Star Bridge Part 2

The night wind was cold on Horn's half-naked body. He resisted the impulse to shiver. He laid the coin in the dust of the desert and drew out another and another until five of the crystal disks lay side by side, silver-rimmed, orange, green, blue, black. The General Manager and four of his five Directors: Matal for Power, Fenelon for Transport, Ronholm for Commerce, Duchane for Security.

Five faces: thin and round, long and short, bold and cunning. The differences were unimportant. They all had the golden skin of the pureblood, and an even deeper kinship spoke through the eyes. It was the kinship of power, an imperial hunger only half-satisfied and basically unappeasable.

The sixth coin was gold-banded like the one Horn had tossed to Wu. The symbol of the Directorship of Communications. Horn held the coin up to the stars.

The coin held a woman's face as a morning flower holds a drop of dew, mirroring in it the limitless possibilities of the world that begins again. Her skin was softly golden against red-gold hair confined by a fillet of immense white diamonds. Her red lips curved gently in the faint beginning of a smile; they promised an empire to the man who could win them. And her head, held proudly, told him that an empire would not be enough to lay at her feet. Her tawny eyes looked out at Horn, sank deep into his eyes, judging, weighing....

Is this the man?

"The lovely Wendre," a voice wheezed. "Wendre Kohlnar, the new Director, daughter of the General Manager."

Startled, Horn turned at the first words. His hand darted toward his gun, dropping the coin. Wu knelt beside him. He was unarmed. Horn's hand fell back to his side.

"Beautiful," Wu went on casually, "and heir to all that." He waved a careless hand at the star-studded sky. "If she can find a man strong enough to hold it for her."

"All except that," Horn said. He pointed toward the seven sisters of the Pleiades Cl.u.s.ter, just rising on the horizon. "Eron has conquered the Quarnon League, but keeping it is another matter."

"The tides of empire rise," Wu said softly. "A few always flee in front of it, but the waves crash after them. Now they have crushed the Cl.u.s.ter. They have smashed it flat. It will never rise again. When the tide recedes at last, it will leave only sand-strewn ruins."

"The defeat isn't final. Not while the Liberator lives."

"You think Eron doesn't know that?" Wu asked. "Peter Sair was sent to Prison Terminal. Vantee. A few months ago, he died there. Or so it is said."

"Dead?" Horn said. He stared toward the horizon, toward the Pleiades, toward the cl.u.s.ter of stars that were close enough for civilization without the Tube, where freedom had died. He stared toward home and realized for the first time that he could never go back.

Three hundred light years separated him from the Cl.u.s.ter. Six hours by Tube; half-a-dozen lifetimes by the next quickest means. And the Tubes led through Eron; he had barred himself from Eron by what he had done and what he was going to do.

Why am I here? Horn wondered, and pushed the thought away.

"Goodnight, idealist," Wu whispered, and was gone.

Horn shrugged and scooped up the coins in front of him.

Whatever you have done to earn these coins was worthwhile.

He reached for the pistol under his left arm and pulled it down easily. He held it between his knees, pointing toward the desert.

He hadn't earned them yet. He would earn them tomorrow.

THE HISTORY.

Civilization....

Like everything else, it has a price. The down payment is freedom. For the privilege of living together, men surrender the right to do as they please; they make laws and restrict themselves within them.

When civilization is conferred from outside, the price is even steeper: someone else makes the laws.

Only the Tube made possible an interstellar civilization. And only Eron knew the secret of the Tube.

Some people will not pay the price. They buy freedom instead and pay for it with toil and hardship.

So men fled before Eron. They fled down the starways in rusty ships ahead of the expanding sphere of civilization and empire.

In the star cl.u.s.ter once called the Pleiades, freedom stopped running. The stars were close enough for loose federation and trade but too far apart for conquest. Slow ships could link them together into the Quarnon League. Instead of a ship, its symbol was a man.

And there in the Cl.u.s.ter, freedom died, crushed by Eron in two great wars. For freedom is contagious, and bridges are profitable.

The news traveled fast: Peter Sair was dead.

But Sair was a symbol. And symbols, like freedom, cannot die as long as one man still believes in them....

3.

THE NARROW BRIDGE.

Horn came awake instantly, his nerves tingling with alarm.

The pistol was in his hand as he glanced out over the desert. The eastern horizon was beginning to gray. The stars had faded there. But the danger wasn't in the desert. It was lifeless.

He looked to the left, but the depression was still dark. Dark and still. But something had changed.

A man in constant danger learns to depend on his intuition, that subtle a.n.a.lyzer of unconscious perceptions. He has to. Danger will not wait for judgment.

Stiffened muscles protesting, Horn crept silently down the slope. The hollow was deserted. Only the black ashes in the dust were evidence that someone had been there.

Wu and the parrot were gone. They had picked up their few belongings and left soundlessly in the night while he slept.

That was the disturbing factor. For longer than he could remember he hadn't allowed himself the luxury of real sleep. His sleep was only a step below consciousness, a drowsing broken by the slightest change of environment. How could they have gone without waking him?

He hadn't planned to sleep at all. The closer he got to the goal, the greater the pitch of danger. Had it been the rebellion of a body driven beyond endurance? That was ridiculous. And yet he had slept. He felt more rested, more alert than he had since leaving the cruiser.

If he had been drugged, in spite of his caution, Wu had been clever. Horn added another stroke to the implausibility of their presence here and the greater implausibility of their appearance.

Horn finished the automatic process of covering the ashes and shrugged. He felt no aftereffects.

It was unfortunate, nevertheless. The old man would have been useful; Horn was convinced that Wu had known a way to the mesa top. But anger was pointless. To Horn, Wu was a thing to be used. Wu had a right to avoid being used, if he could.

Horn considered the problem of climbing the mesa. By the growing daylight, he could see no break in the wall. It was likely that the search would take him all day. That was too long.

Horn ran up the slope beside the single set of boot tracks and studied the trail. It ran straight along the edge of the cliff until it grew indistinct in the distance.

Horn started after them at a steady trot. The tracks weren't too old, an hour or two at most, and the patches on the boots were plain. Horn read the trail skillfully. Here Wu had shifted the suitcase to his left hand; there he had stopped to catch his breath or take a drink. The undulations of a snake began and ended abruptly; farther on, a rabbit's tracks were beside the trail.

Horn pa.s.sed a discarded half-liter bottle. The label said: Ethyl Alcohol, synthetic, 180 proof. Bottled by Eron Export Authority.

Thirst began to bother Horn. He took the last drink from the canteen, a tepid sip that was little better than nothing. He recapped the canteen and licked his lips.

Almost imperceptibly, the tracks grew fresher. Wu was only minutes ahead. Horn glanced up, as he had before, but there was only the sheer cliff face to his left and the red dust ahead.

Then he lost the tracks. They ended at a shelving of rock scoured clean by the wind and didn't return to the dust anywhere around the perimeter.

Horn stared up at the cliff. The bird could have flown over it but not Wu. Horn studied the bush that grew tight against the foot of the cliff. It was an unlikely green. Some of the leaves had been bruised recently.

Carefully, Horn pushed the bush aside. Behind it was blackness. A hole, a meter high, two-thirds of a meter wide. Horn didn't like holes or tunnels; there was too much uncertainty about them. But this one led toward Sunport.

The smooth rock was damp as he scrambled through the darkness on hands and knees. That trickle of moisture had been the reason for the bush. Water on the desert was a rarity. The clatter of the empty canteen against the side and floor of the tunnel reminded Horn how much of a rarity it was. It was torment to his dust-caked throat.

He grimaced and crawled faster. Slowly the darkness lessened, became a frame for brightness, and fell behind.

Horn stood up cautiously, the rocks at his back. After the drab desert, the colors were achingly brilliant, the all-pervading green broken here and there with red and blue and yellow. He breathed deeply, and his senses came alive to myriad odors. It was like coming back from death.

A thought intruded: he must pa.s.s from this to death again.

He pushed through the close-packed greenness, trampling the color and odor underfoot, until he came to a clearing. Over the surrounding trees and bushes he could see the bare, gray granite marching unbroken around the valley. He was no better off than he had been. And yet Wu had come this way.

The music of water was close. Horn made his way to it, ignoring the branches and thorns that tore at his arms and chest. He waited at the edge of the little brook. Birds in the trees had fallen silent, but as he stood motionless they began to sing again.

Horn stretched himself out beside the brook and plunged his face into the water. He let it trickle into his mouth, raised his dripping head, and the water washed down his throat, sluicing away the desert dust.

It was good water, incredibly sweet after the alkaline bitterness of the gypsum springs. He bent to drink again, deeply this time, when he saw the cottontail on the other side of the brook. Black eyes stared at him curiously.

Cautiously Horn reached for his pistol, set it at low velocity and took quick aim. He needed meat. But as the gun came down, the rabbit turned and disappeared into the brush in one giant leap.

A moment later, as Horn watched with narrowed eyes, a brown bird erupted from the brush and vanished toward the far wall. Horn followed its flight thoughtfully, drank again, and filled his canteen.

Horn trotted toward the distant wall, ducking under branches, circling clumps of bushes. As he drew near, he saw through the trees that here the cliff face had crumbled. Great sections of it had fallen, breaking into boulders and ma.s.ses of rubble that piled against the wall in a steep ramp.

Coming out from under the last tree, Horn saw the small, dark figure toiling toward the top of the slide, loosening pebbles that rattled down the slope. Something smaller and darker circled in the air around the figure's head.

The pistol was in Horn's hand.

"Stop!" Horn shouted. The words echoed back and forth between the cliffs.

A white face turned back toward him. Horn raised the gun to his eye. Through the powerful telescopic sight, Wu seemed only a few meters away, caught upon the crosshairs. His eyes were wide and black as he stared down into the gun; his face was pale; indecision seemed to paralyze him.

Something brown and winged swept across the sight and disappeared into the blackness of the cliff.

"Stay where you are!" Horn yelled.

Wu moved then, swiftly for such a fat, old man, and swarmed up the rocks. The crosshairs swung to follow him. Annoyance flitted across Horn's face. The old man was a fool; he deserved to die. Horn's finger tightened on the trigger. At the last moment he twisted the crosshairs away.

The projectile whistled from the gun, fought its way through the air, and ricocheted from rocks a meter to Wu's left. And then the old man was gone, into the blackness in the cliff face, like the brown bird.

Disgustedly, Horn released the gun and dashed up the rocks, ignoring the way they slipped and turned under his feet and the dangers of starting a slide that would pull the natural ramp out from under him. Pebbles rattled down the slope. In a loose patch, he went to one knee, but in a few minutes he was staring into the black mouth of a cave.

Water trickled along a crooked channel carved into the smooth floor. It disappeared into the loose rock that fell away from the mouth. That and the long heating and cooling of the centuries had loosened the cliff face and pulled it down.

Horn stepped into the darkness. The mouth was unnaturally round; the walls were unnaturally smooth. This was a tunnel, not a cave.

It seemed straight. A light flickered far ahead in the darkness. Horn ran toward it, wondering if there might be wide, deep holes and pushing the thought away.

The light wavered, almost disappeared, and grew brighter. Finally Horn saw that it was a torch. Wu was holding it and walking wearily, his face turned back. The parrot was on his shoulder.

When Horn came into the flickering circle of light, breathing easily, Wu stopped, leaned against the tunnel wall, and sighed. Sweat trickled down his yellow face. His chest rose and fell raggedly.

"You are a determined man," he gasped. "In itself, that is an admirable trait."

"Character is judged by the ends it serves," Lil said harshly, her one eye gleaming in the torchlight.

Horn's face was calm. "I said last night that you would take me to Sunport. If this is the way, let's go on."

Wu put one hand to his chest as if to ease a pain. "I'm an old man. I've moved too fast. Besides, you shot at me. I might have been killed." There was horror in his voice.

Horn nodded. "You might have been. Lead the way."

The torch sagged in Wu's hand. Horn took it and motioned him away from the wall. Wu protested, but he moved ahead.

"How did you know of this place?" Horn asked.

Wu shrugged. "Men learn many odd things if they live long enough. Sometimes I think I've lived too long. When Sunport was young, this whole mountain was honeycombed with pa.s.sages. The deeper ones are flooded. Most of the others are caved in. But this one should lead to the top."

Twice they had to crawl on hands and knees over piles of fallen rubble that almost choked the tunnel. When Wu began to complain again, Horn reached for the battered suitcase. Reluctantly, Wu gave it up. It was surprisingly heavy. Horn prodded Wu forward into the darkness that the torch forced into only a small retreat.

They walked silently into the darkness, slowly climbing, sloshing occasionally in the icy stream of water that ran along the floor or collected in pools where it had been dammed by refuse or rubble.

"A deserter," Wu panted. "A deserter from the Guard-with sympathies for the beaten Cl.u.s.ter-heading for the Victory Dedication at the ruins of old Sunport-with a gun. That paints an interesting picture."

"Glad you like it," Horn said.

"It presents some interesting possibilities, too. Where would a guard get money? Not from Eron. Not in those amounts. One might almost imagine that you came from the Cl.u.s.ter, that you were among those defeated soldiers who were permitted to enlist in the Eron Guard, that you came here with a purpose, determined to desert on Earth and make your way to the ruins of Sunport in time for the Dedication- But that is impossible. No one would have attempted it, and no one knew about the Dedication. It wasn't public knowledge until recently."

"You talk too much," Horn said curtly.

Wu stopped walking suddenly. Horn b.u.mped into him. Lil flew into the air. Wu clutched at Horn and pressed himself back. Beyond Wu, Horn saw the pit.

Across the entire width of the tunnel, the floor had fallen away. They stood on the edge of a wide, black hole. Horn stepped forward past Wu and held the torch high. Across the pit stretched a rusty, metal girder to an uneasy resting place on the other side, more than five meters away. Someone long dead must have put it there. It was a narrow bridge across black infinity.

Horn knelt at the edge and held the torch out over the side. The light died away before it reached bottom. As he stood up, his foot dislodged a pebble. It rang and clattered against the sides for a long time before a distant splash told them it had hit water.

Wu stared at the pit and at the girder, half a meter wide, that spanned it. Sweat glistened in shiny beads on his round, yellow face.

Horn set one foot on the girder, testing its balance. It didn't move. He put his other foot on it. It didn't sag. Steadily then, without haste, he walked across the bridge, putting one foot down and swinging the other one around in front of it, until he stepped safely onto the other side.