Which made it all the more amazing that he should have been mattermitted all the way to Earth. It must have cost a couple of trillion Solar dollars in postage—more than any person was permitted to earn in a lifetime. In fact, more than the annual budget of most systems in the Sphere. Not that the tribesmen of Outworld bothered with money; what use was it, after all? Oh, some of the villagers used it in trade for larger shares of food or help on their lean-tos, and there were Imp trinkets the girls liked that could be obtained only with money. But it really wasn’t part of Paleolithic existence. Flint knew about it only because of the Shaman’s education.
What was so two-trillion-dollars’ special about him? Surely there were others who could transfer to bug-eyed monster bodies. Others who would be more amenable, with a lot more education than Flint had. Maybe some ugly or ill ones, who would be glad to get out of their poor human bodies, gambling on a better alien body. Why take a barbarian flintsmith from the farthest colony planet?
Surely there was good reason. Either the job was so dangerous or horrible that only the most ignorant person would go, or he had some qualification that made him so much better than others that it was worth the expense of mattermitting him here. Since an ignorant person would not stay ignorant long, the latter seemed more likely. The Regent had said that Flint had a very strong Kirlian aura. Apparently not many people had that—and only the ones with it could transfer.
How badly did they want him? If they had dozens like him, they would not bother to chase him very far, and wouldn’t care if he died on an outbound starship. But if he were the choice, they would keep a very close eye on him. And the planet-ransom they had already expended in fetching him here suggested the answer. He could put that to the test—and might be able to use it to bargain with. If they really thought he was prepared to die rather than submit to transfer, they just might treat him kindly in an effort to bring him around. And the greatest kindness they could do him would be to mattermit him home to think it over.
His decision was made. He would gamble his life and sanity on the assumption that he was really important. That two-trillion-dollar investment suggested better odds than the fifty-fifty of freeze-traveling.
The capsule would not go all the way to the spaceport. Like his thoughts, it sheered off from the target unless really pressed. Was the spaceport off limits?
All right. Flint pushed buttons until the capsule, confused by conflicting directives, stalled in place. Like a dinosaur, it wasn’t very smart. Then he forced open the lid, exerting pressure he knew was beyond the capacity of most civilized men. He climbed out and dropped to the wire. It was guyed at regular intervals—how the capsules got past these connections he wasn’t sure—and poles went to the ground. He was at a dizzying height, but was confident of his ability. He took hold and swung to the nearest supporting pole, then let himself down to the ground. It wasn’t as handy as a vine tree, but it wasn’t difficult either. The gravity of this planet was slightly less than at Outworld, giving extra buoyancy.
Solarian pedestrians stared as he came down. It was not his green skin that impressed them, for the natives of Earth were of several colors themselves; it was rather his agility that claimed their attention. They were advanced culturally, but regressed physically. He could fathom their weakness just by looking at them, and it disgusted him. So he ignored them and made his way at a lope toward the spaceport. Naturally his whereabouts would soon be reported, if they didn’t have a spy-beam on him already. However, that was the idea. He was acting exactly as they would expect him to. If they really wanted this savage, they would close the net quickly and thus provide him his leverage.
Starships were always in need of strong men for hull repairs en route and things like that, the Shaman had said. The dust of space constantly pitted surfaces, and sometimes larger debris gouged out little craters that had to be patched. Maybe that was why so many freezers were lost; no one to patch up the damage. It was not the big meteors that took out ships, but the steady accumulation of microscopic abrasion that could finally hole the hull if not watched. They’d take him aboard, no questions asked.
To one side of the spaceport, there was an incredible expanse of water. Flint had never seen water in greater amount than a temporary flood lake before. This was monstrous, stretching from the spaceport all the way to the horizon. And it had waves: large traveling ripples that moved to the shoreline and dissolved in thinning froth. It was hypnotic, and he quickly tore his eyes away lest he fall into a trance. So much water!
Then he saw something just inside the fence. It was a moving pebble—no, it was alive! A blob of flesh dragging along a housing of something like bone. In fact—his memory trotted out one of the myriad incidentals the Shaman had mentioned—this must be a snail.
Earth certainly had its wonders. But there was no time to gawk now. He had business to attend to. “ ’Bye snail,” he said, for the moment childlike in his discovery.
He navigated the fence easily, avoiding its electric shock by leaping, straightened out his ludicrous tunic, and walked boldly into the little office. “I’m looking for work,” he said, imitating the heavy Earth accent as well as he could.
The man at the desk didn’t even look up. “Next ship’s for Vega. Computer parts. Fifty-year haul. Standard enlistment bonus. No stops. Sterile girls. Burial in space if you don’t make it.”
So they gave money for signing up, and provided play-girls for the fifty-year trip. The Shaman hadn’t mentioned such details. Even so, it must be deadly dull, and unless the girl were Honeybloom, Flint wouldn’t care for it. Which meant he’d better be guessing right.
Vega. Flint visualized his sphere map. Vega was roughly in line with Etamin, about a quarter of the way out. It was exactly the planetary system an ignorant savage would head for. “I’ll take it.”
“Where’s your ID?”
Oh-oh. Outworld didn’t use such things. A man was known by his face and skills, a woman by her face and body.
“No bonus without turning over your ID. Too many take the money and skip.”
Oh. “I’ll go now. I don’t need money.” Maybe the average enlistee blew his bonus in a night’s binge, his last fling on Earth, but Flint was trying to make a point, not money. It really was time for the Imps to show up, if they were going to. If he stalled too long, they would know he didn’t mean it.
“You’re pretty eager. Got a record?” A record? Flint didn’t know what that was, so he bypassed it. “My business is private.” The Imps said that a lot on Outworld, as if anything there were private. It was one of the things that made them unpopular. Sometimes an Imp would approach a native girl, and she would mock him by saying, “My privates is business.”
A figure appeared in the doorway. Flint whirled, certain the Ministers had caught up with him. He moved quickly, but not as quickly as he could when really threatened, putting up his left forearm as though to shove the intruder aside, making his show. He might get stunned by a paralyzing beam, but he was pretty sure they would not hurt him. Nobody simply wiped out a two-trillion-dollar investment!
But this was no minister. It was a stranger in white. And with the light touch of arm against arm, something happened. There was a strange, almost electric aura about the man that affected Flint profoundly. Suddenly he didn’t want to fight or flee, even in pretend; he just wanted to know about this stranger.
“I am Pnotl of Sphere Knyfh,” the man said, and the words assumed a transcendant importance. “I am an alien sapient in human guise. I have come to ask you to help save our galaxy from destruction.”