "What's there to
talk about, then? You know what we were doing."
"In general, yes, we do. A good deal was on your tapes. But we need more
detail, and we've got to pick up your companions, you know. It would be
a lot better if we knew where they were."
"I don't know where they are myself. They're building up their forces,
and working for position. This is just the opening, you see. The real
game won't start for quite a while."
Lanko laughed shortly. "Frankly, I don't think it will start. But it
would make it simpler for all concerned if you'd help us find the
players."
"I told you. I don't know where they are. They don't have to tell the
referee every move they make, unless they want a consultation as to
legality. I was just keeping watch on the general picture, to see that
neither of them broke a rule, or took an unfair advantage."
"You may not know where they are," Lanko admitted, "but you can
certainly contact them."