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Read Ebook: The Star Guardsman by DePina Albert

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Ebook has 372 lines and 23240 words, and 8 pages

Doctor Fortun smiled. "May you live to spend them, Spacer Lynn," she said cryptically. "Greetings!"

Mark Lynn wanted to speak, to ask her social name, anything that would delay his departure from her office. But he knew the interview was at an end even before she turned to the mass of figures and data on her desk.

Spacer Lynn threw a rapid glance around the room. They were still alone, but he knew that the entire interview had been minutely recorded--the august body of scientists of the first order who composed the Council took no chances, especially with Internationals, the adventurers, the pioneers who opened up new worlds for the maddeningly impersonal efficiency of the Council to take over and remold. But Mark didn't care. There was little that they didn't know about him, in detail.

Mark Lynn in common with a few million others was a product of his time and station. One of the immense legion of war orphans that the constant and increasingly destructive warfare of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries had left behind, he was automatically a ward of the Executive Council.

In Mark Lynn's case, having been given over to the International Police for training as an astrogator and having finished his course with brilliant honors, he had been given a first-class exploration rating, and trained in outer space navigation. Years of successful interplanetary and outer space exploration and research had given him an unequaled experience as an explorer. It was his duty to give the Council implicit obedience--and to reserve his thinking for the problems of unexplored worlds and outer space. The Council, Rulers of the World State, frowned on thinking without directives, especially by those beyond control, such as the Internationals, of which Mark Lynn was a great leader.

Thinking led to individualism, and the latter to conflict of opinions, eventually to become conflict of a far more deadly sort. The recent past was an unerasable record of promiscuous thinking; it had brought too many problems, social and economic--it was wasteful, slipshod and inefficient. So it became a matter of unalterable policy to train each individual rigidly in that station in life to which he was best fitted, where he or she could function with maximum efficiency toward achievement. It became essential to apply control "one," which instilled into the mental patterns a dreadful guilt of waste--whether of energy, credits or time, much as the ancient Puritans lived in the fear of their consciences and could never be comfortable or enjoy frivolous moments or leisure. Control "six" became an obsession to achieve, subtly replacing the emotional complex of what in an earlier day was called "ambition," until nothing, literally nothing could stand before that one, all-important goal. And finally, control "fifteen" became an absolute need for guidance, a pattern that subtly replaced the instinct for security of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, so that all problems, all crises were solved by the Council. An attempt to make individual solutions, resulted in an awful sense of "aloneness," of absolute insecurity that could drive a civican or ruralian to the verge of a psychosis. There were other controls, some major and some minor, but these three, one, six and fifteen, were the three imperatives. Mark Lynn was impervious to them--he had to be to belong to the Internationals.

With the sealed cylinder in an inner pocket of his tunic, that boasted a golden sun embroidered on the chest, Mark left the building and made his way through the milling crowds in the streets. They were all hurrying to some individual task--office workers in the black gowns of their calling; artisans with wide, tooled belts. The violet-eyed Martian proctors who acted as guards, and the tiny, slender Venusians, with their vari-colored wings and melodious voices. Scientists of the various orders were hurrying to the transportation belts, while technicians in their bright blue tunics went in and out of different buildings. There was no confusion, no disorder, despite the evident haste.

Shops were closed, deserted or wrecked by earthquakes. Many buildings were in partial ruins, others had huge cracks along the sides. Yet, from the public visi-screens posted along the street came glimpses of beautiful scenes and soft, seductive music. A light powdery snow was falling, and the wind danced a sara-band unchecked.

"Weather control stations must have failed," Mark said inwardly, and breathed deeply, gratefully, the keen, icy freshness of the wind.

The ruralian woman pulled out a package of rank, Venusian cigarets and contentedly puffed on one after lighting it. "Yes, when the earth-temblors ruined my land and a mouth of fire finished it, a proctor came from the Council and gave me enough credits to last a body a life-time, then told me to make my way to transportation. But I can't bring myself to spend those credits, International--its wasteful.... I'd rather achieve another allotment. Why, I haven't bought a thing for fifty years that I could grow or make myself!

"I've been some time getting here from the Arizona sector, for the shakes disrupted the conveyor roads, and I lost a lot of things when another mouth of fire pushed up where the road was and blew my cart to the four winds--It's a miracle I'm here at all! But about the freighter, will the gravs...."

"Ask for the sleep-freeze ... it will be given you, in any event. If anything, it'll lengthen your span, and the journey will seem like an overnight trip to you. If you need directing, a proctor will assist you. Greetings Ruralian!" Mark tried to make his tones as kindly as he possibly could, but realizing the woman was eager to make conversation, he ended the incident--he was still on duty.

"Greetings, International," she replied disappointed, and heaved the bundle to her shoulder.

Mark had not walked ten paces when instant correlation between his senses, mental synthesis and muscular reaction made him swerve aside, bending over at the same time. It had been the horror-shocked expression in the eyes of a technician barely three paces before him, that had sent the Spacer hurtling to one side, half bent over, bowling pedestrians aside like ten-pins. A thin pencil of light flashed where Mark's head had been seconds before. Mark had turned without pausing and he saw a tall International whose yellow tunic bore the red whorl insignia of a conveyor-road inspector.

Mark's molecular rate was faster than any other strata, purposely, because of his calling, and to the spectators it seemed as if he'd twisted, turned and flung himself into a prodigious tackle all in one motion. The attacking International, fully as tall as Mark, went down under the terrific impact, his atomo-pistol sailing through the icy atmosphere in a falling arc. But with the agility of a Martian Hellacorium, he was up and snarling: "Traitor!" through clenched teeth. With a cry of baffled fury he launched himself at Mark unhesitatingly, one hand fumbling at his belt.

But Mark ducked, side-stepping. He was icy calm now, although the reason for this attack baffled him. Mark was in his element in a fight; the International Police trained its wards to be fighting machines, deadly in their efficiency. Explorers had to be!

Mark wheeled as the attacker hurtled past him and his straight left went unerringly to the man's head, jarring him. Automatically Mark's training came to the fore, as everything else faded until it was only Spacer Lynn and a murderous enemy. Mark's right was a peg upon which he hung the attacker's blasting blow, while he used the boxer's left, long and weaving, throwing it swiftly like a cat sparring with a mouse dangling by the tail from its teeth. His left bounced off the attacker's chin. It was a little high, but the man rocked on his heels.

The killer rushed. Mark let his heels touch the ground, refused to run. The attacker was too aggressive and eager for complete defense. Mark caught him with a left and right and calmly took a murderous hook to the belly without flinching, then he let his right hand ride, dropping it like a sledge-hammer. The attacker's face seemed to lose contour, its features blurred as the face went gory; his feet crossed and his knees went suddenly rubbery. The conveyor-road inspector fell with a crash and didn't get up.

Mark became suddenly aware that two Martian proctors flanked him, deadly atomo-pistols pressing at his sides.

"Silence and obedience, International! Follow!" came the crisp, laconic order from the senior proctor.

Instantly a visi-screen lighted and a cold, imperious voice directed:

"Remove the attacker, dispose as power reserve. Spacer Lynn proceed on mission!"

In unison, the two proctors saluted and the atomo-pistols disappeared. It was the voice of the Council, through some subordinate.

"Palanth!" Mark Lynn exclaimed delightedly as he spied a dandified Martian leaning against a column of chrysophrase, upon entering the lobby of the International Police headquarters to report.

Tall and sinewy-lean, with the exaggeratedly narrow waist characteristic of the Martians, Palanth gazed startled at his companion of many adventures, from behind a silken square of Venusian-spider silk drenched in the overpowering fragrance of Venusian Jasmines. Only the violet eyes were visible, startling against the background of his flaming hair.

In the tight-fitting yellow tunic of an International, he resembled an ancient, narrow-waisted cretan come to life, but for the flaming mane and towering height.

"Greetings! O bird of ill-omen, what malodorous wind blew you in from outer space?" He dropped the handkerchief long enough to reveal chiselled nostrils and white even teeth as he smiled heart-warmingly. He placed his left hand on Mark's shoulder, in the immemorial gesture Mars reserved for the closest friends.

"One sec, Planetarian, while I check in," Mark grinned also placing his hand on the Martian's shoulder, knowing how it annoyed the Martian to be called by a lower rank. Mark stepped into a booth that automatically recorded his status as the visi-screen panel glowed into life.

"Spacer Mark Lynn, Exploratory Astrogator First Class, reporting. Under sealed orders from the Supreme Council. Last station Io. Awaiting further orders." In a thousand departments that recorded global information and checked it in detail even psychologically, Mark's words automatically became part of the endless record. But there was no answer. The visi-screen faded to a smouldering green and went blank.

"Strange!" Mark muttered to himself, stepping out of the booth. "These orders must be final." He touched the slight bulge made by the cylinder he carried.

Curiosity was beginning to needle him, but orders from the Council could only be opened in absolute privacy, especially sealed orders.

Palanth was waiting for him, the eternal handkerchief pressed against his nose. A brilliant panagran, blood-red and flashing made a deep spot of color against his left ear-lobe. Everything about him seemed indolent, aesthetic, super-refined. And the exquisite fragrances from the known universe with which he drenched his squares of silk, thanks to his mania against human odors, added to the foppish effect.

"Have you come to twist the tail of the comet, O thou especially not wanted?"

"Breath-taking, as usual," Mark was grinning from ear to ear, "specially that godawful jungle fumes you're soaked in ... arrgh! I can't breathe!"

"My only defense against you creatures," Palanth said languidly. "I need replenishing, Mark, shall we go?"

"Lord, yes. I could eat an Europan." Mark checked himself as an odd tight expression came into his eyes, and his hand tightened on something hard inside a lower pocket of his tunic. He fell unaccountably silent for a moment.

Palanth strode beside him with a lithe, tigerish stride which belied his now forgotten languid pose of a few minutes ago. His deceptive exterior--which many to their final regret had found could disappear like lightning, still made him seem a Planetarian fop whom the Council permitted harmless foibles for reasons of their own.

"I never hoped to see you again after that crash on Europa." Palanth exclaimed with a relieved sigh. "You're so reckless, Mark, and death is so permanent!"

"Cease! O chattering...." Palanth interrupted as near being embarrassed as it was possible for him to be. The rest of what he said was buried in the perfumed handkerchief which he hastily pressed against his face as they joined the crowds that filled the avenue.

"But what are you here for? It is permissible to know?" Mark asked soberly at last.

"I may as well tell you," Palanth said, his tones muffled by the handkerchief. "You'd never have the imagination to guess!"

"You probably have been appointed to regulate the last batch of outgoing freighters enroute to various space stations, in order to relieve congestion and ease pressure of transportation. There may be something else ... eh?"

"I've already read mine," Palanth said quietly. "I'm persuaded they're not very different from yours--in the last analysis. It's a gigantic game, Mark!"

"Then you know?"

"Yes!" It was almost a whisper, almost a telepathic assent. "But here's our energy center, let's go on in."

Once within the vast dining-hall, known as an Energy Center, they selected a table and from the menu the number of the meal that suited them, pressing the numerically corresponding stud on the panel above the table. The food came on a conveyor belt that passed beneath the floor and emerged from the center of the table which was hollow and had a panel that slid aside as the food arrived.

"Well, what have you learned," Palanth asked Mark as they began their meal.

Mark Lynn outlined what he knew and added a few conjectures of his own, and Palanth's face split gradually in a wide grin.

"A pretty mess.... How many of you flesh-eating mammals are there left to transport ... the irreconcilables, I mean, the dissenters."

"Roughly about five hundred million. They're an amazing mixture of Internationals, Philosophers and Ruralians--the three most individualistic strata!"

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