Mine Host, Mine Adversary E-Book

Lester Del Rey

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 81

Beschreibung

It had been nearly fifteen years since the civilian rocket field had seen more than local traffic. Now, in spite of the bustle of emergency attendants and crews, the field buildings looked forlorn—and deserted. Even some of the posters were of vintage brand. One, sheltered from the rain and sun, was still legible in its early crudity: TO BE BEATEN IS TO BE EATEN!

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

MINE HOST, MINE ADVERSARY, by Lester del Rey

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Originally published in Fantastic Universe, October 1959.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

MINE HOST, MINE ADVERSARY,by Lester del Rey

It had been nearly fifteen years since the civilian rocket field had seen more than local traffic. Now, in spite of the bustle of emergency attendants and crews, the field buildings looked forlorn—and deserted. Even some of the posters were of vintage brand. One, sheltered from the rain and sun, was still legible in its early crudity:

TO BE BEATEN

IS TO BE EATEN!

The red letters were smeared across the faded, scabrous purple of a tree-like horror with exaggerated fangs and filthy hands clutching at a tender young girl, its grotesque mouth drooling. Such direct appeal to fear of the Xanthot was no longer used, and the idea of being beaten was no longer mentioned, of course. Someone had slapped a modern win NOW slogan over it, but inferior paste had loosened and the old sign still flaunted its crudity.

Paul Weinblum sat staring at it until the rest of his group had left the bus, self-conscious in the loose civilian garb they had all been issued. He saw the bus driver’s impatient eyes on him, sighed, and started after the group.

“Free Earth!” the driver muttered, irritation heavy in the needless farewell.

Paul nodded. “Yeah, free Earth.”

Outside, Earth seemed no more free here than in any other of his limited experience this trip. Guards shunted him hastily through a door of the nearest building, down hallways, and into one of many temporary booths. There was a bench, an ashtray and a list of instructions to civilians for the week. What might have been a window was covered with a garish poster of a huge Earth superimposed on the galaxy, demanding that he Remember Earth’s Destiny.

He was on his third cigarette when the door opened and a mousy little man in Major’s uniform entered. The man stood staring appraisingly for a moment, then nodded. Remembering the group with which he’d come, Paul realized he must look good by comparison; he was slightly over average height, fairly well-built, and his fair skin and dark hair lent a touch of vividness to a face more sensitive than handsome.

“Free Earth,” the Major said. “Your full name?”

“Paul Benjamin Weinblum—the third.”

Shock touched the Major’s face. The man’s hands stopped shuffling his papers, then hastily resumed; until he found the right card. His face was frozen when he looked up, but his voice betrayed his reaction. “You volunteered?”

It wasn’t that surprising, Paul thought. In twelve years of being shuffled from outplanet to outplanet in routine clerical jobs, his isolation and loneliness had never become acceptable. His only taste of battle in the hate-filled war between Xanth and Earth had been by pure accident. He had begun as a lieutenant, and it was still his rating. The few pleasant memories he had were on Earth, during his youth, when even he could hide in the great, self-centered swarm of some metropolis. It was no surprise that he had grabbed the first chance to return, even though his two days here had been too closely guarded to justify his hopes. The only amazing part was that he’d been accepted.

The Major had been whispering into a tiny mike on his chest, but now he closed the switch with a shrug. “Okay,” he said. “It’s their funeral. You’ve been briefed on your duty?”

“I’m acting as a messenger for part of some formula too secret to send by code. I gather it’s broken down into hundreds of parts, and I’m only one of several carrying the same part. It’s the biggest and most important—”

“That’ll do,” the Major told him. “Okay, here’s your identification, civilian allocations, and your message unit. When you have it absolutely memorized—make sure of that—burn it and crumble the ashes into the ashtray. Then ask the guard for Flight 2117. You’ve got half an hour.” He paused, then shrugged. “And good luck, Weinblum.”

Paul had worried about the memorizing; but as he ripped open the envelope and glanced at the printing there, he found his worry was unfounded. “521: Theta over K is greater than e.” It meant nothing, of course, but the hardest part was the number—and he found an association to nail that down within a minute. It took longer to dispose of the message than to memorize it.

A bored guard motioned him toward the main building. Outside, he stopped, gazing across the field. There were a dozen out-of-date hulks being readied for takeoff, and three times as many were being serviced in hangars. Earth must be scraping the bottom of the barrel to provide for the flights that must be going on all over the world. And each ship must carry a full load of passengers to mask the messengers. How much truth had there been in the rumors of an ultimate weapon that would wipe out a whole planet at a single stroke? He’d never believed the scuttlebutt about a new field theory that would produce such miracles, but this elaborate system of messengers almost seemed to justify some such major discovery.

Involuntarily, his eyes rose to the old sign, then turned toward the pale sky. But there could be no danger of Xanthot over Earth, even now. The anti-matter rocket trails going and coming steadily over the military base showed the Earthguard still in command. Other planets might die under the attacks of the Xanthot, but the heartland would be preserved. So far, neither side had tried an attack on the other’s homeplanet for fear of retaliation; but if ultimate weapons could exist…

A Captain of the military guards took his flight number and pointed across the huge waiting room toward a roped-off section, jammed with waiting people. Around the room were other such crowded sections. It was a mob of people, but a silent one. And the silence told him how the groups of fifty volunteers had been found to cover the messengers. They were heading out to an unwanted destination or to oblivion only because various pressures had made it easier to volunteer than to stay. Sullen, resentful faces glared at the guards or stared at the floor, marking their owners as the failures, the mothers with sons in police trouble, the old men existing on precarious relief, the hopeless and the weak.

There was a space beside a brown-haired girl busy with a newspaper, and the Captain motioned Paul to it.

“Sit here and keep your mouth shut till the gong sounds. Then march out in order. You got twenty minutes.”

The girl dropped the paper and stared at the guard. Paul saw in surprise that she was fairly pretty and expensively dressed. Her gray eyes seemed to switch from strain to a dark amusement as she swung toward him. “Care for the paper?” she asked. “All the latest details of the Nineteenth Sector battle!”

Paul took the paper mechanically, watching the red-faced guard covertly. For a second, the Captain seemed about to speak. Then, with a face freezing into a blank, the man turned and moved off. The girl smiled faintly.

The newspaper account was no more than could be expected. All Paul could learn definitely was that a Xantha fleet and an Earth force had engaged in the Nineteenth Sector. He’d read accounts in which men he knew had been engaged in battle, and he was sure the words in print would be true—but with no relation to reality. Yet he read the whole story, hoping to get some hint from it. He finished with a hunch that Earth had lost badly. He tried to track down his reasoning, but a shrill whispering behind him drew his mind away—something about police breaking in and rousing a poor body from her sleep and forcing her here. A guard put a sudden end to the whisper, but Paul could not recapture his thoughts.

“We lost!” It was the girl beside him. Her voice was clear and loud, but no guard looked toward her. Seen full face, there was something about her that looked familiar…

She nodded, as if reading his mind. “Patricia Obanion, youngest daughter of the Senator Obanion, ordered home by my father. That’s why I know we lost the battle.”

“But—a passenger on this ship?” The treason to Security implied in her words meant nothing compared to other implications. If Obanion’s daughter were going on his ship, then there must be little danger. He’d been doubtful of his chances before, but this must mean almost a milk run!

“Dad made haste of the essence, and no convoy was ready to any place where I could transship for the estate,” she said coolly. There was a bitter, taut amusement on her face. “So here I am. And you?”

He gave his name and saw her eyes widen. But there was no time to catch her full reaction before the gong in the section began ringing.

With a collective gasp of relief at anything to break the tension, the section lined up under the guards’ orders and began marching toward their ship. Someone began screaming hysterically and there was the sound of a slap, followed by silence. They crossed the field, stumbling around pits that no one had repaired. At close range, the ship—an old Osca model—seemed ready to fall apart; inside, it was rusty and unkempt, though there was evidence of repairs where most needed. A teen-age steward began calling out their cabin numbers, separating men from women. Paul realized that it was a minimum comfort ship with only community toilets, intended for trips of no more than a few light years.