A brief clatter came from the print-out unit. Rodrone stepped over to it and ripped off a sheet of paper.
It was all there. Details of cargoes, and space-time coordinates for all planned shipments within fifty light-years for the next three months.
“This is what we want, let’s go.”
Clave stood up and put away the little box. They turned to leave.
But suddenly the print-out clattered again, breaking the silence of the cellar with a life of its own.
“What’s that, a second copy?”
“I guess it’s still obeying the order to print out,” Clave answered dubiously, “but it must be something new.”
Rodrone ripped off the new sheet and held it to the light. The computer was receiving a fresh input from somewhere. On the slick paper an angry conversation was emerging between Jal-Dee officials and an unknown interlocutor.
“We demand that you hand over the object.”
“Impossible. Ownership is in the hands of our clients.”
Evidently they had missed the first part of the argument while obtaining their own print-out. After a pause, the machine delivered another burst. Rodrone bent to read it.
“Human ownership of the object is not admissible. Streall claim is absolute. You will notify of whereabouts.”
“It is already in transit.” Jal-Dee seemed to be weakening.
“We will intercept. Notify.”
“Your claim must be made through the courts.” Even in the neutral print it was possible to detect the note of tired desperation.
“Human courts mean nothing to the Streall. Either you comply or Streall fleets will occupy the Kantor system.”
Kantor was more or less owned by Jal-Dee. Rodrone waited to see what the result of this bellicose threat would be. There was a long, suspenseful pause. Then, without further comment, a string of figures followed giving the route of the contended cargo. “The item you require is cargo item 401.”
“The Streall!” Rodrone breathed. “Trust Jal-Dee to back down, the spineless worm!”
Before Clave could answer a faint but regular phttt-phut-phttt sounded from the direction of the street. It was the sound of an alpha gun being fired. The two men glanced meaningfully at one another. Wordlessly, Rodrone ripped off the last sheet and squeezed through the cage door.
He waited while Clave swiftly closed the door and gathered up his equipment from where he had clamped it on the wall. Together they mounted the steps and peered through the windows of the front office.
From here the hideous noise of Ruby’s organ swelled out into the street, pouring hatred into the wretched town. Rodrone’s people were retreating from the drinking house, firing into it as they did so. It was easy to guess what had happened. Ruby, determined to have her way, had whipped up the townspeople into a frenzy of resentment against the newcomers. The rest was inevitable.
Worriedly he glanced at Clave. It was impossible to say how he would respond to the weird harmonies in this new situation.
“Go to the runabouts and stay there,” he ordered firmly. “Don’t move, just wait for us.”
Clave nodded uncertainly. Outside, they took opposite directions, Rodrone keeping close to the wall. Most of his people seemed to be already in the street, covering the bar entrance with a fusillade of fire to prevent anyone else coming out. But answering shots were beginning to come from the upstairs windows.
The men and girls were edging towards the runabouts, watching carefully for attack from another quarter. Rodrone sought out Kulthol.
“Damned planet-bound trash!” the redhead cursed. “They started it, not us. We lost four inside: three men and a girl. We ought to hammer this town right into the ground.”
“Never mind about that, let’s get out of here.”
Kulthol yelled a command. They all broke into a run, quickly covering the remaining distance to the runabouts. Less than a minute later they were roaring towards the outskirts of Maintown in a reckless convoy. As they struck the desert, Ruby apparently turned her instrument up to an unexpectedly powerful amplification, for the howling shrieks of the organ reached out to them to set their skulls vibrating.
The lights receded behind them, the wheels of the trucks riding quietly over the yellow dust. Rodrone’s pity for the town was mingled with contempt, as well as disgust for the woman responsible for its degradation. Behind them, headlights probing the darkness told him that a pursuit was in progress. Picking up a bulky beam tube from the floor of the truck, he sent a searing bolt of destructive energy crackling over the desert. Let them bite on that.
But the danger was past, apart from a few random shots that zipped occasionally past them. In minutes they had reached the ships and without delay winched the trucks aboard. Rodrone made straight for the control room, where he sat brooding for some minutes, vaguely aware that some of his crew had excitedly manned the ship’s armaments and were sending warning shots crashing into the desert floor. If he gave his men their head, he thought, they would probably wipe out the pursuers in revenge for the killings, and follow it up by destroying the town.
Kulthol’s face appeared on an image plate, transmitting from the Revealer. “Shall we sit here or take off?”
“Take off. This place nauseates me.”
“Me too. How about dropping a shell on the whole nasty little mess? They deserve it.”
“No, let them alone, they’ve got punishment enough.” Kulthol did not understand him, but made no reply.
Thoughtfully Rodrone took the pilot’s seat and gave the warning takeoff signals. The air thrummed momentarily as the drover engines took effect, herding atoms so as to produce an irresistible net motion in one direction, and the Stond slid smoothly into the air. Swiftly they rose beyond the atmosphere. Kulthol’s face showed itself again. “Orbit? Or do we have a destination?”
“We do.” Rodrone fished in his pocket and brought out the last piece of paper he had torn from the Jal-Dee computer’s print-out unit. He held it up to the scanner tube. “Take a record of this. We’ll intercept at the earliest point possible. Work it out for me, will you, and give me the figures.”
“A cargo, yet!” Kulthol crowed. “Have they got something nice?”
“We’re not robbing Jal-Dee this time,” Rodrone told him. “We’re doing a snatch from the Streall.”
He noted the startled look on Kulthol’s face, followed by a pensive, nervous look in his eye. But he gave him no time to argue.
“Call me back with the figures. I’ll explain when we’re en route.” With that, he cut the connection.
III
Rodrone pointedly ignored the divided opinion that he knew had arisen both within his own ship and the Revealer coasting on a parallel course some dozen miles distant. Loyalty, obedience and faith in his judgment were qualities that he never attempted to cultivate in any under his command. He led by pure nerve. He did not believe in permanent coercion, either physical or psychological.
Paradoxically, it was the best method of creating a dependable following, though not always conducive to the interests of safety. The fool, the madman, the crank, obstinately oblivious to dangers frighteningly obvious to anyone else, often took up the lead at the point where the nerve of the more cautious faltered.