Maelstrom (27 page)

Sparta’s introspection was interrupted by an eerie sight. Sharply visible in the Moon’s hazeless nonatmosphere, on the near side of the landing field where the bright spike of the white cutter blazed against the star-filled sky, a brightly backlit spacesuited figure was walking toward her, gesturing. She zoomed her eye in on the distant figure, still five kilometers away, bringing it close in her field of view. . . . It was Blake Redfield.

She sealed her helmet and depressurized the cab. A few minutes later she skidded to a halt beside him. When she popped the bubble she saw his big grin through his faceplate.

 

Her suit radio crackled. “You’re the passenger I was supposed to pick up?”

 

“The same. I persuaded them to let me off the ship.” He was mightily pleased at the effect he’d created.

 

“Do you mind sharing the back seat?”

 

“Not at . . .” His grin dissolved when he realized that the man in back had a smashed helmet.

 

“Until I can get Security to take him off my hands.” Her tone was edgy, challenging him: make a joke of
this
.

 

“In that case . . .”

 

He settled himself quickly in the back, leaning against his straps away from Istrati’s body. She lowered the bubble. The buggy resumed its journey toward the base.

 

After several moments of silence, she said, “What are you doing on a cutter? That’s for triple-A-priority cases.”

 

“I had the impression you sent it for me.”

 

“Who gave you that impression?” she asked sharply.

 

“Tall guy, gray hair, blue eyes, a voice like high tide on a pebble beach. He wouldn’t give me his name, but he said he worked for you.”

 

Sparta almost choked; she turned it into a throat-clearing sound. “Right,” she wheezed. “I found your message, Blake, and I got to Paris, but I was too late. Then this business came up.”

 

“What business? Nobody’s told me what’s going on. Or why you’re here.”

“The Farside launcher failed a few days ago and almost killed the farmer who was riding in the capsule. They sent me up here to find out whether it was an accident. It wasn’t. Right now I’m on my way to arrest the guy who did it.”

“Oh,” Blake said. “I guess you’ve been pretty busy.”

 

There was silence in the cab except for the whine of the wheel motors, conducted through the frame. “Ellen, are you unhappy to see me?”

 

She stared sullenly ahead for a long moment, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I just–I have so much to deal with. I’m running low on energy.”

 

“One of the things I wanted to tell you–I found William Laird. Or whatever his name is.”

 

She swallowed and found that her throat was like sand. Laird. The man who’d tried to kill her. The man who’d, if they were dead, must have killed her parents. “Where?” she whispered.

 

“In Paris,” he said. “He was calling himself Lequeu. He found out who I was before it occurred to me who
he
was–they had me locked up for more than a week before I got away.”

 

“Why did you steal that scroll?”

“I’m a member of the Free Spirit now. It was my first assignment. I was hoping you’d show up in time to save me from a life of crime. I came as close to botching it as I could, and I laid a trail back to Lequeu. But he was too smart for the
flics
.”

“Blake, do you know a woman named Katrina Balakian?”

 

“No. What about her?”

 

“Her fingerprints were all over your apartment. She searched the place after you left it.”

 

“Damn. They must have caught me sending the hide- and-seek message,” he said. “What do you know about Balakian?”

 

“She’s an astronomer here at Farside. Soviet. A big, muscular blonde, gray eyes . . .”

 

“Catherine!” Blake exclaimed.

 

“Who?”

 

“Lequeu’s sidekick, Catherine. You say she’s Russian?”

 

“Transcaucasian. A real man-eater. Charming accent.”

 

“Catherine speaks flawless French,” Blake said. Then, softly, he added, “And
of course
she’s an astronomer. . . .”

“Of course?” Blake leaned forward excitedly. “What I really wanted to tell you–I found out what they were trying to do with you. With all of us in SPARTA. I know what their program is.”

“What’s Catherine/Katrina got to do with it?”

“Lequeu–Laird, I mean–he and the rest of them believe that gods have been among us, watching evolution for a billion years, watching human progress, waiting until the time is ripe. The
prophetae
have appointed themselves the high priests of the whole human race. They think it’s their task to create the perfect human, the human equivalent of the gods, the perfect emissary. To put it the way they do, they intended to raise up the Emperor of the Last Days, whose role it would be to greet the descending Hosts of Heaven as they ushered in paradise. . . .”

“You’re making me dizzy. Get to the point.”

 

“This is the point, Ellen:
you
were supposed to be the Emperor–the Empress, I guess–of the Last Days. That’s what they tried to do to you. Humanity’s envoy.”

 

She laughed bitterly. “They botched that, all right.”

 

“All of which might sound very vague and nutty, except they know where these so-called gods came from.”

 

“Blake,” she said, exasperated, “what possible . . . ?”

 

“Their home star is in Crux.”

 

“Crux!”

 

“Why the surprise?”

 

“How do you know it’s in Crux?” she demanded.

“They have what they call the Knowledge–original records of visits from these gods of theirs, in historical time! This papyrus, for example–it identifies Crux for anybody who can build a pyramid and recognize a star map.”

The buggy skidded as she turned sharply, throwing Blake against his harness. He found himself staring into Istrati’s dead eyes. “What’s going . . . ?”

“The Farside antennas were aimed at Crux when Leyland’s capsule crashed. They still are.” The moon buggy was walloping across the lunar landscape as fast as its motors would drive it, heading away from the domes of the distant base and the loading shed of the electromagnetic launcher, toward the far end of the launcher track. Sparta was headed on a straight line toward the radiotelescopes. “It’s about to happen again. There’s going to be another launch failure.”
“There
is
? How do you . . .”

“Be quiet, Blake. Let me think.”

 

“Call the launcher, if you’re so certain,” he said. “Make them shut it down!”

“The guy beside you chopped off my antenna. If I’m counting the seconds correctly”–she had no doubt that she was counting the seconds correctly–“the capsule that’s being loaded into the breech of the launcher at this moment is the one that’s slated to hit Farside.”

“Dammit, Ellen, how can you possibly know that?” “Because I know who’s in it.”
XVII

The launcher stretched away to both sides in front of them. A dead-load bucket flashed past at a thousand meters per second, still energetically accelerating. It vanished down the track. One second later, another bucket flashed past. A second after that came another bucket–and they kept coming, regular as a clock, a clock that kept time by firing rifle bullets. But the sound of firing was eerily absent.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” Blake protested. “Where are you going?”

 

Sparta was silent, concentrating. The moon buggy whined toward the track for another half a kilometer. “Ten seconds until we’re in range,” she said. “You steer. Keep us going on a straight line.”

Blake slipped his harness and leaned forward over the seat. Sparta let go of the yoke as he grabbed it. “What– uhh–are you doing–aagh–
now
. . . ?” His stomach repeatedly slammed into the seat back as the bucking moon buggy lurched on across the cratered plain.

“Brace yourself.”

 

“Oh–ugh–sure . . .”

 

Sparta had the dome open. The buggy’s big front tires were spraying moondust straight into the airless vacuum like rooster tails behind a speedboat. “In two seconds I’m going to jump. Try not to flip this thing.”

 

“Do my . . . ?”

But she was gone. As she’d finished speaking she’d leaped from the buggy. Blake caught a blurred glimpse of her flying away from him, her arms spread in the vacuum as if she were a winged creature, while a manned capsule was flying down the launcher track toward them. Sparta curved her arms and hands into hooks. For a moment she was a levitating goddess. . . .

The bubble of the moon buggy slammed down. Blake reached for the throttle as the mounded dust of the wellused buggy road beside the track caught one wheel. Blake felt the yoke slip from his hand. The buggy skidded and lurched. The back end slipped around and the vehicle bucked to a stop. It slid practically under the launcher track before it came to rest.

Blake leaned back and closed his eyes, gulping suit air.

 

When his eyes opened he screeched. He’d forgotten he still had company in the buggy: Istrati’s dead red eyes were glaring at him in frozen rage.

Blake slammed open the bubble and staggered out of the moon buggy, his knees shaky from too much adrenalin. Then he saw Sparta. She was lying crumpled in the dust beside the track. He started to run toward her, but his leap was long and he came down off balance, sliding to his knees beside her.

She raised herself halfway. “Settle down before you hurt yourself,” she said hoarsely.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“I’m terrific.” She did a quick push-up and bounded erect. “We’d better head for launch control. Can you stand up by yourself?”

 

“Yes, I can stand up,” he said petulantly. He demonstrated it, wobbling to his feet. “What happened?”

 

“I’ll tell you about it later. Let’s get this dust off.” She began beating at the caked and clinging moondust that covered her spacesuit.

 

She had no intention of telling him everything there was to tell.

When Sparta and Blake arrived in the launch control room, most of the talking seemed to be over. Some controllers were anxiously querying their computers; some were staring vacantly at their screens. Frank Penney sat at the launch director’s console.

Van Kessel glared starkly at Sparta. He opened his mouth, but seemed unable to think of anything to say. Then he bleated, “Again, Troy! A manned-launch failure.”

Sparta didn’t look at Van Kessel. “Frank Penney”–he turned to face her–“you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, and for the murder of Pontus Istrati, and for illegal traffic in drugs in violation of numerous Council of Worlds statutes. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to retain counsel, who shall be present at any official interview. Meanwhile, anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand your rights under the Council of Worlds charter?”

Penney’s tan face flushed deep red. The man who liked attention was aware that all the controllers in the place were staring at him in amazement.

 

“Or would you rather run, Frank? Like Istrati,” she whispered, unable to contain the malice. “I won’t try to stop
you
.”

 

“I want to contact my attorney,” Penney said huskily.

 

“Do it somewhere out of the way. We have things to take care of here.”

 

Penney got stiffly out of his chair and walked out of the room. Two security patrollers were standing at the door to meet him. Every eye followed his retreat.

 

Blake raised an eyebrow. “How did they know?”

 

“I told them I’d need them here, before I went after Istrati.”

 

“Inspector Troy!” Van Kessel roared at her.

 

“Yes, Mr. Van Kessel,” she said mildly. “The launch failure. I’m aware of it. We have a few hours to do something about it, don’t we?”

 

“You’re
aware
of it! How can you be
aware
of it?”

“Because, Mr. Van Kessel, I was sent here to learn why Cliff Leyland’s launch failed, and I’ve been thinking about little else since I arrived. Had I not been thinking of it, I would not have prearranged the arrest of Mr. Penney.”

“What does
that
have to do with anything?” Van Kessel exploded. “Everybody
knows
Frank and Istrati were into something together!” He fell suddenly silent. His flushed face paled.

 

Sparta smiled tiredly. “Well, you might have told me, but you didn’t need to. Now you might tell me this: did you know that Istrati tried to recruit Cliff Leyland into Penney’s operation?”

 

“If you knew the way things were up here . . .” Van Kessel said huskily. “We don’t pry.”

“I’m not a judge or a prosecutor,” she said, trying to reassure him. “Istrati worked as a launch loader. It was his idea to recruit Cliff Leyland, because Leyland made frequent trips to L-5 and back. Leyland refused, even after he was beaten up, but he didn’t turn Istrati in–not his only failure of judgment, but almost his last. Istrati thought it would be a cute idea to teach him a lesson, by planting drugs on him where L-1 security was sure to find them.”
She looked around the room; she had a rapt audience. “As you all seem to know,” she said, “Penney was the boss of the ring, and he was the launch controller that day. Istrati must have bragged to him about what he’d done as soon as Leyland’s capsule was on the track. It would have been obvious to Penney that it was more than a stupid mistake, it was a disaster that could blow his whole operation. So, I reasoned, Penney decided to destroy Leyland’s capsule–a capsule that was only halfway down the track. If Penney killed the power right then and sent it short, the launch would abort; the capsule would never leave the track.”

“How could he have killed . . . ?”

“There was no fail-safe on your direct override, Mr. Van Kessel,” she said firmly. “Any person in this control room could have sabotaged the capsule. Penney had the motive. And he had the means to send it long, into deep space, or short, into the moon.” She paused. “Sending it long was no option, of course: Penney didn’t care what happened to Leyland, but he couldn’t let the capsule be recovered, ever. So he waited until the computer told him it was too late to abort; but in the last split second he could still make the capsule crash. That gave it a peculiar orbit, an orbit that would bring the capsule back practically on top of the base. While pretending to try to help Leyland, he made sure to send signals that put the capsule’s maneuvering system out of commission.”