The Wing Alak Stories Read online

  "I . . . I will try, l-lord-"

  Hurulta turned back toward the door. No one dared speak to him as he went down the corridor, but his mind was busy.

  Umung—yes. It had real possibilities. From all he had heard of it, Umung was a treasure chest. He had to prevent Alak's using it, of course—

  But the Patrol! As long as they were in this vicinity, he could not declare war on the League. That might be just the excuse they wanted. He'd fight them if he caught them, but until then it was safer to wait, consolidate his victories.

  But it wouldn't take much to occupy Umung. Not if its natives were as docile as all reports had it. And then he could show some real progress to those fat money barons. Already the war would have begun to pay off, and they'd support him in further schemes, let him build up his own power and prestige until the day he turned on them and broke them.

  Umung, yes. By all the hells, yes!

  * * *

  Imagine a creature somewhat like an ant—only in general outline, to be sure. It stands a meter tall on two horny legs whose cilia, rubbed together, are its voice organs. There is one pair of tentacles, ending in supple boneless fingers; above them are the true arms, and there is a small stalk on the wrist of each arm holding an eye with microscopic vision. The head is faceless, little more than a set of jaws and a pair of larger eye-stalks for normal seeing. The creature is utterly obedient to the mass-mind of its hivelike community, a patient, tireless, delicate worker. Apart from food and reproduction, its only need is work. Once you have persuaded the mass-mind-embodied in the queen—that it is to its advantage to do as you say, a hundred thousand little brown artisans are ready to slave to the death for you.

  Umung is not a large planet. Its atmosphere is thin and dry, its landscape mostly dreary plains. The Ulugani soldiers stationed there grumbled about its dullness. But not many were needed, and soldiers have always complained; it is a healthy sign.

  Technicians were required in large numbers, to educate the Umungi in the use of machine tools. But the hive dwellers learned fast. Goln of Aldebaran was invaluable, he knew the ins and outs of native ways. Before long, a good part of the entire planet was ready to start producing for Ulugan.

  It produced!

  * * *

  "All right, colonel, don't just stand there! Give me your report."

  "If it please you, lord, my scout squadron was investigating the Junnuzhik System as per orders—'"

  "I know! We have to watch every planet of this cluster now, we never know where the Patrol may sneak in next—Well, what is it? Don't tell me they're trying to build another base!"

  "No, lord. Our intelligence unit captured some leading natives of Ilwar for questioning—"

  "Ilwar! What do you mean? I can't remember every stinking native name for every worthless little area of a thousand inhabited planets."

  "The world is Junnuzhik III, lord, the only inhabited one in the system. The natives are centauroids—big scaly fellows, beaked heads, crests—Oh, yes, I see that my lord remembers now. Well, Ilwar is the leading nation on the planet. They've attained a petroleum technology, are pretty good metallurgists, and so on. Under pressure, it was found out that the Patrol has been dickering with them. Wants them to supply several million troops, presumably for an invasion of our planet."

  "Patrol have any luck?"

  "Well, lord, the natives are thoroughly anti-Ulugan. They assume that if we aren't stopped, we'll conquer them."

  "True enough. But . . . oh, blast and damn! We'll just have to take over the planet."

  "They're tough warriors, lord."

  "I know. And occupying a whole planet is a major operation. But we can't simply sterilize; we'll need it ourselves in the long run. And we must take over the entire world now, colonel. At the very least, we must garrison thousands of key points, or the Patrol ships can simply sneak in and pick up their recruits. At this time, too!"

  "Lord—"

  "Shut up! File a complete report. Now get out of here. Hello, hello, give me the General Staff building . . . Commander Tuac? Ready your planners, boy. We're going to invade still another world."

  * * *

  "Tuac? Listen and obey."

  "Yes, lord."

  "You know the planet Yarnaz IV?"

  "Hm-m-m . . . let me think, lord."

  "Don't. You're not capable of it—you and your planning section!"

  "Lord, how could we know the Ilwari would be such guerrilla fighters? Even under extreme difficulties, we're carrying on the conquest—it's just going more slowly than we had anticipated. If we could only have more troops, more supplies—"

  "Shut up, I said! We haven't even finished with Tukatan itself, thanks to that Patrol. Junnuzhik will have to make do with what we can spare. Now listen, or I'll have your head. Yarnaz is a red dwarf sun about fifteen light-years from Tumu. Its fourth planet is trackless desert, poisonous air, venomous life. Nevertheless, our checkup reveals that the Patrol has been there. Not a base. They've been mining near the equator. Why?"

  "Lord, I can't say. Unless they wanted supplies—fissionables, perhaps—"

  "I checked up on that, idiot. Yarnaz IV is about as poor in natural resources as empty space itself."

  "Could it be a camouflage, lord? A device to divert our attention from their real activities?"

  "It may well be. But, we don't know! The Patrol seems to have studied the primitive planets of our cluster better than we have ourselves. Furthermore, they have the natives of a million worlds to choose from in making up their crews. Doubtless there is at least one race in the League to whom Yarnaz IV is just like home. We can't know where their real advantage lies."

  "'Well, lord, it . . . it looks as if we'll have to establish garrisons there."

  "I'm glad you've seen that much. How soon can you send a force?"

  "The planning—Lord, we're getting bogged down. There's just too much to handle. Even one world is a major problem in strategy, tactics, logistics—"

  "Nevertheless, Yarnaz IV shall be occupied within one month. Or do you want your head adorning a pole in Market Square?"

  * * *

  Fear was cold along the spine of Hurulta as he looked at the being in the cage.

  It seemed harmless enough—a small kangaroo-like mammal, with big ears on its round, blunt-muzzled head. The sensitive four-fingered hands spoke of intelligence, the basic tool-making ability. There was no menace in the soft brown eyes.

  Nevertheless Hurulta was afraid. It took all the discipline he had to face that creature and hold his own visage expressionless.

  "It was caught on the fringes of Dengavash City, lord, just after the riots there," said the police officer. "Obviously it was the thing responsible. It creates an aura of terror."

  Hurulta forced his tongue to shape coherent words. "Where's it from?"

  "We checked up, lord. It's from Gyreion, as the explorers have named it—a planet not unlike ours, on the fringes of our cluster. This is one of the natives. They haven't been studied much, but seem to be a timid paleolithic race. Telepaths, though."

  "I . . . see. And when they're frightened, as must happen rather easily, they radiate the fear-impulse and our minds pick it up."

  "Yes, lord. We think a Patrol sneak-boat must have taken a few and dropped them here on Ulugan. We'll soon round up the others and we'll be sure."

  "Um-m-m." Hurulta's heavy blue face contracted in a scowl. It was hard to think clearly, when he had to keep fighting down the germ of panic that screamed far down within him. "Yes. A good idea. But quantitatively insufficient. The Patrol can't possibly smuggle enough of them here to make any significant trouble."

  "No, lord. Just nuisance value. Like everything they've done so far, isn't it . . . if I may make bold to speak."

  Hurulta turned and walked out of the room. Gyreion—hm-m-m. A tough nut to crack, that world—but worth while. If enough of those hoppers could be turned loose on an enemy planet —why, it was the ultimate in psychological warfare!

&nb
sp; The League planets—a decadent bunch. They couldn't stand up long to such fear. They'd be ready to surrender to the first warship that came along.

  Meanwhile, it was necessary to cut off the Patrol's access to Gyreion. Wouldn't take too big a force for an effective occupation; the natives weren't fighters. Once their fears had been calmed, they would be quite harmless—to Ulugan.

  This time, my friend, he thought with a savage glee, this time you've finally overreached yourself!

  * * *

  Wing Alak was getting bored. He didn't have much to do now but sit in his flagship and read the reports of his scouts and radio monitors. He welcomed the newcomer who had arrived with the last courier ship from home, even if it did mean a struggle.

  Jorel Meinz entered the vessel and followed Alak down a long corridor. His nose wrinkled a bit at the many odors that filled it. The crew of the battlewagon all came from terrestroid planets, but they had their characteristic smells and their own styles of cooking; no ventilation system could quite purify the air. But then, he reminded himself, a Terran probably didn't smell any better to them.

  Alak's cabin was a spacious one, sybaritically furnished. One large viewport showed the eerie hugeness of space, the rest of the room seemed devoted to human comfort just to offset that chilling spectacle. The Patrolman waited till he was alone with his guest before pouring out drinks.

  "Scotch," he said. "It may not mean much to you, but out here it's a real luxury."

  "The Patrol seems to do itself well," observed Meinz.

  "Quite," nodded Alak. "When you're out for months or years at a time, surrounded by total alienness, every comfort means a lot. It's pure superstition that the being with a low standard of living is hardier." He lifted his glass and sipped appreciatively.

  "Are you sure you won't be found out here?" asked Meinz. "I imagine the enemy is ripping holes in space, hunting for you."

  Alak grinned, which made him more than ever resemble a fox. "No doubt they are," he said. "The harder they search, the better I like it, since it means a useless waste of their time, men, and material. Several thousand cubic light-years makes a pretty effective concealment. Anyway, if by some freak they should blunder across us, we need only run for it."

  Meinz scowled. "That's what I'm here about," he said brusquely.

  "Aren't they satisfied at home with my conduct of the operation?"

  "Frankly, no. Now I'm on your side, Alak. I was the one who pushed that approval through Parliament. But that was almost a year ago, and so far you've reported no results at all. Your dispatches have been so much meaningless verbiage. Finally certain political groups hired an investigating force of their own. They sent out observers—"

  "A wonder they weren't nabbed. Hurulta has an efficient Intelligence Service and Secret Police."

  "Well, they weren't. They saw enough to send them hightailing back home, and the stink it's raised on Terra—"

  "Ah-hah ! That explains it. Hurulta must have foreseen that result and let the observers do as they pleased. He's a canny lad, that old blueface."

  "Well, you must admit there's some justification for the complaints," said Meinz with a hint of bitterness. "The authorization was of doubtful legality in the first place, and could only be justified at the next Council meeting if there were solid results to show. Instead, you've dawdled out here, skulking I might say. You haven't fought one battle, not so much as a skirmish. You've let Ulugan occupy no less than seven planets besides Tukatan—"

  "At last reports, it was about twenty," said Alak blandly. "We've got them scared, you see. They're grabbing everything that might conceivably be of value to us."

  "In other words," said Meinz, "you're pushing them in exactly the direction they want to go."

  "Correct."

  "Now look, Alak. I came out here myself, and it's a long troublesome journey, to get your side of it. I have to tell them something at home, or they'll pass a recall order in spite of everything I can do. Now I'm not even sure if I would resist such a move."

  "Give me credit for some sense," urged Alak. "I can't tell you everything. The real reason why we operate this way is a Patrol secret. Let's just say, which is true enough, that outright war is cruel and expensive, and that I don't even think we could win one."

  "But what are you doing then, man?"

  "Just sitting here," laughed Alak. "Sitting here drinking Scotch, and letting nature take its course."

  * * *

  The medical officer halted at the entrance to the tent. The steady, endless rain dripped off his shoulders and made a puddle about his muddy feet. By the one glaring lamp inside, he noticed that the fungus had begun to devour this tent, too. It would be a rag before the eight-day was out. And you couldn't live in the metal barracks left by the Patrolmen—they were bake-ovens, and air-conditioning units rotted and rusted too fast to be of help.

  He saluted wearily. The commandant of Garvish Base looked up from his game of galanzu solitaire. "What is it?" he asked listlessly.

  "Fifteen more men down with fever, sir," said the medical officer. "And ten of the earlier cases are dead."

  The commandant nodded. Light gleamed off his wet bald head. The blue face was haggard, unhealthily flushed, and the smart uniform was a sodden ruin. "The sanitators don't work, eh?" he asked.

  "Not against this stuff, sir," said the doctor. "It seems to be a virus which isn't bothered by the vibrations, but I haven't been able to isolate it yet."

  "We just aren't built for this climate." The commandant wagged his head, and one shaky hand reached for a bottle. "We're cold-world dwellers."

  A beast screamed out in the jungle.

  "Poison plants got several more this eight-day," said the doctor.

  "I know. I've begged and pleaded with headquarters to send us air domes and space armor. But they claim it's needed elsewhere."

  A faint hope flickered in the medical officer's eyes. "When that planet Umung really gets to producing—"

  "Yes, yes. But we'll probably be dead then, you and I." The commandant shivered. "I feel cold." His voice was suddenly high and thin.

  "Sir—" The doctor took a nervous step forward. "Sir, let me look at you—"

  The commandant stood up. For a moment he leaned on the table, then something buckled within him and he went toppling to the floor.

  * * *

  There was forest, endless forest, and beyond it the plains and mountains and sea, and all of it was full of death.

  The Patrol wound slowly through the woods. Every detector they had was straining itself—metal, mental pulses, the thermal radiation of living bodies. But still eyes were restless, shifting under the big square helmets, and hands strayed nervously toward guns.

  In an armored car near the middle of the column, the Ulugani Patrol chief was sounding off to his aide. "It's no good," he said. "These Ilwari are just too tough for us."

  "They can't stand up to us, sir," said the aide. "Not in open battle."

  "And they don't try. What can you do with a people who're willing to scorch their earth and evacuate their own dwellings before we get there? What's the point of silly little actions like this one going out, burning a city in reprisal, what does the enemy care? It's just a chance for him to harass us some more."

  "We'll teach them manners, sir," said the aide.

  "Oh, in time, of course. In time. When we get enough troops and supplies here. But curse it, I can't get enough:"

  An explosion cracked before them. The chief saw three men fall screaming from the grenade. A heavy machine gun began to clatter.

  " Guerrillas:" he roared.

  He glimpsed the big green forms dashing in out of the brush. They could gallop like the wind, those devils, and they could carry as much armament on their backs as a small truck. The war whoop sent a brief tingle of fear along his nerves.

  The tanks began to speak, throwing flame and thunder at the enemy. One of the machines was suddenly wrapped in red smoke—a fire bomb. The Ulugani infantry had thro
wn themselves to the ground and were shooting up at the trampling, yelling centauroids.

  "Drive 'em back!" screamed the chief. "Drive 'em back!"

  The Patrol did, after a short interval of utter ferocity. But not before a bomb had struck the command car and incinerated its contents.

  * * *

  The colonel looked out of the thick plastic port and shivered. Beyond it, the landscape was one vast gloom. Poisonous mists curled between him and the unseen horizon, like a wall. He thought he could see the sudden red spouting of a volcano, somewhere in the fog. A moment later, the floor quivered under his feet.

  "You fool !" he raged. "You utter imbecile!"

  The base geologist stood his ground. "We did our best, sir," he answered. "As far as we could tell, the terrain here was stable."

  "One whole base has already been destroyed in a quake. Isn't that enough for you?"

  The wind slapped monstrously at the dome. They had never seen such gales as blew endlessly across Shang V.. A blind whirl of sleet—solid ammonia —hid the outside view.

  "Sir," said the geologist, "this planet is utterly crazy. The probes gave readings that on any normal world would mean safe, solid ground."

  "Nevertheless, one of our domes has just been cracked open. Every man within it died instantly. You and your team are due for court-martial."

  The geologist nodded.

  "As the colonel says. But may I suggest that we find another site? This one is obviously dangerous after all."

  "And do you realize what it means, in terms of effort and materials, to break camp on this planet?"

  "I can't help that, sir. I am officially proposing that we move."

  "Headquarters will have my skin, too," said the colonel gloomily. He looked out again at the sinister land. "How could we know? How could anyone have foretold it would be like this?"

  The Patrol knew! laughed his mind. They knew! Now all I can do is submit a recommendation that we evacuate. The other commanders here will back me up. But that's an invitation to the enemy to return.