The Galaxy Primes, page 5
"Did you find out the name of the thing?" Garlock asked.
"No. I asked half–a–dozen people, but nobody would even listen to me except one half–grown boy, and the best he could do was that it might be something he had heard another boy say somebody had told him might be a "lemart." And as to those lower–case Arpalones, the best I could dig out of anybody was just "guardians." Did you do any better?"
"No, I didn't do as well," and he told the girls about his own experience.
"But I didn't find any detectors or receptors, Clee," Lola frowned. "Where were they?"
"'Way up—up here," he showed her. "I'll make a full tape tonight on everything I found out about the guardians and the Arpalones—besides my regular report, I mean—since they're yours, and you can make me one about your friend the green bat …."
"Hey, I like that!" Belle broke in. "That could be taken amiss, you know, by such a sensitive soul as I!"
"Check." Garlock chuckled. "I'll have to file that one, in case I want to use it sometime. How're you coming, Belle?"
"Nice!" Belle's voracious mind had been so busy absorbing new knowledge that she had temporarily forgotten about her fight with her captain. "I'm just about done here. I'll be ready tomorrow, I think, to visit their library and tape up some planetological and planetographical—notice how insouciantly I toss off those two–credit words?—data on this here planet Hodell."
"Good going. You've been listening to this stuff Lola and I were chewing on—does any of it make sense to you?"
"It does not. I never heard anything to compare with it."
"Excuse me for changing the subject," Lola put in, plaintively, "but when, if ever, do we eat? Do we have to wait until that confounded James boy gets back from wherever it was he went?"
"If you're hungry, we'll eat now."
"Hungry? Look!" Lola turned herself sidewise, placed one hand in the small of her back, and pressed hard with the other her flat, taut belly. "See? Only a couple of inches from belt–buckle to backbone—dangerously close to the point of utter collapse."
"You poor, abused little thing!" Garlock laughed and all three crossed the room to the dining alcove. While they were still ordering, James appeared beside them.
"Find out anything?" Garlock asked.
"Yes and no. Yes, in that they have an excellent observatory, with a hundred–eighty–inch reflector, on a mountain only seventy–five miles from here. No, in that I didn't find any duplication of nebulary configurations with the stuff I had with me. However, it was relatively coarse. Tomorrow I'll take a lot of fine stuff along. It'll take some time—a full day, at least."
"I expected that. Good going, Jim!"
All four ate heartily, and, after eating, they taped up the day's reports. Then, tired from their first real day's work in weeks, all went to their rooms.
A few minutes later, Garlock tapped lightly at Lola's door.
"Come in." She stiffened involuntarily, then relaxed and smiled. "Oh, yes, Clee: of course. You're …."
"No, I'm not. I've been doing a lot of thinking about you since last night, and I may have come up with an answer or two. Also, Belle knows we aren't pairing, and if we don't hide behind a screen at least once in a while, she'll know we aren't going to."
"Screen?"
"Screen. Didn't you know these four private rooms are solid? Haven't you read your house–tape yet?"
"No. But do you think Belle would actually peek?"
"Do you think she wouldn't?"
"Well, I don't like her very much, but I wouldn't think she would do anything like that, Clee. It isn't urbane."
"She isn't urbane, either, whenever she thinks it might be advantageous not to be."
"What a terrible thing to say!"
"Take it from me, if Belle Bellamy doesn't know everything that goes on it isn't from lack of trying. You wouldn't know about room service, either, then—better scan that tape before you go to sleep tonight—what'll you have in the line of a drink to while away enough time so she will know we've been playing games?"
"Ginger ale, please."
"I'll have ginger beer. You do it like so." He slid a panel aside, his fingers played briefly on a typewriter–like keyboard. Drinks and ice appeared. "Anything you want—details of the tape."
He lighted two cigarettes, handed her one, stirred his drink. "Now, fair lady—or should I say beauteous dark lady?—we will follow the precept of that immortal Chinese philosopher, Chin On."
"You are a Prime Operator, aren't you?" She laughed, but sobered quickly. "I'm worried. You said I flaunted virginity like a banner, and now Belle …. What am I doing wrong?"
"There's a lot wrong. Not so much what you're doing as what you aren't doing. You're too aloof—detached—egg–headish. You know the score, words and music, but you don't sing. All you do is listen. Belle thinks you're not only a physical virgin, but a psychic–blocked prude. I know better. You're so full of conflict between what you want to do—what you know is right—and what those three–cell–brained nincompoops made you think you ought to do that you have got no more degrees of freedom than a piston–rod. You haven't been yourself for a minute since you came aboard. Check?"
"You have been thinking, haven't you? You may be right; except that it's been longer than that … ever since the first preliminaries, I think. But what can I do about it, Clee?"
"Contact. Three–quarters full, say; enough for me to give you what I think is the truth."
"But you said you never went screens down with a woman?"
"There's a first time for everything. Come in."
She did so, held contact for almost a minute, then pulled herself loose.
"Ug–gh–gh." She shivered. "I'm glad I haven't got a mind like that."
"And the same from me to you. Of course the real truth may lie somewhere in between. I may be as far off the beam on one side as you are on the other."
"I hope so. But it cleared things up no end—it untied a million knots. Even that other thing—brotherly love? It's a very nice concept—you see, I never had any brothers."
"That's probably one thing that was the matter with you. Nothing warmer than that, certainly, and never will be."
"And I suppose you got the thought—it must have jumped up and smacked you—" Lola's hot blush was visible even through her heavy tan, "how many times I've felt like running my fingers up and down your ribs and grabbing a handful of those terrific muscles of yours, just to see if they're as hard as they look?"
"I'm glad you brought that up; I don't know whether I would have dared to or not. You've got to stop acting like a Third instead of an Operator; and you've got to stop acting as though you had never been within ten feet of me. Now's as good a time as any." He took off his shirt and struck a strong–man's pose. "Come ahead."
"By golly, I'm going to!" Then, a moment later, "Why, they're even harder! How do you, a scientist, psionicist, and scholar, keep in such hard shape as that?"
"An hour a day in the gym, three hundred sixty–five days a year. Many are better—but a hell of a lot are worse."
"I'll say." She finished her ginger ale, sat down in her chair, leaned back and put her legs up on the bed. "That was a relief of tension if there ever was one. I haven't felt so good since they picked me as home–town candidate—and that was a mighty small town and eight months ago. Bring on your dragons, Clee, and I'll slay 'em far and wide. But I can't actually be like she is …."
"Thank God for that. Deliver me from two such pretzel–benders aboard one ship."
" … but I could have been a pretty good actress, I think."
"Correction, please. "Outstanding" is the word."
"Thank you, kind sir. And women—men, too, of course—do bring up certain memories, to … to …."
"To roll 'em around on their tongues and give their taste–buds a treat."
"Exactly. So where I don't have any appropriate actual memories to bring up, I'll make like an actress. Check?"
"Good girl! Now you're rolling—we're in like Flynn. Well, we've been in screen long enough, I guess. Fare thee well, little sister Brownie, until we meet again." He tossed the remains of their refreshments, trays and all, into the chute, picked up his shirt, and started out.
"Put it on, Clee!" she whispered, intensely.
"Why?" He grinned cheerfully. "It'd look still better if I peeled down to the altogether."
"You're incorrigible," she said, but her answering grin was wide and perfectly natural. "You know, if I had had a brother something like you it would have saved me a lot of wear and tear. I'll see you in the morning before breakfast."
And she did. They strolled together to breakfast; not holding hands, but with hip almost touching hip. Relaxed, friendly, on very cordial and satisfactory terms. Lola punched breakfast orders for them both. Belle drove a probe, which bounced—Lola's screen was tight, although her brown eyes were innocent and bland.
But during the meal, in response to a double–edged, wickedly–barbed remark of Belle's, a memory flashed into being above Lola's shield. It was the veriest flash, instantly suppressed. Her eyes held clear and steady; if she blushed at all it did not show.
Belle caught it, of course, and winked triumphantly at Garlock. She knew, now, what she had wanted to know. And, Prime Operator though he was, it was all he could do to make no sign; for that fleetingly–revealed memory was a perfect job. He would not have—could not have—questioned it himself, except for one highly startling fact. It was of an event that had not happened and never would!
And after breakfast, at some distance from the others, "That is my girl, Brownie! You're firing on all forty barrels. You're an Operator, all right; and it takes a damn good one to lie like that with her mind!"
"Thanks to you, Clee. And thanks a million, really. I'm me again—I think."
Then, since Belle was looking, she took him by both ears, pulled his head down, and kissed him lightly on the lips. The spontaneity and tenderness were perfect at that moment. Clee's appreciation was obvious.
"I know I said you'd have to kiss me next time," Lola said, very low, "but this act needs just this much of an extra touch. Anyway, such little, tiny, sisterly ones as this, and out in public, don't count."
CHAPTER 3
Lola and Garlock went to town in the same taxi. As they were about to separate, Garlock said:
"I don't like those hell–divers, yellow, green, or any other color; and you, Brownie, are very definitely not expendable. Are you any good at mind–bombing?"
"Why, I never heard of such a thing."
"You isolate a little energy in the Op field, remembering of course, that you're handling a hundred thousand gunts. Transpose it into platinum or uranium—anything good and heavy. For one of these monsters you'd need two or three micrograms. For a battleship, up to maybe a gram or so. 'Port it to the exact place you want it to detonate. Reconvert and release instantaneously. One–hundred–percent–conversion atomic bomb, tailored exactly to fit the job. Very effective."
"It would be. My God, Clee, can you do that?"
"Sure—so can you. Any Operator can."
"Well, I won't. I never will. Besides, I'd probably kill too many people, besides the monster. No, I'll 'port back to the Main if anything attacks me. I'm chain lightning at that."
"Do that, then. And if anything very unusual happens give me a flash."
"I'll do that. 'Bye, Clee." She turned to the left. He walked straight on, toward the business center, to resume his study at the point where he had left off the evening before.
For over an hour he wandered aimlessly about the city; receiving, classifying, and filing away information. He saw several duels between guardians and yellow and green–bat monsters, to none of which he paid any more attention than did the people around him. Then a third kind of enemy appeared—two of them at once, flying wing–and–wing—and Garlock stopped and watched.
Vivid, clear–cut stripes of red and black, even on the tremendously long, strong wings. Distinctly feline as to heads, teeth, and claws. While they did not at all closely resemble flying saber–toothed tigers, that was the first impression that leaped into Garlock's mind.
Two bow–legged guardians came leaping as usual, but one of them was a fraction of a second too late. That fraction was enough. While the first guardian was still high in air, grappling with one tiger, the other swung on a dime—the blast of air from his right wing blowing people in the crowd below thither and yon and knocking four of them flat—and took the guardian's head off his body with one savage swipe of a frightfully–armed paw. Disregarding the carcass both attackers whirled sharply at the second guardian, meeting him in such fashion that he could not come to firm grips with either of them, and that battle was very brief indeed. More and more guardians were leaping in from all directions, however, and the two tigers were forced to the ground and slaughtered.
Since six guardians had been killed, eight guardians marched up the street, dragging grisly loads. Eight bodies, friend and foe alike, were dumped into a manhole; eight creatures squatted down and cleaned themselves meticulously before resuming their various patrols.
Ten or fifteen minutes later, Garlock felt Lola's half–excited, half–frightened thought. "Clee, do you read me?"
"Loud and clear."
"There's something coming that's certainly none of my business—maybe not even yours."
"Coming," and with the thought he was there. "Where?"
She pointed a thought, he followed it. Far away yet, but coming fast, was an immense flock of flying tigers!
Lola licked her lips. "I'm going home, if you don't mind."
"Beat it."
She disappeared.
"Jim!" Garlock thought. "Where are you?"
"Observatory. Need me?"
"Yes. Bombing. Two point four microgram loads. Focus spot on my right—teleport in."
"Coming in on your right."
"And I on your left!" Belle's thought drove in as he had never before felt it driven. Being a Prime, she did not need a focus spot and appeared the veriest instant later than did James.
"Can you bomb?" Garlock snapped.
"What do you think?" she snapped back.
A moment of flashing thought and the three Tellurians disappeared, materializing five hundred feet in air, two hundred feet ahead of the van of that horrible flight of monsters, drifting before it.
Belle got in the first shot. Not only did the victim disappear—a couple of dozen around it were torn to fragments and the force of the blast staggered all three Tellurians.
"Damn it, Belle, cut down or get to hell out!" Garlock yelped. "I said two point four micrograms, not milligrams. Just kill 'em, don't scatter 'em all over hell's half acre—less mess to clean up and I don't want you to kill people down below. Especially I don't want you to kill us—not even yourself."
"'Scuse, please, I guess I was a bit enthusiastic in my weighing."
There began a series of muffled explosions along the front; each followed by the plunge of a tiger–striped body to the ground. Faster and faster the explosions came as the Operator and the Primes learned the routine and the rhythm of the job.
Nor were they long alone. The roaring, screaming howl of jets came up from behind them; four Arpalones appeared at their left, strung out along the front. Each held an extraordinarily heavy–duty blaster in each of his four hands; sixteen terrific weapons were hurling death into the flying horde.
"Slide over, Terrestrials," came a calm thought. "You three take their left front, we'll take their right and center."
As they obeyed the instructions, "They don't give a damn where the pieces fly!" Belle protested. "Why should we be fussy about their street–cleaning department? I'm starting to use fives."
"Okay. We'll have to hit 'em harder, anyway, to keep up. Five or maybe six—just be damn sure not to knock us or the Arpalones out of the air."
Carnage went on. The battle–front, while inside the city limits, was now almost stationary.
"Ha! Help—I hear footsteps approaching on jet–back," Garlock announced. "Give 'em hell, boys—shovel on the coal!"
A flight of fighter–planes, eight abreast and wing–tips almost touching, howled close overhead and along the line of invasion. They could not fire, of course, until they reached the city limits. There they opened up as one, and the air below became literally filled with falling monsters. Some had only broken wings; some were dead, but more or less whole; many were blown to unrecognizable bits and scraps of flesh.
Another flight screamed into place immediately behind the first; then another and another and another until six flights had passed. Then came four helicopters, darting and hovering, whose gunners picked off individually whatever survivors had managed to escape all six waves of fighters.
"That's better," came a thought from the Arpalone nearest Garlock. "Situation under control, thanks to you Tellurians. Supposed to be two squads of us gunners, but the other squad was busy on another job. Without you, this could have developed into a fairly nasty little infection. I don't know what you're doing or how you're doing it—we were told that you weren't like any other humans, and how true that is—but I'm in favor of it. I thought there were four of you?"
"One of us is not a fighter."
"Oh. You can knock off now, if you like. We'll polish off. Thanks much."
"But don't the boys on the ground need some help?"
"The Arpales? Those idiots you have been thinking of as "guardians"? Which they are, of course. Uh–uh. Besides, we're air–fighters. Ground work is none of our business. Also, these guns would raise altogether too much hell down there. Bound to hit some humans."
"Check. Those Arpales aren't very intelligent, you Arpalones are extremely so. Any connection?"
"'Way back, they say. Common ancestry, and doing two parts of the same job. Killing these fumapties and lemarts and sencors and what–have–you. I don't know what humanity's job is and don't give a damn. Probably fairly important, some way or other, though, since it's our job to see that the silly, gutless things keep on living. We have nothing to do with 'em, ever. The only reason I'm talking to you is you're not really human at all. You're a fighter, too, and a damn good one."
