A Scatter of Stardust (15 page)

That, as he knew it would, silenced the captain.

But nothing could shut down McCarty’s thoughts.

*

Greed for the Jackpot struggled with concern for his ship as he watched Larman set to work. He winced as twin beams of heat impinged against the sphere, the blue-white jets swallowed into the blackness. Desperately he tried to imagine what contrivances the aliens had used to warrant such batteries.

He couldn’t. Each time he tried to visualize something he boggled at the amount of power a fully charged sphere must contain. Even his pipe gave him no comfort and he paced the compartment like a trapped lion much to Larman’s annoyance.

“If you can’t sit still,” he yapped, “then go outside. You’re ruining my concentration.”

“You — ”

McCarty didn’t finish what he was about to say. Instead he stiffened, his teeth clamping his pipe so hard that they cut through the stem. Larman stared at him then followed the direction of his gaze.

He swallowed.

The sphere had changed.

It was no longer a ball of utter blackness. Now it had a silver sheen, a mirror effect of unbelievable beauty, like an iridescent mother-of-pearl, shining and wonderful as it sat, bathed in the twin flames from the focused burners.

“It’s charged!” Larman switched off the burners. “McCarty! It’s charged!”

“It’s changing!”

It was true. The glowing mother-of-pearl took on a bluish tinge and a wave of heat struck the two men. The silvery blue became brighter, brighter and the air in the compartment was suddenly stifling in its oven temperature.

“Get out of here!”

Larman wasn’t a small man but McCarty picked him up as if he had been a baby. He lunged towards the door, driven on by his own, nameless fears, the glowing ball of the sphere spurring his efforts. He fell through the door, reached the outer lock and tossed Larman outside. It was fifteen feet to the ground but McCarty didn’t hesitate. He jumped as he felt the skin of his naked back blister from the heat pouring from the sphere. He hit, rolled in the thick grass and dragged Larman to his feet. Together they raced from the ship.

They had covered maybe two hundred yards before the blast picked them up and hurled them like dolls.

“We were lucky,” said Larman shakily. He felt himself again, hardly believing that, aside from bruises, they were unharmed. The thick grass had saved them, of course, that and incredible luck. McCarty snorted.

“Luck?” He snorted again.

Looking at the still-glowing crater where the ship had been Larman could appreciate his feelings.

“Nothing to worry about,” said McCarty bitterly. “It’s as safe as houses. I’ve everything under perfect control.” He glared at the other man. “You fool! Where were you when they dished out brains?”

Larman tried to defend himself. McCarty didn’t listen.

“A battery,” he raved. “A simple thing like a flashlight cell. Man, did you have any idea of the power that thing soaked up?”

“I — ”

“The Jackpot!” McCarty groaned at the thought of it. He groaned again as he stared at the hole where the ship had stood.

“Stranded,” he said bitterly. “And for why? Because the fool I carried with me didn’t have the imagination of a louse. He couldn’t even make a guess at what he’d found.”

“Now wait a minute!” Larman smarted under the injustice of it. “Could you?”

“I can now,” said McCarty. “I half-guessed before but you seemed so certain. A bomb, that’s what it was. A dirty, sly, underhanded time-bomb!”

“But the natives?!”

“Not the natives. I don’t know who made it or when but that’s what it was. Maybe the natives recognized the danger once, I don’t know, but I’ll bet it was buried for a reason. What else could you do with a thing like that?”

Nothing, except perhaps freeze it in ice or dump it in space. While it could receive energy it was a potential danger and nothing could stop it receiving energy. Deep in the ground the absorption-rate would be slowed and, when it finally blew, the damage wouldn’t be so bad.

Looking at the crater Larman marveled at the power of the sphere. Most of the force had been confined by the ship but even so it had been considerable. And he had been the one to feed it that little bit of extra energy it had needed to reach critical point.

McCarty was right, of course, he could see that now. The sphere had been a war-weapon, scattered by a race at war with Kaldar and, the more he thought of it, the more diabolical a weapon it appeared. Small, indestructible, a thing that simply sat and soaked up the energy from the sun until, all at once, wham!

And he had thought he’d found the Jackpot.

McCarty grunted and he climbed to his feet beside the other man. A file of natives approached them from the edge of the jungle. The wind blew from them and Larman’s stomach protested at the scent. It protested still more when he remembered that, if he wanted to eat, it would have to be in their village.

He forgot his stomach as he saw what they carried.

Each native wore a smile and held out his left hand in readiness for beads, to them wealth unimagined.

The other hand carried, in the full glare of the brilliant sun, a two-inch ball of utter blackness.

They had found their Jackpot.

Thirty-Seven Times

The funeral was much the same as any other funeral. The day just an ordinary spring day. The cemetery was patterned after ten thousand other similar resting places and the casket which held the mortal remains of Professor Gregor Wantage just an expensive box of polished wood. To Sam Howard it seemed all wrong. There should have been terrible storms and portentous happening, earthquakes and reeling stars, sickness and bleak despair. Instead of which the world continued on its even way while Gregor made his final onslaught against the unknown.

Sam mentioned it to Armsworth on the way home.

“It depends on the point of view,” said Jeff indifferently. Now that the professor was dead he had his own, personal worries.

“To you, Gregor was father, mother, employer and friend. To others he was just another man, to me just the boss. When he managed to get himself killed he did more than prove his pet experiment a flop, he eliminated my only visible means of support.”

It was bitter, cynical and true. No one had felt about the old man as Sam had. He changed the subject.

“There’ll be money,” he said. “The patents were all made out to the firm and Gregor had made a will. Things will go on much the same as before.” He swallowed. “As much as they could ever be,” he whispered, “without Gregor.”

“Sure.” Jeff felt uncomfortable in the presence of grief. He produced cigarettes, lit them, passed one to Sam and sat back, smoking and staring through the windows of the cab. “You certain about that?” he said. “About things carrying on just the same?”

“Pretty certain.” Sam felt the warm sunshine on the back of his hand, thought of a polished box in cold, damp ground, shivered and filled his lungs with smoke. “Gregor told me once that the Institute was self-supporting. The income from the battery, the solar cell and the other things he invented will be sufficient to keep us in business.”

“With you in charge?”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Not much doubt, is there?” Jeff flicked ash from his cigarette, “With you and the old man so close it’s obvious.” He sighed with relief. “Well, it suits me. I liked the work and I liked the job and I don’t fancy going back into normal, industrial research.” He looked at Sam.

“When will we know?”

“Tomorrow morning, the lawyer’s going to read the will then.” Sam leaned forward. “How about dropping me off? I’ll see you the Institute tomorrow morning about ten. Suit you?”

“To the ground.” Jeff stared through the windows, feeling more cheerful now that his future seemed assured. “Where shall I drop you, at the Institute?”

“No, here will do.”

Jeff nodded and gave instructions to the driver. The cab swung from the main stream of traffic and came to a smooth halt at the kerb. Sam dismounted, slammed the door and stood watching as the vehicle drove away. He sighed, dropped the cigarette, trod on it and turned to see Gregor Wantage walking down the street.

*

Sam arrived early at the Institute the next morning. Since Gregor’s death the place had been closed, and he let himself into the building, passed through the main offices, the laboratories and workshops and stepped into the inner sanctum. Slowly he closed the door behind him, letting his eyes wander over the appointments of the office, Gregor hadn’t used it much, he had been more interested in his private experiments than office routine, but it was luxurious and contained framed portrait of the professor taken when he had won the Nobel Prize.

It was a good likeness. The artist had given full justice to the high forehead, the thick, white, sweeping hair, the firm line of the jaw and the shrewd but kindly blue eyes. Even the small, crescent-shaped scar beneath the right eye had been depicted, the scar resulting from a laboratory accident. Sam didn’t remember the accident, it had happened just before Gregor had sought him out and made him his assistant. It was a minor disfigurement and one easily overlooked or forgotten but it was there and it was unmistakable. Sam stared at it with mounting relief.

The man in the street had not been Gregor Wantage.

Not that he could have been, of course, Gregor Wantage was dead and buried. But the man had had the same hair, the same eyes, the same face. He had walked the same and looked the same and Sam had felt sick as he chased after him. He had spoken and the man had stared blankly at him with no trace of mutual recognition. Sam had felt like a fool, had muttered apologies and hurried away. And yet...

It had taken the evidence of the scar to reassure him.

Jeff arrived closely followed by the lawyer and Sam turned his mind to business.

“Has everything been settled?”

“As far as possible.” The lawyer waited until they had taken seats, produced papers from his briefcase and cleared his throat. “The terms of the will are explicit and, as there are no surviving relatives and as the professor was without wife or family there should be no disputes.”

He paused and Sam restrained an impulse to tell him to get on with it.

“The monies from all patents both held by the professor and the Institute will be devoted to the advancement of pure science as conducted by the Institute at the time of the professor’s death. You, Mr. Howard, will be in fall charge with Mr. Armsworth as your chief assistant. Both positions are permanent and subject only to the jurisdiction of the Board of Trustees as appointed by the professor. The remainder of the staff will be subject to your authority.” He folded the papers, tucked them away and smiled at the two men.

“The legal details will be sent to you in due course. Are there any questions.”

“Is that all?” Sam lit a cigarette, conscious of the painted eyes of the portrait following his every move.

“Aside from several minor bequests, yes.”

About the money,” said Jeff. He shrugged at the lawyer’s expression. “Let’s be practical about this. Saying that the Institute must continue as usual is all very well, but only if the money is there to permit it. Was the old man well-off when he died?”

“He left a great deal of money,” said the lawyer. “A very great deal.”

“From the inventions?” Sam looked puzzled. “I know that we are getting royalties from them, will they be sufficient?”

“In themselves, no,” confessed the lawyer. “But the professor owned an immense private fortune and there are certain investments.” He obviously wasn’t going into details. “There will be ample funds have no fear as to that.”

“Good.” Jeff grinned as he rose to his feet. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s send for the rest of the staff and get back to work.” He looked defensive. “Well, it’s what the old man would have wanted isn’t it?”

“Yes,” admitted Sam. “Get to work on it, Jeff, and commence work where we left off.” He followed the lawyer from the office, not speaking until they had emerged in the street below. “Was there anything else?”

“How do you mean, Mr. Howard?”

“Those private bequests, was there one for me?”

“No.” The lawyer was sharp. “Were you expecting a legacy?”

“No.” Sam bit his lip. “No, of course not.” He turned and re-entered the building.

*

A month passed and the work of the Institute settled into routine, Jeff came into the inner office one afternoon, his hands full of papers and a crease between his eyes.

“I’ve been checking up on the old man’s pet experiment,” he said “He seemed to be working with neutrinos, using field equations and a theory of his own.”

He shook his head. “Think it’s worth following up?”

“I don’t know.” Sam stared thoughtfully at the portrait on the wall, “Gregor spent five years to my knowledge working on his experiment and the only concrete result was his death.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been checking the figures and more money was spent on that project than any other. Just what Gregor hoped to accomplish only he knew, on that subject he was the most secretive man I ever saw.”

“He was a strange one all right.” Jeff helped himself to a chair. “A brilliant man, no argument about that, but strange. Remember how he used to shut himself up in his private lab for hours at a time?”

“I remember.”

“Odd too, the way he selected his staff.” Jeff looked thoughtful. “How did you two meet up, Sam?”

“He sent for me,” said Sam shortly. “Why, I never learned. He seemed to know quite a bit about my background too, must have had me checked before contacting me.” He dismissed the subject. “How are the investigations into the gravity fields progressing?”

“Slow,” said Jeff. “Slow but sure. Negative results so far but that’s to be expected.” He stared thoughtfully at the portrait. “You know, Sam,” he said suddenly. “It’s just struck me. Did you notice how fast the old man was ageing just before his death?”

“No, was he?”

“I’d say he was. Seemed to be getting older all of a sudden.” Jeff shrugged. “Nothing in that though, lots of men seem to be hale and hearty one day and almost senile the next. When old age comes it sometimes hits all at once.” He glanced at his papers. “So you don’t think we should continue the old man’s experiments?”

“There doesn’t seem to be any point in doing so,” said Sam. “We don’t know just what he was after, he left no notes or legible papers, and the equipment was so badly damaged in the explosion that it doesn’t tell us much.”

He toyed with a pencil. “Better forget it and concentrate on other lines of research.”

“As you wish.” Jeff obviously didn’t care one way or the other. He and Gregor had never been close so there was no inclination to carry on with the old man’s work from sentimental motives. Such motives would apply to Sam but, if he didn’t want to make the investigation, that was up to him.

After further small talk Jeff returned to his bench and Sam sat alone.

He didn’t mind being alone, he was used to it. Before Gregor had taken him up he had followed his own path and could do so again. The difference now was that, instead of being a subordinate, he was the boss. Sam smiled up at the portrait as if sharing a secret with the painted image then, selecting papers from the pile before him, buried himself in work.

The afternoon drew towards evening, the staff went home and Jeff looked in to see if Sam was finished for the day.

“Coming?”

“No, I want to finish this work.” Sam glanced at his watch. “You’d better get off, your wife will be expecting you.”

“Mary expects me when she sees me.” Jeff hesitated. “I could phone that I’ll be late if you want me to stay and help.”

“I can manage, thanks all the same. See you in the morning.”

Jeff shrugged and left. Sam reached for more papers and began to work out the research programme for the coming week. The work was engrossing and he lost all account of time. He lifted his head in annoyance as the door opened, thinking that Jeff had returned.

“Hello, Sam.”

It wasn’t Jeff. It was Gregor Wantage.

Shock affects people in different ways. For one terrible moment Sam thought that his heart had stopped and then, with a gasping sigh, he dragged air into his lungs and felt the cold sweat of fear ooze from his body.

“Hello, Sam,” repeated Gregor. He smiled, crossed the room and took a chair. The wood creaked a little as he sat down. “Busy?”

He looked just the same, even to the scar beneath his eye. In the light from the tall windows his hair shone with a soft whiteness and his eyes were as shrewd and as kind as ever. Sam looked at him, then at the portrait, then back to his visitor. His tongue seemed to have become glued to the roof of his mouth.

“How is everything going?” Gregor seemed perfectly at ease. “Did you concentrate on the non-ferrous force fields I told you about?”

“Told me about?” Sam wet his lips. Gregor had never mentioned any such thing.

“Yes. Easbach has some good ideas on that field, you’d better contact him and get him under contract before someone else snaps him up.” Gregor frowned across the desk. “What’s the matter?”

“You...” Sam fought to control himself. “You’re dead.”

“No I’m not.” Gregor held out his hand. “I’m real enough. Feel.”

“No!” For some reason Sam couldn’t bring himself to touch the hand Gregor extended towards him. “You’re dead I tell you! Dead!”

Gregor vanished.

*

The cemetery was the same as he remembered it, the same tended plots, the shrubbery, the irreverent birds chirping as they settled for the night. It was late, the last lingering light fading from the sky and, in the growing dusk the new-laid turf covering the mortal remains of Gregor Wantage showed against the deeper, richer surrounding green. Sam shivered, knowing himself to be a fool for having come all this way and yet feeling a faint relief at the sight of the undisturbed grave.

Gregor was dead. Gregor was screwed in his coffin and buried eight feet deep. Gregor simply couldn’t be walking around alive and well. And yet he was.

Gravel made gritty noises beneath his shoes as Sam hurried from the cemetery. A cab answered his hail and dropped him at a bar. Brandy warmed him and more brandy dispelled some of the depression. Hallucination brought on by overwork. The hypnotic effect of the life-sized portrait and the associations of the familiar office. A trick of the brain and that was all. Sam drank his brandy and felt relief as he thought about it. And yet...